Lorelei fell back against the seat. “’Tis a shame these events don’t encourage children.”
An unexpected, exasperated laugh spilled from her. “Yes. Well, in all honesty, if these ‘events’ encouraged children, I daresay these ‘events’ would cease to exist.”
Brock was hot, dusty, and tired. Kimpton, riding beside him, hadn’t seemed to fare any better. Their search for Evelyn Holks the last two days had turned up nothing. The trail had, in fact, stopped cold, even after speaking with every doctor and quack they could locate in the surrounding townships. He missed Ginny. He wanted to hear that obnoxious laugh of hers, reassure her of Irene’s and Cecilia’s safety, protect the three of them from every nightmare, villain, and atrocity life threw at them. “We need to get to Griston’s. Ginny is expecting me,” he told Kimpton.
“Is she?” The smirk on Kimpton’s face had Brock pulling up short.
Wariness weaved through him. “Isn’t she?”
“She sent over a note to Lorelei with her regrets.”
That was a relief.
“London for me, then.” Brock turned his horse to the south.
“If I know my wife, however, she dropped everything and rushed over to Maudsley House,” Kimpton said, as if Brock hadn’t spoken.
Brock glanced over his shoulder, squinted at his friend in the bright sun, grunting. Lady Kimpton was forever trying to throw Ginny in his path, and he appreciated her persistence. God knew Ginny was beyond the definition of stubbornness.
“Let’s grab some lunch then head to Griston’s. Lorelei should be there sometime today. Frankly, I’d like to be there when she arrives. I don’t care much for Griston,” Kimpton said.
“You’re not the only one,” Brock muttered under his breath as he and Kimpton pulled up at an inn in Colchester. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see if your wife was successful in convincing Ginny to attend.”
Seven
L
oren let out a furious hiss. He wadded up the message and tossed it in the fire. Watching its transcendence to ash, little flakes curling up into the smoke, failed to change the words now ingrained in his head. Goddammit, he didn’t need this now. Not with a houseful of guests beating a path to his door. There were too many balls in the air to juggle. Evelyn Holks was a problem that must be dealt with immediately. Blast it. He’d have to send Sid.
The door to his private sanctuary, his study, burst open against the wall behind it. “Loren, I insist you do something about those vile gypsies. They are back. I don’t care if our guests cannot see them.Iwill know they are there.”
“Not now, Mother. I’ve more pressing matters to deal with.” He barely kept from plowing his fist through the wall.
She stomped her foot. Actually stomped her foot.
Loren stilled, his fury a red fog temporarily blinding him. It should have been laughable. He turned slowly, piercing her with a lethal glare that had grown men pissing in their breeches. She, apparently, was immune.
She pointed at him, inches from his nose. “Deal with them, Loren. Now. I won’t have it. Who knows what those vagrants are capable of? They are liable to slit our throats in our sleep. I want them disposed of!” She spun on her slippered heels and scurried out, the slamming door, rattling the windows in her wake.
He let out a long breath, his rage simmering to aggravation. Another task for which he had no time. Lady Maudsley was due any moment, and he was determined to be there to greet her. He’d seen no sign of Brockway, but the man was a nuisance and clearly wanted her with an intensity that endangered Loren’s plans for the lady. So, keeping peace with his mother was more paramount than usual. He tugged the bellpull.
“Sir?”
“Farcle, get Sid and have the horses saddled. Among all things asinine,” he gritted out, “there’s a disturbance at the northeast edge of the property. Mother is demanding their immediate, and I quote, ‘disposal.’ I fear the Romani have returned. They are a trial, are they not? We shall take care of the issue once and for all. Prepare for the worst.”
A man of few words, Farcle nodded and slipped out. Loren strode to his bedchamber to change clothes. It was bound to be a dirty job. He threw on an unneeded overcoat and stashed a pistol in each pocket.
Fifteen minutes later, he, Sid, and Farcle stood in a copse of trees at the far most reaches of Griston lands where indeed an old Romani huddled beneath one of the large oaks the Griston lands were known for. Loren glanced about for the man’s encampment and spied it in the distance. The caravan was not technically on his property, but these gypsies had been warned before. Loren lifted one of the pistols and moved his horse forward. “What are you doing, old man?”
The man raised listless black eyes, clutching his chest in a white-fisted grip. He didn’t speak, and Loren’s hostility escalated to outright rage.
“Don’t you understand English, man? I demand to know what you are doing on my property.”
The old man’s lips in his age-lined face moved, saying nothing.
“You refuse to answer?”
Still nothing, just blinked where Loren swore he could see the swirling depths of his soul.
