Had he even heard a word she’d spoken? Some sort of talk about millinery shops and what Miss Withycombe did to Miss Chilcott that caused such an uproar between the two otherwise amiable souls. Matching hats or matching gowns or matching something—the nerve, she’d said—as if one had done the other some terrible crime. What did it deuced matter if every lady in the world wore the same hat?
Dash the ball and all its rotten nonsense.
Dash every millinery shop there was.
Dash everything.
“Mr. Northwood.” Young Curry, with his gangly limbs and cropped black hair, met Felton a few yards from the stable. The groom, Mr. Timbrell, came ambling after him with a lantern.
And a gun.
Unease spiked through Felton’s irritation. “What goes on here?”
“The c–carriage house, sir,” said Curry. “Oy didn’t know what to do, oy didn’t, and oy was affrighted to send for his lordship on account o’ all the guests. But you be his friend, Mr. Northwood, ’nd oy was thinking you could tell him—”
“Tell him what?”
“That Curry ’ere caught a thief sneakin’ about in the carriage ’ouse.” Mr. Timbrell dropped the gun at Felton’s feet. “I shot him.”
“What?”
“Curry ’eard the noises first, and I done sent ’im down to see what commotion the likes o’ that dog was into. By the time I came outside, some stranger was goin’ after Curry ’ere with a knife.”
The old groom’s eyes moved to the carriage house, and he outstretched his lantern until the glow barely illuminated the double, red-painted doors.
“Any idea who he is?”
“No,” said both in unison. The threesome approached.
A long body was sprawled with his face down, fingers half dug into the ground, with a pool of crimson already widening on the back of his oilskin coat. “What was he doing in the carriage house?” Felton asked.
“Trying to steal one, oy’d say.” Curry pried open one of the doors. “Making a terrible lot of noise about doing it though.”
“Tell him about the lock, boy.”
“Yes, Mr. Northwood. He done locked it too from the inside, so oy had to use the key ’fore oy could get in.”
“Give me that light.” Felton took the lantern and stepped into the tall-ceilinged building. The soft orange glow spread over the line of carriages, the hay-scattered flagstone floor, the stairs leading to a second story and the open door on the left wall.
Something stirred.
Then a noise, half-muffled, like—
A woman. Eliza.He ran for the sound. How had he not known? The dog. Timbrell said the dog was kept in here. Where else would Eliza have gone when she left the ballroom?
Dread throbbed in his stomach as he reached the door with a small figure curled before its threshold. “Eliza.” He bent next to her, set the lantern aside, and touched her shaking shoulder.
She jumped and tried to scoot away.
“Eliza, hold still. It is Felton.” He slid one hand behind her neck. Blood. The feel of it, scent of it, shivered panic through his limbs. “Curry!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Go for the doctor and make haste. Timbrell, go indoors and inform Lord Gillingham.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Merrylad.” Her head fell onto his shoulder as he pulled her into his arms and rose. “Merrylad …”
