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Chapter Six
Despite the unmistakable copy of his advertisement that she must have seen—because it had been too coincidental that she had returned his brother in one hand while symbolically wielding a copy of The Times like a sword in the other—Miss Gilbert had still failed to mention it. Nor, apparently, had anyone else. Either that had been a coincidence, or the minx had let Rafe stew for two days to lull him into a false sense of security before her next ambush. Whatever her motives, and he did not doubt for one second the woman had something up her sleeve, there was no denying she had made quite the impression on Archie. His brother was so bewitched by his ‘new friend’ he hadn’t stopped talking about her and had nagged Rafe narrow on the hour, every hour, to take him to visit her and her blasted cat Socrates.
He might have known the witch would have a cat.
And a kind way with troublesome, inquisitive siblings. Or at least he hoped she did. His worst nightmare would be her using her unique knowledge of Archie’s existence against him in some way. The small staff on the estate payroll all lived on the grounds and had taken the king’s shilling. Mention my brother to anyone and it will be the last day you work here, and you will be tossed from the grounds without references. Stay silent on the subject and I’ll double your salary immediately. The classic carrot and stick incentive which every branch of the British military relied on for compliance, except Rafe had always preferred carrots to sticks and earned respect rather than threats.
However, with Archie’s safety his main concern while in this toxic, cloying, judgemental village, he could not afford the risk of anyone stepping out of line. That was why the frankly ridiculous pay rise had come with such a severe stipulation attached. He hoped the money made the stick redundant, but so help him, if anyone—anyone—threw Archie to the wolves, he’d use the stick to bludgeon the traitor to a sticky pulp.
Unfortunately, the irksome Miss Gilbert or her judgemental eyebrows were not on his payroll, and neither were her assorted motley crew of villagers who seemed to hang on her every word. She was a loose cannon and, blast her, a natural and clever leader who was impervious to his charm and apparently read him like a book. Which now made her another damn good reason to offload this godforsaken estate as soon as possible. A task he was optimistic might begin in earnest this morning when the first eager buyers came to view it all.
So far, twenty-two wealthy gentlemen had expressed an interest, and while Rafe was happy to allow them all access to the mausoleum and grounds today and tomorrow, he had instructed Mr Spiggot to do some serious delving into their backgrounds too. Because, frankly, if they did not actually have the necessary funds in the bank now to buy it off him today, they weren’t serious candidates. He wasn’t interested in the protracted dance of negotiation—just the swift transfer of the deeds of ownership so he could get back on with his quiet life.
‘Boiled eggs again?’ He ruffled his brother’s hair as he strode into the breakfast room, determined to snatch a few minutes with him before the estate was swarming with potential buyers. Or at least he hoped it would be swarming with them as Rafe had directed all his attention as well as pinned all his hopes on the success of these next two days. Opening the house and grounds to all without the need for an appointment was unconventional. Vulgar and unseemly too in the eyes of aristocracy because he was publicly selling off the family silver, but he was hopeful that made things more intriguing to the new money with deep pockets and a desire to rise within the ranks by the acquisition of a bona fide country estate. ‘Aren’t you a bit bored of them by now?’
Archie shook his head. ‘The hens here lay the best eggs and they laid these for me this morning.’ Usually a creature of habit, his brother had surprised Rafe at how quickly he had adapted to his routine here at Hockley Hall without too much rebellion. But then Archie had always adored animals of all sorts, so fetching the eggs every morning before he visited the horses, sheep and cows which lived in the closest barns and pastures wasn’t something the most stubborn Peel would dig his heels in against. And as both the cook and the stablemaster had taken a shine to his brother and did not seem to mind him tagging along as they went about their work, the new morning routine had freed Rafe up some to get on with everything else the unwelcome portion of his unexpected inheritance now meant he had to do.
To get a rise out of Archie, Rafe snatched the yolk-soaked bread soldier his brother had just dipped into one of his perfectly soft-boiled eggs and playfully wrestled his grasping hand out of the way as he devoured it.
‘Get your own eggs, thief!’
