Chapter 25 #2
The name lay between them like a stone. The land grew rougher as they rode, scrub and gorse replacing fields, the ground rising in gentle folds.
At last, cresting another small rise, they saw what lay ahead.
Glenmore Hall’s outer pasture fences. And beyond them, clustered in a broad, well-kept paddock near a line of neat stone stables, a group of horses Isla did not need to count to know.
“Strathmore geldings,” she said tightly. “Every one.”
Edward saw the brands, the colors.
“I had not realized Glenmore had grown so generous,” she murmured.
They rode down toward the stables. Men moved in the yard, Glenmore’s livery on their jackets. At the far end, a tall figure in dark riding clothes stood beside the paddock fence, watching a groom struggle with a saddled horse.
Nigel Blackwood, Duke of Glenmore, was every inch the man Edward remembered from London.
Broad-shouldered, iron-haired, his face unlined in a way that owed more to composure than to youth.
His features were handsome in a hard sort of way, as if carved for coin rather than affection. He was also, at that moment, furious.
“What in hell’s name do you call this?” he demanded of the groom, voice cracking across the yard like a whip.
The groom’s hands were wrapped in bandages. Another white swathe covered one side of his face, creeping up beneath his hairline. Despite the wrappings, he was attempting to buckle a girth, his movements clumsy with pain.
“I’m doing my best, Your Grace,” the man stammered.
“Your best?” Glenmore snapped. “Your best has the saddle sliding down the horse’s side. A monkey could do better. You are of no use to me like this.”
“My hands …” the groom began.
“I can see your hands,” Glenmore cut in. “I can also see that I am paying for them. I do not pay for useless men. You are dismissed.”
The groom recoiled as if struck. “Your Grace, I …”
“Off my land by evening,” Glenmore said coldly. “Or I will have you whipped off.”
He turned away, already done with the man. Isla’s temper, already frayed by ash and grief, snapped. She urged her horse forward; Edward’s hand shot out, catching her rein.
“Carefully,” he warned under his breath. “We are on his ground.”
“I do not care whose ground it is,” she said, eyes blazing. “Those are Strathmore horses, not Glenmore’s, and that man has burns on half his body. Where do you think he got those burns?”
“Isla,” he murmured. “Let me speak first.”
She bit back a retort, barely, holding herself in check with visible effort.
They rode the last few yards together.
Glenmore turned at the sound of hooves. His gaze flicked over Isla, lingered a fraction, then settled on Edward.
“Wexford,” he drawled. “I did not expect to see you sullying yourself with Scottish soot.”
“Needs must,” Edward said evenly. “Your Grace.”
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Glenmore asked. “Come to admire my stock? Don’t worry, I have not yet started poaching Wexford bloodlines. Strathmore’s are another matter.”
“These,” Edward said, gesturing toward the paddock, “are Strathmore bloodlines. The brands make that plain enough.”
Glenmore spread his hands. “And who but I saved them from becoming roast beef? When I saw the smoke over your brother-in-law’s charming ruin, I sent my men to cut the horses loose. I might have left them to barbecue. Instead, I sheltered them. You are welcome.”
“There are ways to inform a neighbor of your generosity,” Edward said. “Most of them involve not keeping his property.”
“Strathmore has been … slow to come and claim his wares,” Glenmore said. “In the meantime, the animals are fed, stabled and in no danger of a half-brained groom setting them alight again.”
Isla made a sharp sound. Edward tightened his grip on her rein.
“On behalf of my wife’s family,” he said, voice cool, “allow me to express gratitude for your quick thinking. Once Strathmore’s stables are restored, we will, of course, be removing the horses. If you would be so good as to send word of any costs incurred, they will be settled.”
Glenmore’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Of course. I would not dream of penning another man’s herd indefinitely. Though if Strathmore proves unable to pay for repairs, perhaps a sale could be arranged. I am always in the market for good stock.”
“You will have to look elsewhere,” Isla said sharply. “Strathmore stock is not for sale.”
Glenmore glanced at her again, this time properly. “Lady Isla,” he said, with a mockery of a bow. “I had heard you were in England. I assumed you had better sense than to come back to this damp pile.”
“This damp pile is my home,” she snapped.
He shrugged. “We all have our sentimental weaknesses. Some cling to old stones.”
“Your groom,” Edward said, nodding toward the man with the bandaged hands, “looks in need of a surgeon, not a dismissal.”
Glenmore’s lip curled. “If he is too slow to get out of the way of a fire, that is his concern, not mine. I am not a charitable institution.”
“No,” Edward said softly. “You are not.”
“How did he get those burns?” Isla demanded.
“Saving Strathmore’s horses,” Glenmore said carelessly. “Or so he claims. Perhaps he simply fell asleep with a candle. Either way, he is of no further use to me.”
It was enough.
“Very generous,” Edward said, reigning his temper with effort. “We will not take more of your valuable time, Your Grace. We will send for the horses when we have somewhere sound to put them. Good day.”
He wheeled his horse, forcing Isla to turn with him. She did, but only after skewering Glenmore with a glare sharp enough to flay. The duke of Glenmore watched them go, expression unreadable.
