It was early yet, though not as dark as it had been when he’d left Grantham Lodge, and the worst of the storm had loosened its grip on Fairford. Still, it was bloody unpleasant enough this morning—cold, with a light fall of snow creeping under the collar of his greatcoat. But he lingered in the shadows nonetheless, staring up at the house, much as he’d done when he was a boy and used to sneak from Grantham Lodge through the woods to Hammond Court.
There was no light spilling from the windows this time, no Christmas carols drifting on the wind, and no glowing moon or magical silver starlight gilding the house as if it were something out of a fairy tale.
But the same loneliness he’d felt as a boy, that same hopeless sense of being nothing, of mattering to no one, of being so insignificant he was invisible, was waiting here for him still, lurking in the muted morning light, just as it always had. It didn’t matter that he was a duke now—a wealthy, formidable duke, with England’s most powerful aristocrats cowering before him.
Here, standing alone outside Hammond Court, he was the same tiny, isolated speck he’d been back then, a pinpoint surrounded by a vast blackness. He stood there for some time, lost in memories he’d sooner forget. When he came to himself again, the flurry of snowflakes had piled up in feathery drifts around his boots.
The gloom of the morning would help obscure his approach from anyone who happened to be peering from one of the upper windows, but he muttered a quick prayer that Miss St. Claire wasn’t up there with her pert little nose pressed to the glass, her pistol cocked and ready.
It was damned risky, sneaking about like this, but if ever there was an errand he’d rather keep private, it was this one, so he took care to keep close to the trees lining the drive, darting amongst their shadows, and managed to gain the front door without being fired upon.
The flimsy bit of rope Miss St. Claire had woven through the hole where the knob used to be was still there, but just as Townsend had predicted, one slice with the knife in his pocket put an end to it quickly enough.
What had the girl been thinking, imagining such a pitiful apparatus would be enough to keep her safe? Hadn’t Ambrose taught her anything? She was as naïve as a country milkmaid and as trusting as a newborn kitten. Not that it mattered tohim, of course, but someone had to look after the girl, didn’t they?
He tore off his gloves and reached into his pocket for his tools, but his fingers were clumsy with the cold, and no sooner did he have the screws in his hand than he dropped one.
“Damn.” He crouched down and pawed through the snow until at last he found the screw, but that wasn’t all he found. There was a scattering of curious bits of gray stone, as well.
What the devil? They looked like . . . he snatched up a piece and held it up to the meager light, squinting at it. Itwas. A broken piece of slate tile. One of the edges was jagged, but the other three were smooth and straight.
He got to his feet and stepped back, craning his neck to get a better look, and yes, there it was—a patchwork of empty spaces on the roof. Last night’s wind had torn a dozen or more tiles loose from the eastern corner of the roof and hurled them onto the drive below.
The eastern corner . . . wasn’t that where the bedchambers were? And the window—it had been cracked before, but now the glass was gone entirely, and a rivulet of water was running from the outer sill down the side of the house.
His heart—no, not hisheart, but some other, less, er . . . loverlike organ rushed into his throat. He leaped through the door and rushed up the staircase, two stairs at a time.
“Who the devil areyou?”
Max jerked to a halt on the third-floor landing. A boy with tousled dark hair stood in the middle of the corridor, his arms thrust out and his fists clenched as if he were prepared to dive upon anyone who dared to try and get past him.
“The Duke of Grantham.” Max peered down into the fierce little face. “Who the devil areyou?”
“I’m Billy Lucas, an’ you weren’t invited here, so’s you may as well turn around and go back out the way you came in.” Billy Lucas pointed an imperious finger at the front door.
“Did you hear what I said, boy? I’m theDuke of Grantham.” Didn’t the dull-witted lad know what a duke was?
The boy sniffed. “Don’t care if you’re Prinny himself. Miss St. Claire isn’t seeing people, least of all some high and mighty duke. Get out, and leave Miss St. Claire alone.”
Good Lord, was there a single man—or boy, come to that—in Fairford whowouldn’tdefend Miss St. Claire? The chit had them all hypnotized. “Now see here, you impertinent little imp—”
“Billy? I’m going to need another pail.” Miss St. Claire’s voice drifted down the hallway from one of the bedchambers. “Will you fetch the one from the stillroom for me?”
“Well? You heard the lady, Billy.” Max crossed his arms over his chest and smirked down at the boy. “Do as you’re told, and fetch the pail.”
Billy’s freckled face darkened. “Go to the devil.”
Thedevil? Had the little demon truly just told him to go to the devil? A wild laugh threatened, but he choked it back and gave the boy his most fearsome glower. “Now you see here, Billy Lucas—”
“Oh! Oh,no!”
The cry came from the bedchamber, Miss St. Claire’s voice breathless with alarm, and an instant later there was a crash that made Max’s blood freeze to ice in his veins. Billy’s eyes widened, his mouth rounding in horror, and without another word the two of them flew down the corridor, each tripping over the other’s feet in their rush to get to her.
Billy got there first. Max came to a careening halt behind him, peering over the lad’s head, and what he saw . . . well, between her panicked cry, and that crash, he hadn’t expected it to be good, but nor was he prepared for the sight that met his eyes.
Miss St. Claire was sprawled on the floor on her backside, one of the chairs from the kitchen below lying on top of her. That alone was bad enough, but the bedchamber . . .
It was flooded with water, a steady stream of it still dripping from the gaping hole in the ceiling. Several full buckets stood nearby, as well as a mass of sodden, dark red silk that looked as if it had once been a bed hanging. Bits of plaster and rotted wood were scattered across the floor, and shards of broken glass were floating atop the water.
