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Chapter Six

A crash woke Leo from a fitful sleep. He threw aside the sweat-soaked sheets and ran out into the hallway without bothering to don a robe. He knew, instinctually, that the sound had come from his studio.

Had the thief or thieves attempted to break in? Or had a canvas jostled free and fallen to the floor?

Shouting followed him, but the residual fear from his dream propelled him forward, as if he were running from the past. The lamps along the walls were cold, and moonlight filtered through the windows. The air was stale, and the carpet beneath his feet was thin and slippery.

He reached the closed doors of his studio and tugged the handles. They stuck firm. His butler skidded to a stop and put a hand on the door. In his other, he clutched a long, white robe, which he thrust at Leo.

"For God's sake, cover up, my lord," Sinclair said, between gasping breaths. "Think of the maids!"

Leo shrugged on the robe, then grasped the handle again. The doors rattled but stayed firm.

Sinclair held up a ring of keys. "Locked, as it is every night, my lord."

Leo snatched the keys and splayed them in his open palm. In the darkness, they were identical. "I need more light."

A footman rushed forward with a lantern and Leo held the keys to it, selecting the correct one and inserting it into the latch. He turned the key, and it unlocked with a dull click. He threw open the doors to the studio as a flash of lightning illuminated the room. At first glance, nothing seemed disturbed. The large windows showed the dark night sky beyond, and a gentle breeze flirted with the end of his robe.

"What did that noise sound like to you?" he asked Sinclair. Servants rushed around him, carefully maneuvering canvases to light the lamps in the walls.

"It sounded like glass breaking, my lord," Sinclair said.

Leo stepped over a paint-splattered carpet to inspect the easternmost window, which had a corner smashed out. On the floor, a broken branch the size of his forearm lay in a bed of shattered glass.

He held his hand out the gap and the wind sprayed a fine mist over his skin. The boughs of the nearest tree thrashed against the side of the building.

His butler lifted the branch. "Our perpetrator. Straight to the lumber pit for this one for having caused so much trouble."

"Maybe not," Leo murmured as he touched some black flakes on the window frame. He rubbed his fingers together and held them to his nose, then stuck his head through the hole. A trail of footprints retreated into the brush.

He pulled his head inside, slicking back his wet hair with a hand. A footman hovering nearby offered him a towel, and he accepted it, ruffling his hair, then draping it around his shoulders.

"Let me see the branch," he said, holding out his hand. Sinclair passed it over, and Leo examined the broken end, finding it smooth. The intruder had been clever, but not careful enough.

"Send for the constable," he said. "This branch was cut, not broken. This was more than an act of nature."

Sinclair bowed. "As you wish, my lord. Now please, return to your chambers. I will ensure the window is boarded up."

Leo stepped away from the window, then paused. The room was full of paintings. Hanging on the walls, stacked on the ground, balanced on canvas stands. What if the intruder had taken off with one or more? How would he know? Each painting held a piece of his heart, and he would feel their loss keenly. The few he had selected for the auction were ones his father had purchased before his death, and even those, he'd struggled to release.

"We will perform an inventory, my lord," Sinclair said. "Please, return to your bedchamber."

Setting the branch on the ground, Leo left his studio, trusting his staff to take care of the damage. But as he walked through the chilly hallways and into his chambers, he abandoned any idea of sleep. He hastily pulled on trousers, then summoned Sinclair by pulling the thick, braided rope in the corner of the room. The man arrived in moments. "Yes, my lord?"

"Have someone guard the studio," Leo said, pacing the room. "In case our uninvited guest returns."

Sinclair quirked an eyebrow. "I've already taken care of it. Two footmen will take shifts. The thief will not catch us off guard again."

Leo rubbed his face with his hand. Of course, he should have expected Sinclair to handle the situation. It had been months since he'd actively managed the affairs of his estate. His butler and the housekeeper oversaw the day-to-day needs of the household. Only through their weekly reports did he learn the stairs were rotting, the kitchen understaffed, the servants' quarters drafty. Dozens of trivial household concerns that would otherwise have kept him from pursuing the one activity that gave him a semblance of peace—painting.

And now someone is trying to take that away from you, too.

"Tomorrow, move the paintings in my studio to a different wing," Leo said. "Somewhere that is not accessible from the outdoors. Perhaps on the third floor. We do not want to give our intruder another chance."

"And your… supplies?"

Sinclair's hesitation was not a surprise. Leo had, on more than one occasion, reminded the maids not to clean around his brushes and oils. He did not have the patience to set everything back to rights every day.

