Page 7 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
Whatever was going on, it wouldn’t involve these three. Thomas knew where their loyalties lay—with Manachan and the clan—and no power on earth could have changed that. Aside from all else, the three were, like Thomas, clan orphans, orphans Manachan had taken in and watched over.
“Aye.” The smile had fallen from Sean’s face, too. “Bad tidings.”
“Bad doings, you ask me,” Mitch growled.
Sean glanced at his subordinate—but, Thomas noted, Sean didn’t dismiss Mitch’s suggestion of foul play.
Thomas shifted. “I’ll see what the laird has to say.”
“Aye.” Fred nodded. “You do that. Be good that he knows.”
About to turn for the house, Thomas paused, his gaze on Fred’s bland countenance. Then he looked at Mitch and finally at Sean; the three didn’t meet his eyes but were glancing at each other. “Manachan has been told about the Bradshaws, hasn’t he?”
The three exchanged another glance, then Sean—still not meeting Thomas’s gaze, which Thomas found very odd—shrugged. “Can’t rightly say, can we? What we do know is that all in the house have been ordered not to tell hisself anything that might bother him.”
“Ordered on pain of being sent away,” Mitch added in another low growl.
Things were definitely not as they used to be—not as he’d assumed they were. Thomas gave a brief nod. “I’ll go and speak with him.”
As he turned away, Sean asked, “You staying?”
Striding for the house, Thomas glanced back. “I’ll probably ride out to the Bradshaws’.” He nodded at Phantom. “Walk him for now.”
Sean tipped a finger in salute.
Facing forward, his hands in his greatcoat pockets, Thomas continued to the house, climbed the front steps, and crossed the porch to the front door. Unsurprised to find it unlocked—this was the country, and one of the more isolated pockets, at that—he opened the door and walked into the front hall.
Into a scene of domestic confusion.
Four figures stood in the middle of the hall, talking in quiet but urgent tones, and all showing signs of consternation. Ferguson, the butler, was frowning and looked worried, while the housekeeper, Mrs. Kennedy, was as distracted as Thomas had ever seen her. The two footmen, waiting nearby, were openly anxious.
All four glanced at Thomas as he paused just inside the open door. For one second, all looked blank; Thomas realized that with the light behind him, they couldn’t immediately see who he was. He reached back and pushed the door shut, then stepped forward; they recognized him, and relief washed over their features.
Thomas’s chest tightened. “I heard about the Bradshaws. I’ve come to see the laird.”
Beneath his breath, Ferguson muttered, “Thank God for that.” More loudly, he said, “Welcome back, Mr. Thomas.”
Mrs. Kennedy bobbed a curtsy and echoed the sentiment. The footmen, both of whom Thomas recognized from years past, nodded in greeting.
All were transparently glad to see him, which was nice in a way…and worrying in another.
Ferguson glanced at one of the footmen. “Grant can show you—”
Frowning, Thomas cut in, “Where is the laird?”
Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy exchanged a glance, then Mrs. Kennedy carefully said, “In his room, sir. He rarely comes down, these days.”
Thomas managed not to swear. The last time he’d been there, Manachan had been striding around the place, hale and hearty. “I know the way—I’ll see myself up. But what’s your current problem?”
Another glance was exchanged, but this time it was—again—one of relief; all were glad he’d asked.
“It’s Faith Burns, sir.” Mrs. Kennedy gripped her hands tightly before her. “She’s the senior maid.”
Thomas nodded. “I remember her.”
“Yes, well.” Ferguson ran a hand through his hair, something Thomas had never seen the normally unflappable man do. “Faith’s gone missing. She was here last night. All was normal and as it should be. But she didn’t come down this morning—or, leastways, none of us have seen her.”
“Her bed’s made,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “But we can’t tell whether she slept in it or not.”
