February 9, 1889 Early Morning #2
Mira caught her breath, heart rate skyrocketing.
He had been one of the suspects for the thefts, and her mind rang with the word “murderer!” But she shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
They didn’t know how Silas had died, yet.
More likely to be an accident than anything.
But if it was murder, was it wise to leave the body with a possible suspect?
“I forgot my coat,” she said, trying to think up a lie. “And I thought a good sprint might warm me up a bit.”
“Yes, but what in the heavens are you doing out of doors in the first place?” He looked back the way he came. “I don’t suppose you are a guest at Wynmar, are you?”
“Actually, I am,” she said. “I’m Samira Blayse. I came with the Renaldis. You’re Admiral Hoddle, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am, who else would I be?” he said, eyes twinkling.
“Are you one of Maureen’s friends? I do believe I saw you talking with her yesterday evening.
Ah, to be a gleeful youth, smiling upon the old and decrepit generation.
The stories I could tell you of times past. And here I am talking you to death, doing you no good, no good at all.
You ought to come back to the house at once.
” He linked his arm with hers and turned them back towards the path that led up to the house.
Mira blinked. She had not expected him to be so . . . exuberant. “Well, sir, I was actually looking for you because Miss Harris has had quite the shock.”
His wiry brow furrowed. “Oh that poor girl. What’s upset her this time? It wasn’t one of those lads who’s after Miss Risewell, is it? They are always saying things that upset her. Not in public, mind you, but I know it pains her, still grieving her aunt and her father not buried a year.”
“You’d better talk to her about it,” Mira said. She wasn’t sure if she should be worried or grateful that she’d picked up a penchant for deception. “She wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”
“Yes, she takes after her father in that regard. Always tight lipped he was. That’s what you get when you’ve got a friend working in the foreign office. How long did you say you’ve known Maureen?”
“Oh, we’ve run in the same circles since we were little,” Mira said. “Though we haven’t kept in contact as we ought to have.”
“Yes, it is tragic how friendships fizzle out like a wet matchstick when you don’t tend to them.”
When they came to the top of the ridge Mira extracted her arm from his and stepped away.
“Miss Risewell also wanted me to give a message to the grooms. I think Maureen will likely be in the sitting room with some tea by now.”
“You’ll be blue before you get back, a regular Lucy Gray, ‘the storm coming on before its time.’ Better get a coat before going to the stables.”
“Oh, no. I like the cold,” Mira said, using all her might to prevent her teeth from chattering as she turned and hurried off to the stables.
She hadn’t been lying about hoping the run would warm her up, but it was still dashed cold.
She’d been so focused on shielding Maureen from the body and the blood that she hadn’t thought about the consequences.
And it wasn’t as if she could just take the coat up again.
Oh, she hoped it hadn’t gotten blood on it.
It was a strange thing to focus on when one just discovered a corpse, yet she couldn’t help it.
It was much warmer in the stables and she rubbed her hands together after she closed the heavy door behind her. A man was humming a jaunty ditty from within one of the stalls, singing the occasional phrase.
“Excuse me?” she called.
“Yes, miss?” The young man stepped out from the third stall, a pitchfork in hand. “Can I help you with something?” He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark black hair, brown eyes, and handsome features. He had his sleeves rolled up, but his arms were wrapped with cloth and he wore dusty gloves.
“Can you saddle Verona?” she asked.
The man set the pitchfork aside. “That’s Miss Risewell’s horse, miss. I couldn’t—”
“She’s given her permission. We just found a man and, well, I need to fetch the doctor back immediately from the hunt.”
His eyes widened and he stepped back. “Of course, miss. Seeing as it’s an emergency.” He rolled his sleeves down and opened one of the stalls where a beautiful chestnut Welsh Cob stood.
“Poor devil. Reckon he froze dead from the cold?”
“I think he fell from the drop-off. We found him near the path.” She rubbed at her arms.
“Oh, the West Ledge?” He tutted. “Should have been a fence there long ago.”
He worked quickly with the tack clearly knowing his work.
“What was your name?” she asked.
“Rudy Foster, miss.”
She nodded. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Foster.”
“Of course. You do know how to ride, don’t you, miss?”
“Since I was six.”
He nodded. “Ol’ Verona is gentle as anything, but if you’d never galloped before I wouldn’t want you falling off.”
He secured the saddle in place and pulled a tub of grease from the shelf.
“This’ll stop the snow from getting stuck in her hooves,” he told Mira as he spread the thick paste along the horseshoes and soles of Verona’s hooves.
“But mind you don’t keep her out long. This only protects her for an hour or two. ”
Once he was done, he took off his gloves and helped Mira onto Verona’s back. She settled into the side saddle and arranged her skirts the best she could. Rudy led the horse out of the stable, the chill wind passing over her coatless back again.
“Where do you think the party would be by now?” she asked, scanning the horizon.
“They are likely coming back. They usually take the path on the north side of the trees there.” Rudy pointed.
“Thank you.” She picked up the reins and started the horse at a trot.
She hadn’t been lying when she said she’d been riding since she was six. But she had omitted the fact that she really only rode while on holiday, once or twice a year. There had been more opportunities while she attended finishing school, but that didn’t mean she was proficient.
With her stomach twisting, she pushed Verona to a gallop and headed off towards the woods.
The wind chilled her to the bone, ice biting her cheeks.
The rhythmic pace of the horse’s hooves kept her focused on maintaining her balance.
One, two, three, four. Mira’s hair fell from its style, flying in the wind behind her.
All the while, her mind was transfixed on the image of Silas Treadway’s staring face.
Of Liza and Theresia. Maureen, had been so focused on the blood.
There hadn’t been that much. Not in comparison to Mr. Sutherland.
Not as much as Selene. Mira swallowed, the taste of iron on her tongue, the smell of smoke overtaking her.
Why had Maureen been so overcome by the blood?
They approached the tree line and Verona veered towards a wider path, slowing to a canter and then to a trot. One two, one two.
Crack.
Mira jolted as a gunshot rang out through the trees. Barks followed and Verona turned in the direction of the sound, speeding up. She clung to the reins as Verona’s breaths clouded like smoke in the air.
They came to a clearing in the woods and stopped just shy of running into the hunting party: seven men on horseback and a gamekeeper on the ground with the hounds.
“Mira!” Walker said, eyes wide. “What are you—”
“You need to come right away,” she said, out of breath.
The gamekeeper stepped forward, taking Verona’s reins.
Byron steered his horse to her side. He removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until the warm fabric touched her skin.
“What’s happened?” he said, voice calm and steady.
“Silas Treadway is dead,” she said, teeth chattering. “I sent Miss Risewell to call the police, but I thought I’d better fetch you, erm, fetch Dr. Turpin back.”
“Dead?” Mr. Risewell said, paling. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”
“We need to get back to the house.” Byron brought his horse about. “She can explain on the way.”