Page 115 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
But when fifteen minutes later, Fothergill tapped on the parlor door, he didn’t have a golden bundle of fur in tow. A slight frown on his usually impassive face, the butler bowed. “I regret, ma’am, that we’ve yet to lay hands on the pup, but about half an hour ago, Flora, the kitchen maid, heard the beast scratching madly at the back door and let him out, assuming he needed to do his business. When he goes out like that, he normally returns and whines at the door to be let back in, but as of yet, he hasn’t come back. If you wish, ma’am, I could send some of the footmen and gardeners out to search for him.”
Meg frowned. On the one hand, she was anxious about Ridley, but on the other, if footmen and gardeners were seen quartering the grounds, that might well discourage their villain.
They’d gone to such lengths to set their trap; she didn’t want to jeopardize their plan over an errant pup who would no doubt turn up for his next meal, utterly unrepentant over any fuss he might have caused.
Then she remembered that Drago had expressly ordered the wolfhounds kept in their run for the day.
Inwardly, she sighed. “No, Fothergill. Let’s wait until after luncheon. If he hasn’t turned up by then”—by which time the villain either would have made an appearance or wouldn’t be going to—“we’ll set up a search.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Fothergill bowed and departed.
When the door closed, Meg glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost time for her to go out and promenade through the rose garden. When the assembled gentlemen had suggested the rose garden as the best site for her to show herself and tempt the villain to approach, they’d wanted her to be cutting blooms, but as she’d pointed out, anyone who actually knew anything about roses would know one didn’t cut flowers in the middle of the day, not unless there was some other reason to be doing that at that time.
Grudgingly, they’d agreed that it would work just as well for her simply to stroll about enjoying the perfumed blooms. While she hadn’t specifically thought about it at the time, Meg had mentally seen herself as having her until-now-faithful dog with her, snuffling about under the roses as he usually did.
It was, she was fast discovering, one thing to agree to play bait, but she hadn’t thought she would be entirely alone while waiting for the villain to bite.
Arms folded, she stared at the clock as the hands ticked inexorably on. Then she huffed and swung toward the French doors. If she didn’t go now…
Drago would be riding home soon, and if she didn’t flaunt herself sufficiently in front of the villain before Drago arrived, all their efforts would be for naught.
She drew in a bolstering breath, opened the French doors, and stepped out onto the rear terrace.
After closing the doors, she strolled at an easy, lackadaisical pace along the terrace, paused at the end to survey the gardens, then went down the steps and walked unhurriedly along the gravel path that led to the rose garden.
The rose garden at Wylde Court was a series of long curving paths, bordered on either side by deep beds planted with roses. The bushes were old and large and currently heavily weighted with blooms. The profuse shows of color and the heady medley of scents rising in the midday sunshine made the notion of the lady of the house choosing to stroll there before luncheon entirely believable.
They’d chosen the rose garden for her promenade because there were no walls and, overall, the area was flat, making it easy for her protectors, hidden in the trees that ringed the gardens, to watch over her.
Doing her best to convey a real interest in the roses, she stopped here and there to admire specific flowers and to sniff appreciatively. She hoped and expected that the villain or his henchmen would come out of hiding fairly soon. She was, after all, presenting the blackguards with the easiest of kidnapping scenarios. By arrangement with the staff, that morning, there were no gardeners working on that side of the house, and the rose garden was out of direct sight of the stable yard, and the open lawns stretched, invitingly empty, to either side.
Only the forest that lay twenty yards beyond the end of the garden offered any close cover, and indeed, it was from that direction that she expected the villain to appear.
Slowly, she followed the path as it wound left, then right. She slowed even further along the last winding arm, the section closest to the edge of the forest.
On reaching the end of the path, she paused and muttered, “Has he even noticed I’m out here?”
On a sigh, she turned on her heel and—still keeping to a crawling pace, but with her hopes sinking with every yard—retraced her steps along the rose-lined path toward the house.
By the time she walked out of the rose garden and onto the path crossing the lawn, she’d dismissed their plan as an abject failure and turned her mind to the worrying problem of Ridley and what orders she should give regarding a search for the golden-pelted pup.
She raised her gaze and looked toward the house and saw Thomas striding rapidly toward her from the direction of the forecourt.
Clearly, he’d ignored Drago’s directive not to risk his position by excusing himself from chambers and had come down to help.
Thomas’s purposeful approach across the lawn would have scared off any villain, but that no longer mattered as, regardless, said villain hadn’t swallowed their bait.
Meg halted and summoned a smile; it was kind of Thomas to have come. But as he neared and she made out his features, she realized he was tense and worried.
She started toward him. “Thomas. What is it?”
He glanced around as if searching for anyone else approaching, then grimaced and, as they met, halted and transferred his gaze, serious and sober, to her face.
She gripped his sleeve and fought to restrain herself from shaking his arm. “Has something happened to Drago?”
“Not as far as I’m aware.”
“What, then?” From his careful tone, he was aware of something that he knew would upset her.
