Rafe rushed off to another customer, leaving Grey to contemplate improbabilities. If the rent manipulation was any indicator, Comfrey had been practicing his ancestor’s habit of theft. His only victim appeared to be the bank, unless one wished to consider the starving artists for being stupid enough to pay the outrageous sum. Hardly a matter worth killing over. Although if he’d stolen those parts. . . Still not worth killing over.
That left Grey considering Miss Leonard’s notion that he was the target, and Comfrey simply showed up at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or the sinister blackguard who accosted her really did not want anyone living in the house for reasons unknown and was prepared to kill and maim to prevent it. Seemed extreme.
Either way, the twins were in as much danger as he was. Now what did he do? Send them back to Edinburgh? They wouldn’t go. They were settling in here like pigs in mud. And now he had servants to consider.
How had he thought he could set up housekeeping? The book had become more important than common sense, apparently—and he hadn’t wanted to lose Miss Leonard’s invaluable help.
Stupid. He was growing stupid with age.
Andrew arrived promptly on the hour. A few people greeted him as he limped in. The lad knew how to make himself known.
He shook his head at the offer of ale. “If you’re ready, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned on the way home. I have the carriage outside. And I’ve found a pony cart I can purchase in return for my aid with a few chores.”
Grey laid down his coin and followed him into a downpour, leaping under the curricle’s hood to preserve his hat. Once Andrew settled at the reins, Grey announced, “I’ve learned Comfrey is a descendant of the original owners, if that matters.”
“Let us hope Comfrey has no murderous relations still roaming the village, hoping to inherit, if he was the intended victim.” Andrew took up the reins and sent the horses into a trot. “I learned that the black beard scaring El is itinerant. He showed up here about the same time as Miss Talbot’s artists. He sells fish on market days and to the manor, when he can. People just call him Black Dickie, for reasons unknown.”
“An obscenity, perhaps? Or after the highwayman, Dick Turpin. Or from Tom, Dick, and Harry, Oxfordshire highwaymen. People lack imagination,” Grey said absently, pulling on his store of history while processing this new information. He could see no reason why an itinerant fisherman should be a danger. His insane warning was, though. Both Bradford heirs were long gone. . . weren’t they?
Grey returned to Comfrey’s history. “Apparently church records show the Bradford children baptized between 1750 and 1766 and their parents, deceased. If the skeletons in the cellar are as old as Dr. Walker believes, I don’t think Comfrey or even Black Dickie, if there’s a chance he might be related, were old enough to have abused them. There does not seem to be anyone to care if the skeletons are uncovered.”
“Well, if the family were known pirates, the fanciful may imagine buried treasure. Poor people dream of miraculously becoming rich, and the tales from the manor feed the fantasy.” Andrew slowed the curricle as they reached the river lane. The carriage’s single lantern caught the gleaming eyes of a furry creature hiding from the downpour in the undergrowth.
Grey snorted. “Why look for treasure now, after all these years? Still, let us encourage the rumor, have people dig up the weeds and overgrown shrubs and clear the property.”
Andrew laughed. “We can hand out shovels.” He fought the wind in turning the curricle up the drive. The arch of dripping tree branches swayed and rattled in the gale.
An ominous crack, followed by a crash on the curricle’s hood, spooked the horses into a mad gallop up the mud-rutted drive.
Grey just had time to fear killing another friend when the curricle slid and flipped over and he was flung into the darkness.
Twenty-two
Eleanor
“People die from blows to the head!” Eleanor tried not to shout at the dolt sitting at the breakfast table holding his head up just to drink his coffee. “You should let us call Dr. Walker.”
“My hat took more damage than I did. Call a hatter. Or go to church, Miss Leonard, and pray. That’s what the superstitious do.” The professor was not dressed for church.
She couldn’t blame him. His head had to be pounding. Andrew, unscathed by the incident, practically had to carry him in last night. They’d had no one to help him into bed—and of course, Greybourne had refused help. He’d been all over mud but she hadn’t noticed bleeding. Still, she’d spent the night terrified. If she’d been a man. . .
She could have helped even as a female but he refused any aid. Her gender had nothing to do with his mulish perversity.
Sweeping out, Eleanor located Andrew clearing the drive. He generally showed more capacity for intelligence. “I fear the pirates will succeed in killing us unless we find elsewhere to stay.” This was her true terror, that they must leave and become homeless.
They’d been warned—but she refused to run away. She preferred to catch the wretched marauders. But first, she must convince the invincible men that they were all in jeopardy until the culprit was found.
Andy looked at her as if she were mad. “We were in no danger. The curricle has a hood and it was only a dead tree branch, El. The rain made it too heavy and it cracked in the wind. Admittedly, the place needs work. The trees need pruning, that’s all.” He chopped at the enormous branch that had almost put paid to his and Lord Greybourne’s existence.
She could not bear it if anything happened to either of them. Was this the fear the professor felt? He’d be sending them away, if so, and she couldn’t even argue. She despised the idea. They simply needed to understand the danger and act accordingly. If she were a gentleman, she’d be carrying swords and rifles.
“You could have been killed when the carriage overturned,” she shouted, as if being loud would reach through his thick head. “It was only a miracle you landed on the rhododendron.”
“We weren’t killed. You’re putting the saddle on the wrong horse, El. I am an excellent driver. I’ve just purchased my own pony cart!”
Well, if Grey was the jinx, then Andrew might be safe. That wasn’t the point. “I was not born yesterday, Andy.”
