He sat up, pulling straw from his hair, yet dryly thinking he had slept rather well for bedding down in the stable.
Then, before he could rise, he heard the soft sound of paws. A second later, the hounds were on him, letting out a bark and a whimper here and there, and all but laving him to death with poking noses and kisses.
“Excuse me,” he protested, using the back of the largest, Malcolm, to rise at last. He patted the four heads of the giant animals madly wagging their tails, and when Cara would have risen on her hind legs—and even at his height, she stood an inch above him—he commanded, “Down! Ah, good girl,” he praised her when she obeyed. Then he looked around. “Father, where are you? I’m sure you’re finding this quite amusing.”
In hunting attire—tan jodhpurs, jacket and high black boots—Lord Farrow appeared. “Ah, you are here. I thought I might find you nearby.”
Mark dusted straw from himself. “What else could I have done?” he asked ruefully.
Joseph grew grave. “Nothing. This was quite disturbing news. It’s possible some lost fool decided the sisters’ cottage might make a decent refuge, but you don’t believe that, do you?”
Mark shook his head. “I want Ally staying here. And the aunts must stay, as well.”
“The aunts will refuse. You know that. I had Sir Angus out last night. He went to search the cottage. He has sent men to secure the windows with braces, so even if someone shatters the glass, they will not be able to get in. I will send a pair of the hounds with them. And you might find out if a few of your friends are available to take night watch.”
“Yes, we can share hours,” Mark murmured.
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Please.”
“The wedding has been intended for many years. Unless you have decided it is not something you can agree to—and, in truth, you are not beholden to keep my word—I strenuously suggest your marriage take place this Saturday.”
“That allows little time for planning. I had thought you and the Stirlings wished for a magnificent affair.”
“Which is not necessary,” Joseph said, waving a hand in the air.
“No, not in my mind. Miss Grayson, however, might object.”
“Well, we shall see. Are you intending to come in?” Joseph asked.
Mark shook his head. “Bertram will allow me his stable room to bathe and dress. I must make a trip into the city.”
“Are you getting any closer to the truth?” his father asked.
“I’m not close to the truth, but I have been able to eliminate some possibilities. I am certain some who are under suspicion are not involved. So…”
“I understand. But if you intend to see your way through to this wedding by Saturday, I suggest you spend some time with Ally.”
“Indeed. It’s just that this morning, I must pore over some of the records Ian has obtained.”
“As you see fit.”
“Father?”
“Yes?”
“Lionel Wittburg was in a sad state yesterday.”
“Ah. So that was why Detective Douglas was at the church?”
“Yes.”
“How is Lord Wittburg now?”
“Much better, I believe.”
“Good.”
“But he said something curious. I will go through with the wedding, Father, as you long ago promised I would. But if I am to do so, you must tell me the truth.”
“The truth? I made a vow to Lord Stirling.”
“Father, that isn’t the only reason. You must tell exactly why it is so important that Ally Grayson is married to me.”
Joseph stood very still. “There are secrets some men have taken to their graves, son,” he said softly after a moment.
“But there are men alive who still know those secrets. Lionel Wittburg knows something.”
“What did the old fool say?”
“Nothing. But I am asking you. Father. I need the truth.”
Joseph fell silent. “We will talk later,” he said at last. “When you are not called to duty in the city.”
He turned and strode back toward the house. Mark watched his father go. At least it seemed Joseph meant to talk to him at last. He was suddenly very sorry it was necessary for him to head back to the city.
“OH, DEAR, WE CAN’T JUST stay here endlessly,” Violet said.
“I’m sure we’ll be safe at the cottage,” Edith said.
They were seated around the breakfast table. Ally was amazed by the beauty of this place, which was considered a mere hunting lodge. There was a grand salon, the breakfast room—with windows that overlooked the rear lawn and the forest—the enormous kitchen, a formal dining room, a large parlor, a library and the plentiful bedrooms. In Lord Farrow’s father’s and grandfather’s day—and even before, he had said—the Earls of Warren had come here often with large parties of friends to hunt, so the size had been necessary. The current Lord Farrow loved to come here because of the peace and beauty of the countryside, but sadly, he admitted, his business kept him in London most of the time.
“If you must return to the cottage, I will send a pair of the dogs,” Lord Farrow said. “But, Ally, I’m afraid you must remain here as my guest.”
“But if we have the dogs—”
“I don’t believe your aunts are really in any danger. I believe you are,” he told her.
“You must stay here, then,” Violet said firmly.
“I can’t have you going off alone,” Ally said firmly.
Lord Farrow cleared his throat. “We have decided the wedding will take place this Saturday,” he said.
Ally gasped. “So soon?”
“It seems prudent,” Lord Farrow said.
“I—I—” Ally stuttered.
“Yes, it must be this Saturday. Oh, Ally, that will be wonderful. You will never need to fear anything again,” Merry said brightly.
“I’m not afraid right now. I’m angry, and I’m worried about you three being alone,” she said firmly.
