by Amy Corwin
“Don’t you worry, Sir Horace,” Gribble said as the butler opened the door. “I’ll bring her back for trial. Most likely by tonight. And she won’t escape again—not if I have anything to say about it. I can’t be that far behind her, if she was here for breakfast.”
“Will you wait one moment, Constable?” Glanville turned to Lady Branscombe. “Did Miss Stainton take Flossie, her puppy, with her?”
Confusion wrinkled Lady Branscombe’s brow. “Her puppy?” She glanced at her husband as if he might know the answer.
Sir Horace shrugged.
“I don’t…” Her gaze grew thoughtful. “No, I should say not.” Then, with more firmness, she shook her head. “No. I was out with Caesar an hour ago, and George was teaching Flossie to heel. No, Miss Stainton did not take her puppy with her.” She eyed the constable. “And I see your point, Lord Glanville. She would never leave without Flossie. I’m sure of it.”
Glanville nodded with satisfaction. “Do you have a dog, Constable?”
“A dog?” Gribble frowned at him. “I don’t see what all this talk of dogs has to do with the matter…” His face cleared. “Oh, I see. A tracker?” He smiled, a fond expression softening his plain features. “No. Old Hambone is a good dog in his way, but he’s no tracker.” His eyes wrinkled with confusion, though, as he looked at Lady Branscombe. “I don’t know this puppy you spoke of, but I can’t imagine it would be able to track her, either, if that is what you’re thinking.”
“No. I wouldn’t think so.” Glanville paused and in an apparent change of subject, asked, “If you were to leave Kendle, would you take Hambone with you?”
“Of course, I’d take him! What sort of man do you take me for?” Gribble flushed. “Of course, I wouldn’t leave old Hambone behind.”
“And I suggest that Miss Stainton would not have left Flossie behind. Not voluntarily.”
“Not voluntarily!” Miss Martha exclaimed. She pushed her glasses up her nose with nervous fingers. “What do you mean? Surely… You don’t believe she has been kidnapped, do you? What possible—” She clamped her mouth shut as if suddenly realizing what he meant.
Gribble chuckled as indulgently as he would if a motley collection of children were gathered around him, making ridiculous suggestions. “No, no. Not kidnapped, no. I think you can take it from me that she has fled to avoid the consequences of her crime.”
“You’re forgetting her dog, Gribble,” Glanville reminded him.
The constable rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. “It does seem strange.” He heaved a sigh. “Well. We must find her regardless—dog or no dog. On her way to London, if you ask me. Hoping we will lose track of her.”
“Oh, yes. I have no doubt she is on her way to London, but not voluntarily and not at a particularly rapid pace,” Glanville said.
“That’s all to the best, then,” Gribble agreed, touching his hat brim. “I’ll be on my way, my lord, Sir Horace… You can expect to hear from me when I’ve found her.” He strode out past the butler, his heavy feet crunching away down the stone steps to the gravel drive beyond.
Rathbone allowed his displeasure over a mere constable using the front door to show with a small sniff, but no one insisted that Gribble turn around and use the servants’ entrance.
“What do you mean, not at a rapid pace?” Miss Martha moved to place a hand on Glanville’s arm and stare up at him searchingly. Anxiety had drained the color from her face, leaving her skin almost as pale as the light gray dress she wore.
He patted her hand and smiled reassuringly. “Your cousin may have decided to convince her to marry him in a more direct way.”
“I can’t believe they would go to Scotland—”
“Not Scotland.”
“Where then? London? I doubt my aunt would participate in such a scheme, no matter how much she might want the marriage.” Miss Martha’s sharp gaze was fixed on his face, her eyes weighing his reaction.
“Perhaps not. However, your aunt might be more insistent, if the two of them spent the night together on their way to London.”
Releasing his arm, Miss Martha took a step back. She tried to laugh at the very notion of such a foul plan, but the sound fell flat. “It does not take that long to reach London from Kendle, my lord. Mr. Cavell drives up in less than a day, and he does it quite frequently. And he does it with a laden wagon! Cousin Stephen has a light gig—he will travel much faster.”
