Antonia exchanged a glance with Sebastian, then looked at the inspector and shook her head. “No. I saw no one behaving in any way oddly.”
Sebastian grimaced. “I didn’t actually see any of the guests—just Blanchard and two footmen, all of whom were shocked and aghast, as one might expect. I didn’t see anyone else until later, and by then everyone simply appeared shocked.”
Crawford slowly nodded as he scribbled another note in his book.
Then he looked up, his gaze once more sharp and incisive. “I understand from Sir Humphrey that you wish to ride somewhere.”
“There’s an old gentleman who, during autumn, usually rusticates nearby. He knows a great deal about politics and plots, and I’m hoping he might have some insight to offer into how best to respond to Ennis’s warning. I also need to get a message to Whitehall regarding Ennis’s death and his last words, preferably faster and with greater security than via the Royal Mail.”
“And this gentleman can arrange that?” Crawford looked skeptical.
Sebastian smiled. “If he’s in residence.” He uncrossed his legs and rose. “I propose to ride out with Lady Antonia and find out. His house is quite close. We should be back for luncheon.”
The inspector glanced at Sir Humphrey.
Sir Humphrey nodded. “Any help in this matter is to be welcomed.” The magistrate got to his feet as Antonia rose.
Crawford hurriedly stood and half bowed to her. “Lady Antonia.” Then he looked at Sebastian. “If you learn anything that sheds light on who the murderer might be—”
“We will bring it to your attention without delay.” With a faintly ruthless smile curving his lips, Sebastian inclined his head to Crawford. “I hope you will reciprocate should you discover anything pertinent to our interpretation of Ennis’s last words.”
“Of course.”
Antonia saw Sebastian hold the inspector’s gaze for a second, then he stepped back and waved her to the door.
She waited until they were sufficiently distant from the constable on duty outside the office before slanting a glance at Sebastian’s face. “Where are we going? And who are we visiting?”
He met her eyes. They’d reached the front hall. He halted before the stairs.
She halted beside him and noted the way his gaze swept their surroundings before returning to her face.
“Go and change,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the stable.”
She threw him a haughtily censorious look—those words had sounded far too much like an autocratic command—but knowing his imperviousness on that front, without further ado, she went up the stairs.
* * *
By the time Antonia had changed into her dark-gray velvet riding habit, pulled on her boots, settled her riding cap at the correct angle on her piled hair, swiped up her gloves and crop, and started down the stairs, her mind had had time to sort through the morning’s exchanges, and once again, concern floated at the forefront of her brain.
Concern for Sebastian, that the fact he was being accorded special freedoms beyond that granted to other guests would mark him as in some way associated with the authorities—and he had been the one to find Ennis.
Surely the murderer would be moved to wonder if Ennis, when found, had, in fact, been dead or still dying. Still able to speak.
She asked directions from a footman, then strode briskly out along the path to the stable.
Sebastian was standing in the stable yard, the reins of a large gray hunter in his hand. A lighter-weight, leggy chestnut mare bearing a side-saddle was tied to the railing nearby. Sebastian was chatting to the stable master, a grizzled older man with a knowledgeable eye. He smiled when he saw Antonia and dipped his head.
Sebastian turned. His pale green gaze raked her. “Good.” He handed the gray’s reins to the stable master.
Antonia went to the side of the chestnut, intending to free the reins and walk the horse to the mounting block, but before she even touched the reins, Sebastian caught her about her waist, turned her, then lifted her to the saddle.
She lost her breath; for a moment, she lost her wits and all ability to think.
But the instant he released her, her wits returned in a rush.
When he handed her the mare’s reins, she narrowed her eyes on his faintly smug expression—yes, he’d definitely done that on purpose, just to see what would happen. And he’d seen and now knew. As she watched him stride to the gray, take the reins, then fluidly mount, she silently vowed revenge.
He compounded his sins by arrogantly collecting her with a mere glance, then urging the gray into a trot.
Counseling herself against acting precipitously, head high, she brought the chestnut alongside the gray and bided her time.