Page 17 of The Mistletoe Countess
“Indeed, miss.”
“As you can imagine, I have little to no idea of how to behave in an English country house with a sister who will beladyof the manor.”
He dipped his head again, looking unsure how to respond. “It is a change, miss.”
“I’d be ever so grateful for your guidance in any way you see I might unwittingly embarrass Lord Astley or his mother, or…well, the entire household. Because to be perfectly candid, Elliott, I’m well aware enough of my defects to know that my good intentions rarely show how good they are in public.”
Both his brows rose to his hairline.
“In all honesty”—she lowered her voice, as if anyone were near enough to hear—“they’re no good in private either, but fewer people witness the horrid effects.”
He pinched his lips into almost a smile. “I shall endeavor to do what I can, miss.
“Thank you. I’ll feel such relief knowing I have a friend on the inside of Havensbrooke.”
The man cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Miss Grace, but Lord Astley will be there for you and your sister. He isn’t one of the usual sorts to go off clubbing and on hunting parties, as is want of most of the gentry. He means to take good care of his estate and tenants, as his grandfather before him.”
Oh! Did Elliott believe she and Lord Astley might become friends? Her finger trailed to her smile, reliving a rather decadent moment of mistaken identity. She blinked away from the thought. Good heavens! “I’m glad to hear it, Elliott, for I should like to be friends with Lord Astley, for my sister’s sake if nothing else.”
The sound of voices up ahead as they approached the stables turned her mind back to the mystery at hand. Her thoughts spun through what she knew. She slid another glance to the good valet at her side—now more relaxed than before—and dared a little sleuthing. “It is such a shame that Lord Astley fell from his horse only days before the wedding. I was under the impression he rode regularly and quite well.”
“He’s been an excellent horseman since childhood, miss. This is certainly uncharacteristic.”
She steadied her expression, even studied some of the ornate carvings on the stable walls as they passed. “Then perhaps a turn in the trail. He’s unfamiliar with the paths here, I’d say.”
Elliott shook his head. “He took the usual route he’d taken the past three mornings.”
Ah, then there was certainly something unusual going on.
Theclip-clopof a horse coming into the stables ahead alerted her to Lord Astley’s arrival. Mr. Whitlock rushed through the archway of the courtyard, the stately man arriving in an abnormal dash.
“Is he injured?” Mr. Whitlock asked as he passed Elliott. “I’ve tele-phoned the doctor.”
“Thank you, sir,” Elliott responded. “It appears to be a sprain.”
“Thank heavens.” The master of the house rushed past, and Grace turned to Elliott with her sweetest smile, or at least she hoped it was her sweetest. Her mind was too busy to really focus on the perfect tilt.
“Well, Mr. Elliott, thank you for escorting me.” She released her hold on his arm. “But I can make it the rest of the way on my own. I feel certain Lord Astley will require your immediate assistance.”
He tucked his head. “Yes, miss.”
As soon as Elliott turned the corner into the stables, Grace scanned the courtyard and then dashed through the arched doorway of the servants’ entry. An advantage of visiting this house every summer for ten years meant she knew all the secret hiding places.
With silent steps, she rounded the back of the stables, nearing the male voices.
“The saddle strap, sir. It was tampered with.” Cam’s voice quaked. Poor boy. He likely feared losing his job, and his widowed mother counted on his income.
“And you didn’t notice when you saddled the horse.” This from Mr. Whitlock.
“N–no, sir. It was one of the new saddles, and it went on for Lord Astley as it had every morning for his ride.”
A ladder to the nearest loft caught her attention. Certainly it would afford her a better view of the scene. She quietly shimmied up and crawled closer to the voices, peering through the cracks in the old wooden loft. Down below, Cam stood, a saddle at his feet, his head bent and hat in hand. Lord Astley leaned against Elliott on one side while Lord Astley’s friend Mr. Blake, Mr. Whitlock, and the stable manager, Cooks, formed a half circle on the other side of the saddle.
“How could you not have known, boy?” Mr. Whitlock offered an uncustomary growl. The man rarely raised his voice, even for tea. “The strap is cut clean through. How it stayed on the animal as long as it did is a miracle.”
“Were there any strangers in the vicinity? Unfamiliar faces?” This from Mr. Blake, who had knelt to examine the saddle.
“None other than the guests and their servants, sir,” Cooks answered. “And we keep a sharp eye out where the animals are concerned. Had a couple stolen not four months ago.”
