Chapter Six
Six
Rafe
“I'll go back out this morning, see if we can find a trail.” Sitting in the inn’s kitchen, Rafe took a strong gulp of coffee. It was too early for his staff, but Verity puttered about, listening while he debated who might help with his search.
Then there was the matter of who to leave in charge of the inn while he was out chasing madmen and Fletch was out of commission.
He glanced at his wolfhound, currently guarding the hallway to their private quarters, where the children were preparing for school. He’d always taken the hound with him on searches, but with a lunatic running loose, he felt better leaving Wolfie to guard the inn.
“Take Rob with you, if Kate will allow it,” Verity suggested, refilling his cup. “He has sharp eyes, knows the area, and may recognize his uncle.”
Rafe needed the coffee’s energy. He hadn't come home until late and it was barely sun up now. “Shouldn't he be in the schoolroom?”
He relished the brief brush of Verity’s loving hand on his wretched ginger curls before she returned the pot to what served as a stove in these ancient premises. “Rob’s almost thirteen. It's spring. He's older than the other students. What do you think?”
“He should be in a different school, like Arthur. And Kate can't afford it.” Rafe pushed to his feet and kissed his wife's cheek. “He'll make a better farmer than Arthur, though. I'll ask.”
Kate looked dubious about allowing her son to go with the men, much less miss school, but gave in when Damien arrived and seconded the suggestion. Kate’s brother-in-law’s size, sophistication, and authority could sway entire courtrooms of gentlemen when needed.
“You'll stay with him, won't you? Hugh could be anywhere,” she asked worriedly.
Rafe and Damien had never met the late George Morgan, wouldn't recognize a resemblance, but Rafe hoped the boy might.
“When did you last see your uncle?” he asked later, as they rode toward the farm.
Damien rode with them, since his former home was across from the Morgan farm and made an excellent hiding place. On his pony, the boy trailed behind. Rafe had to turn to see his shrug.
“At Dad's funeral, maybe? He acted funny and didn't stay. Mama could have used the help.”
Kate had said her husband wouldn't hire his brother, so Kate had probably sent him away. He'd ask. One never knew when a puzzle piece might fit.
“So you'd know him if you saw him?” Damien verified.
“I think so. We should check the barn first, see if he had a horse.”
Rafe hid his smile. Rob was doing his best to imitate Damien, succinct and to the point.
To their surprise, the intruder’s horse was still there. Had the major managed to kill the wretch? Was he lying dead in the fields?
“Do we leave it or take it back with us?” Rob asked, feeding the old mare and filling the water trough.
“I'd like to keep all of you in town, where it's safe.” Damien frowned at the empty fields surrounding the old farmhouse.
“And I thought you knew Kate.” Rafe snorted. “She'll be back here tonight.”
“Then Brydie and I will have to move back across the road, into my parents’ place. We can keep the horse there. Let’s see him get past me.” Damien returned to the farmhouse with the boy at his heels.
“I need to look at the woods, where Fletch said Morgan fled.” Rafe studied the terrain. Deciding there were too many trees to see a madman hiding from this distance, he turned to study the house.
The front lock had been splintered. The boy’s uncle hadn't returned for the satchel lying open in the front room. Rafe rummaged through it, finding only worn clothing.
“Could your uncle read and write, do you know?” Damien poked around the desk and bookshelves but they didn't appear to have been searched.
“Dad knew how to add and subtract, but he didn’t read much. I don't know about Uncle Hugh.” Rob headed for the kitchen. “He left a mess in here.”
“I'll have someone out to clean up. Let me search upstairs.” Damien took the steps two at a time.
Not wanting to invade the family's privacy, Rafe checked the back door. It had been unlocked from the inside. Big boot prints led to the privy and the kitchen garden. The man had made himself at home.
They propped a heavy table to block the broken door, locked the back with a hidden key Rob retrieved, and set out on foot to search, leaving the animals in the barn.
“How far could he go without his horse?” Damien asked, using his sword to push aside branches Hugh had broken in his flight.
“A farmer used to walking, pretty far. Man bleeding from a knife wound, I'm surprised he didn't return.” Rafe looked for a trail of blood but the woods were covered in spring greenery and the wind blew last autumn's leaves around. Searching houses was easier.
They reached what might once have been a tenant's cottage.
Rafe was fairly certain Kate had no tenants.
The fields hadn't been tended since George Morgan's death. Men didn’t like working for women, and Kate had been raised as a squire’s pampered daughter.
She knew nothing of sheep and fields and had sold the flock.
“Rob, do you know who’s living here?” Rafe considered the faint smoke plume from the crumbling chimney.
“Not no one,” Rob replied, looking worried. “Think that's him?”
“Good chance. Damien, you and Rob go around back, catch him if he runs. I doubt he's in any condition to fight.” Once his companions followed orders, Rafe strode up to the ramshackle door and knocked, then flung it open. Trespassers didn't earn politeness.
The single room was empty. Rafe glanced up at the loft but the ladder was little better than kindling. Whoever had lit this fire should have thrown the ladder on the fire instead of the old bedding smoking up the place.
He found blood on a piece he scraped out of the embers. Opening the back door, he signaled Rob and Damien. “He's most likely been here but he must have heard us coming. We’d better run back and grab his horse.”
