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  “Tomorrow?”

  “If you like.” She was too absorbed in the wounded owl to look up at him. “About eight o’clock.”

  “Then I’ll be at the bottom of the drive with Maid Marion. But I can see you’ve got more on your mind than chatting with me at the moment, so I’ll leave you to your doctoring.” He remounted. “Until tomorrow, Chloe.”

  “Yes,” she agreed absently. “Bye, Crispin.” She hurried into the house with her prize without waiting to see him go.

  Crispin rode out of the courtyard well satisfied. By this time tomorrow Chloe Gresham would be safely secured in her half brother’s charge.

  Chloe carried the bird into the kitchen and set the box on the table.

  “What you got there?” Samuel asked, coming in through the back door with a basket of apples.

  “See for yourself,” Chloe said distractedly. “I’m going to warm some milk and mix it with bread to make pellets for it. It’ll do for food for the moment, since I don’t think I’m capable of regurgitating mice.”

  “Lord love us,” Samuel muttered, peering at the bird. “What’s the matter wi’ it?”

  “Broken wing. I have to find two very light, thin pieces of wood to act as splints. Do we have any thread?”

  “Reckon so.” He watched with a resigned curiosity as she mixed bread and milk into tiny pellets and sat down, holding the bird in the palm of one hand, patiently opening its beak to pop the food inside. After two pellets the baby owl was opening its mouth without assistance.

  “There, that’s better now, isn’t it?” she crooned, laying the bird back in its box. “Now, for a splint.”

  She was working intricately with two shavings from the log basket wrapped in thread when Hugo came into the kitchen. He leaned against the door jamb and said tranquilly, “Good evening.”

  Chloe was painstakingly straightening the broken wing and made no response. Samuel, however, sighed in audible relief and beamed, scrutinizing the haggard figure in the doorway. Hugo’s face bore the ravages of four sleepless days and nights and the deeply etched lines of endurance. His eyes were red-rimmed, the paper-thin skin beneath swollen, a week’s worth of stubble on his chin. But he exuded an air of peace, a sense of being purged, of being washed up on a calm shore after shipwreck.

  “Come you in.” Samuel rubbed his hands together, his eyes shining with pleasure. “What can I get ye?”

  “Coffee first, then food,” Hugo said. He surveyed Chloe’s rigid back and said, “Good evening, lass.” Again there was no response. He raised his eyebrows interrogatively at Samuel, who shook his head and set the kettle to boil on the range.

  “What are you doing, Chloe?” Hugo tried again.

  Chloe ignored him, concentrating on the exquisitely delicate operation of binding the splint to the owl’s wing.

  Hugo came over to the table. “Didn’t you hear me, lass?”

  “I should have thought it was obvious what I was doing,” she muttered. “I’m splinting a broken wing.”

  Hugo watched her fingers and pursed his lips in admiration at their precision. He decided to ignore the issue of blatant discourtesy and sat down opposite her.

  His first draft of coffee was a revelation. He’d taken nothing but water since incarcerating himself in the library. Anything else had made him violently nauseated. Now the hot liquid seemed to bring renewed life to every crevice of a body that seemed as sore both inside and out as if it had been passed through a mangle. He was famished and exhausted. But he was cleansed, his body freed of poison and his mind clear, his spirit somehow healed, as if in those long hours of endurance he had finally expiated the past.

  Now he had to address the problem of his beautiful ward from whom anger and resentment radiated in almost palpable waves. He knew he had hurt and confused her. From now on they would conduct their relationship on the friendly practical basis of guardian and ward, and Chloe would soon forget what had passed between them in his drunken madness. And he would make up for it in whatever ways he could without compromising his authority.

  “The problem now is where to put you,” Chloe said, examining her handiwork with a critical frown. “Somewhere dark and quiet … and safe from Beatrice. Although she’s fairly occupied with the mice,” she added.

  “A mouser, is she?” Samuel tossed sweetbreads in a skillet over the range.

  “Yes, I just wish she wouldn’t play with them before she kills them,” Chloe lamented, sniffing hungrily.

