Page 114 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
“Yes.” Drago watched Hubert round the corner of the house and disappear from view. “I think he’s gone to the stable.”
“Good.” Alison slowed and, gripping Drago’s arm, turned concerned eyes his way. “So what’s going on?”
Briefly, he told them.
“So Meg’s alone, and you don’t know who will turn up and try to lure her away?” Joshua asked.
Drago grimaced. “That’s the nub of it, yes.”
“But her brother and cousins and your brother and your friends are all keeping watch.” Alison pressed his arm. “I’m sure they’ll keep her safe.”
He hoped so. He didn’t add that Hubert was their prime suspect. “Meanwhile,” he went on, “I have to be seen to be elsewhere and believably occupied.” He managed a smile for Alison and Joshua. “We hoped you two might help me with that.”
They assured him that they would be honored to assist in whatever way they could.
He explained that he was supposed to remain in sight of anyone watching for at least an hour, and to their credit, the pair did their best to engage and entertain him as they strolled the lawn in full view of whoever might be interested.
Drago gritted his teeth and did his best to be grateful for their chatter, all the while wondering what his wife was up to and whether the villain had swallowed their bait.
* * *
According to the plan,Meg was supposed to remain inside until an hour after Drago had left. They’d judged that to be time enough for all those delegated to be on watch—watching her, watching Hubert, and generally watching the approaches to the estate—to surreptitiously get into position and for the villain to realize that a window of opportunity had opened for him and for him to act to seize it.
After Drago had left, standing on the front porch where she was readily visible, Meg had duly waved off George and Harry. She had laughed and called down to them while they’d mounted, waved, and ridden away.
Shortly after, Denton had led Toby and her three cousins out of the house via the side door. In a noisy group, they’d headed for the stable yard. There, with much noisy chatter, they’d mounted up and headed south and onto the road to Walkhurst Manor.
All of that had taken place as arranged. The opening act in their scripted play was complete. Now they simply had to wait to see what happened next. Or more specifically, who appeared in or around the Court, either intent on harming her or, as they’d all thought more likely, trying to lure her to some place where the villain could do away with her in secret.
While she’d been all for the plan—she wanted this ridiculous state of siege to end—now the moment was upon her, she was no longer feeling quite so enthusiastic about being on her own through the next stage, no matter how essential that was.
Once Denton and her brother and cousins had left, she found the silence in the house oppressive.
She’d been instructed to keep away from the windows while she waited and had been warned not to be seen pacing anxiously in any of the downstairs rooms.
“There’s no way that I can read a book or sit embroidering.” She pulled a face, then went upstairs to the room she shared with Drago, sat in one of the armchairs by the hearth, and tried not to think.
After several minutes, she realized that there was one sure distraction she hadn’t set eyes on since they’d left the breakfast parlor. Frowning, she rose and went to look for Ridley.
In London, it had soon been established that, despite his uncertain origins, the pup was house-trained, and subsequently, he’d been allowed the run of the house, and that freedom had been extended at the Court. Alongside his devotion to Meg, he was developing into a gregarious animal, ready to be friendly with any human he came across. To Ridley, fawning over men’s boots was a special delight.
In contrast, Drago’s wolfhounds were standoffish with strangers and, indeed, had yet to fully accept Meg. Currently, they preferred to sleep in a kennel off the stable and otherwise roam the gardens; while they would attach themselves to Drago and follow him to the library or his study, at present, they were not being encouraged to venture elsewhere in the house and especially not upstairs. Consequently, Ridley’s range overlapped that of the hounds only when he followed Meg into the library or when he gamboled about her in the gardens. The wolfhounds, older and more established in their territory, had merely sniffed the puppy, then disdainfully left him to wander as he would.
Ridley usually dogged Meg around the house, flopping on her feet to nap whenever and wherever she sat. It was odd that he hadn’t been haunting her steps that morning.
She glanced into all of the rooms in the ducal suite in case he’d got trapped when someone had closed a door, but he wasn’t anywhere there. She walked up the family wing and into the gallery, calling his name, but he didn’t bound up from any of the corridors, and when she paused to listen, she heard no whining, scratching, or yipping.
Increasingly concerned, she started down the stairs and paused on the half landing to call more loudly.
Fothergill emerged from the rear of the front hall and looked up. “Your Grace? Is something wrong?”
“I can’t find Ridley. Have you seen him?”
Clearly consulting his memory, Fothergill frowned. “Now that you mention it, ma’am, I can’t say I have. Not since after breakfast.” He met her gaze. “I’ll ask the staff. I’m sure someone will know where he is.”
Meg summoned a grateful smile. “I’ll be in the family parlor.”
Fothergill bowed and departed, and Meg continued down the stairs.
