Thomas

by Grace Burrowes

  Loris had caught sight of them, but Thomas made himself complete his explanation, because rain threatened, and he didn’t want Loris unduly alarmed.

  “Come along, Mr. Belmont. Halfway down this side of the barn, we might well find—Mr. Belmont, please be still and take note of the ground.”

  For there, in the rain-soft earth, right beneath where the second external ladder to the hay mow should have been, were boot prints, some complete, some partial.

  “You have an instinct for investigation,” Belmont said, hunkering.

  “Bloody hell,” Thomas muttered. “This ladder would have been the only point of entry into the hay mow not visible from the stable yard or the house itself, though we had no cause to use it. One of us ought to sketch those boot prints.”

  They were unique, the heel of the right boot having a nick in the outline and both heels worn at the back. The boots weren’t new, and they could well be either the owner’s only pair or his favorites.

  “As it happens,” Belmont said, tracing a finger around one heel print, “I brought the requisite pencil and paper in my saddle bags, and am fairly competent with a free-hand drawing.”

  “These prints are too small to be Nick’s, Beckman’s, mine or yours,” Thomas replied, as thunder grumbled again to the south. No closer, but not moving away either. “But Jamie is quite diminutive, and he has experience with stable fires. These might even be the boots of a woman.”

  Belmont rose, and he was almost as tall as Thomas. “You suspect Miss Tanner? If I understand the sequence of events, she wasn’t even on the property.”

  Thank God.

  “I do not suspect Miss Tanner,” Thomas said, quietly, because Loris was coming around the side of the foundation. Jamie intercepted her, and Thomas wanted to howl.

  “Capable woman, Miss Tanner,” the squire observed, though his tone was so dry, he might have been offering an insult rather than a compliment.

  “Was it you who warned Miss Tanner’s father off, before he disappeared two years ago?” And had Belmont done so out of consideration for the daughter, or for Tanner?

  Belmont kicked a charred hunk of wood back to the smoking foundation of the stable.

  “To warn a suspect of impending charges would have been unethical in the extreme, my lord.”

  Belmont had integrity. His gentlemanly honor was evident in his bearing, his gaze, his immediate response to the call of duty.

  “I’m told the charges were serious,” Thomas said, keeping his voice down.

  “You were told the charge would have been rape, if I had ever charged Micah Tanner. Tanner should have realized that the law can’t convict a man of a crime based on one person’s word against another’s, though I doubt Tanner was thinking clearly. He should have stayed and weathered the scandal. Greymoor would hardly have cut him loose over it with harvest approaching.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Loris had a hand on Jamie’s shoulder—her right hand, while the left remained lax at her side.

  I will kill any who put her at risk of harm.

  “Greymoor had unfortunate history with Mrs. Pettigrew,” the squire said. “She came to me seeking to lay information against him, claiming he’d used her ill the previous evening. She was unaware Greymoor and I were sharing a meal here at Linden at the exact hour the crime was supposed to have occurred, and then played cards until very late. In Tanner’s case, my investigation was simply delayed because my youngest developed a fever.”

  Thomas started walking, because clearly, Jamie would detain Loris all day.

  “Does Mrs. Pettigrew know you caught her in a lie?” Bearing false witness was also a sin.

  “She knows only that Greymoor had a credible alibi, not that I would have testified on his lordship’s behalf. Tanner, by contrast, fled, and thus created a presumption of guilt. He also left his daughter to deal with yet another of his follies.”

  Loris and Jamie moved off in the direction of the carriage house.

  “You don’t think highly of Mr. Tanner,” Thomas said, leading the squire in the same direction.

  “Tanner was tremendously likeable, which I, as an old stick of a widower, envied. But no, I cannot respect a man who treated his daughter as Tanner did his.”

  “She is quite capable, nonetheless.”

  “Frighteningly so,” the squire said—wistfully? “I offered for her, when Tanner took off. She thanked me kindly, told me she would always treasure my friendship, and would I please get the hell off the property so she could check on a cow having difficulty calving.”

  “Miss Tanner!” Thomas called, waving needlessly. “The squire might have some questions for you.”

