The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) (32 page)

L
ast minute preparations were in progress at Fenton Abbey. Servants seemed to be everywhere and more than a few tempers had flared. Lady Cecelia had not been at breakfast and André decided his time would be best spent on horseback where he could think without disturbance. He was on his way to the stables when he heard the hum of conversation. He quietly slipped into the shade beside the stable door to listen.
    The marquis’s drawl was easy to recognize. “I’ll ride over and take a look once I’ve checked out the fencing south of Trawley’s place. If this cottage can be made livable fairly quickly, Simmons can be settled in within the week. We don’t have near enough wood set aside for the winter and if I want the man to cut wood for me I'll need to provide him a place to live.”
    “Assuming some bloody whoreson doesn’t burn it down first,” was Whitley’s dour response.
    Rand laughed though it didn’t sound as if there was much humor behind it. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you Whitley?”
    “My apologies, milord. Don’t suppose you’re any closer to finding out who set the fires?”
    “No, but once we begin rebuilding I’ll keep the sites kept under watch. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch the bastard.” Rand’s sigh was audible. “Today’s the last day I’ll have an opportunity to do much of anything until this damned house party is over with. Can’t say I’m looking forward to having a multitude of guests milling about the place when there’s so much work to be done. God only knows why I agreed to it considering the problems we’ve had of late.”
    “Would you like me to ride out with you to the cottage, milord?”
    “No. You’ve a lot to attend to and I won’t be there long. I could use directions, though. I don’t recall ever having seen it.”
    “I’m not surprised. It’s pretty well hidden. You’ll find a narrow trail running though the copse of elms due north of the old abbey ruins. Trail wanders a bit but it takes you right to the cottage. Should take no more than ten or fifteen minutes once you’ve found the trail.”
    The conversation seemed near its end and André decided it would be prudent to leave. As he put distance between himself and the stables his lips twisted into an unpleasant smile. He was familiar with the cottage and would be waiting to greet his host. Fate was spinning its web. And it was in his favor.

It wasn’t much to look at--a tiny crofter’s hut with a thatched roof and crumbling chimney nestled in a small clearing among the elms. Rand’s practical mind ticked off the needed repairs. The chimney would need to be reinforced. There were cracks in the walls that needed to be plastered and the only window was boarded up. Rand doubted the interior would prove much better. Hudson nickered and shook his head.
    “Don’t think much of it either, do you?” Rand murmured as he gave the stallion an affectionate pat. “Neither do I, but Whitley seems to think it will suffice. I suppose I’d best take a closer look.” He dismounted and loosely tethered Hudson to the nearest tree then trudged through knee-high grass to get to the door. It creaked loudly as he pushed it open. Inside, the hut was dark and musty and smelled of paraffin. It was also quiet. He frowned as he realized what was wrong. Even the best kept homes had mice and he had expected to hear the sounds of them scurrying off when he entered. They were already in hiding. He heard a muffled footstep behind him and spun on his heel. But before he could see who it was he felt the pain of a heavy blow to his temple. And then there was nothing.

Heart beating wildly, André expelled a long low breath. Cautiously he lifted the marquis’s arm and let go. It fell heavily to the floor without as much as a grunt. The blow to his head had been well placed. Clarendon was out cold. To see him sprawled on the floor, powerless to protect himself was immensely satisfying. He was tempted to beat the marquis to a bloody pulp but reminded himself that the best laid plans could be foiled when one let their emotions take over. Blood on his clothing would draw suspicion. André dropped the plank he had used as a weapon and pulled a flint box from his pocket. He struck the flint and lit a paraffin soaked torch. It was soon blazing. He lifted the torch, lighting the roof in several places. The thatch caught easily and he heard the squealing of mice hidden in the thatch scrambling to escape the blaze.
    The corners of his mouth curled. Clarendon would not be as fortunate. In a manner of minutes Lady Clarendon would be a widow. In a year, she would be free to marry. In the meantime he would be there to comfort her. He would hold her when she wept. Cheer her up when she was sad. He would even tolerate the three brats she doted on if he had to. And one day, when she was ready, he would make love to her. It was meant to be. A clump of burning thatch fell to the floor and he shook himself from his reverie. This was not the moment to daydream. The fire would attract notice and he wanted to be far away when Clarendon’s body was discovered. Exhilarated, he left the hut and headed for the woods where the piebald he had ridden was waiting.

