Hardly suitable for a simple walk. A niggling suspicion formed. “I hope she wore her sturdy half boots in this weather,” Mia said, studying Kerr intently.
Kerr glanced at Uncle Ludlow, who appeared to be watching her, and back at Mia. “She wore her new green slippers,” she admitted.
“In this weather? Has she lost what few wits she has?” Uncle turned on Mia. “How could you let her go out like that, Euphemia?”
Let her?Selina did what she pleased, though in fairness, she did not usually go out unaccompanied, unlike now. Unlike Mia.
“Do either of you have any idea where she might have gone?” Uncle Ludlow demanded, running a hand through his hair.
Kerr swore she had no idea and bowed out in craven deference.
Mia, reluctant to give voice to her growing suspicions, suggested the village, drawing a skeptical raised brow and frown from her uncle.
It didn’t matter. A messenger arrived at that moment in Woodglen livery. Wallace, Selwyn Court’s butler, relieved to have a normal duty to perform on this chaotic afternoon, took the message, left the man at the door, and bowed to Uncle Ludlow, who grabbed the missive, ripped it open, and crumpled it, grumbling an oath.
“The lackwit is at Woodglen. You need to fetch her.” He dropped the message and stalked off in the direction of his study.
Mia picked up the paper and scanned it quickly.
Miss Selwyn was caught in the storm, pursuing a lost pet. Mrs. Morrit has seen to dry clothing and a warm bath. Please advise.
Kendrick
Lost pet? Selina?Mia shook her head. She approached the door. “Has the rain stopped or merely paused before another deluge?” she asked the man in Woodglen livery.
“I believe it is finished, miss,” the man said.
“Order the carriage, Wallace,” she said.
“I fear Mr. Eustace requires it this afternoon,” the butler said.
It would take her almost two hours to walk to Woodglen. The muddy fields would force her to stick to the roads. “Did you walk?” she asked the messenger.
“Yes, miss.”
She glanced at Wallace, resigned. “Send someone to check if Hector is still in the stables. I will dress for the weather, gather warm clothing for Miss Selwyn, and accompany this man.”
Not long after, she set out. Hector had been let loose as she suspected, providing Selina with her excuse to invade Woodglen dressed for a dinner party in the midst of a deluge. God knew what scandal Mia might find there.
Chapter Eight
Gideon pored overnotes and columns of numbers in the closet Fillmore called an office. The space had the advantage of its proximity to Marshall’s more spacious work space and a window that gave him a view of the kitchen garden. Marshall had grudgingly provided him with the oldest of the Glenmoor estate books, at least the ones that dated from the beginning of Marshall’s tenure as steward nine years before, soon after his brother had succeeded to the title. Phillip had been merely twenty-three and green behind the ears.
Poor penmanship and sloppy methods made the work slow going, and his plan to deal with things swiftly faded more each day. The last thing Gideon needed was distraction from a pea-brained miss who had wheedled her way into the house, half-drowned and presuming.
With Marshall out checking on a fencing issue and Tavernash asleep, the servants had called on Gideon to deal with the girl. Apparently, he was now deemed adequate to handle troublesome problems. Ones Fillmore found distasteful, at least. After he walked the quarter mile or so from the estate office to the front entrance, the blasted chit had wrinkled her nose at him and asked for Tavernash.
She’d come in a gown inappropriate for morning calls that had become positively indecent when soaked to her skin. Gideon had been even more grateful than usual that no one knew how close he stood to the inheritance; he might have to endure this hen-witted girl or others of her ilk pursuing him as doggedly as she did Tavernash.
Mrs. Morrit, rigid with disapproval, appeared to have the situation in hand. She’d insisted the chit couldn’t be turned back out in the rain and whisked the girl upstairs. Thank goodness. With luck, she’d be dried off and sent on her way again without any further effort on his part. Or Felton Tavernash could deal with her fantasies of acquiring a duchess’s coronet on his own. Gideon had work to do.
He was redoing a column of numbers that didn’t quite add up a few hours later when Fillmore interrupted him again.
“There’s another one,” Fillmore said without preamble. No “Mr. Kendrick.” No “Sir.”
“Another what?”
“Selwyn lady.”
