“I fear you may be right,” Wynn said heavily. “I am deeply concerned by both Bram’s and Hawley’s behaviour.”
“I’m not sure how you expected them to react. Thank you foryour hospitality. I’ll ask Mr. Grey to order the motor.”
Wynn sighed. “You must do as you see fit, though I am sadly disappointed. But not today.”
“Yes, today. As soon as possible. I’m sorry to be disobliging.”
“Dear boy, it is not a matter of choice. Youcannotleave. Look at the weather.”
Zeb glanced at the window. “It’s misty.”
“Dartmoor mist. It would be far too dangerous to take the motor out.”
“Dangerous?”
“The mists render the moors a treacherous place. Every year, unwary travellers wander and are lost, never to be seen again. The road has sharp bends, sharp drops, mires, and bogs on each side. You cannot leave until the weather lifts. None of us can.”
“Are you seriously telling me that a bit of fog confines you to the house?” Zeb demanded. “Are you joking? We have fog in London too, you know.”
“Not like Dartmoor mist,” Wynn said. “You must take my assurance that it would be quite wrong of me to call for the motor. You have the right to risk your own life; you may not risk my chauffeur’s.”
“But—!”
“No,” Wynn said with finality. “I lost my father to the mist. He went out alone, believing that he knew his path too well to miss it, and drowned in the mire; his body was not found for days. I will not lose another life that way.”
Zeb cringed: he should have recalled that. “Of course. I’mawfully sorry. I didn’t think.”
“You meant no harm,” Wynn said kindly. “But let us have no more talk of leaving until the air clears. Good morning.”
Zeb found himself in the hall, uncomfortably flustered. He knew that Dartmoor mists were bad—or at least, he’d readThe Hound of the Baskervilles, which came to the same thing—and if it was genuinely dangerous to take a motor out, that would be something he’d have to live with, but if Hawley rose from his slumbers breathing vengeance, things were liable to get nasty. He stuck his head out of the front door, in case Gideon might have the machine waiting anyway.
There was no sign of life in any form. The mist was fairly thick, moving in slow drifts across the grounds. He wouldn’t have said impassable: it looked no more oppressive and distinctly less filthy than a standard London pea-souper, but clearly Wynn had reason for his caution.
What in blazes was he to do if he couldn’t leave? It was nearly nine; Hawley would be up by eleven.
This was absurd. Surely people on Dartmoor dealt with the weather all the time. He needed to talk to Gideon, who would doubtless have the authority to sort some form of transport out for him. He wandered the house for the next twenty minutes, looking for him in a state of rising alarm he couldn’t suppress, and yelped, “Thank goodness!” when he finally saw him in the hall. “Could you order the motor, at all?”
“Unfortunately, I am unable to oblige,” Gideon said, voice tight and formal. “Your cousin has given strict instructions thatthe gates should remain closed for the time being.”
Zeb blinked at him. “But I need to leave. You know I need to leave.”
“It simply isn’t possible, Cousin Zeb,” Jessamine said from behind him, making him jump. “The mist is treacherous. The paths betray.”
“Then how am I supposed to get home?”
“You can’t,” Jessamine said. “We all have to wait for the mists to rise.Prayfor the mists to rise.”
Zeb gaped at her. Gideon said, “Perhaps the weather may lift in half an hour or so. Maybe read a good book while you wait.” He put his hand on Zeb’s back as he spoke, turning him in the direction of the library, and Zeb felt a finger draw an extremely firm circle on his back.
“Half anhour?” Jessamine said. “Goodness me, Mr. Grey, it will be days before it lifts. Three or four, I should think.”
“Well, we may hope for half an hour”—Gideon’s finger circled on Zeb’s back a second time—“but you are doubtless right, Miss Jessamine.”
He turned and left without a further word. Zeb stared after him, speechless.
What the devil. Days, trapped here? And why hadn’t Gideon been more help, and what on earth had he meant with that peculiar touch? It hadn’t been connection, or affection. It had felt more like…
…instruction.