Rand came to in a start. The air above him crackled with heat and his nose and throat burned with smoke. His eyes flew open. The thatched roof was blazing. Instantly alert, he scrambled to his feet but the sudden jolt of pain to the side of his skull nearly brought him to his knees again. His mouth watered and his gut rebelled as if he might retch. He closed his eyes against the smoke and willed the pain to ease, but there was no time to wait. Embers fell around him and the roof would soon follow. He covered his nose and mouth with his hands and staggered out the door not stopping until he heard the burning roof crash to the ground. Turning, he stared at the blazing hut. It was an inferno. Had he waited another twenty seconds he would have been burned alive.
    Someone wanted him dead. Whitley’s remark had been prophetic. The bloody whoreson was burning the hut down. He took in a slow deep breath that set off a fit of coughing. His eyes burned and tears streamed down his cheeks. By the time his coughing let up and he could see clearly, sparks from the hut were showering the nearby elms. To his relief they sputtered and died quickly after hitting the green branches. He mouthed a silent word of thanks for Devon’s damp climate.
    Frightened by the fire, Hudson whinnied and snorted, his hooves thudded against the earth as he took high steps from side to side. Rand grabbed his bridal before the stallion could bolt. Head throbbing, he pulled himself up into the saddle and said, “Let’s get out of here boy.”
    Thirty minutes later, Rand’s head was little improved and his temper was high. He’d had time to think and didn’t much like the conclusion he’d reached. “Murdock!” he bellowed as he rode into the stables. Johnny Murdock appeared within seconds. Rand tossed him the reins and climbed down wincing at the pain the sudden movement caused. “Take Hudson and see that he’s well rubbed down and watered and fed. Right now he’s so jumpy I don’t know that anyone one else will be able to handle him.”
    The head groomsman held the reins and stared slack jawed at Rand.
    “What in the hell are you staring at?”
    Johnny frowned. “Pardon me, milord, but yer face is all bloody and so’s yer jacket. Are ye alright?”
    Rand touched his hand to his cheek and when he pulled it away it was smeared with blood. He hadn’t given a thought to his appearance. “I’m fine,” he said in a disgruntled tone as he realized it wasn’t likely he would be able to get to his chambers without attracting attention and that meant there was no way to keep this from Cecelia. He took a few steps and stopped abruptly, forcing himself to ask the question. “Murdock!”
    “Yes, milord?”
    “Has anyone from the estate other than Whitley and myself ridden out today?”
    Johnny chewed on his bottom lip as he thought. “Other than the lads exercising the ‘orses? No milord.”
    “Are you certain?” Rand knew the meshing of the stable hands recently brought from Surrey and those already in service at Fenton Abby had not gone well. Each side wanted to prove their superiority in the stables and communication between the two groups had been limited to petty arguments and fisticuffs. “I need to know,” he said sharply as he tapped his whip against his boot. “And bear in mind I won’t have any more idiocy in the stables. You’re here to do a job, not indulge in a pissing contest with the local lads.” He paused. “And find out for me if Monsieur André went riding today.”
    Johnny’s brow creased with confusion. “Monsieur André?”
    “That’s right. I keep forgetting you only arrived yesterday morning. You probably haven’t run into him, yet. He’s a guest. Shoulder length dark hair tied back in a queue. Heavy French accent. Maybe late thirties. You’ll know him the minute you see him, but I don’t want him to know you’re asking about him. I don’t care how you go about it. Just find out for me.
    "Also, one of the crofter’s huts caught fire. Send one of the lads after Whitley to let him know. He should be with McGuire. Tell him it’s the one I went to see today. Have him see me once he’s done.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the house leaving Johnny with his mouth open.