"I will gather them myself," Leo said. He would package up the least used of his materials into crates and move the rest somewhere close so that none of his guests would stumble upon them.

But even with plans set in motion, he still felt like a caged lion, tensed to bite the next hand that approached.

There is only one thing for it.

He walked over to his wardrobe and rifled through the frippery, scowling. Hundreds of pounds spent at the tailor, and not a piece of it was waterproof.

"My lord, do you intend to go out into the storm?" Sinclair asked, alarmed. "I would advise against such action. It is not safe."

He shrugged on his thickest coat and tightened the belts about his waist. "I cannot rest until I investigate myself. Bring me my hunting boots."

His butler sniffed, then stiffly walked out the door, returning a minute later with a pair of heavy boots clutched in his arms. Leo sat in a wingback chair near the cold fireplace and allowed his butler to lace them to his feet.

"I beg you to reconsider, my lord," Sinclair said, following him as he made his way down the hallway to the entrance. "I do not wish to send a team to recover your body. Wait until morning, at least."

"It'll be too late," he said, tugging his hood tightly around his head. "Our trap has sprung early. In a few hours, there will be no evidence to speak of."

He wouldn't let them get away with it.

A footman opened the main doorway and Leo stepped outside. The rain pelted his face, spurred on by a roaring wind that cut straight through his coat. He descended the stairs, then slogged through the thick mud surrounding the outside of the building until he reached the point around the house where the intruder had tried to enter.

When he found the footprints, he crouched down for a closer look. Once, when he'd been a young lad, he had tried to get past his nursemaid by sneaking out the same back windows. The mud had been so thick that he had lost a shoe.

After a few moments, he found what he was looking for: a bare, trampled area of ground surrounded by trees denuded of leaves. Evidence of a horse.

He returned to the front entrance, where Sinclair waited. The butler crouched to undo the laces on his boots, but Leo shook his head. As nice as it would have been to rid himself of his sodden shoes, there was more to do, and it would take too long to dry off.

"Have the stables prepare a mount," he said.

"At least wait until you are properly attired," Sinclair begged.

"We don't have time for that. There was a horse tied nearby. Its rider is escaping as we speak. I must pursue now or not at all."

He spared a moment to exchange his waterlogged coat for another, then charged back out into the tempest.

An hour later, he regretted his decision.

He was on horseback, following the tracks, wincing through the sleeting rain, and trying to remain astride as his horse picked its careful way through the muck. Branches lashed him, breaking off and littering the forest floor.

Sinclair was right. This is madness.

But having set out on the task, he was determined to finish it. It was not as if he had anything to look forward to. Sleep routinely brought the same nightmares he'd suffered with each night since Sabrina's death. Only through painting was he able to escape his demons.

Another reason to find the intruder who had violated his sanctuary.

The tracks led through his property to an old groundskeeper cottage, a small, thatched-roof structure with an attached stable that showed signs of recent use. He resolved to tell his staff after this was over to either demolish the building or install a tenant to keep it from acting as a waystation.

He continued until he reached a hill overlooking a view of surging ocean waves in a small bay. A blot on the water suggested a ship, but it was too far away to gleam any recognizable details.

Too late.

He turned his horse and made his way back through the woods. As he rounded the last bend, he spotted a rider in a black cloak at the treeline bordering the road.

The thief?

He waved his arm. "You there!"

The rider turned his mount, then took off down the road. Leo kicked his heels into his horse's sides. The thudding of the animals' hooves on the gravel path kept pace with the erratic pounding of his heart. He kept close behind his quarry but did not overtake. The road was pitted, and one misstep could send him flying.

His brother, the viscount before him, had died in just such a manner. They had found his body the next morning, crumpled in a heap at the bottom of a cliff. A victim of his own poor judgement.

And here I am about to repeat his mistakes.

The rider maintained an even distance, and Leo was considering giving up the chase when the man skidded to a halt. The viscount had to pull hard on the reins to stop from soaring over the neck of his horse as she dug her hooves into the slick earth and threw her head up, whinnying sharply.

Then the rider lifted his hood to reveal the blazing, brown eyes of Saffron Summersby, her mouth set in a tight line.

The shock of seeing her nearly unseated him, and he had to clutch the reins.

What the devil is she doing here?

"You scared me half to death!" she shouted. The words were barely audible over the rumble of thunder. He urged his horse closer until his thigh pressed against the heaving sides of her mount.

"What are you doing?" he shouted. "It's dangerous out here."

She glowered at him, her hair tangled around her face, her body shaking beneath her heavy, water-logged cloak. She gestured with her hands, and her lips moved, though he could only make out a few words.

