She’s worried about me.
The knowledge was order to his riotous thoughts.
“I can manage,” he reassured her, walking forward on his own strength. He’d manage just fine.
The same could not be said for the individuals responsible for putting Anna in danger.
Chapter Seventeen
Jackson slammed thestable doors open. “Mr. Hawks!”
His stablemaster poked his head out of the back office. “Your Grace?” The man came fully into the stable, bits of straw clinging to his brown workman’s trousers. “You were meant to be halfway to London by now.”
He was in no mood to satisfy curiosities. “Did any of the wedding guests come down to view the stables?” There were at least a dozen that had attended the ceremony, including Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
Mr. Hawks shook his head. “No, Your Grace. All hands know the worth of your stock. The staff was informed any guest who made it as far as the stable was to be escorted back to the house so there’d be no chance of anyone losing their way.”
Grandfellow Estate was a thousand acres, after all. Give or take a few hundred.
Jackson’s increasing opinion of his staff didn’t diminish the need for justice coursing through his veins.
“What of other visitors? Have there been any neighbors who’ve dropped by of late? Any characters looking for work on the estate? Any new vendors?”
Mr. Hawks was seasoned with his employer’s abrupt questions. And the expectation of expedient answers. “New hire started about two weeks ago,” he said. “A young man with a talent for horses.”
Two weeks.
A talent for sabotaging carriages as well, Jackson imagined. “Where is this young man?”
Hawks’s face pinched. “Up and quit this morning. Didn’t even wait for his last wages.” But Jackson didn’t employ the older man simply because he was an equine whisperer. Hawks’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the man done?”
Jackson didn’t pull his punch. “Near cut the axle clean through so it cracked while the duchess and I were going at full speed.”
Hawks’s face paled. “Cut the axle? Why would someone do that?”
Because they’d known—they’d watched—that Jackson always gave his horses the freedom to run. “Once you give me the man’s name, I will garner the answer.”By any means necessary.
If Roberts was correct, a cut axle could very well have been the work of the gang from London.
Whether the counterfeiters had gotten wise to his investigation, or the case of Anna’s missing brother was more sordid than it had first appeared, Jackson would see thisnew hireinterrogated and locked up.
Hawks ran a hand through his hair. “Hobbs, Your Grace.” His gaze took on new weight as it made a perfunctory sweep of Jackson’s person, resting a fraction longer on his bandaged thigh and the blood matting his dark hair. Seeming to realize any concern on his behalf would be taken ill, he asked instead, “Is the duchess—”
“Aside from a few bruises, she is well.” The way she’d been nursing her arm on the walk back, Jackson had known brief horror thinking the bone had dislocated but soon realized the muscles were only bruised, deeply.
Mr. Hawks crossed himself. “Thank the Almighty for that.” His jaw hardened. “I’ll accept any punishment, Your Grace. If the man is truly the villain, then it was my fool sense that hired him.”
“Save your sense. I want the man’s description. Now,” Jackson demanded.
Gratitude shone in the other man’s eyes. “Medium height. Medium build. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Looks the same as any other bloke.”
The perfect non-descript look for any good spy.
“Hobbs has got to be near London on the mail coach by now.” Mr. Hawks shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “Unlikely to see him again, Your Grace.”
Jackson smiled, quite sure it would take the Devil himself to outrun swift justice. “We’ll see.”
Mr. Hawks had the good sense to look unnerved.
