Sinclair’s hesitation was not a surprise. Leo had, on more than one occasion, reminded the maids not to clean around his brushes and oils. He did not have the patience to set everything back to rights every day.
“I will gather them myself,” Leo said. He would package up the least used of his materials into crates and move the rest somewhere close so that none of his guests would stumble upon them.
But even with plans set in motion, he still felt like a caged lion, tensed to bite the next hand that approached.
There is only one thing for it.
He walked over to his wardrobe and rifled through the frippery, scowling. Hundreds of pounds spent at the tailor, and not a piece of it was waterproof.
“My lord, do you intend to go out into the storm?” Sinclair asked, alarmed. “I would advise against such action. It is not safe.”
He shrugged on his thickest coat and tightened the belts about his waist. “I cannot rest until I investigate myself. Bring me my hunting boots.”
His butler sniffed, then stiffly walked out the door, returning a minute later with a pair of heavy boots clutched in his arms. Leo sat in a wingback chair near the cold fireplace and allowed his butler to lace them to his feet.
“I beg you to reconsider, my lord,” Sinclair said, following him as he made his way down the hallway to the entrance. “I do not wish to send a team to recover your body. Wait until morning, at least.”
“It’ll be too late,” he said, tugging his hood tightly around his head. “Our trap has sprung early. In a few hours, there will be no evidence to speak of.”
He wouldn’t let them get away with it.
A footman opened the main doorway and Leo stepped outside. The rain pelted his face, spurred on by a roaring wind that cut straight through his coat. He descended the stairs, then slogged through the thick mud surrounding the outside of the building until he reached the point around the house where the intruder had tried to enter.
When he found the footprints, he crouched down for a closer look. Once, when he’d been a young lad, he had tried to get past his nursemaid by sneaking out the same back windows. The mud had been so thick that he had lost a shoe.
After a few moments, he found what he was looking for: a bare, trampled area of ground surrounded by trees denuded of leaves. Evidence of a horse.
He returned to the front entrance, where Sinclair waited. The butler crouched to undo the laces on his boots, but Leo shook his head. As nice as it would have been to rid himself of his sodden shoes, there was more to do, and it would take too long to dry off.
“Have the stables prepare a mount,” he said.
“At least wait until you are properly attired,” Sinclair begged.
“We don’t have time for that. There was a horse tied nearby. Its rider is escaping as we speak. I must pursue now or not at all.”
He spared a moment to exchange his waterlogged coat for another, then charged back out into the tempest.
An hour later, he regretted his decision.
He was on horseback, following the tracks, wincing through the sleeting rain, and trying to remain astride as his horse picked its careful way through the muck. Branches lashed him, breaking off and littering the forest floor.
Sinclair was right. This is madness.
But having set out on the task, he was determined to finish it. It was not as if he had anything to look forward to. Sleep routinely brought the same nightmares he’d suffered with each night since Sabrina’s death. Only through painting was he able to escape his demons.
Another reason to find the intruder who had violated his sanctuary.
The tracks led through his property to an old groundskeeper cottage, a small, thatched-roof structure with an attached stable that showed signs of recent use. He resolved to tell his staff after this was over to either demolish the building or install a tenant to keep it from acting as a waystation.
He continued until he reached a hill overlooking a view of surging ocean waves in a small bay. A blot on the water suggested a ship, but it was too far away to gleam any recognizable details.
Too late.
He turned his horse and made his way back through the woods. As he rounded the last bend, he spotted a rider in a black cloak at the treeline bordering the road.
The thief?
He waved his arm. “You there!”
