Grey supported her to the battered couch and shouted for tea before thinking to ask in concern, “Would you rather rest in your room? I’ve never had to look after anyone but myself. Tell me what to do!”
The normally arrogant professor was so ridiculously solicitous, El nearly laughed. But she was an employee. She didn’t dare be so familiar. Did he even recall kissing her? Perhaps it had just been an excess of relief?
“Shouldn’t we send someone to unload the cart?” she asked instead, not wishing to be treated like a delicate flower. “You could sleep in your own bed tonight.”
His expression shut down and he turned away as the housekeeper carried in a tea tray and set it on the trunk lid. El gestured for Mrs. Barton to pour while she settled into the couch and watched Grey pace. Her own anxiety heightened.
“I’m sending it all back,” he reported, still not looking at her. “I vowed I’d hang myself if anything happened to you. I find I am not ready to die, but banishing myself will feel the same. The rent is paid here for the rest of the year. That will give you and Andrew time to decide what you must do.”
Banishing himself was like dying? Why? Instead of shouting at him, El pondered this odd admission and let her stupid heart beat faster.
He’d been ready to die if anything happened to her. A dip in the river had cured him of that, thank goodness. But banishment, from a mere assistant, was similar to dying? She sipped tea she didn’t taste while she sorted through his fustian to reach a preposterous conclusion.
She was not given to tantrums, but there were times when she thought they might be useful. “Would you mind lending me your walking stick?” she asked without expression.
Not expecting that reply, Grey swung around. “Walking stick? Shall I send Mrs. Barton up for yours? Does your head hurt? Shall I help you to your room? Why didn’t you say something?” He waited for her to set aside her cup so he could offer his arm.
She didn’t set her cup down. “I am fine. I simply thought another blow to your head might return sensibility.”
With an oath, he swung on his heel and returned to pacing. “I am perfectly cognizant of what I am doing.”
“Being an overbearing, pompous lackwit?” she suggested.
By Jove, if he meant to abandon them here, she might as well start burning bridges. Her heart would heal faster. She refused to be a weeping ninny.
“I am being sensible,” he cried. “He could have killed you! You could have been a skeleton under that floor if we hadn’t found you! I cannot tolerate?—”
“That hole wasn’t three feet deep,” she retorted. “I would have broken those strings eventually. You just found me too fast.”
“I nearly died a thousand deaths. . .” he was shouting when the front door opened and a fashionable couple entered the parlor.
The captain set down a tapestry-covered footstool and bowed a greeting to El and Grey, then waited for his wife to settle somewhere. Grey growled and returned to pacing.
“Andrew told us to ignore the bellowing and come on in.” Clare Huntley began removing her gloves and studying El with concern. “Should I take you upstairs, dear? I do not want to deprive the village of so valuable a commodity as a well-educated scribe. Several of the maids have already asked about your fees. Word spreads fast.”
Especially with Clare spreading it. Eleanor was grateful to the captain’s wife for reminding her she had friends.
“I am quite fine, thank you. Please have a seat. I fear this couch is quite disreputable but it’s far more comfortable than the floor. Truly, you should not have risked the babe for my sake.”
Taking a seat, Clare patted her rounded belly and put her feet up on the stool. “Hunt brought out the barouche when I insisted on visiting. I am appalled that you were left alone in the gallery. Thea extends her most humble apologies. She and Arnaud are now working through Mort’s paintings for clues. Why was Tiny stealing them?”
Andrew limped in, carrying a nicely upholstered blue arm chair. “I’ll be back with a stool for your leg, Captain, as soon as we unbury it.”
He departed before the top of Grey’s head could explode.
El tried to hide her amusement at her employer’s frustration, but he could not rightfully berate the couple expressing their concern—or Andrew for making them comfortable.
“I can’t say why Tiny stole the paintings or even if Mort painted them,” El admitted. “But if my memory is correct, the canvas with a hand pulling aside a curtain, revealing a view of the river, was painted from a perspective above that lane of trees along the drive. I suppose it might have been done from inside the house, if Mort is in the habit of breaking and entering. . . ?” She sent a questioning gaze to the captain, who was accepting a brandy from an angrily silent Greybourne.
“Mort is swearing his innocence in anything violent. He admits turning over the couch, and that he goes fishing to provide food for the table, and that he might possibly have swung his oar too vigorously when Greybourne caught him by surprise that first morning. . .”
“But he’s a reasonably well-known artist in these parts,“ Grey acknowledged curtly. “I’ve been making inquiries.”
Andrew returned with a stool, along with Arnaud and Thea, who carried two elegant straight chairs that might work handsomely in the dining parlor. After seating Thea, Arnaud went out again and returned with a painting.
“We can’t stay,” Thea explained. “Mort is in a terrible state. He’s claiming he’ll never work again unless we release Tiny, which Hunt cannot, will not do.”
“I should think not,” Grey thundered. “The wretch nearly killed Miss Leonard!”