“Rand!” Cecelia burst into Rand’s dressing room where Winston was dabbing salve on the wound on his temple. “What on earth happened to you?”
    He winced as the butler touched a particularly sore spot. “Winston and I got into a brawl. Whipped me good, didn’t you Winston?”
    Winston’s expression didn’t change. “You won’t have an argument from me, my lord.”
    Cecelia put her hands on her hips and looked from one man to the other. “That isn’t one bit funny. Now what really happened?” She came closer to examine Rand’s injury. “You’ve a good sized lump as well as a gash. It looks dreadful.”
    “I’ve had worse.”
    “Once more, what happened?”
    “A beam fell on top of me when I was taking a look at one of the vacant cottages. It knocked me out for a few moments.” He shrugged. “No great harm was done. I survived.”
    She frowned. “If you’re going to make something up you should put more thought into it. The side of your head is injured, not the top. Your eyes are red and you smell like smoke.”
    He sighed knowing she would keep at him until he offered some kind of explanation. “Winston, I thank you for your help, but if you would leave us now my wife will tend to me.”
    “Very good, milord.” Winston retrieved the basin and blood stained towels he had used to clean Rand’s face and quickly left.
    Cecelia hesitated a moment before picking up the jar of salve. He waved it away. “I don’t need any more of that.”
    She set the jar down then crossed her arms in front of her and waited.
    “The hut was torched.”
    The color drained from her face. He sat watching silently as she bit down on her lower lip. It was obvious she was attempting to put the pieces together. And more than likely, succeeding.
    “Please tell me how this happened,” she said quietly. “Because whatever it is can’t be nearly as awful as what I’m thinking.”
    “What are you thinking?”
    “That the knock on your head was deliberate. That someone intentionally set the fire while you were in the hut.”
    “I’m not certain,” he hedged. “I didn’t actually see anyone.”
    “Don’t treat me like an idiot. Who knew where you would be?”
    He gave up all pretense of suggesting it might have been an accident. “Whitley and I were talking about it in the stables. Anyone could have overheard us.”
    She stared. “That means it was someone from Fenton Abbey.”
    “Possibly. I know it wasn’t Whitley because he’s been with McGuire all day. And I doubt it was any of the stable hands from Surrey because I know I wasn’t followed and they wouldn’t have been able to find it on their own.”
    “And I suppose you think it was Monsieur André?”
    “I would like for it to be so I could be rid of him without a second thought. But logic tells me no.” He didn’t add that the idea the Frenchman could have outmaneuvered him in this fashion was too unpalatable to bear. “He couldn’t have set the first two fires and this is likely the same culprit.”
    “The servants are whispering about the Fenton curse. I’m beginning to believe there’s something to it. Maybe we should go back to Surrey.”
    “Don’t be absurd.” His tone was sharp. “There is no curse. This is our home now and I have an obligation to my tenants. I would feel much better if you and the children left but I don’t think there will be another attempt while we’re entertaining. There will be too many people about.”
    “But someone tried to kill you!” Her eyes filled with tears. “Nothing’s been right since we’ve been here.”
    He sighed. “I have no intention of departing to the hereafter any time soon. And as far as nothing being right I would like to think that your pregnancy is a good thing.”
    A tear spilled down her cheek and she turned away. “But it’s turned me into a watering pot and I just hate it. It’s humiliating.”
    He took her arm and pulled her toward him then wiped away the tear with the pad of his thumb. “It will pass.”
    She sniffed. “How could you possible know that?”
    “My brother-in-law gives me a bellyful of grievances every time my sister’s carrying.” He snorted. “As if I could do anything about it.”
    “My disposition doesn’t change the fact that someone tried to kill you. What will we do? We can’t twiddle our thumbs and wait for it to happen again.”
    “There is no
we
in this,” he said firmly. “I won’t have you involved.”
    Cecelia turned her head but not before he saw the look of hurt in her eyes.
Blast!
He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings but this wasn’t a game. He couldn’t back down. She had to stay out of it.
    When she looked up the pain in her expression had changed to resentment. “Very well.
You
have a little over two hours to come up with a plausible explanation for that unsightly lump on the side of your head that won’t encourage gossip among our guests.”
    He frowned. “Two hours? Our guests won’t be arriving until tomorrow.”
    “Lady Throckmorton was a bit confused on the dates. She and her niece, Miss Emily Barton, arrived about half an hour ago.”
    “Why in the devil did you invite Lady Throckmorton?”
    “I couldn’t invite everyone else within a twenty mile radius and not invite her. If you were so concerned with the guest list you should have shown more interest. Dinner’s been put back to eight. I’m assuming we’ll see you then.” She lifted her chin and swept out the door.
    Rand groaned. What a damnable day this had been. Lady Throckmorton was a nosy old biddy who couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Whatever excuse he came up with would be in London before the week was out.