  Thomas had questions for her: Did her shoulder hurt? Would she fight him about biding at the manor house? Had she any idea who might have set the fire, for Thomas had a few theories.

  “She thinks you take a dim view of female stewards,” Thomas said, as Loris approached them at a brisk clip.

  “I take a dim view of women left to fend for themselves by errant menfolk,” the squire retorted, “as should any gentleman.”

  Beckman paused by the cistern, three empty buckets grasped in each hand, and engaged Loris in conversation.

  “Having been turned down by Miss Tanner,” Thomas said, “were you tempted to offer for Mrs. Pettigrew?”

  Belmont sent another sizeable piece of charred wood flying back to the smoldering heap that was Thomas’s stable.

  “Lord Sutcliffe, I do not mean to speak ill of a neighbor, but that woman accused two otherwise respected men of rape in less than two years. She works her son without mercy in her stable, but won’t yield to his sensible advice, and finally, she treats old Pettigrew’s stallion like some demon beast, which is exactly what Johnny will become if something isn’t done. Mrs. Pettigrew labors under the mistaken belief that life owes her.”

  Loris patted Beckman’s arm, and that good fellow’s ears turned red.

  “What could life owe Claudia Pettigrew?” Thomas owed Loris, owed her for knowing he was lost in the damned stable, and had nearly dragged Nick and Fairly both into the saddle room.

  “I’m not sure what causes the widow’s discontent,” the squire said. “Perhaps she wants greater wealth or lost youth, but she is formidable in her frustrations and temper. I have been trying to buy that stallion from her for years, but she will not let him go.”

  “Why not? He’s apparently not young, he’s bred much of the stock in this area, and he’s also become difficult.”

  “She knows I want the horse,” Belmont said. “Claudia Pettigrew will probably shoot old Johnny before she lets someone else treat him better than she does.”

  Thomas stifled the urge to run to Loris’s side, pitch both Beckman and Belmont into the cistern, and carry the lady off to the safety and privacy of the manor. The last time he’d been this frantic to protect a woman—

  Memory rose up, of his sister telling him he’d be better off away from Sutcliffe, and to stop hiding behind her skirts. Yes, Thomas had wanted the comfort of the familiar, and the reassurance of being near his only sibling, but he’d also needed desperately to protect her from what she was becoming.

  “I almost feel sorry for Mrs. Pettigrew,” Thomas said, for Loris was safe, and he was no longer a callow youth. “She’s regarded as a malcontent, when in fact she could be simply a determined woman trying to manage as best her dignity and circumstances allow.”

  Belmont shook his head. “You can spout that gentlemanly cant all day, Baron, and I commend you for the sentiment, but rape charges are as serious as the grave. Guard your back, hmm?”

  Yes, Thomas would guard his back. He’d guard his steward, too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Matthew Belmont had the knack of appearing handsome and well turned out even in casual riding attire. Loris had seen him any number of times in his hunting pinks, and particularly on his gray mare, he made an impressive picture.

  Though Matthew would be probably be surpr
ised to learn what an attractive impression he made—surprised, and embarrassed.

  By contrast, Thomas looked as bedraggled and out of sorts as Loris felt. His hair was still damp and sporting a few cinders, his clothing clung to him, his boots were filthy with ash and dust, and his face was streaked with grime.

  Loris wanted to drag Thomas into her arms and make passionate love to him, then bathe every inch of him and make love to him all over again—for perhaps the last time.

  “Matthew, greetings. Have you concluded your investigation?” She offered him a kiss to his cheek, a maneuver guaranteed to put the squire to the blush.

  He bowed over her hand as if they’d met in Linden’s formal parlor, the same way he greeted her when their paths crossed on market days, despite half the shire looking on.

  “Miss Tanner.”

  The magistrate was shy. Loris adored this about Matthew, but could not afford to overlook the fact that both he and Thomas were astute men. If they’d found evidence of arson, she wanted to know of it.

  “You were probably intending to talk with every person on this estate and not even greet me,” Loris chided. “For shame, Matthew. Baron, the squire is not usually so wanting in manners.”

