“Have you seen Miss Summersby?” he asked.
The housekeeper beamed. “Oh, yes. She sorted out a disaster in the stable. I think I may have even seen Mr. Sinclair smile. It was quite a sight. The woman is a marvel. I am terribly glad she is here to assist us. I wouldn’t know what to do without her. Just this morning—”
Leo groaned. “Mrs. Banting, we can discuss Miss Summersby’s charms later. You said you saw her in the stables. When was this?”
He had no hope of catching her if she had taken off on horseback for whatever foolish reason. The thought of her on a horse after he had chased her in the storm made his palms sweat. The trails were still slick with mud. She could easily break her neck.
“Only a few moments ago, milord,” Mrs. Banting said. “Then a footman came and summoned her to the laundry. I am on my way there myself. Not as quick as I once was. Miss Summersby went ahead. I am sure she—”
He spun around, leaving Mrs. Banting to sputter behind him. He would apologize when he wasn’t filled with a foreboding sense of dread and worry.
By the time he made it to the laundry, to the shock of his servants, who squealed and grabbed at the washing, Saffron was gone.
“Let me guess,” he said to a stuttering laundry maid. “Miss Summersby. A footman summoned her elsewhere?”
The maid shook her head. “No, my lord. It was Mr. Sinclair who came and fetched the lady. He was in a right fuss about something.”
It was as if the woman remained one step ahead of him on purpose.
He shoved his hand in his hair. He had known his house was a mess, but he never would have realized how bad the situation was without Saffron’s ruthless efficiency. Any emergency would have her coming at once. He paused mid-stride before a window that overlooked the grounds and gardens.
That was the answer. If he could not find her, he would fabricate a situation to make her come to him.
A smile tugged at his lips.
That will solve the problem quite well.
Chapter Thirteen
Saffron stood infront of the blackened, cast-iron stove with her hands on her hips. Smoke billowed from a hunk of charred meat sitting in a pot on top of the oven and filled the rafters, escaping out the open doors to the garden. She’d spent the morning flitting from one emergency to the next, doing anything she could to avoid Leo. Being around him made her feel helpless, like a ship without a rudder, and it terrified her.
Her plan to divert the Duke of Canterbury had borne fruit, at least, and the man was preoccupied with explaining the finer points of horse breeding to Mr. Mayweather. She was proud of herself for that feat—because it had been Leo’s own staff that had given her the idea. She had caught them gossiping about the huge number of stallions Canterbury had brought along with him. All it had taken had been a word in Mr. Mayweather’s ear when Canterbury was present that Angelica adored horses, and the duke had done the rest. She had even convinced Mrs. Banting to secure the man in the rooms farthest from theirs.
Now if only I could be as successful with Ravenmore.
Keeping Leo unaware of the reasons for uncovering the painter’s identity hinged upon the auction progressing smoothly, but every time she turned around, there was another problem to deal with.
She touched the wooden handle of a hanging pot. “It cannot be that bad. They appear serviceable.” Her eyes burned, but she didn’t want to wipe the tears away because her hands were filthy.
“I’ve been cooking my entire life,” the cook said, dabbing her rosy cheeks with the handkerchief Saffron had handed her. She stabbed a finger at the oven, making the thick, brown curls that framed her round face bounce. “I’ve never had this trouble. The devil’s in this kitchen!”
It was bad. Saffron could not argue otherwise, but she was not one to give up on a challenge. The time in the kitchen had at least convinced her that the cook was not likely to have played a part in the break-in. The woman had difficulty standing on her feet for any length of time, owing to the more than thirty years she’d spent as a maid of all work. She did not have the stamina to ride a horse or sneak around in the rain.
“Do you have pigeons in the larder?” Saffron asked, her mind searching for alternatives that would suit the diverse preferences of the guests in residence. “A cold pigeon pie will do in a twist.”
And few will object to pigeon, unlike fish.
The cook patted at her swollen eyes with the corner of her apron. “Aye, we’ve got pigeon, madam. Me mam made a mean pigeon pie. That’ll do if you say. I can have one ready within an hour.”
Saffron shook her head. “This is too much work for one woman. Where are the scullery maids?”
“I’ve had a miserable time hiring. A dozen girls never showed up for their first day! This darn house chased them away. So many who’ve worked here have been injured that they call this place haunted. ’Tis just me in the kitchen most days, and hardly a larder at all.”
There was something very wrong in Briarwood Manor. It would have been unusual enough for one or two girls to abscond, but a dozen was highly suspicious.
“Show me the pantry,” Saffron said, using a tone she reserved for when Angelica complained.
The cook led her to a small closet, and when she stepped inside, she felt a sense of growing dread. She’d never seen a house in such disarray. The foul smell of rotten meat permeated the room, and when she checked the sacks of flour, there were small flecks of black.
