“It’s been opened. Was that you?” he snarled. The Duke of Rakecombe’s wolfhound seal had been obliterated by an inept attempt to reseal it, only the hound’s paws poking out from beneath the additional wax.
And Rakecombenevermade mistakes.
Eyes wide, the professor held palms up. “No. I wouldn’t… It remained in my pocket or on the library desk.”
“Who else entered or could have opened it?”
“I…” He scrunched his eyes. You could almost see the cogs turning. “The butler. And Miss Treherne came in for a spell. And, of course, Rufus before he went out.”
Jack ripped open the letter, felt his stomach lurch, face blanch.
“What news?”
“Back to the manor. Now.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Sweet siren’s song.
The stone walls shuddered as thunder bellowed its fury outside, and although the longcase clock had not a moment ago chimed five, light had dimmed to shadow inside Penrose Manor, a huffing warm wind endeavouring to penetrate the leaded windows.
Tamsyn made for the stairs, unable to concentrate on wardrobe frippery after such a fierce embrace. Lowdy had been in a similar dither and had departed for a nap, citing an overset of nerves from the sultry weather. Hmm.
All household hands were now hastily battening down the hatches for the coming ferocity whilst swapping passed-down tales of the century-old lightning storm which had struck and destroyed the medieval church in Helston.
Horses were gathered from the paddocks, chickens chased to their houses and haycocks frantically covered. The stable lads had taken mattocks to re-carve trenches against flooding, the estate upkeep having become lax in the late summer heat.
Tamsyn herself was headed for the kitchens to aid in storing the harvest as the maids scurried back and forth with aprons full of pears from the orchard.
Laden tension betwixt energy and lethargy held the house and lands in its thrall, and never again would she gainsay Mrs Mildern; she hoped Papa –sansblue breeches – hadn’t yet embarked upon his journey back from Helston and would now stay the night, safe with Mrs Castleton.
A flurry at the door and she glanced up.
“Miss Penrose!” Benjamin dashed through the hall, hair at angles and gangly limbs flying. “Captain Lynch…” He stooped, panting, hands on knees. “He’s been attacked.”
“What?” She darted down the remaining stairs. “Where? Is he hurt?”
“The east gate, Miss. I was getting the bullock in when I heard…” Breathless wheezing consumed him. “Some cur pulled him off his horse, knocked him flat. I hollered but he took the horse and scarpered. We’ll need a cart or somethin–”
A gust of wind shrieked through the open door carrying a pelt of rain that coated the floorboards, stopping as soon as it had started.
“No time, Ben,” she cried. A footpad? Or more sinister? “Could we put him over a saddle? Where’s Samuel?”
“Tying the boats, but I reckon us two can manage if it’s one o’ them smaller ponies.”
“Bring the horses around and fetch rope.”
“Yes, Miss.”
She hunted out the butler and found him at the west-facing library windows, battening them tight lest the glass blow in. “Wake Lowdy and prepare a room for the captain. I am for the east gate with Benjamin.”
Not waiting for his nod, she scurried back to the hall, grabbed her cloak from the peg and flew out the main door. Benjamin offered a foot up and, hiking her skirts with one hand, she threw herself into the saddle before tugging the reins and galloping east. Ben followed suit, a Goonhilly pony roped to his saddle.
Lightning severed the sky, and she counted aloud, the rhythmic thud of hooves aiding her. Sixteen…seventeen…eighte– Thunder rumbled close and angry, the storm little more than three miles from Penrose. Too near with the gusting wind.
Ahead, she spied a huddled mound beneath the iron gates, still and forlorn.
“Hugh!”
