Page 113 of The Mistletoe Countess
“They’ve taken the side road.” Mr. Patton ran into the room, breaths coming in spurts. “I chased them up the main drive and tried to block their escape, but the driver seemed to know the way. He turned by the rock gardens, and I lost their trail.”
Grace looked to Elliott for clarification. “It goes along the river.”
“The river? What’s out there?”
“Nothing, your ladyship, except the old ruins.”
“The ruins?” She cleared her throat and dashed away a rebel tear. What good were those at a time like this?Think like a detective.“It’s Celia. I know it.”
“What do we need to do, ma’am?” Elliott stepped forward, ready for the challenge.
Yes, the faithful valet would do excellently as a cohort. She’d have preferred Frederick, of course, but he was off being man-napped. With a set of her chin and a push of her palm against her stomach to still the tremors, she turned to the chauffeur. “Mr. Patton, the police should be on their way with Detective Miracle. See if you can meet them on the drive to direct them toward the ruins. I have a feeling we’ll need their brawn before this morning is out.” Grace paced from one chair to the next. “Celia must be desperate to have taken Frederick from his home in broad daylight, which means she might be desperate enough to do something much worse.” The declaration pooled through Grace, reverberating with consequences she hadn’t considered. Her knees weakened. She shook the thought from her mind and focused on Elliott. “Elliott, can you ride a horse?
Elliott’s brows flew to his hairline. “Yes.”
“Perfect. Follow me.” She ran from the house and toward the stables, Elliott at her heels.
“And exactly what are we doing, my lady?”
For such an efficient man, he certainly was taking his time coming to conclusions. “We’re going to rescue Lord Astley.”
“Pardon me?” When had Elliott’s voice pitched so high?
Grace pushed open the door to the stables, and stopped, her mind a whir. “We ought to bring a rope.”
“A rope?” He shook his head, clearly faltering. Was she the only person in the house prepared for a man-napping and possible murder?
“Yes, a rope. All the best detective stories use them. I’m not sure why, but I feel certain we ought to bring one along just in case.”
After the slightest hesitation, Elliott took charge, directing the stable hands to prepare two of their fastest horses.
“And maybe we should bring some extra cloths, in case someone is wounded.” Grace added, taking one of the leather bags hanging nearby. “What else?” If they survived this suspense, she was going to make certain the servants had an opportunity to read a healthy share of detective books. She shouldn’t be the only one equipped to rescue people in such situations.
“Wh–what about a gun?”
Grace swung around to face Elliott, her smile wide. The good valet only needed to warm up to the notion a bit. “Perfect, Elliott. Now you’re thinking like a sleuth.”
Chapter Thirty
Grace slid from her horse as she and Elliott stopped just outside the clearing of the ruins. Her mind had bustled through several scenarios as she’d ridden along the trail. Would she find Frederick at all, or would he be dead? She tilted her head and studied the crumbling manor house. Perhaps he took on his attackers with the fierce and strategic maneuvers of the trained military man he was, leaving them all incapacitated at his feet. Her cheeks heated at the very idea.
“I’m going to peek inside,” she whispered to Elliott. “We need to ensure Frederick is here before we make our plans.”
“Peek?” came Elliott’s choked reply, scurrying down off his horse to follow her. “My lady, I can’t let you go in there alone.”
She tugged the rope from the bag in her saddle. “Well, I’d hope not, Elliott.”
With careful steps, Grace slipped through the forest edge around the side of the ruins with the fewest windows. Elliott stayed close, his feet shuffling against the fallen leaves behind her, crackling every twig. She shot him a warning look, but the intent bounced off his intense expression. Poor man, she couldn’t really fault him. Obviously he hadn’t had her training.
“Lord Astley would not approve of you doing this.” His whisper emerged too loud in the tense silence.
“Clearly, Elliott, you have never read any of Grant Allen’s female detective stories.” She inched closer to the nearest half-shattered window, listening for voices. “I’m more than equipped for the task. Brawn is an excellent assistant, but brains are how real crimes are solved.”
“Police solve real crimes,” his voice rose, blending with a sound from inside the building.
Grace dropped to the ground and pulled Elliott down too, her nose almost touching his. “Have you never practiced sleuthing before in your life?”
His eyes rounded in answer of his utter innocence in the act.
