So, he’d been busy. Out of curiosity, she crossed to the other garret window and gazed out on the overgrown yard.
Lord Greybourne was studying what very much appeared to be an. . . animal trap?
A murderously man-sized one.
Twenty-one
Grey
“I am not superstitious,” Grey insisted. Sitting at the wobbly, linen-covered dinner table with his worried assistants, he squashed that ridiculous rumor.
Superstition had nothing to do with that lethal man trap they’d found in the yard. Gamekeepers had once used them to capture poachers—fatally.
Thoroughly rattled, he gulped his cider and wondered where he might buy wine. He might need more than a few cases of wine to survive these next months.
He refused to consider who had set that monstrosity and for whom.
He stayed with the current subject. “My cousin is all about in her attic. Don’t listen to her.” Superstitious! Him. Thea took odd notions. He’d have to disabuse her of that one before she spread theories of his cowardice across the shire. He was here with two companions, wasn’t he? Ergo, he was not afraid of endangering them. Too much.
Until now. That trap had been deadly. Andrew could have been killed. Perhaps he should send the twins away. It wasn’t superstition if someone was actually trying to kill him—although art history professors were not generally the target of murderous fiends. Besides, he’d only just moved in. That trap could have been set months ago. For the banker? By the banker?
He tried to make light of their discovery until he determined the best path. Damn Thea for making him look like a milksop if he did the sensible thing and suggested they leave. “We were in no danger. We were simply looking for a shorter path to the mercantile.”
“You found a trap large enough to cripple a man or kill a child—open and set. That is not superstition. That is a death threat.” Miss Leonard glared at him over the dinner table.
Glared. His presence was already shredding his intrepid assistant’s complacency. Perhaps he should start eating in his room. Or send her to the kitchen—would that be sufficient distance to keep her safe?
He’d spent the better part of his life dining alone or with strangers, dammit. He didn’t wish to give up the exchange of intelligent conversation for which he was paying generously.
Animal traps did not fall under the category of intelligent. He tore off a piece of chicken rather than gulp more weak cider.
“The trap could have been there forever.” Andrew attempted to placate his sister. “It was not necessarily set for us. It’s rusted and old.”
“Then it should have sprung years ago. After that brute’s warning—a brute who most likely hit the professor on the head—I don’t believe we should be so dismissive.” Miss Leonard sipped her cider defiantly.
This was the reason Grey dined alone and refused to accept responsibility for others. Arguing was a damned nuisance and interfered with his thought processes. It had naught to do with foolish superstition.
Except natural instincts shouted to send them both back to Edinburgh for their own good. He wrestled with the dilemma of protecting the helpless while fearing he was a foolish milksop. “I shall report the device to Mr. Russell,” Grey decided with distaste. “Although, if it was set, it was most likely for Mr. Comfrey. He obviously had enemies.” He tried to convince himself of that.
“We should find out who the man is who warned El. If he believes this house is his, then he is the most likely culprit.” Andrew cleared his plate with their new cook’s most excellent bread.
Sensible. “I will go to the pub this evening and ask about a large, dark-haired pirate who threatens young women.” And tell his cousin to shut up, although he might need to visit the manor for that.
The people at the manor had invited him to stay, but endangering an entire household of happy families did not suit either. They’d no doubt all die of cholera. Superstition, he reminded himself. Perhaps he could send his assistants there.
He feared they wouldn’t go. Miss Leonard had already displayed her irrational loyalty.
After dinner, Grey grabbed his walking stick, prepared to stomp into the village in the last of the midsummer twilight on his errand of superstition, when Miss Leonard hastened from the kitchen.
“Take your curricle, please, my lord.” The serene face that seldom ever expressed concern now wore the wrinkles of a frown.
He’d done that to her. Guilt ate at him. He was turning her into a milksop as well. Of course, she was female. That was allowed, he supposed. But a curricle to travel half a mile. . .
They had stabled his horses in the ramshackle shed behind the house so Andrew might more easily get about, but hitching up a curricle without servants to jump at his call was a bloody nuisance. They needed a mount that could be ridden. Or that damned path through the yard cleared—except he couldn’t risk any more deuced traps.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, not disguising his irritation. He didn’t know the last time anyone had fretted over him. He was a little old for that now. He was always fine. It was everyone else who suffered.
Damn, he’d been doing excellently on his own these past years. He’d grown over-confident to invite the twins on this journey.
