Page 69 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Edwina, who had been seated near the fire, stood up. “Not the man who accosted me on the moor yesterday?”

“What?”

Doughy, had she thought? Forster’s face was carved from granite—so too the fists curled at his side.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Constantia promised.

He turned toward Edwina. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, stepping closer to him as if to prove the point.

“Please,” said Constantia. “We haven’t much time.”

After glancing over his beloved to assure himself she was still in one piece, he gave a sharp nod of satisfaction, then turned to Constantia and said, “Lead the way.”

Back again they raced, down the stairs, across entry hall, and out to the cloisters, while Constantia breathlessly told him of Edwina’s frightening encounter and her own too-frequent alarms.

“What does the fellow want?” he demanded as together they pushed the heavy oak door wide.

“That’s what I’m hoping to discover,” she said as they entered to find the prisoner sitting upright, eyes closed, with his head tipped against the wall.

Alistair was standing a few feet away, sheltering the candle from the draft. Constantia hurried to him. “He hasn’t said anything,” he told her. “Except your name.”

A chill passed through her, one that had nothing to do with the storm and the cold stone pressing in upon them. She wished she still had Alistair’s arms around her, but of course, that had happened before only because of the panic of the moment, both his and hers. She must not expect his embrace again. Certainly not in front of the curate. “What do we do now?”

Forster, who was not a big man, nonetheless reached down and grabbed the fellow by the scruff of the neck, clearly intending to drag him to his feet. “I say we make him explain himself. And then, we make him pay for what he’s done.”

The normally quiet man’s vehemence and sudden taste for vengeance drove Alistair’s brows up his forehead. “He approached Edwina on the moor yesterday,” she explained, “and gave her an awful fright.” The brows dove downward at that. “She also wears a green cloak, did you know? I realized immediately he must actually have been after me.”

“That’s why you were so determined to leave tonight,” Alistair said. “To draw him away from here.” She couldn’t disagree.

But, oh, she didn’t want to go.

Even after they heard everything the mysterious man had to say, however, what really would have changed?

Alistair was an earl. He had responsibilities. There could be no place for a nameless, as-good-as-penniless artist in his life.

Together, Alistair and Mr. Forster raised their prisoner from the floor and pushed him toward the door, directing his wobbly steps along the cloisters and into the entry hall. She followed along, valise in hand. “Where to now?” asked Mr. Forster, and Alistair looked at her.

“The drawing room?” she said, thinking only of the blaze of candlelight. She wanted desperately to be free of the darkness and fear surrounding this stranger.

Surprise flickered across Alistair’s expression, but he nodded and nudged the man in the direction of the east wing stairs.

When the four of them appeared in the drawing room, Constantia in front and the trio of men, one bound, behind her, heads swiveled and mouths popped open. Her stomach dropped as if she had just swallowed a mouthful of lead. She had not considered how it would feel to have whatever the stranger might say revealed before a dozen pairs of curious eyes.

Lady Posenby snapped her lorgnette. “Is this the man, Lady Edwina?” she asked as the curate shoved him into a chair that looked entirely too spindly to bear his weight. She recalled the story of the broken chair in the pub—had this truly been the man involved? The others crowded about.

Slumped and squinting against the light, he appeared far less fearsome than he had in the dark. It became apparent that at least some of his bulk was a heavy, fur-lined coat and stout boots. He had the haggard complexion of a man who had been on a long, difficult journey. Constantia judged him to be about fifty years of age, with sandy hair that had begun to gray and needed to be trimmed.

When he looked at her with his bright blue eyes, she saw . . . relief.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you here?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then squinted as if his head ached, which under the circumstances seemed unlikely to be an act. “Trinken . . .” he rasped. “Please, somefink to trink?”

They all seemed to be dumbfounded by the request, such that for a moment, no one moved. At last Edwina rose, went to the tea table, poured a cup, and brought it to him. “Careful, Eddie.” Mr. Forster spoke low, in a wary tone, as she held the cup to the man’s lips and helped him to drink.

“Danke,” he said, looking up at Edwina with grateful eyes once he had drained the cup. “I frighten you,” he said to her. “Outside, ja? Entschuldigung. I mean no harm.”