‘Elder brother privileges, I’m afraid.’ He ruffled Archie’s hair again before he began to help himself to a huge plate of food from the sideboard. ‘It’s the law that all older siblings get first dibs on the youngest’s food.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Archie wrapped one protective arm around his plate in case Rafe tried to steal any more then scowled. ‘You’re making that up.’
‘Are you calling me a liar as well as a thief?’
‘If the cap fits.’ Archie dunked a fresh soldier in his egg then paused to pin Rafe with manipulative imploring eyes. ‘Why can’t we go riding today? Alan needs some exercise.’
He sighed before pasting a smile on his face. ‘You know I have to work today—and tomorrow, and you know I’ll more than make it up to you and Alan the day after. Several people are visiting today, all with pots of money and delusions of grandeur, and if we are lucky one of them will buy this horrid mausoleum. Which means that very soon we’ll be able to buy our own place to raise all those horses we both keep talking about. Won’t that be wonderful?’ Distraction always worked better than arguments. As much as he hated confining Archie to his room for the day with a maid, he had no choice. A house filled with strangers and a brother whose feelings were bruised too easily were not a good combination.
‘And then we can get my puppy.’
‘We can indeed.’
‘I was thinking I might call it Mary.’
‘That’s a splendid name—if the puppy we get happens to be a girl. A boy pup might not be so happy with it, though.’ Rafe sat opposite his brother even though he really didn’t have the time. It was almost nine o’clock and the first viewer who had requested a private appointment was due on the dot and another three on each consecutive half hour straight after that. All desirous of not just nosing around his unwanted house but clearly of talking business too. All well aware that opportunities to buy land this close to London came but once in a blue moon and therefore eager to make him a personal offer if they liked what they saw.
But as the gold clock on the mantel chimed nine and ticked away the next half an hour without interruption, and then the next hour, and still no carriages trundled up the drive, alarm bells began to ring.
By eleven, and with Archie long ensconced in safety with his drawings and a patient, friendly maid, Rafe knew without a shadow of a doubt something was afoot, so he saddled Atlas and decided to investigate.
He encountered nobody on the short ride down to the village, which he did not consider that strange as the locals had no reason to use the long, winding lane to Hockley Hall unless they had business there. But the village too was deserted, which was very peculiar for a market day, yet there was no getting away from the fact that every shop appeared to be closed. Even the smithy had been abandoned and on purpose because as he wandered into the unlocked forge, the furnace was barely warm from the residual heat of what he presumed were yesterday’s embers.
Bewildered, yet conscious that he was a stranger around these parts and not familiar with the daily routines of this close-knit hellhole, Rafe knocked on the blacksmith’s cottage door behind to see why everything was so quiet. When he received no answer from the silent dwelling, he called on three more before he heard signs of life coming from within. However, when he knocked, and the butcher’s wife appeared at the window jiggling a squalling newborn baby, her eyes widened.
‘My husband isn’t here!’ The shout came from behind the door as the bolt screeched home. ‘But he will be back later.’
As she had battened down the hatches, Rafe had no choice but to speak to the peeling painted wooden door instead. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘You’d best ask my husband when he returns,’ came the inhospitable answer, ‘or take your grievances up with Miss Gilbert and the parish council. As you can plainly see, it has nought to do with me.’
An odd answer and one that raised all his soldier’s hackles. ‘Can you at least tell me where I might find Miss Gilbert?’ Because she hadn’t been in her ramshackle little cottage when he had ridden past, of that he was quite certain. The usual billowing black smoke hadn’t been coughing out of her lopsided chimney and he had seen no movement behind the lead lights when he had slowed Atlas on purpose to try and get a glimpse of her.
Apart from the crying baby, his question was met with silence, so he hammered on the wood again with impatience, not caring if he came off as brash and rude when she hadn’t considered her manners as she had locked her door. ‘Madam—I am not leaving until you tell me where she is!’
Another long pause and then a muffled huff came too close to the rickety woodwork for the butcher’s wife not to have her ear pressed against the door. ‘She’s at the barricade.’
