Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

L onely stretches of land spread out before Myles as he made his way to Kingston, attended at equal distances on the London Road by toll takers. He enjoyed being connected to the earth by hoof. It allowed for experiencing the countryside rather than spending hours insulated in a carriage. Preferring to ride alone, he'd sent his valet, Higgins, and private secretary, Clifford Henry, ahead in the conveyance to announce his impending arrival at his estate. While the journey used to be dangerous for riders and coaches alike, criminals like Jerry Abershawe were no longer a threat as tolls made it harder for highwaymen to escape, which also increased the flow of traffic and the ease of travel.

Passing Abershawe's old haunts, Wimbledon Common and then the Bald-Faced Stag on the edge of Richmond Park, a deer darted out across the road. The sighting made Myles ponder how long it would take for London's infringing perimeters to completely overrun nature in all its simplicity. Expansion allowed for convenience, but it also encouraged illegal activity. Like the actions perfected by the highwaywoman Grimes had described.

Nearly home now, he wondered what type of woman broke the law without fear of the consequences.

Paltry crimes—though the harm done to Grimes's person could hardly be called trifling—eventually led to more desperate and gruesome acts. Like the murder of the marquess's son, the Earl of Norbiton.

Was there a connection? Records stated the pike of a crossbow shot had felled the young earl from a wooded area, the earl becoming vulnerable to the fatal blow as he rode in the open.

In the twilight, a shrill cry pierced the night, followed by frantic, shouting voices, each one echoing through the wood and originating from the grounds of his estate, held in the Rutlands' possession for the past two hundred years.

Startled, he kicked his heels, spurring his horse on, cursing the winding, wooded road that prevented him easier access to the house. The long drive leading there offered visitors a grand view of the property, as well as the lake, rotunda, and flora and fauna. Hardly beneficial to a man hellbent on arriving in a hurry.

A soft mist drifted over the road, distorting the route. Moisture hung in the air, infiltrating his lungs. Alarm surged through his veins, boiling his blood as he urged his mount faster.

Encroaching darkness cast shadows, tree limbs swinging low and posing dangerous obstacles to his advance. Sundown was upon them, the moon rising to illuminate the fog and provide just enough light to keep his horse from stepping into a hole.

Gun shots!

He thinned his lips, cursing his delay. Perhaps things were worse than he had originally imagined. Maybe Grimes's accusations had put the wrong ideas in his head. Or was the area completely overrun by bandits? And were those blackguards even now disrupting those under the Rutlands' care at Darby House?

Speeding around the lake, chaos unfolded before him. Servants were setting off on foot for the woods, armed and giving chase, while his private secretary stormed down the steps rising to the main residence, ordering servants about and dispersing them in numerous directions.

Myles's mind reeled, his heart seizing. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and he hadn't been there to stop it. He hadn't been there—again.

"Yer Grace!" Potts, his stablemaster, bellowed. "Ye are a sight for these sore eyes. It does me 'eart good to see that ye arrived safely. But I fear ye are too late."

Too late? What did that mean? He quickly reined in his horse, gravel skidding as his mount came to a halt. "What's the matter? What's happened?"

"Two men broke into the main 'ouse."

Two men? That ruled out Grimes's highwaywoman. That someone dared to break into Darby, a ducal residence, filled him with unmitigated rage. "How long ago?"

"Yer Grace—"

"How long?" he shouted, circling his horse and desiring to give chase.

Potts grabbed the reins. "Stuart discovered them." His strained expression filled Myles with apprehension. "They got away."

No need to worry then. Stuart, his butler, must have repelled them. He scanned the woods, consumed by impatience. "How long ago?" he repeated.

"Thirty minutes. Maybe more, Yer Grace."

What had the thieves been looking for? He planned to confer with Stuart once he settled everything. "Scour the woods. Summon everyone—tenants, croft owners. Remind them to be on their guard. Outlaws are dangerous."

"Already done, Yer Grace."

He glanced around, finding it odd that Stuart wasn't present. "Where's Stuart?"

"He's—"

"This way!" came a yell in the semi-darkness. Both Myles and Potts instantly shot a look to the wood line where several men appeared, waving them on. "This way!"

Instinct took over. Without another thought, he kicked his heels and arrowed his mount in that direction.

"But Yer Grace. There's somethin' ye must know. Stuart—"

Potts's shout quickly faded as Myles raced on, determined to catch the intruders. When he reached the edge of the wood, the men shouted and pointed east, saying they had seen a rider in the timberland. He leaned forward in the saddle, elbows bent, understanding the risk both to himself and his mount as he hurdled a log and rode into the woods, offering thanks that his groundskeepers kept the trees neatly trimmed for the hunt; low branches blinded men and beast alike.

Mist coated the forest floor, preventing him from tracking the thieves, the damp smell eerily following him as he worked his way through the trees and scanned for signs of his prey. Moonlight shone through layers of latticed leaves, and the wind whistled and pulsated above the great canopy, cascading down like a wave. Young and old boughs creaked. The soft, stuttering rhythm of an owl met his ears. A fox yipped in the distance.