“Well, at least Fletch didn't kill him.” Damien hurriedly strode back the way they'd come. “Might have been better if he had. Wound like that and no treatment. . . he'll suffer.”
“Can't have a lot of sympathy for a man bullying a widow and her children. If he's mad. . . what do we do then?” Rafe fretted over the danger of a man with an attic to let running about the shire.
Ahead of them, Damien didn’t answer. Risking his fancy boots and leather breeches, the lawyer broke into a run, hastily shoving through the underbrush, shouting a warning. The pounding of hooves in the distance gave the cause.
Rafe cursed. “Not completely mad, then.”
They had to restrain Rob from rushing into the stable until they were certain Morgan was gone. Their horses remained.
“He only took his own.” Rob rushed to hug his pony.
“Definitely mad,” Damien said sardonically. “Ours are already saddled and worth a lot more than his broken-down nag.”
“His was smaller,” Rob pointed out. “My uncle isn't very tall.”
“Smart lad. And with an injury, mounting might be difficult.” Rafe mentally chastised himself for not taking the horse. He'd just been expecting a dead or dying man. Hard to believe a man as solid as Fletch hadn't squashed the intruder like a bug.
As they walked their horses out to the lane, Damien’s bootmaker valet hurried out to greet them. “I heard there’s a lunatic on the loose?”
Not large or muscled, Jacques was garbed in a tightly tailored frockcoat, frilled linen, and boots that reflected what little sun was shining. Living out here alone, in the rooms above the workshop Damien’s father once used, he wasn’t the sort to fight a madman.
“Seems that way,” Damien admitted, bending over his horse’s mane so Jacques didn’t have to shout. “He’s injured, so he shouldn’t be too much of a danger, we hope.”
Jacques shifted from foot to foot, a certain sign he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Reminded that he had complained of ghosts, Rafe questioned, “Did you see him?”
The bootmaker wrinkled up his expressive face.
“No, but someone or something was poking about the other night.” He hesitated again, then drew a breath and asked hastily, “An old friend of mine is visiting. He’s looking for a place to lease for a few months.
I thought, maybe, if the Hall won’t be occupied. . .”
That was Damien’s business. Rafe pulled his mount aside but not so far that he couldn’t hear.
He knew Damien hated the house he’d inherited.
He had willingly agreed to move into the baker’s old cottage in the village when Brydie suggested it.
It seemed foolish to leave a gorgeous old home like the Hall unoccupied, especially after it had been cleared out and repainted.
“How well do you know this friend?” Damien asked. “Does he have a family?”
Jacques squirmed and tugged at his immaculate linen in discomfort. “He’s an actor. He’s working with a traveling troupe. They need a place to stay while they rehearse before their summer tour begins. I only know Reynard. I just thought. . . If we have lunatics running about. . .”
Damien gazed in the direction of the sprawling old Hall his family had occupied and added onto over centuries.
The fields had mostly been sold off. It was just the barn, the grounds, and the workshop left.
Rafe knew Damien had hoped to sell it and had even had tentative offers.
No one had followed through, due to unusual circumstances.
Damien also had to be aware that Jacques, and most likely his friend, weren’t what one called manly men. A troupe of actors. . . Probably ought to be staying under supervision at a public inn. The Hall offered privacy they couldn’t obtain elsewhere.
“I’ll talk to Brydie. Ask your friend how many people, how long, and how much he’s willing to pay.” With an unreadable expression, Damien shook the reins and headed off for town, while Jacques excitedly ran off to tell his friend.
Rafe caught up, leaving Rob and his pony trailing behind. “Not sure actors are much better than lunatics.” Although he could hope a whole company of dramatists might scare off Morgan.
Damien offered a grim smile. “I’m trying to imagine my father reacting to an invasion of thespians. Jacques’ ghosts might have a riot.”
“I’m hoping we’ll have caught the madman long before Jacques’ friends arrive, but I like the idea of more people living out this way if you and Brydie are settling in town,” Rafe admitted as they traversed the miles into the village.
Since they had slowed down to talk, Rob pushed his pony to catch up. “Do I have to go to school now?”
Damien slowed to the pony's pace. “That's for your mother to say. What would you do if you weren't in school?”
The boy shrugged. “Learn something useful. My dad was teaching me to take care of sheep.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
Rafe listened with interest. One day, he'd have to ask his son that.
Or probably not. At eight, Daniel was only his ward.
As a viscount, once he came of age, he was destined to manage an estate.
In taking on the orphans, Rafe and Verity had tackled a task they weren't exactly prepared to handle.
So he paid attention to how others did it.
“Arthur inherits the farm,” Rob said with a practicality most boys his age didn't possess. “I don’t like sheep anyway. I like mathematics, not boring Greek and Latin.”
“If you want to read the original mathematicians, you'll need Greek and Latin,” Damien warned. “Or do you like numbers because Davy and Oliver do?”
“Numbers make sense,” Rob insisted as they rode into the inn yard. “Sheep are stupid.”
Rafe was about to reply, when he caught a glimpse of horse and rider galloping up the tree-lined drive to Priory Manor. “Isn't that Morgan’s horse?”
Without waiting for an answer, he kicked his gelding into a gallop and gave chase.