Page 18 of The Mistletoe Countess
“And I inspected the saddle before setting it in place, Mr. Whitlock, just as Mr. Cooks taught me,” Cam offered.
“So whoever tampered with the saddle must have done so just this morning, between the time you inspected it and I rode off.” Lord Astley replied, his low voice a rumble of consonants and wonderfully English vowels.
Her neck tingled from the memory of his riding behind her up the trail. Heaven and earth, what a glorious feeling to have a massive, strong man who smelled of amber so close. Romance definitely had become more relatable over the last twenty-four hours.
Grace flipped her mind back to the present with a little shake of her head. Whoever tampered with the saddle must have been familiar with the stables enough to know which saddle would have been chosen for Lord Astley. The servants wouldn’t have any reason to sabotage Lord Astley’s saddle, but would a guest?
She slid closer to the edge of the loft, the wood bending beneath her weight. She’d read in one mystery book or another about something similar happening when the strap wasn’t cut through, only partially. As the rider took on more speed and added more stress to the straps, the saddle would break, making an apparent accident take place long after the actual crime had been committed. So very clever. She squinted to try and make out the saddle strap.
“After the incident at the train depot, now this?” Mr. Whitlock shook his frosty head. “It sounds rather suspicious, Frederick.”
“Why would anyone from our party wish to cause me harm?” Lord Astley’s quick, deep response reverberated among the group. He did have a remarkably pleasant voice, and that counted in Grace’s book. Words meant a great deal and spoken in his velvety tones, only made her crave chocolate for some reason.
“Until we’re certain, we should all keep our eyes open.” Mr. Blake shot his friend a look. Ah, Mr. Blake had a solid head on his shoulders.
Two incidents? And aimed at Lord Astley? Highly suspicious.
“We’ll have the grounds searched.” Mr. Whitlock gestured toward Cooks. “And I must decide what to do with Cam.”
Grace caught her gasp in her hand. Cam wasn’t the culprit. The stable boy never was. No, no, no. Hadn’t these men read their fiction? Her movement incited the strangest sounds from the board on which she lay, but before she could scoot away from the edge, the wood beneath her made a resounding crack. In one massive crash, Grace fell through the loft floor and into a pile of hay below.
“What in heaven’s name!”
“Is it the rogue?”
“I say!”
Well, if she was going to fall into a bed of hay in front of a group of men, at least she was wearing breeches instead of a gown. Another argument in favor of breeches.
She sat up and once she’d brushed straw and hair from her face, found herself looking up into a group of unhappy men. Cooks even had a pitchfork in hand, pointed at her.
“Grace?” called Mr. Whitlock.
“Miss Grace!” Elliott’s polished accent lilted.
“Grace Ferguson.” This from Lord Astley, who didn’t sound surprised at all.
Grace opened her mouth to respond then closed it again, attempting to work up a logical reason she’d just fallen from the stable loft during a private discussion about scandal. “A haystack, how fortunate.” That sounded noncommittal enough.
With a quirk to his lips, Mr. Blake offered a hand. “A new reading spot, Miss Ferguson?”
“Not as effective without a book, Mr. Blake.” She wiped her hand against her breeches and placed it in his with a smile, as he raised her to her feet. “Though a possible daydreaming nook, I should think, once the boards are mended.”
“Curiosity will be your downfall, dear girl.” Mr. Whitlock lost some of the bite in his reprimand. “I’ve always told you that. You are forever finding yourself in places you shouldn’t be.”
“Quite literally my downfall this morning, wouldn’t you say?” She dusted off her breeches and sent a smile to her audience, her gaze finally landing on Lord Astley. “Perhaps Lillias shouldn’t hear of my latest esca-pade. She’d be mortified.”
A very appropriate use of the word at this point.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Lord Astley narrowed his eyes, staring down at her from his towering height.
“It’s a good thing I am, or you might have made a grave mistake on poor Cam’s part.” She held her head high and walked to the saddle.
“A mistake? What could you possibly know about this?”
Mr. Whitlock waved away Lord Astley’s exclamation. “Not to contradict you, Frederick, but Grace is quite the amateur sleuth. Those horses that were stolen?” He gestured toward her. “She’s the one who found a clue to the thieves, just with a little bit of her snooping about and that unrelenting imagination of hers.”
“Unnerving to have such a busybody about, if you ask me.” Cooks sniffed.
