How did Peter miss him? “Did he take the carriage?”
“Mrs. Corrigan lives in the street behind this one. Lord Spencer always walks over there. He took his dog, Whisky, with him.”
“He left through the front door?”
“No sir, the garden gate at the rear. The lady’s house is number four.”
“Did he receive my letter?”
“I believe he read the mail before he left, milord.”
“The fool,” Ash muttered.
The footmen’s eyes widened.
“When he returns, tell him I need to see him urgently.”
Ash turned and ran back to the curricle. Jed handed him the reins, and Ash turned the vehicle, heading for the next street.
Clouds scuttled across the moon, plunging the street into absolute darkness as a sharp wind blew off the river. A shiver passed down his spine as Ash pulled up outside number four and leapt down. A rangy, long-haired dog rushed up to him with a plaintive, deep woof.
Ash’s heart sank. He patted the dog’s head. “Where is your master, fella?”
The dog turned and ran back into the deep shadows. “Bring a lantern, Jed.” Ash followed as the clouds parted, casting bright moonlight over the scene.
Jed hurried over, holding the lantern high.
A man lay spreadeagled on the road. The dog whined and sank down beside him.
Ash released a long, slow breath and knelt beside him.
It was undoubtedly Robert Spencer, Laird of Wigton. Elegantly dressed and every bit a Scot, tall, broad, and fair-haired, with a strong-boned face. Ash tamped down on a groan. The man still lived, but not for much longer.
“Ashton Grainger, Lord Spencer. You are hurt. Let me get help.”
A shaky hand reached up and clutched the sleeve of Ash’s greatcoat. “No. Wait. I must tell you…”
A dark patch of blood spread over the man’s chest.
“After I seek help.” Ash pulled a handkerchief from an inner pocket and pressed it against the wound but knew it to be hopeless.
Spencer’s dog thrust his gray whiskered face against the laird’s shoulder and whimpered. “Ah, Whisky. What will become of you?” He moaned. “I’m finished. It was you who sent me the letter?”
“Yes.”
“Should have taken more care. A rail-thin fellow attacked me…carroty hair…a stranger. Farnborough is behind it.”
“Why does he want to harm you?”
“Because of my sister… she wrote to me, told me she thought her life was in danger. I heard no more, and before I could go to see her, he wrote that she had died of some virulent infection. He buried her with disgusting haste.” He gasped, his face gray. “Diana never had a sick day in her life. I’ll swear the devil killed her. He wants me out of the way because I’m a trustee of her estate and can make life difficult for him.” He tried to sit up while Ash helped him. “Diana asked me to take care of Julia.” His eyes opened wide, and he still held Ash’s coat in a fierce grip. “She’s my niece.” His voice grew faint. “You must help her.”
“But wasn’t the trust revoked at Diana’s death?”
“It’s more complicated…” The laird coughed, causing bright frothy blood to spill from his lips. “I have little confidence in the other trustees nor the solicitor. Julia…Julia is in grave danger,” he rasped out.
“I will do everything I can to help her,” Ash said. “You must not worry.”
“Good fellow,” Spencer whispered. With a moan, he released Ash’s sleeve and fell back in his arms. Ash laid him gently down.