“It is less a question of rapidity of travel than it is a desire to reach London. Or not reach it,” Glanville said gently.
“But that is monstrous!” Sir Horace cleared his throat and pulled his waistcoat down over his plump belly. “Monstrous! You can’t wander around the countryside, abducting women, just to force them to marry you!” He flicked an apologetic gaze at Miss Martha. “I beg your pardon, my dear, but your cousin sounds like a thoroughly loose screw.”
Miss Martha laughed, although the tension around her eyes showed more worry than amusement. “He is a loose screw, as you say.” She looked at Glanville. “Can you find them before… Can you bring her back?”
“I will do my best.” He set his hat on his head before he paused. “It might… Would you care to go with me? It might make it easier. For your sister.”
“Of course!” Miss Martha gestured to Rathbone, who disappeared into his closet and came out carrying a shawl, bonnet, and gloves. “Do you have a gig?”
“Just my horse—”
“Nothing easier!” Sir Horace said, taking charge of the situation. He ordered his own gig to be made ready and fluttered around them, spouting random pieces of advice, until the vehicle arrived at the front door. “They’ll be on the road to London—mark my words.” He followed them outside. “Stop at all the inns, of course. Posting-houses and the like.” He snapped his fingers. “The White Hart! Just this side of London. If I were going to…” Clearing his throat behind his fist, he glanced over his shoulder as if afraid his wife stood behind him. “If I were to, er, do such a thing… Well…” He shrugged.
“That had occurred to me, as well.” Glanville helped Miss Martha into the gig and then climbed in next to her.
“Well, then, er, good luck!” Sir Horace waved them off. “Check the King’s Arms, too!”
As they rounded the curve in the driveway, he was still shouting the random names of inns and posting-houses.
They were just passing the lane to Willow’s Shadow Cottage when Miss Martha said, “You have visited us so much the last few days; you must be convinced by now that my sister is innocent.” She flicked a sidelong glance at him. “She could not have done such a terrible thing. It is not in her character.”
“It is in everyone’s character,” he replied in a gentle voice. “Given the right circumstances.”
“You can’t believe that!” She stiffened in her seat, her sharp elbow hitting his side. “I beg your pardon.”
“If someone tried to harm you, would you not defend yourself?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then even you are capable of it, given sufficient provocation.”
“That is very unkind, Lord Glanville, and I am sorry for you if you believe that.” Miss Martha folded her hands primly in her lap until they hit a bump in the road. She grabbed hold of the armrest at her side and flung a disgusted look at him.
A lopsided grin twisted his mouth. “On the contrary. I have it on the best authority that I am very kind.”
“Whoever said that obviously cannot be trusted.”
“Actually, it was your sister, Miss Grace.”
Silence greeted this revelation. A minute later, he heard a soft snort of derision.
“Very unkind,” Miss Martha repeated firmly. “And my sister is easily duped.”
Her remark sobered him. “I’m afraid I must agree. Mr. Blyth…” He let out a long breath. “He was not the paragon of virtue he seemed.”
“No. I have always harbored suspicions of those who are too kind.”
“That is a relief, then. Since I
am unkind.”
“This really is not a subject for amusement.” Miss Martha frowned at him and clutched the armrest more firmly with her right hand.
“No, it is not. Blyth was not what he seemed. He apparently made rather free with church funds, among other things.”
She nodded, her gazed fixed on the road ahead. “I wish she had not returned when she did.”
“I am sure you do under the circumstances. But I count it fortunate, at least for my sister’s sake.”
They lapsed into silence again, both staring at the twitching ears of the two horses clopping along in front of them. They rattled through one village after another, stopping at each tavern, inn, and posting-house, without any news. Heat began to rise from the dry road ahead of them as the day wore on. An infrequent, dappled shade created by the green leaves of the occasional tree blocking the afternoon sun provided the only relief as they passed between long stretches of open pastures. Dust puffed up with each step of the horses’ hooves and swirled in the air.
