Mr. Whittle sweated, but he always sweated when nervous, his forehead gleaming with dots of perspiration.
“And your men had nothing to do with it, eh?”
“Of course not,” I snapped.
“Nor your guests, I suppose.”
A weighted stone dropped in my gut, since the same fear had crossed my mind. “I believe they called upon the Hawkins family.”
“That’s easy enough to find out,” Constable Wickham said. He sniffed pompously. “I’ll need to open a full inquiry and questioneachof your tenants.”
Had I foolishly trusted the families within my care? Had one of them betrayed me?
That very evening, while I waited in the green room watching a cold slice of moonlight drag across the hardwood floors, I heard the jingle of horses, suggesting Mr. Beaumont and Lord Ainsley’s return. When I approached the window and pushed aside the velvet drape just enough to peek outside, I spied Lord Ainsley’s carriage, the harnessed bays glinting in the moonlight. I waited at the window, making no move to welcome them.
A door slammed after they entered the abbey, their voices echoing in the cavernous hall. Footsteps hurried, clicking against the floor, and Mr. Whittle’s muted greeting.
Mr. Beaumont sounded unnaturally loud just outside the greenroom. “A remarkable day, eh, Ainsley? Such hospitality. I do so enjoy the countryside. We must do this again.”
My breath left me in a whoosh. I let the curtain fall into place. The men had likely spent the day touring and flirting with the Hawkins girls. They couldn’t have tampered with Bridget’s saddle. Who, then, meddled with it? No one had seen the stranger during my last encounter. Who would dare to steal the mosaics?
In the meantime, a priceless artifact resided within the parsonage, endangering the Littletons.
A restless feeling suffused me, similar to the experience I had before the Battle of Bussaco. That quiet hour with a misty dawn, fog curling about my boots, right before all hell broke loose on the ridge in Portugal.
I resolved to call on Bridget the next day.
Morning couldn’t come soon enough. I ate quickly and hurried to Chaucer, my limp less pronounced with the herbal salve, thanks to the woman who had rejected my clumsy proposal. I had spent the evening unable to sleep and wondering how I could possibly change her mind.
Once astride Chaucer, I directed him first to the Perrys’ field. Dew sparkled on the grass, and Mr. Spencer greeted me with an exhausted wave.
“No trouble during the night?” I asked as I surveyed the field covered with an assortment of canvases like a motley quilt.
He tried to stifle a yawn behind a grimy fist. “No, my lord. My fire likely served as a warning to any thief. Only the Dixon boys here kept me company during the night.”
Two youths lay on the damp ground, one fast asleep with anarm pillowing his head, and the other blinking sleepily as he tossed aside a rough woolen blanket.
“Wake up, lads,” I called out, with irritation. “You wouldn’t survive a day within my old regiment.”
They scrambled to their feet, their hair standing on end as they brushed dirt from their pants. Mr. Spencer straightened to his full height with a wry chuckle.
“Have no fear. They’re good lads and stayed awake throughout the night in shifts. All they need is a stout coffee.”
“Send them to Mrs. Whittle,” I ordered. “She’ll give them something bracing enough to put hair on their chests.”
Another of Mr. Spencer’s throaty chuckles followed as I whirled Chaucer around in the direction of the parsonage. With most social calls occurring in the afternoon, I knew I risked appearing a fool to knock on the vicar’s door so early, but I felt it was imperative to see them. To seeher.
The maid ushered me into the drawing room, and I waited, feeling even more foolish as each minute ticked by on the ornate clock perched on the white mantel. Like a besotted youth, pining for an elusive love. Immediately, I squashed that foolish observation, no matter how close it clung to truth.
A soft swish of a gown and footsteps, and there was Bridget. She wore a deep blue gown, a plain muslin unlike the frothy piece she wore to the Hawkinses’ dance with flowers in her hair. Nor like the deep emerald riding suit that had clung to her figure the previous day.
I had rehearsed many things to say, but they evaporated like mist.
“I hope you will forgive my intrusion,” I said. “Your father wished for me to place your items in my safe. I thought I would save you the trip. I also wanted to let you know the field appears safe enough. I met with Mr. Spencer and the Dixon boys on my way over. They kept watch last night and said all was well.”
Her features softened. “Thank you. Mr. Harrington and I wereof half a mind to guard the field ourselves, except Father would have none of it.”
My mouth hitched at the idea of her guarding the dig with pistols in hand. Then I sobered. “Bridget, we must speak about what happened. I cannot let it rest.”