  “It’s the nature of the beast, I suppose,” Hugo remarked.

  Chloe flicked him a look of supreme contempt, as if he’d said something idiotic, and pointedly addressed Samuel. “So, do you have any suggestions, Samuel, about where I could put him?”

  “Why don’t you use the old stillroom?” Hugo persevered. “It’s dark and there’s a key in the door, so you can be sure it won’t accidentally open.”

  “Where will I find it?” Chloe continued to address Samuel, as if it had been his suggestion.

  “End of the north corridor upstairs,” Samuel provided. “Full o’ cobwebs, prob’ly.”

  “Then he’ll feel quite at home.” She picked up the box and left the kitchen.

  “Oh, Lord!” Hugo groaned, resting his head in his elbow-propped hands.

  “Reckon as ’ow some fences need mendin’” was Samuel’s laconic response. He put a loaf of bread and a crock of yellow butter on the table.

  “An understatement … but I haven’t the energy to do anything about it tonight.”

  “Now, don’t you let Miss trouble ye,” Samuel advised with a touch of asperity. “You just get rested.” He scraped the contents of the skillet onto a plate and set it before Hugo. “Get that down you, Sir ’Ugo. Do ye a power of good. And there’s a nice brook trout to follow. Caught it this mornin’.”

  “And what are you going to feed the lass?” Hugo asked with a slight smile. “It’s not going to sweeten her temper if I eat her dinner.”

  “She’ll ’ave ham an’ eggs like me an’ be thankful.”

  Chloe had no fault to find with ham and eggs and cast no envious glances across the table at her guardian’s dinner. She had, however, been shocked at his spent appearance on her one surreptitious examination, although the green eyes, despite their red-rimmed exhaustion, were clearer than she’d ever seen them. The memory of that dreadful music knocked at the carapace of anger she was fiercely preserving. If he hadn’t been drinking during the long days and nights in the library, and he obviously hadn’t, what had he been doing?

  “How’s Rosinante getting along?” Hugo asked, laying down his fork with a sigh of repletion.

  Chloe shrugged. “All right, I suppose.” She’d have liked to have discussed the animal’s condition, but perversely denied herself the opportunity for a second opinion.

  Hugo pushed back his chair. “I’m dead on my feet, Samuel. I’m going up to bed. Don’t wake me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Samuel declared.

  Hugo came around the table and stopped at Chloe’s chair. Catching her chin, he lifted her face. The deep blue eyes glared, but he could read the deeper emotion the belligerence was masking.

  “I grant you the right to punish me this evening,” he said evenly. “But tomorrow morning, lass, you’ll accord me ordinary civility at the very least. Is that clear?”

  “I am not uncivil,” Chloe replied, trying to pull her chin free of his fingers.

  “Oh, yes, you are. Abominably so, and I won’t have it after tonight. We have a lot to discuss, and I don’t intend to conduct the discussion with a monosyllabic brat.” He softened the words with a weary smile because she was heart-stoppingly beautiful despite the truculence of her expression. Then he remembered where contemplation of that beauty led and abruptly released her chin. “I bid you both good night.”

  The kitchen door closed on his departure. Chloe brushed her chin where the imprint of his fingers still lingered.

  Chapter 10

  CHLOE WAS AWAKE at cockc
row, filled with a sense of adventure that she knew arose from the forbidden nature of the day’s plan. In any other circumstances the prospect of a ride with Crispin would have left her unmoved. He was hardly a stimulating companion. But she was sick to death of being confined in a dusty, falling-apart manor house at the bidding of a man who couldn’t get his own head together. After ten years locked up in the Misses Trent’s seminary, it seemed to add insult to injury. Besides, the sun was shining and there was a world awaiting.

  There also seemed little point in having a new habit and a tricorn hat with a silver plume if one was denied the opportunity to wear them.

  She ran down to the kitchen and let Dante out into the kitchen garden, taking an apple from the basket and following him into the orchard. She perched on the low wall encircling the orchard and looked across Shipton valley, where an early mist curled, promising another hot day.