Glanville could already taste gritty dirt on his lips and tongue. Thankfully, someone—whether it was the groom, George, or someone else—had placed a jar of small beer behind the seat. Even Miss Stainton seemed grateful when she took a long sip.
Several hours later, the jumbled collection of rooftops covering the White Hart rose into view above the rustling treetops of a small stand of oaks lining the road. The horses picked up their pace, seeing the shade and apparently hoping for a long, cool drink of water and bag of oats.
Miss Martha’s left hand suddenly gripped his wrist. Her face was pale under a sheen of perspiration when she looked at him. “You don’t think—” She broke off to swallow. “You don’t think that Cousin Stephen could have… That is, he must be desperate to marry Grace if he abducted her. What would he have done if he believed she might convince Mr. Blyth to marry her instead of your sister? Do you think he might…?”
“While it is a possibility, it is a remote one. Or so I believe.” His jaw tightened, nonetheless. “I do not believe he could have arrived in Kendle, murdered Blyth, and then remained hidden until he showed up the other day.”
“No. I understand.” Miss Martha’s hands twisted together.
Glanville watched her, wishing he could offer her a more definite answer. If only that letter had arrived. He’d been haring along after quite another quarry and only needed that confirmation…
Though of course, the information he sought wouldn’t be complete confirmation of who had murdered Blyth. No. It would serve, however, to reveal a very strong motive. The thought twisted his gut into a knot. Unfortunately, if his guess was correct, it might also have the unintended result of implicating his sister once more.
So, it would all have to be handled discreetly and delicately. Very delicately, indeed.
But Stephen Polkinghorne?
Now there was a dark horse he hadn’t even considered to be in the running. And if Polkinghorne had Grace, what might he do to gain his own ends? If she resisted or thwarted him, things might get very ugly.
He flicked the reins to encourage the horses to move at a faster rate, ignoring the clouds of gritty dust puffing out from under their hooves. While it remained daylight, he had felt that Grace was relatively safe in her cousin’s hands. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
The White Hart was bustling when they arrived—another coach hauling a half-dozen very demanding passengers had halted just before them, and the ostlers had their hands full.
“Here.” He threw the reins into the hands of an astonished Miss Martha and jumped down. “Tell them to water the horses.”
“But—”
“It would be better if I went in alone. Quicker.” What he really meant was that he feared Miss Martha might get in the way, or be harmed, if Polkinghorne grew desperate enough. He might be doing the young man an injustice, but he had no intention of compounding the mistakes he’d already made. He should have realized what Polkinghorne was capable of and stopped him before he could kidnap Grace.
Before Miss Martha could do more than sputter incoherently, he waved to her and entered the inn. People were milling around, drifting into various rooms and out again, up the stairs and down, causing a great deal of random confusion. When a sweating, harried-looking servant tried to sidle past Glanville, he grabbed the man’s shoulder.
“Here—you. I’m looking for a young woman—”
The man shrugged him off. “Who isn’t?”
“In the company of a young man. Her cousin, Mr. Stephen Polkinghorne,” Glanville said through clenched jaws.
“You’ll have to speak to Mr. Lush about that.” He eeled away before Glanville could stop him and slipped through a sitting room door blocked by two red-faced gentlemen arguing vociferously.
Striding into the public room to the left, Glanville glanced around. A slim man without a single hair on his knotty head was filling a large tankard from a tap. He looked up with shrewd eyes as Glanville entered, handed the tankard to a stout gentleman waiting at the bar, and wiped his hands on his short apron.
“Mr. Lush?” Glanville asked.
The man nodded and without a word of greeting, took down another tankard, filled it, and handed it to Glanville.
“Thank you.” He took a sip of very good ale before shoving a coin across the highly polished bar to Lush. “My cousins should be here—I was to meet them, but I was late. They are young and frankly, not entirely reliable.” He shook his head ruefully and took another sip of ale. “Mr. Stephen Polkinghorne and Miss Grace Stainton. Have they arrived yet, by any chance?”
Face devoid of expression, Lush’s sharp gaze flashed over him again. He pulled another tankard for a new customer without even glancing at him. His practiced, easy motions continued by rote as new patrons stepped up to the bar, even though his attention remained fixed on Glanville.
