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“You too,” Royal gruffly replied.
The small band of men climbed over the short wall between the manor house gardens and the road, then disappeared into the evening gloom. With a nod to the coachman, Royal climbed back in and braced himself as the vehicle rattled forward. The second carriage would remain where it was, out of sight but close enough for a nimble retreat.
A few minutes later, the coach turned into a gravel drive and wheeled up to the front portico of the manor house.
“Ready, laddie?” Angus asked.
Royal leaned forward and gripped his shoulder. “Thank you, Grandda. Whatever happens, I know I can depend on you to keep Ainsley and Tira safe.”
“Ye’ll be doin’ that, son. Never fear.”
“I know, but if anything happens to me, I want you to take care of them. Ainsley will be . . . vulnerable without me.”
A flash of anxiety darted across his grandfather’s face. “Then don’t let anything happen to ye, or I’ll paddle yer bum. Yer not too old for me to do that, ye ken.”
Royal smiled. “All right, Grandda. Just follow my lead and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Now, when do I ever do anything stupid?”
Royal was spared the need to reply when the door opened. He stepped down, Angus right behind him.
They gazed up at the imposing mansion, where many of the windows were dark. Royal had suspected that Lady Montgomery was currently not in residence. Cringlewood’s cousin was a respectable, well-regarded woman who would never participate in something as heinous as a kidnapping. Her absence meant that the household would likely be running a skeleton staff.
Of course, it also meant there was no voice of reason to serve as a check on Cringlewood’s obsessive behavior. He would no doubt be bordering on the irrational by now, and would respond aggressively to any attempts to take Ainsley away from him.
Royal was counting on that.
The black double doors swung open before they knocked.
“May I ask who ye be callin’ for?” a footman cautiously asked.
“Royal and Angus Kendrick, here to see Lord Cringlewood,” Royal said.
“Aye, sir. I’ll just—”
“Let them in, you barmy fool,” barked a rough voice.
The footman gave Royal a slight, apologetic grimace as he stepped aside. He was a local man, obviously, and a possible ally.
They stepped into a tiled reception hall, decorated with elegant plasterwork in shades of blue and cream. A spiral staircase with elaborate ironwork curled up from the right side of the hall to the upper floors.
“Is her ladyship at home?” Royal murmured as he handed the footman his hat.
“That she is not, sir,” the young man grimly replied.
“Stop your jawin’ and get over here,” ordered a massively built man at the bottom of the staircase.
The fellow had a smashed-in nose and a pugilist’s ears, a former boxer—most likely. But despite his rough appearance, he carried himself well and dressed with a certain amount of style. He was obviously not a common street thug.
Another man stood next to him, however, looking very much like a street thug. He held a flintlock pistol, which did nothing to dispel that impression.
“His lordship is expectin’ you,” said the well-tailored man.
“Told ye the bastard would want to see ye,” Angus murmured. “He wants to rub it in yer face.”
Royal moved to the staircase, his grandfather close on his heels.
“Who are you?” he asked.