  She’d already decided to make her escape by climbing over the wall and skirting the orchard to come out halfway down the driveway. There was much less chance of discovery than using the courtyard exit.

  She ate her apple while Dante chased up hares in the dew-wet grass, then returned to the kitchen. She couldn’t go adventuring without leaving a note of explanation. They’d be angry enough as it was without scaring them both out of their wits, wondering what had happened to her.

  The kitchen dresser yielded paper and a lead pencil. She took them up to her room to compose a suitable missive.

  At seven o’clock Chloe heard Samuel’s heavy tread on the stair. He’d put the kettle on the range and go to the hen house to collect the eggs. Then he’d make tea and porridge for himself and Billy. When they’d breakfasted, they’d go to the stables to see to the dogs and horses.

  She dressed swiftly and read through her note. It was hardly poetry, but it was clear and said she’d be back in the afternoon. In afterthought she scrawled an addendum. Dante would have to be shut up while she left, since Crispin’s plans might go awry if a dog joined them. Samuel would have to release him once she’d gone.

  That done, she left her bedroom, tiptoed to the end of the corridor, looked in on the sleepy Plato, in the still-room, who blinked at the crack of light but seemed peaceful and so far hadn’t disturbed the splint.

  The kitchen was empty, as she’d expected, the back door standing open. She propped the note against the coffeepot on the table and darted outside. Across the kitchen garden, through the orchard, over the wall, and she was home free.

  Crispin was waiting in the lane at the bottom of the drive. He held Maid Marion on a leading rein and had a wicker hamper strapped to his saddle.

  “Good morning,” Chloe called as she ran through the gate. “Isn’t it a lovely morning?”

  Crispin dismounted. “Beautiful. No one knows you’re here?”

  “Not a soul,” she said cheerfully, rubbing Maid Marion’s nose. “But I left them a note so they won’t worry.”

  Crispin paled. “You left them a note?”

  “Yes, of course…. Will you help me mount? Without a mounting block, I find it difficult.”

  Crispin took her booted foot in his palm and tossed her up. She landed gracefully in the sidesaddle, hitched her right knee over the pommel, and adjusted her skirts, offering her companion a brilliant smile. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Crispin mounted his own horse. “What did you say in your note?”

  “Oh, just that I was going for a ride with you and we would be back sometime this afternoon.” She looked at him askance. “Is something troubling you?”

  “No, why should there be?” But his mouth was tight and his eyes hard. “How soon before they find your note?”

  “Oh, half an hour, I should think,” Chloe said. “Why?”

  Crispin shrugged and touched his spur to his mount’s flanks. The horse broke into a canter and then into a gallop. Chloe, taken by surprise, followed suit, the roan’s stride lengthening as she established her pace.

  It was fifteen minutes before Crispin slowed, and by then Chloe was enjoying the ride so much, she thought no more about that sudden burst of speed. Crispin still refused to say where they were going, so she just relaxed into the pleasure of the bright morning and the feel of a powerful mount beneath her and the heady sense of a whole day of freedom ahead.

  Samuel saw the note as soon as he returned to the kitchen from the stables. He unfolded the sheet of paper and puzzled at the scrawled letters. His reading was severely limited and his writing nonexistent, but he could make out the signature and it filled him with foreboding. Further mental contortions yielded the fact that she’d gone somewhere.

  On occasion Samuel could produce a siring of profanity to impress His Majesty’s entire navy. This was one of those occasions. Clearly, he had no choice but to wake Sir Hugo from the first decent sleep he’d had since God knew when.

  Women were pesky creatures … never anything but trouble. He stomped upstairs and knocked at Hugo’s door. There was no immediate response, and he lifted the latch.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Ugo—”

  “What is it, Samuel?” Hugo was immediately wide awake although for a second disoriented, believing that he was back commanding a ship and Samuel was waking him in the night watch with urgent news.

  “It’s Miss,” Samuel said, stepping up to the bed. “Left this on the kitchen table.” He held out the paper.