“We’ve been mighty busy,” Lush said at last. “As you can see.” No gesture was wasted—he didn’t even shrug. He simply kept on serving, picking up coins, and studying Glanville.
“You’d remember my cousins. Polkinghorne has a habit of forgetting to pay.” Glanville chuckled ruefully and flipped another coin into Lush’s quick hand.
The half-crown disappeared like all the other coins flipped onto the mahogany bar.
Lush’s mouth jerked and twisted wryly as he pulled another tankard for a guest, and Glanville realized he was chuckling. After handing over the ale, Lush wiped his hands on his apron again, picked up a rag, and wiped the already spotless counter. He flicked a glance at the door to the hallway and the staircase beyond.
“Top of the stairs. Second door to the right.” Lush’s mouth twitched again. “Bit of a spat. Your two cousins.”
“Is that so?” Glanville stopped on his way to the staircase.
“Maybe you can settle it.” Lush’s eyes glimmered with mirth. “Give the place a bad name, all these cousinly arguments.”
“Rest assured, I’ll settle it.” Glanville strode to the staircase and took the steps two at a time.
The second door to the right was demurely closed. He studied it, considered the risks of giving a warning versus not warning, and turned the brass knob. The door was not locked, and the hinges were well-oiled. He walked into a small sitting room.
Stephen Polkinghorne was sitting on a couch with his head cradled in his hands. When he caught sight of Glanville, he blanched and leapt to his feet.
Grace Stainton stood near the window behind the couch. Her gaze locked with Glanville’s. She let out a long breath and smiled.
“You!” Polkinghorne exclaimed. Hands fisted at his sides, he stepped forward. “What are you doing here?”
Glanville’s brows rose. “Catching a murderer.”
“A murderer?” Polkinghorne cast a glance over his shoulder at Grace.
Grace shook her head and sighed wearily. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I am not a murderer.”
“Indeed.” Glanville studied Polkinghorne. “We can’t help but wonder, ho
wever, about your arrival in Kendle, Mr. Polkinghorne. Just how close behind Miss Stainton were you?”
“You think I…” His loose mouth worked as he glanced helplessly from Glanville to Grace and back. “I—why I never—I…”
To Glanville’s horror, Polkinghorne gave a moan, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He collapsed onto the floor like a bag of potatoes falling out of a wagon.
“Oh, dear,” Grace remarked. She examined Polkinghorne’s crumpled form, her hands on her hips. “Really, Lord Glanville. Did you have to accuse him? You can’t possibly believe Cousin Stephen would murder anyone. No one possessing even a scrap of reason could do so.”
“Why?” Glanville gently nudged Polkinghorne’s limp arm with the toe of his boot. “Because he faints?”
“Yes. Frequently. Particularly at the sight of blood.” Her blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “And even if he got up the nerve to do the deed, I would have found him in a faint afterwards, considering the amount of—well, blood.”
After rolling the limp figure of Polkinghorne over, Glanville lifted him onto the couch. When he did so, he noticed for the first time the red, swollen flesh around the young man’s left eye.
Glanville rose and dusted off his knees. “What happened?” He gestured at Polkinghorne’s face.
The twinkle in Miss Stainton’s eyes grew brighter. “He tried to kiss me.” She shrugged.
He moved around the sofa, closer to her. “Do you do that to everyone who tries to kiss you?”
Turning toward him, she smiled sweetly and clasped her hands at her waist. “I don’t know. He’s the first one to try.”
Another step, and he wrapped her in his arms. He studied her face for a moment, pulled her closer, and kissed her. Instead of blackening his eye, she gripped his lapels and pulled him against her, her lips warm and giving beneath his.
When he finally raised his head, she was smiling again, her gaze fixed on his.
“You aren’t taking aim, are you?” he asked with a wry grin.
She tilted her head and laughed. “No. Not at the moment.” Looking past his shoulder, she frowned. “We really can’t leave him like that.” She gazed up at Glanville. Hope sprang into her eyes. “Can we?”