“Ally,” Violet said, and winced. “I’m sorry to say this, but…I believe we will be fine by ourselves, especially with the beautiful hounds Lord Farrow so graciously intends to lend us. It is more than likely you have become the target of some insanely jealous person. You will be safest here, while we will be safe in our little domain.”
“But—”
“Ally, for now, please?” Edith asked softly.
She lifted her hands. There was an inkling of truth in what they were saying. She no longer believed it was because she was engaged to Mark Farrow that she was suddenly a target. It had occurred to her that she might have been followed to the post office in London.
Perhaps someone—someone deadly—knew that she was A. Anonymous.
“Please, don’t look so stricken, dear,” Edith begged.
“You’ll be with us all day on Friday. We’ll be fitting your wedding gown for the last alterations. Oh, you will be so beautiful,” Merry promised.
Ally tried to smile, but inside she felt a small sense of heartbreak. She loved them so dearly. She had loved growing up in the woods. She suddenly realized that not only was she supposed to marry a man who was all but a stranger to her, but she would be leaving behind her childhood, all she had loved so much for so long.
“I have a wonderful library,” Lord Farrow told her.
“There you are, Ally. A wonderful library,” Violet said.
She nodded. She wouldn’t bring them fear or worry or put them into danger for anything in the world. “As you wish, my darlings,” she told them.
Still, when their coach was packed up again and Bertram set out to escort them through the forest, the younger set of hounds, Cally and Oz, running about them, she felt that sense of poignancy again. She hugged them fiercely one by one.
Merry was going to cry.
“Friday, then, my love,” Violet said, forcing cheer into her tone.
“Friday, then,” Ally agreed.
“Come, I shall show you to the libr
ary, Ally,” Lord Farrow said. “Don’t worry—we shall know if anyone is remotely near. Wolfhounds are amazing guard dogs. You may read to your heart’s content. I have new volumes, and a collection that goes back hundreds of years. And there’s a typewriter on the desk in the library, should you wish to use it. If you need me, I will be in my office, which adjoins my bedroom.”
She nodded, still feeling lost. Yet the library, in a loft on the second floor, was stunning in its size and scope.
“Those…over there,” Lord Farrow said, pointing. “Be very careful with them. They are actual missives written during the Crusades,” he told her. “There is an original edition of Chaucer, as well.”
“I will be very careful.”
“I know you will.”
He left her there.
For a moment she stared at the volumes, entranced.
But then her eyes fell upon the typewriter.
They did not have one in the little cottage. To her own dismay, she ignored the volumes of historical importance and made straight for the desk.
There was paper by the typewriter. She quickly slid it into the carriage, then stared at the keys.
In a moment she began to type, her soul seeming to take flight as her fingers flew.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN THE POLICE OFFICE, Mark pored over the various lists Ian had acquired and compared them to the ones he had made up of carriages and personages waylaid by the highwayman.
“So do you think Lionel Wittburg might be involved in any way?” Ian asked, sitting on the corner of his own desk.
“Lord Wittburg is definitely having difficulties with the situation, but…”
“And what of the man who would have broken into the cottage?” Ian asked. “Are these events related, do you think?” Mark had started to tell Ian about the events at the cottage the minute he had arrived, but thanks to modern communication, Ian already knew. He had spoken with Sir Angus Cunningham on the telephone.
Mark pointed at one of the lists before him. “This is the information about visitors at Giles Brandon’s town house obtained from Eleanor and the housekeeper?”
“Yes.”
“Wittburg did visit him. And Sir Andrew Cunningham was there, as well. He escorted his cousin Elizabeth Prine, who lost her own husband to the killer, to visit Eleanor.”
Ian shrugged. “Well, the two women are friends.”
“True. And here—Lionel attended one of the meetings at Brandon’s house.”
“I was quite surprised to see that. It was after the death of Hudson Porter. The list of visitors to his house is there—I acquired it from the housekeeper on Friday. Now, each of the women who answered my questions made certain to warn me that she was afraid she would not remember the names of everyone who had visited.”
“Hmm,” Mark murmured, studying the lists side by side. He looked up. “But even if they have forgotten someone, I see several names that are in common.”
“Of course. They were all involved in the same movement.”
Mark shook his head. “But…Lord Lionel Wittburg?”
“Would such a man, titled, close to the queen, really seek to tear down the monarchy?”
“Perhaps if he were going mad, or were on a vendetta,” Mark said.
“The writer—Thane Grier. He attended events at all three houses.”
“He’s a journalist. He covers such events.”
“The highwayman has yet to accost any of these men.”
“A journalist wouldn’t have a fine carriage.”
“Lionel Wittburg has a very fine carriage. So does Sir Andrew Cunningham.”
“But that alone—”
“No. Alone, it means nothing,” Ian agreed.
“I think it’s possible that more than one man is responsible for these murders.”
“Yes, I agree,” Ian said.
“Not one of the homes showed signs of forced entry.
The wives and housekeepers were gone. Either the killers had a key or the victim let him in. With forced entry, the killer had access by one of these methods.”