  Thomas remained unnervingly quiet, while Loris resisted the urge to chatter.

  “You’ve caught me out, Miss Tanner,” Belmont replied. “I meant to save you for last and linger shamelessly enough to get myself invited to luncheon, but will now have to depart with my tail between my legs.”

  Loris could manage small talk, but why wouldn’t Thomas say anything?

  “How are the boys?” she asked. “And don’t think the baron will allow you to dodge his company at luncheon so easily, will you, my lord?”

  “Of course not,” Thomas said, gesturing toward the house. “Let’s inform Cook we’ll have one more at table.”

  While both men accompanied Loris to the garden, and thunder rumbled, she tried again to probe whether evidence of arson had been uncovered.

  And was met with Belmont’s inquiries about the upcoming assembly, and Loris’s plans to attend.

  “Miss Tanner will be attending,” Thomas volunteered, the lout. “She will accompany me and Lord Fairly, and has been practicing the waltz in anticipation of this gathering. Belmont, didn’t you want to do some sketching?”

  “Sketching?” Matthew, usually so self-contained and capable, looked momentarily bewildered. “Right, sketching. I’m sure you’ll need a few minutes to tidy up, Baron, and that should suffice for my sketching. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Matthew strode off toward the carriage house, and Loris abruptly found herself pulled behind a wilting lilac bush.

  “You,” Thomas said, enfolding her in his arms. “Tell me you’re hale and well and willing to accept my hospitality.”

  Because his clothing was damp, cold bloomed along Loris’s belly and chest. She bundled close anyway, despite the shrieking protest from her shoulder.

  “I’m hale and well, and willing to bide at the manor for a short time. This fire was arson, wasn’t it?”

  Thomas’s cheek rested against her temple. Everywhere, he smelled of smoke, ashes, and loss.

  “If you’re so hale and well, then why is your left arm at your side, Loris Tanner? Did Fairly dose you with laudanum?”

  She slid from Thomas’s embrace, but stayed close enough to brush his hair back with her right hand.

  “You don’t need to protect me from the truth, sir. We never stored more than a week’s hay in the stable’s loft, and we were using the remains of the crop from last year, which was well cured and not the least damp.”

  He closed his eyes, so Loris repeated the stroke of her hand over his brow.

  “Belmont won’t say arson,” Thomas murmured, “but Jamie never smokes in the stable, and not a single lamp would have been lit at mid-morning. I have an enemy who will commit felonies on my own property in the broad light of day.”

  Somebody had an enemy, or an inebriated father.

  “You need a bath,” Loris said. “You’d leave me making polite chit-chat with Matthew and Lord Fairly, when I want to question the children who showed up within minutes of the fire being discovered.”

  Thomas opened his eyes. “The boys?”

  Had they seen anything? Seen anyone? Any of those boys would recognize Micah Tanner easily.

  “Matthew is very thorough,” Loris said, “but even he might overlook children. Shall we see to your bath?”

  Thomas closed the small distance between them, his embrace gentle. “How bad is your shoulder?”

  “It hurts. Penny gave it a bad wrench, but I brought a great quantity of willow bark tea back from the apothecary with me, and that should suf—”

  Thomas’s mouth stole over hers. He was filthy and bristling with emotions Loris couldn’t fathom, and she might soon be parted from him, but his kiss was the exact, perfect antidote to every worry and heartache, every twinge and pang, and had it not been agony to lift her left arm, Loris would have—

  “Halloo, all!” sounded from around the lilac bush. “I say, is that you, Miss Tanner?”

  Thomas pulled away, muttering something in French that Loris suspected he’d best not translate.

  “Hello, Giles,” she said, stepping back onto the path. “The baron and I are headed up to the house. I assume you saw the stable.”

  Thomas sauntered around the lilac bush and stood close enough to Loris’s back that she could smell the fire on him.

  “Pettigrew, hello. You will pardon my dirt.”

  “Word of the fire reached us at the Cock and Bull,” Giles said. “The lads are calling it a miracle, though it’s a dashed stinking miracle, if you ask me. Nobody was hurt, if the gossip is correct?”

