“Rather, yes.” The note had appeared innocent enough, but then so did Miss St. Claire with those big green eyes of hers, and she’d nearly shot him in the foot yesterday.
What was the chit up to this time? Nothing good, that much was certain. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved the pistol he kept there.
Townsend’s eyes widened. “Your Grace?”
“You can never be too careful, Townsend.” He didn’t intend to shoot the chit, of course, but Miss St. Claire had proved herself a worthy opponent yesterday. An unmanageable bit of baggage as well, of course, but worthy, all the same.
The lady needed to be made to understand that he wasn’t trifling with her.
Hammond Court washis, and he would have it, even if it meant crushing a bit of dandelion fluff under his boot on his way through the door.
* * *
By the time they arrived at Hammond Court, it was snowing again. Not the light, fluffy flakes from this morning, but a wet, heavy snow layered on top of the morning’s ice. Max trudged up the drive, Townsend at his heels, icy water dampening the toes of his boots as he made his way over the ruts that led to the front door.
He’d need a new pair of Hessians after this. His tassels would never recover from such a dousing, and that was to say nothing of what had once been a perfectly serviceable beaver hat.
Townsend paused partway up the drive, staring up at the house. “Goodness, it’s in a state, is it not, Your Grace? It’s rather a lot to manage, and poor Miss St. Claire without any servants now.”
“No servants?” Surely Miss St. Claire wasn’t living here alone, without a single servant to protect her? Not that it mattered a whit to him, of course, except the pistol made a great deal more sense now. He must have frightened the wits out of her when he battered his way inside yesterday.
“None but her old nursemaid, Abigail Hinde, but poor Abby is well on in years, Your Grace, and a trifle lame now. One of the village lads, Billy Lucas, pops around here now and again, as well. He’s a good lad, is Billy, but he’s young yet. I doubt either of them is much help to Miss St. Claire.” Townsend frowned up at the silent façade. “Such a pretty house as it once was, too. Now it looks as if it’s been abandoned.”
Yes, he’d thought the same when he’d come yesterday and found the house all dark and silent, and without a flicker of movement behind the windows. But the next thing he knew, he’d been staring at the deadly end of a pistol.
No doubt Miss St. Claire was watching them at this very moment, plotting her next move. He peered up at the windows, shielding his eyes from the snowflakes, but the windows stared back at him like a row of glassy blank eyes, revealing nothing.
“What’s happened here?” Townsend pointed at the door Max had assaulted yesterday morning. The knob he’d kicked loose was nowhere to be seen, and in its place, a rather feeble-looking rope had been strung through the gaping hole, and presumably fastened to something inside to hold the door closed. “This is a disgrace, this is.”
Good Lord. Perhaps he might have been a trifle less aggressive.
“This isn’t right, Your Grace.” Townsend picked at a bit of shredded wood where the knob had once been, his face darkening. “Why, any scoundrel or thief who happened by here could be inside her house with one quick slice of a blade through that rope there.”
An unpleasant emotion uncurled in Max’s stomach. Regret? No, it was something more, something worse, something closer to shame, or one of those other useless emotions, the sort he didn’t generally indulge.
Nor would he do so now, only . . . well, he’d never broken into a house. Perhaps kicking down a young lady’s door was a bit much even for his neglected conscience.
What had become of the doorknob? If Miss St. Claire had fetched it, why hadn’t she repaired the door? It had been left that way overnight, for God’s sake. Townsend was right. Any scoundrel in Fairford might have strode right in while she slept.
He wandered around the top of the drive, kicking at the snow until he spotted the rusted corner of the door plate, then the knob itself a short distance away. He leaned down, snatched them up, and slipped them into his greatcoat pocket.
Townsend raised an eyebrow. “Your Grace?”
“I’ll send one of the footmen to see to it.” Miss St. Claire was a troublesome chit, but she didn’t deserve to die in her bed at the whim of some villain.
He raised his hand to knock on what was left of the door, but before his fist met the wood there was a muted shuffle of footsteps, and a moment later the rope loosened. He peered around the side of the door, and there, the piece of rope dangling from her hand and a tranquil smile on her face, stood Miss St. Claire.
CHAPTER6
The wild sprite Max had encountered yesterday morning had disappeared.
The young lady who answered the door today was wearing a somber, dark green day dress. Her fair hair had been pulled back into a severe bun, but a handful of wayward locks had escaped their prison and were waving about her head in an untamed profusion of golden fluff, rather like a halo.
At least, hemighthave thought so, if she hadn’t nearly shot him less than twenty-four hours ago. There was, thankfully, no sign of the pistol today, but Miss St. Claire was no angel. He’d do well to remember that when she was smiling at him as she was right now, with those long, dark eyelashes, and rosebud pink lips.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace, Mr. Townsend.”
“How do you do, Miss St. Claire?” Townsend smiled and offered her a bow.
