Page 67 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

The butler must have seen them come downstairs, for he appeared with a tea tray in hand. Nash nodded for him to come in. “For the first two months, I couldn’t find a thing because each night Acres would enter and tidy the room. After that we came to an accord. I would hold dominion over the study. Acres would be in charge of everything else in the house.”

Nash swept away a pile of papers and Charlotte gingerly sat on what turned out to be a rather delightful Chippendale sofa in the Chinese style. With a long-suffering look, Acres set the oval tray down precariously on a stack of papers and left.

“Would you mind pouring, Charlotte? Then you can come over here and I’ll acquaint you with the map and see what you find.”

She grasped the teapot, and the whole tray wobbled. Teacups swayed alarmingly in their saucers. A glance at Nash showed him absorbed in the papers on his desk, not the hot beverage that would soon be in her lap. Charlotte grabbed a cup for Nash and rose. She set it on a bare spot at the edge of the desk and poured a generous cup for him. The fragrance was familiar, but she and Georgie had sampled so many teas since her return from London she couldn’t be sure which one it might be.

“Do you take milk and sugar?”

“Sugar only.”

Charlotte handed him the sugar bowl and he dropped in three large lumps. The man must have a sweet tooth.

She then carefully poured her own cup, added a modest two small lumps and milk, and tasted it. “Your tea reminds me of the blend I just brought from London.”

“Yes,” he said absentmindedly, his eyes still on the map. He looked up. “I quite prefer yours, however. It has a delicious smoky flavor.”

Charlotte smiled, unaccountably pleased that he liked her blend. “The base is lapsang souchang, with hints of Assam and Ceylon. From Jacksons of Piccadilly.”

His eyes never left hers. “I shall have to get some when I am next in London. If you do not mind, that is.”

Flustered, Charlotte shook her head. “No, of course not.”

He flashed a smile that quickened her pulse before bending his head to the map again.

She sipped her tea, hoping it would soothe her, then took it behind the desk to stand beside him.

The map spread out over various other papers showing the county of Kent. Their properties were outlined in dark lines. From this bird’s-eye view, Wrotham Hall resembled a large rectangle to the north of Wrotham Village. Lyttlefield Park looked more like a wedge with a blunt instead of pointed top to the south of the village. There were clusters of red and blue dots and swaths of green.

Charlotte sipped as she studied the map. “What are the red dots?”

“They represent our tenant cottages.” He pointed here and there on the map.

“And the blue ones?”

“The attacks by the gang so far.”

The frequency of those marks appalled Charlotte. Eight blue dots, all but one sitting beside a red one. A lone blue dot sat next to a small patch of green. She placed her finger next to that site. “This was the attack on Mr. Courtland and me?” A shiver ran down her back and she clutched the warm cup.

Nash nodded, still absorbed in the map.

Determined to show him her mettle, she shook off her fear and concentrated on the dots. “What have you found out so far?”

His lips stretched thin and hard. “Precious little, and I’ve been working on the problem since late June. The gang must be receiving help from a local resident, for I have eliminated every other possibility. I’ve taken men and traced them through my woodlands and yours. We found traces of camps in both woods, but each time they had moved on.”

“Do you know how many are in the gang?”

“How many did you see when you were attacked?”

Charlotte closed her eyes, trying to remember. Her impression at the time had been of a swarm of bees, but she supposed that had been prompted by her fear. “I would say no more than eight. If the entire gang attacked us.”

Nash nodded and smiled grimly. “Good. That number tallies with what we found in the woods. Not too big for us to handle, I think.” His smile broadened. “With a little help from some friends.”

Charlotte cocked her head. “You are up to something, Nash.” He seemed suddenly very pleased with himself.

“Indeed I am.” He swallowed the last of his tea and set the cup down on the edge of the map. “I suspect another attack will occur during the Harvest Home festival. All the tenant families will be in attendance. You and I will be there. It’s a day-long festivity that takes place out in the fields, away from the houses. How tempting a prize would that be to such a bold gang.”

Charlotte stared at him, appalled at the logic of his words. Even her house at Lyttlefield or the very manor house in which she stood could be attacked and destroyed. Her face must have drained of color, for he ran his thumb and finger down her jaw as if to warm it.