  “Nobody was seriously hurt,” Loris said, which meant whoever set the fire couldn’t be charged with murder, attempted murder, or heinous felonies other than arson. “We are soon to sit down with Mr. Belmont and Lord Fairly at lunch. Can you join us?”

  She ought not to have extended that offer, but turning Giles away when he’d come out of neighborly concern would have been rude.

  “Please do join us,” Thomas said, taking Loris’s right arm. “Another friendly face is always welcome at my table.”

  “I don’t want to be merely friendly,” Giles said, falling in step beside them. “I’d like to be useful. If you have a place to store oats, I’ll send over a wagonload. The pasture is thin in this damned heat—begging your pardon, Miss Tanner—and we have enough oats to last us handily.”

  Loris felt the surprise go through Thomas, but before he could reject a neighborly overture, she answered for him.

  “Oats would be much appreciated, Giles. Thank you. We keep most of our supply at the home farm, but will appreciate any you can spare.”

  “My thanks, Pettigrew,” Thomas said as they approached the back terrace. “Miss Tanner will see you inside, and I’ll excuse myself. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll join you at lunch.”

  He bowed, and would have left Loris the burden of entertaining Giles for those thirty minutes, but Giles spoke up.

  “I say, do we know how the fire started? Was somebody having a pipe upwind, perhaps? Or maybe some rotten hay escaped notice in the heat?”

  “No,” Thomas said. “No rotten hay, no stray sparks. If you’ll pardon me.”

  Loris might have missed it, except she was gazing straight at Giles, lest he catch her admiring Thomas’s retreat. Something in Thomas’s reply had not met with Giles’s approval, and for a moment, Giles Pettigrew had borne a very close resemblance to his mother.

  * * *

  Good God, a fire.

  Giles made polite chit-chat while dining with a man who’d lost a stable so beautiful, Giles had longed for the day when his own might resemble it.

  Sutcliffe said little over a meal of chicken flavored with lemon and basil, simmered green beans, and potatoes mashed with bacon. Excellent food, and of all people, Loris Tanner carried the conversati
on, letting talk of the fire have its due, then steering the topic back to the harvest, the irrigation projects, or Giles’s own equine prospects.

  In a pretty blue frock only a few years out of fashion, Miss Tanner presided over a casual meal easily, as if she’d been entertaining gentry and even titled guests for years.

  Giles hadn’t anticipated such poise from her, but attributed her skill to the necessity of the moment and the viscount’s flagrant charm.

  “I have a suggestion,” Giles said, when servings of trifle had been brought to the table. “Your equine stock can temporarily manage in the pastures, or at your home farm. However—”

  “I’m happy to foster some for you,” Squire Belmont said, as his exceedingly clean plate was replaced with an exceedingly large serving of trifle. “I have plenty of room and a very competent staff in the stable.”

  Well, damn. Giles could not make the same offer, not without Claudia’s prior agreement.

  “Matthew, that is very generous,” Miss Tanner said, touching Belmont’s sleeve.

  The squire, a man who’d solved murders and might very well solve a case of arson, smiled at her like one of his young offspring besotted with a tavern maid.

  “It’s no trouble,” Belmont said. “Sutcliffe would do the same for me, I’m sure.”

  “Of course we would,” the baron replied.

  “Certainly,” Giles said. “We’re quite neighborly here, which is why a barn raising is in order. We can’t replace Linden’s stable, but we can build something serviceable before the weather turns nasty.”

  The weather already had turned nasty, for a raging thunderstorm had settled into a steady downpour as they’d started their meal.

  “That is most kind of you,” Miss Tanner said, shooting the baron a look as she picked up her dessert spoon.

  Here was the trouble with being Claudia Pettigrew’s son—one of the many troubles. Giles could not fathom that look, not the one from Miss Tanner to the baron, not the slight smile he favored her with in response.

  Was Miss Tanner being a presuming steward? An indulged houseguest? A trusted retainer? All Giles could conclude was that Miss Tanner had privileges with the baron such as her father had never enjoyed with the baron’s predecessor.