  Hugo snatched it from him. He took in the contents and closed his eyes briefly. “Why the hell would she go anywhere with Crispin? She said she couldn’t stand him.”

  “That relative of ’ers?” Samuel asked with an uneasy frown. “The one what’s been ’anging around the last few days?”

  “What!”

  “Well, she was down, like, Sir ’Ugo, and he seemed to cheer ’er up. They never went out of the courtyard, I swear it. An’ I was watchin’ all the time. Brought ’er the owl, I’ll lay odds.” A ruddy flush stained Samuel’s weather-beaten cheeks as he gazed anxiously at his employer. “Did I do wrong?”

  “It wasn’t your responsibility, Samuel, it was mine.” Hugo’s lip curled in disgust. “I thought it could wait until I’d pulled myself together. Jasper said he was more than a match for a drunken sot … and by God he knew what he was talking about.” He pushed aside the sheet and stood up. “How long could she have been gone?”

  “ ’Alf an hour, p’raps.”

  “Could be worse.” He pulled his shirt over his head and stepped into his britches. Tm damn sure I told her she wasn’t to leave the estate without permission … or is that another fond hope born out of my drunken imagination?”

  “No, Sir ’Ugo, I was there when you telled ’er,” Samuel said stolidly, handing him his boots.

  “Ahh. In that case, Miss Gresham had better be prepared for some serious trouble when I get my hands on her.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. “Tell Billy to saddle the horses. There’s only one road and they could only have gone one of two ways. I’ll take the Manchester road to Shipton and you go toward Edgecombe. Someone along the road will have seen them and can put us right.”

  He stood up again and buckled on his belt. “I want my knife, Samuel, and my pistol.”

  Samuel handed them to him and hurried downstairs to give Billy his orders.

  Hugo ran a finger down the blade of the knife before thrusting it into the sheath in his belt. He primed the pistol before dropping it into the deep pocket of his coat.

  He hadn’t confided his suspicions about the Greshams to Chloe, so perhaps she couldn’t be held entirely to blame for accepting Crispin’s company. He was a part of her childhood, and she had no reason to suspect him of perfidy. However, she had been told to stay close to the house, and by ignoring that instruction had walked straight into the lion’s den and was causing him a great deal of trouble … not to mention waking him prematurely from the almost-unremembered luxury of a deep sleep and driving him out of the house, unshaven and breakfastless. If he’d sum
moned the energy to rid himself of a week’s beard before he’d gone to bed; he’d look less of a vagabond.

  Hugo was in no charitable frame of mind as he strode downstairs. But neither was he in the least anxious about retrieving her. He never fretted about the outcome of a venture when in the midst of it.

  Would they have taken her to Shipton? Or somewhere farther afield? He’d start at Shipton anyway. If Jasper wasn’t there, the chances were fairly high that someone could be induced to impart some information. A knife and a pistol in the hands of a man unafraid to use them were potent persuaders.

  He emerged into the sunny courtyard, drawing on his gloves. “If someone saw them pass on your section of the road, Samuel, stay on their tracks. If you draw a blank, then follow me as fast as you can. I’ll do the same.” He swung onto his horse.

  “Right you are.” Samuel mounted and followed him down the drive to the road, where they went their separate ways.

  Crispin pressed his horse onward over the dry, rutted surface of the Manchester road. They were nearing the city now and the post-chaise would be waiting at the crossroads. He glanced impatiently behind him. Chloe was now dawdling, examining the hedgerows, stopping to look at a hovering hawk, and he didn’t know how to hurry her up. If they only had half an hour’s start, he had to get her into the chaise and across the city without delay.

  Fuming, he reined in his horse and waited for her to come up with him. “You’re so slow, Chloe.”

  She looked surprised. “But we aren’t in a hurry. We have all morning…. Don’t you think there are a lot of people on the road?”

  It was true. The Manchester road was getting busier by the moment, with carts and horsemen and pedestrians, whole families of them in some cases, straggling along the grassy verge, children darting and squealing in and out of the throng. There was an air of excitement but also a holiday atmosphere, as if they were going to a fete on this sultry Monday morning.