“We’re questioning everyone,” Ian said. “But people do lie to the police.”
“As soon as possible, the highwayman will stop Lord Wittburg and Sir Andrew,” Mark told Ian, and rose. Ian looked worried and depressed. Mark set a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t look so weary, friend. We will find the answers.”
Mark left him and hurried to O’Flannery’s. It was Monday afternoon, the time when the highwayman and his band regularly met for a meat pie and ale. When he arrived, he saw that Patrick, Thomas and Geoff were already seated. Flo had served them their ale; his pint was already in place.
He waved to Flo as he took his seat, and she nodded, ready to see that their food was prepared. “Well?” Patrick asked quietly.
“I need help—as Mark Farrow,” he said, looking from face to face.
“Oh?” Geoff said.
“Someone attempted to break into the cottage where Ally Grayson lives with her aunts,” he told them.
“Attempted?” Thomas demanded.
“I arrived in time to scare him off, though I’m ashamed to say I didn’t apprehend him.”
“So what help do you need?” Patrick asked.
“I would like us to take turns watching the cottage at night.”
Patrick groaned. “We’re to…stare at a cottage in the woods all night?”
“Well, if Alexandra is there…” Thomas murmured, grinning.
Mark shook his head. “She’s staying with my father at the lodge.”
“Oh?” Geoff said.
“So we are to watch three elderly women in the woods,” Patrick said.
“Why would someone attack your future bride?” Geoff asked.
Mark shook his head. He thought he knew why, but he wasn’t about to say so. Not even to these, his closest friends.
“So when do we meet to ride out again?” Patrick asked.
“I need to discover a bit more about the schedules of certain men,” Mark said. He fell silent; Flo was coming with their meals.
“Piping hot. I’ve seen to it,” Flo announced cheerfully. She lowered her voice. “Such a strange mood in here. It’s as if people are waiting to hear about another murder. It’s been a quiet week, thank God. Not even the highwayman and his band have struck of late.”
“What is the political mood?” Mark asked.
“How strange. That young journalist, Thane Grier, was in here just an hour ago, asking the exact same question.”
“Does he come here often?” Mark asked.
“He likes to watch people,” Flo said.
“He is a journalist,” Patrick said.
“Yes,” Mark agreed, and made a mental note. He thanked Flo. When she was gone, he said, “Patrick, will you take tonight? Geoff, Tuesday, Thomas, Wednesday. I will take Thursday night. We’ll see where we are at that point. And then…”
“And then?” Patrick asked.
“I’m being married on Saturday at Castle Carlyle. I hope you will all attend.”
ALLY INTENDED TO SEARCH the stables for signs of Mark’s secret life that afternoon. Unfortunately, just as she set out to do so, Mark Farrow made his return.
“Going riding, are you?” he asked.
“Yes, I had thought to,” she lied.
“Alone?”
“I—yes.”
“Dangerous indeed,” he informed her. “But if you are eager to ride, I will certainly accompany you.”
“But you’ve just returned. You must be weary from…whatever it is you do all day.”
“It’s not so late. I’m happy to ride with you. Although,” he noted, “you’re hardly properly attired.”
She was wearing a simple day dress. She had ridden often enough on the old pony the aunties kept, but…She flushed and decided honesty would not work against her. “I’m accustomed to climbing up bareback.”
“In bloomers?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“
These are hot-blooded horses, Miss Grayson. They’re not slow and plodding.”
“I’m quite capable.”
“I’m sure you are, but…ride with me?”
She hesitated. Then he reached down a hand, and she met his eyes and accepted it. He easily lifted her to sit before him in the saddle. His arms around her, he tightened his knees, and they were quickly riding hard over the lawn that led to the road.
She might have felt precarious, but his arms around her gave her confidence that he would never let her fall. He moved as one with the horse.
Easy for a bandit, she thought.
She had to admit that the ride was exhilarating. The wind whipped through her hair and stung her cheeks. The smell of the day was clean and fresh. The afternoon was waning, but a beautiful pink light remained. She felt strangely comfortable with Mark, braced against his chest, seated between his thighs. For long moments she let the arousing sensations race through her in time with the smooth gallop of his steed.
He reined in at last beside a brook. After leaping from the saddle, he reached for her. He set her down, then patted the horse. “This is Galloway. He’s a fine fellow.”
“A very fine fellow,” she agreed.
As the horse lowered its head to graze, Mark met her eyes. “The wedding is to be this Saturday.”
“So I understand.”
“You are willing?”
“Are you?”
“I have always been willing.”
She paused, smiling, lowering her head. “I have decided that there is little I can do but go through with it. However, you must be warned.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t intend to follow orders.”
“What made you assume I intend to give them?”
She lifted a hand in the air. “Certain aspects of my life must remain…my life.”
“As it should be.”
She hesitated, feeling a surge of mischief. “I lied to you the other day.”
“Already? We’re not even married yet.”
“You asked me if there was someone in my life.”
“Yes?”
“Well…”
“Who is he?”
Beguiled Page 18
