“Miss Dillie, are ye certain ye wouldn’t rather be upstairs?” Mrs. Gwynne asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“Truly, I’m fine right here. I’ll stay out of your way.”
The woman gave a little cluck and rubbed her hands on her worn apron. “Ye aren’t in my way at all, m’dear. I’ll check on the kitchen staff and be back in a trice to tend to ye.”
“You needn’t hurry.” Dillie returned her attention to the newly arrived men. She watched Elsie set a tankard in front of each, but they had barely touched their drinks before one of them rose and sauntered back into the entry hall where she still stood.
She pretended not to notice him by studying a painting displayed on one of the walls. However, she tightened her grip on the iron shovel she’d been using as support, ready to use it if he came too close.
Fortunately, the man ignored her. His companion followed him out a moment later. Elsie hurried after them. “Sirs! Shall I set yer drinks aside?”
The pair glanced at each other. “Aye, lass. We won’t be long,” one of them said with a smirk.
Dillie did not like that ugly smirk.
She scurried to the window as soon as they walked out, her heart beating a little faster as she watched them stride toward the stable. Then the two gentlemen who had arrived first and been sitting in the common room avoiding everyone’s glances walked past her and out the door. They moved with purpose, also toward the stable. Ian was in there. “Elsie,” she said in a rush, casting aside her anger toward the girl, “find Mr. Gwynne. Tell him there’s trouble brewing and I need him to meet me in the stable. He’d better bring a couple of his men.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. I’m busy. Ye’ll have to find ’im yerself.”
Dillie grabbed the girl’s arm as she was about to turn away. “I think those scoundrels mean to harm the duke.”
That caught Elsie’s notice. She gasped and took off in a hurry, calling for Mr. Gwynne.
Dillie took off as well, moving as fast as she could toward the stable, though a turtle could have outrun her in her present state. She leaned on the shovel, trying not to howl with each painful step. Her injured foot, which had only a stocking for protection against the elements, was soaking wet and throbbing by the time she reached the stable.
She walked in carefully, trying to make not a sound even when she saw the boy who tended the horses sprawled on the hay-strewn ground. “Get help,” he said in a pained whisper, carefully rolling to his feet. “I think they’ve killed His Grace.”
***
Although Napoleon’s war had long since ended, Ian’s senses had remained on heightened alert. He’d always been cautious and distrustful of others, even more so after being carved up in front of Dillie’s townhouse on Chipping Way, courtesy of his loving family.
Damn.
Ian knew something was wrong. Young Harry, the talkative boy who’d greeted him when he’d first entered the stable, was suddenly nowhere to be found. The boy had followed him into Prometheus’ stall, chattering like a magpie the entire time. Wanting a moment’s quiet, Ian had sent him off on a made-up errand to fetch another bucket of oats. The lad had gone off some time ago and not yet returned. And now the horses were agitated, particularly Prometheus, who whinnied and kicked the wooden boards of his stall. “What’s wrong, fellow?” Ian held out a hand to stroke his nose, but the beast would not be soothed.
Damn again.
Trouble.
Could it be local ruffians? He dismissed the notion. Mr. Gwynne would ban them forever from his taproom. No, locals seeking to do mischief would wait until he was on the road to accost him.
He felt a tug at his heart, realizing what was about to happen. He’d warned his family against further attempts to harm him, but it seemed they hadn’t been dissuaded. Did they hate him so bitterly? Wasn’t the generous allowance he’d granted each of them enough?
Sighing, he reached into his boot and withdrew the knife he always carried for protection. The two characters who’d come after him on Chipping Way were now languishing in prison. His family must have retained other vermin to do their bidding. It really didn’t matter who’d been sent or how many of them were now about to attack him, for he knew who’d sent them and that’s what ate him up inside.
He strained to listen for footsteps, but the earthen ground was soft and damp, muffling all steps. Then he heard a soft creak to his left and knew that at least one of the assailants had crept to the adjoining stall. He heard another creak to his right. In the next moment, both men came at him with knives in hand.
He narrowly avoided being slashed by the first man and managed to slam a nearby empty bucket into the second man’s face, causing him to curse and fall backward into Prometheus’ stall. He whirled and cracked that same bucket over the first man’s head as the bastard attempted again to slash him. The knife flew out of the man’s hand, and as he knelt to retrieve his fallen weapon, Ian gave him another good, hard crack over the head with that bucket and knocked him out cold.