Then he heard it—a horse wuffling. Two or three short inhales followed by a forceful exhale indicated his target was a short distance ahead. A soft whinny and a nervous stamp. Both signaled his quarry moved without haste, almost as if hunting something else.

The novelty of giving chase immediately wore off and alarm intensified inside him, a hostile reminder that he'd ridden straight into the lion's den without a plan.

The faint sound of men calling to one another infiltrated the trees. He rode on deeper and deeper into the wood, moonlight and mist helping and hindering his advance. Bypassing a low branch, he chanced to look northward and caught a flash of red and white.

He blinked.

I'll be damned.

A white horse, and seated upon it, a red-cloaked rider.

Could this be Grimes's highwaywoman?

Lost in his thoughts, he misjudged his course, and his mount stepped on a branch, the sound loud enough to make the mysterious figure stop dead in her tracks. The entire experience gave him seconds to process the sight before him.

The head beneath the draped hood snapped to attention, his position spotted in an instant. Indecision and desperation radiated off the figure in waves. Then, without warning, she coaxed her horse forward and off into the wood they sped.

His heartbeat quickened as he directed his mount into motion, eyes on his quarry and attempting to outflank her. But his adversary proved swifter, lighter, knowledgeable of the terrain and more capable of navigating the woods. City life, it appeared, had made him soft. And before he had the chance to solve the identity of the red-cloaked highwaywoman, she disappeared almost as fast as she'd materialized out of the mist.

Slowing his horse to a halt, he struggled to fathom what he'd just experienced. Grimes's highwaywoman is flesh and blood, no tall tale to assuage a man's pride!

The red hooded cloak. The white horse. He had a conundrum to solve.

He was chewing over this information when a shout interrupted his thoughts. "Yer Grace!"

Turning, he spotted several men advancing toward him. He reined his mount to face them. "Did you see her?"

"Who?" one man he remembered from his youth named Hyde said.

"The highwaywoman."

"No, Yer Grace. We were chasin' the two men who got away."

The two men who got away? "The woman clad in red isn't the one you were after?"

Hyde shrugged. "Two troublemakers plyin' their trade in the country broke into the house, Yer Grace."

"Best be gettin' back now, Hyde," a tenant named Sanders said. "They'll be no sleepin' tonight, Yer Grace. Not after—"

"What?" he asked. "What else has happened?"

Hyde's eyes widened in alarm until Myles thought they would pop out of the man's skull. "Ye do not know?"

Sanders and Hyde exchanged strange expressions, rendering Myles speechless. What were they hiding? He shot a withering glance over his shoulder and squinted at the chaos still occurring up at the house. Resigned to discover what was going on, he jerked the reins and dashed out of the woods.

Nothing made sense. "I'll find out myself."

The murder of a young earl. A highwaywoman, her red-clad figure hunting, like him, on his grounds for what he knew not. Thievery. The affront of someone breaking into a ducal residence.

These were not coincidences.

When a man stole into another man's home, it was a deliberate act. But for what purpose? The Rutlands' philanthropic work extended hundreds of miles, to include almost every district in the kingdom. The house contained elegant furniture, silver and china, of course. It had once been a hubbub of entertainment, hosting parties and festivals for the locals. But, without a duchess, the family jewels were no longer kept on the premises.

Who dared to break into Darby?

Dismounting near the entrance to his familial home, anger surged within him. He strode up the stairs, then stopped cold on the threshold. Women filled the atrium, surrounding his housekeeper and several moaning maids who bent over someone on the parquet floor.

Hell, and the Devil! Had the intruders injured one of his own?

This was not to be borne!

"What is going on?" he demanded, pushing his way through the sobbing women.

What met his eyes pilfered his breath.

Stuart.

The reason his butler had not been at his post became clear. He could not man it. Damn me, I should have known! Blood spilled from Stuart's faultless attire onto the pristine marble floor.

"Stuart?" Rushing to his side, Myles's heart seized, squeezing his chest cruelly. "Dear God, man, what has happened? Who did this to you?"

"They—" Stuart attempted to rise, but collapsed, wincing. "Two."

"Two?"

"Henchmen."

"Remain still, sir," he advised, not wanting Stuart to exasperate his injury or cause himself further pain. Though women attempted to assist Stuart, he shot a them a frustrated look, feeling utterly helpless. Needing a miracle. "Do something. Stop the bleeding!"

"We've tried, Your Grace. He is . . . He is—"

"No time." Stuart wheezed.

"He refused to let them pass," Mrs. Warren volunteered, shaking her head to warn Myles that Stuart's injuries were fatal.

Indeed, a closer look at the dark color of blood signified severe internal damage. Myles bowed his head, incapable of believing the proof before his eyes. He grabbed Stuart's hand, barely able to hold back his misery or the catch in his voice. "Why did you confront them?"

Stuart smiled wanly, the effort costing him dearly. Old and frail, the butler had dutifully served the family long before Myles's birth. The stoic man's exceptional style, unquestionable loyalty, and bright, unchecked wit had been a buoy in times of trouble and a comfort in times of plenty.