Carriage. River. Help.

"An accident? What happened?"

She pointed to her ears, then to the road, the way they had come.

He nodded, all thoughts of the thief gone from his mind, and then brought his horse around to follow her, hoping that she would not be foolish enough to take off again.

What she does with her time is no concern of yours. If she wants to run about in a storm, you cannot stop her.

Hypocrisy aside, he could see her trembling from three horse lengths away. If they did not get warm and dry soon, the consequences might prove dire.

He remembered the groundskeeper cottage and imagined putting on dry clothing and sitting in front of a warm fire. They might even find some old jerky, hard and salty but wholesome. He urged his horse closer, then grabbed Miss Summersby's arm beneath her cloak. "Let's take shelter," he shouted. "I'm soaked to the bone."

She tried to speak again, but when he shook his head, unable to hear, she scowled and resorted to nodding her head up and down in an exaggerated gesture.

Relieved, Leo turned his horse toward the cottage.

When they arrived, he jumped down from his mount, clutching on to the saddle to keep from slipping onto his back in the mud. Saffron followed his lead with a much more elegant dismount. Without asking, she took his reins and her own and led their mounts into the small stable attached to the side of the cottage.

Trusting her to see to the needs of the animals, he gathered his saddlebags then entered the dark structure and took a cautious sniff.

Smoke.

As he examined the remains in the firepit, the roaring wind buffeted the sides of the cottage, and the thunder crashed overhead.

The cottage was a single room with stone walls and a wooden floor that creaked as he stepped. The only window was boarded over, letting in a sliver of cold air through the gaps in the wooden planks.

By the hearth were two wooden stools, which he broke apart with his heel and assembled into a pile, grateful for the first time in his life for his father's lectures on keeping his saddlebags fully stocked. He retrieved a box of matches, then nursed a small flame in the hearth with numb fingers, hoping the chimney was clear enough to allow the smoke to pass through.

The door creaked open and then shut with a bang.

"We can't stay here," Saffron said.

"What were you doing out in that storm?" he asked, pushing down his temper as he fed the small fire with more splinters. "You could have broken your neck if that horse had thrown you. I could barely keep astride."

She stayed stubbornly by the door. "I left my aunt and sister. Our carriage lost a wheel at the riverside and our driver abandoned us. We can't leave them alone!"

Leo cracked a branch harder than he'd intended, spraying splinters onto the floor. The damned woman was going to get herself killed. "I'm not letting you leave this cabin until the storm calms down."

She scowled and looked like she was going to argue, but then a bolt of lightning struck, illuminating the room in a burst of light. When Leo could see again, her shoulders had slumped, all the fight drained out of her.

"My butler was set against me leaving," he said, compelled to reassure her. "They'll have sent out a search party by now."

"If anything happens to them, I won't forgive you," she said, coming close to kneel beside him. She reached out her hands toward the fire, and he glanced at her face, highlighted by the flickering light. Even drenched, she was beautiful, with long eyelashes and rosy cheeks. He could not see much of her through the cloak, and for that, he was grateful. Thinking about her wet gown plastered to her curves made his loins stir.

Then she closed her eyes and sniffed. "I feel so helpless."

He reached for her knee and squeezed. "My staff know these woods."

"I hope you're right."

She relaxed against his touch. He jerked his hand away and reached for his saddlebags, glad that Sinclair had filled it with additional supplies before he'd so recklessly taken off into the storm. He found a woolen blanket that was damp but not wet and shook it out.

"Here," he said, draping it over Saffron's shoulders and tucking it around her. "We'll wait for a break in the storm, then return to the manor. It shouldn't be long. Storms here burn themselves out quickly. We'll be back before your family knows we were ever here." He slammed his mouth shut before he could babble further.

"Thank you."

The next ten minutes passed in a tense silence broken only by the crackling, popping fire and whoosh of rain coming in from the gaps in the window. A prickling numbness crept from the tips of his fingers and toes up to his elbows and knees.

That was when he realized something was wrong. There were dark bags around Saffron's eyes. Her shoulders shook, and her fingers were tinged blue.

Fever.

The word hit him in the gut. She'd been out in the rain, but was sickness even possible so fast after exposure? He'd seen his sister come down with a chill once, after a swim on a windy day. She'd spent a full night shivering in her bed, shoving the heavy blankets away even after the doctor had insisted what she needed was warmth. Sabrina had barely survived the incident.

He wouldn't let it happen to anyone else.

He removed his overcoat and wrapped it around Miss Summersby's shoulders, then pulled her tightly to him.

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