When they were out of the yard and back on the rough track, Isla hissed, “I will go back and drag the truth out of him with my bare hands.”
“You will not,” Edward said.
“He has our horses,” she snapped.
“We will get them back,” he said. “But not by challenging him to single combat in his own yard.”
“He set that man on fire,” she said.
“He sent that man into a fire,” Edward corrected. “Which is not the same thing, but close enough for damnation.”
They rode in stewing silence for a few minutes, the path winding between gorse bushes.
Ahead, a small figure walked along the verge, head down, a bundle slung over one shoulder.
As they drew nearer, Edward recognized the bandages.
The groom. He looked up at the sound of hooves, blinking as if not quite believing he was being approached.
“You,” Isla said, reining in. “What is your name?”
“Tom, m’lady,” he said, bobbing an awkward half-bow, nearly overbalancing.
Edward took in the raw, red skin glimpsed under the bandages, the way Tom’s fingers trembled even resting at his sides.
“Tom,” Edward said. “You were dismissed just now.”
Tom’s mouth twisted. “Aye, Your Grace. His Lordship says I’m no use. Can’t say as he’s wrong. Hard to muck a stall when you can’t hold a fork.”
“How did you come by those burns?” Edward asked. No preamble. No softening.
Tom swallowed. “At Strathmore, sir.”
Isla drew in a sharp breath.
Edward kept his voice carefully level. “Tell me.”
Tom shifted his bundle, eyes darting between them.
“The night o’ the fire,” he said. “We saw the flames from Glenmore House. His Grace, our Grace, that is, he says fetch me those horses afore the roof comes down on them. We took the back lane. Fire was already licking out o’ the stable roof when we got there.
Lord Morlich …” he hesitated, glanced at Isla, “… he says we should throw in some straw, get the blaze up good and hot, so the beasts’ll panic and bolt out. No time to lead ‘em all quiet-like.”
“Lord Morlich was already there?”
“Aye, haven’t seen him for months. He’s been in London I think.”
Isla’s face went white.
“You threw in straw,” Edward said. His stomach turned.
“No, sir,” Tom whispered. “I refused. Went in to save the horses. Slapped them to get them moving. Lord Morlich was already throwing in straw soaked in lamp oil. He brought a can. Said it’d hurry things along.
It did. Too quick. I were inside cutting ropes when it went up.
Felt the heat on my face like a slap. Horses screaming, roof groaning …
I go ‘em out. Nearly didn’t get out m’self. ”
He lifted his hands a little, as if in apology for their ruined state.
“Morlich told Glenmore he’d been brave as any soldier,” Tom went on bitterly. “Told ‘im I’d bungled it, let the fire take hold. Said I’d held us up. Today His Grace says I’m too slow, too clumsy. Turns me off like a lame dog.”
Isla’s hands shook on her reins. “He came onto our land,” she said, voice like ice. “He set fire to our stables with oil and straw, to drive out our horses, and calls that bravery.”
Tom flinched at our, as if having forgotten who she was. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he blurted. “I thought … thought we were savin’ ‘em. Horses’d be dead now if we’d not gone.”
Edward believed him. Desperation, not malice, in the man’s voice.
“You did save them,” Edward said. “At cost to yourself. Glenmore will never thank you for that. We will.”
Tom blinked, confused.
“Where are you going?” Isla asked.
Tom shrugged, wincing. “Back to my father’s cottage, if he’ll have me. Else, the poorhouse. Ain’t many places want a stable hand can’t hold a brush.”
“There will be a place at Strathmore,” Isla said immediately. “Once your burns are healed, we will find work that does not require you to wield a fork until you can. You will not go to the poorhouse while I draw breath.”
Tom’s mouth opened. Closed. “Your Grace …”
Edward cut in. “First, we will get you to Macrae. She will bully a salve into you. Then we will hear everything you remember. Slowly. Carefully. Names. Times.”
Tom nodded, eyes wide. “Aye, your grace.”
Isla turned her horse toward home with a jerk.
“We should go back and confront Glenmore now,” she said. “Drag Morlich to the gate and make him admit what he’s done before the whole valley.”
“And what then?” Edward asked. “Glenmore will deny it. Call Tom a liar. Say we are making mischief to distract from Alistair’s debts. He has influence. Men will believe what suits them.”
“I do not care what men believe,” she snapped. “I care that he set my home on fire.”
“As do I,” Edward said. “But if we accuse him without proof, we give him the chance to bury this. To send Morlich away. To silence other witnesses. If we are to bring this to daylight, we must do it carefully.”
She glared at him. “Carefully is not satisfying.”
“Satisfying is punching him in that smug mouth,” Edward agreed. “I am very tempted. Effective is another matter.”
Her grip eased a fraction. “You are saying we wait.”
“I am saying we gather more from Tom,” he said. “We speak to Alistair. We look at Glenmore’s accounts, if we can. Men do not burn their neighbors’ stables without motive. When we understand why, we will know where to strike.”
She ground her teeth. “I hate that you are right.”
He smiled faintly. “It happens occasionally.”
She looked back at Tom, who trudged along with his bundle, exhausted.
“We will make him pay,” she said. Not a question. A vow.