"Your life is worth more than anything this house offers."

"My . . ." A deathly pallor overtook Stuart. "Duty—"

"Duty be damned, man! Think no more about the estate. Conserve your energy. You must recover." He choked back his anguish. "You must. I need you."

"Not." Stuart perked briefly. "Anymore."

What did he mean? Not anymore? "You are essential to life here. To me. You must fight. FIGHT, Stuart!"

"Fare . . . well." Pain wracked the butler's body. He reached up weakly to touch Myles's cheek. "My . . . boy."

With a cringing, frightening gasp, Stuart inhaled his last breath. The gruesome sound vibrated through Myles's bones. A lump rose in his throat but he quickly banished the tears that threatened to come, commanding himself to be strong in front of his household staff.

Mrs. Warren shrieked.

The maids groaned with loud, heart-wrenching sobs.

Stuart.

A low growl erupted from Myles as he gently lowered the man's hand and closed his unseeing eyes. Images flashed before him. A childhood filled with laughter and lessons. Stuart silencing him when he spoke out of turn. The occasional nudge given when he refused to put the right foot forward. The unequaled insistence that honor and duty prevailed over everything else. The quiet reassurances that had steered Myles through the worst events of his life—the death of his father, his rise to a dukedom and the responsibilities he shouldered to the tenants and croft owners in the vale. He'd cherished Stuart's wisdom and leadership, and yes, his friendship, knowing they didn't have a typical master-servant relationship. Yet, the whole was a marvel. The respect he had for Stuart's sense of duty and the care with which he kept Darby and those under his supervision in line without selfish reservation had meant everything to them all.

In hindsight, Stuart's lifelong devotion was the last link to his father. And now, he was gone. Taken. Stolen. And nothing would stop him from locating and punishing whoever was responsible. Nothing!

Summoning control, Myles knew that, first and foremost, he had to get to the root of what happened. Stuart had not said thieves or robbers had entered the house and killed him. He'd used the word ‘henchmen .' The dutiful butler had never spoken without clear intent before, so that must be a clue. Henchmen danced to the demands of puppet masters, people powerful enough to sway men into thievery and murder.

But Stuart had stopped them, thwarting their objective. The question now begged: What could they have been searching for? Whatever it was, they hadn't got it.

"Yer Grace."

The only way to locate the henchmen is to know thine enemy.

"Yer Grace."

Clenching his fists, he closed his eyes, willing the memory of Stuart lying in a pool of blood to fade. Impossible.

"The thieves 'ave escaped, Yer Grace."

His groundskeeper's voice cut through the thorny bramble, restricting his attention. "What?" he asked, turning to the man who was speaking.

"They're gone," Cobb said, his flushed face and dodging eyes revealing that he'd rather be elsewhere. "What would ye have us do?"

"Every minute is crucial." His staff depended on him to make the correct decisions through misery and despair.

But he was not the only one mourning Stuart's death. The maids wept and clung to one another. Mrs. Warren, God love her, knelt to rearrange Stuart's clothing carefully to restore his ghastly appearance.

"It is late and dark and there is little else to do for Stuart now. Go," he said. "See that everyone returns home. We shall meet early in the morning to discuss what needs to be done."

"What about Stuart, Yer Grace?" Cobb asked.

"Carry him into the red parlor."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Yer Grace, but wouldn't it be better to—"

"No." He whipped around on Cobb, unable to contain his anger.

He'd lost so much. And now, someone dear to the estate, to the household, to him, had been erased.

Cobb and several others shuffled in to lift Stuart's body.

Biting back the weighty turmoil roiling through his blood, he added, "After you place Stuart in the red parlor, Mrs. Warren and I shall take care of him." Indeed, he planned to study Stuart's body for evidence that might lead to his killer. After that, everyone else could pay their respects. "Go now," he said, dismissing the lot when their work was done. "Leave me."

When the last had crossed the threshold and closed the door quietly behind them, he stared down at Darby's loyal champion. The old guard had aged more than he realized, lines etched into the skin around his eyes and mouth, his wrinkled forehead a map of censured thoughts. What had they been, and why had he waited until it was too late to wonder what Stuart would have told him if he'd been free to impart wisdom?

The butler had been a symbol of all that was well and good at Darby. And the gut-wrenching truth was that Myles wasn't sure if Darby would ever recover from Stuart's absence.

While the land and the house symbolized permanence, containing sculptures, paintings, an extensive library, luxurious rooms and halls, fountains, a lake and a folly, Rutlands hadn't built the estate to repel intruders. It had no hidden passageways, turrets, and towers for defense. There'd never been a need.

The attempted robbery and Stuart's death changed that.

Logic returned. This was no isolated incident. Someone knowledgeable in Darby's location had orchestrated it. But who? Who would dare send henchmen to Darby and for what purpose?

He placed Stuart's hands across his chest, blood staining his fingers. "I will find whoever did this and bring them to justice."

But where would his search lead? And was the highwaywoman a pivotal piece of the puzzle?