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Eventually, they let themselves in through the kitchen.
“Go back to Breanna,” Chadwick instructed his manservant. “I don't want her left alone.”
Hibbert frowned. “You suspect Crompton did this?”
“I don't know. It's winter. The air is cold and dry. A spark from the kitchen might have started the fire. So, it could be a coincidence. But I'm not taking any chances. If Crompton is behind this, he's on the grounds. I'm going to alert Mahoney's men, have them search every inch of the estate, not only this immediate area. After that, I'm heading down to the servants' quarters to see what Maurelle is up to. If Crompton did break into Medford, she's the reason why.”
“I agree.” Hibbert nodded briskly. “I'll watch Lady Breanna. Lord Sheldrake is with his wife. And Wells is standing guard outside Maurelle's room, just in case. He’s been there since he awakened.”
“Good. Putting Maurelle in the room next to his was wise. He can keep a close eye on her.” Chadwick was already heading out. “I'll cheek in with you later.”
“Fine.”
The two men left. Quiet ensued. The day wore on.
Slowly, the ordinary routine resumed, tension ebbing away as hour gave way to hour and no further incident occurred.
At last, the sun set.
Darkness fell, settling over the manor with the customary impatience of January.
The evening meal was served. The kitchen staff completed their work, washed the last of the evening dishes, and doused the lights.
The lower level fell silent.
Just above the pantry, the family chatted in the library, the distinct sounds of Lady Breanna's lilting tones and her cousin's more Americanized accent drifting to the floor below, interdispersed by comments issued in Sheldrake and Chadwick's deeper baritones.
It was time.
Inside the cramped alcove, Crompton stood, stretching his arms and legs to restore feeling. He winced at the throbbing pain that gripped his finger, which was raw and stiff after the prolonged day he'd spent in this chilly room.
Soon that pain would be vindicated. Then, he'd sail off to a warm climate where the sun would ease his physical torment.
But first, he had to rescue Maurelle.
She was alone now. He'd watched the house often enough to know the evening routine. Wells would be posted at the entranceway—especially at this point, when they were anticipating the delivery of the final statue—and Hibbert would be stationed in the hall between Wells and the family, adding his presence for extra security.
That was froe. They weren't his targets—yet.
Of course, there was always the chance that Chadwick had kept guards posted outside Maurelle's door. However, that prospect was unlikely, now that this morning's threat had been removed and there was no reason to believe the noble assassin was anywhere near Maurelle, much less on the verge of rescuing hen Chadwick wouldn't want to waste the men, not when they could be patrolling the perimeter of the estate, or standing guard over Lady Anastasia and Lady Breanna.
A bitter smile curved Crompton's lips.
Cautiously, he crept out of the pantry and through the kitchen, made his way to the servants' quarters.
The wing was deserted. Not a surprise, given that the staff was doubtless either retiring for the night or upstairs preparing their employers' chambers so that they might do the same.
Nonetheless, his fingers closed around his pistol to ready it, most particularly when he rounded the corner that led to the butler's quarters.
Wells's chambers were silent. Clearly, he was upstairs at his post.
Crompton relaxed his grip, moving to the door next to Wells's.
It was locked.
Ever so slightly, he jiggled the handle to make sure. Yes. Definitely locked.
He glanced about, ensured he was alone. Then, he knocked—a hushed little rap. No answer.
