Gideon’s smile fled; he didn’t have to be told which night. Pritchard had tried to intervene when his father’s servants beat him. A sudden thought horrified him. “What happened to your arm?”
“Broke it the night they dragged you away. Didn’t heal right. Gratis had to take it. I almost didn’t survive that, what with fever and all.” The old man’s eyes drifted up and away. “Long time ago.”
“Why did you stay?” Gideon asked softly.
“Got no place to go, do I? They give me a place to sleep. I help as I can.” From the state of his clothing, he got little more than that.
“Who’s the stablemaster these days?” Gideon asked.
Pritchard shrugged. “Isn’t one. Just four grooms. Marshall keeps ’em in line hisself. They say the duke has gone missing. Some folks say he is dead.”
“Not dead. Just traveling. He sent me here,” Gideon replied quietly.
Pritchard nodded his approval. “What are you going to do now?”
“Find out what needs fixing and take care of it.”Starting with a pension for Pritchard.
*
“A morning callis perfectly proper,” Selina said for the third time, clutching her reticule to her chest.
Mia loped along the lane beside her and kept her myriad objections to herself. Selina would barge into Woodglen with her or without her. She had come along to try to tone down her young cousin’s behavior. “Your father may not think so.”
“Of course he would,” Selina said. “He said we should call on the man.”
“He saidhewould call on the newcomer himself and test the waters. He didn’t say we should hoof it over at the first opportunity, unescorted.” Mia sighed. Discussion about Felton Tavernash, the heir presumptive to the Glenmoor title and estate, had dominated dinner at Selwyn Court for three days.
Mia wouldn’t have initiated this fools’ errand, but she admitted to some curiosity about the man. Her opinion of a person who moved into someone’s house in his absence—even or perhaps especially when the man a duke—ate his food, drank his wine, and ordered his servants about was already low. She doubted if it would improve on acquaintance, but she was open to the possibility. What preyed on her mind was that Marshall, the steward, had allowed him in. She’d have thought he’d have sent him away with a flea in his ear. Marshall must fear the duke truly was dead and didn’t wish to irritate his possible successor.
In complete honesty, she was even more curious about the mysterious rider, the one dressed entirely in black. Who was he and what role did he play in this unfolding drama? He may have been a passing businessman who’d called in at Woodglen and left, but she doubted that.
They circled a small lake surrounded by overhanging trees, with resident ducks artfully placed. At least, they appeared artful to Mia. She suspected one would have to work very hard to create the impression of wilderness this lake was meant to project. She peered up and caught a glimpse of Woodglen’s impressive façade, with its central block rising four stories high and wings stretching out in either direction, each end topped with a dome.
“Imagine being mistress of all this,” Selina sighed, continuing around.
Mia could not in fact imagine such thing. She didn’t answer.
The drive passed through a broad scythed lawn, one with little by the way of garden to soften the cold impact of the place. Even Selina shivered as they approached, but Mia suspected that had more to do with nerves. “It isn’t too late to turn around,” Mia said, straining to keep amusement from her voice. Selina merely glared at her.
Mia paused at the foot of the curving steps to one side of the portico that dominated the front entrance to gaze up at the columns on top, smooth but topped with ionic capitals. Selina barged on up the steps, forcing Mia to follow. At the top, Mia counted six of the columns forming what she believed would be called a hexastyle, a classical pretense as though this mountain of brick and stone was some sort of temple.Temple to what? Her maternal grandparents, Methodist to their backbone, would have been horrified.
She spun to the door when it opened and met the ferocious face of Fillmore, Woodglen’s excessively proper butler. He gazed at them rather as he might have looked upon a bug who dared besmirch the portico. Mia had encountered him in the village once and found him intimidating then as well.
“We’re here to call on Mr. Tavernash,” Selina chirped. “Is he receiving?” She held out her calling card between two fingers.
Fillmore glanced over her shoulder at Mia, quickly dismissing her as the poor relation she was. For a moment, she expected him to close the door in their faces.
After an uncomfortable pause, he took the card. “I will inquire,” he intoned. Apparently, Viscount Clavering’s daughter deserved at least that much. He stepped back to allow them into the sanctuary. It was the first time Mia had been inside in the five years she’d lived nearby. Uncle Ludlow had dined at Woodglen occasionally, and had taken Selina once, but Mia had never been invited to join him.
They walked through the entrance with its marble floors and, Mia noted, marble columns lining the walls, to a pokey little parlor. Mia suspected Fillmore used it to store unexpected arrivals and unwanted parcels. Selina shot Mia a smug smirk.
“We should leave, Selina. This is a mistake. We were raised to know young ladies do not call on gentlemen in their homes—especially uninvited.” Mia regretted succumbing to temptation.
“Nonsense. This isn’t some boudoir. And it isn’t as if I’m unchaperoned,” Selina said, relegating Mia to the faded world of companions and maiden aunts while she gleefully studied every detail of what Mia suspected was one of Woodglen’s least impressive rooms.
Fillmore let them cool their heels for half an hour. Either he deliberately wanted them to stew about it, or it took him that long to reach his destination in this cavernous house and come back.
“Mr. Tavernash isn’t in,” Fillmore said bluntly. He gestured to the door.
