Page 40 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Philip gladly followed the change in subject and discussed strategies for catching rabbits.

“Here we are. This is my land,” Burns said. “We’ll be able to find a few rabbits here.” They dismounted, tied up the horses, and began tramping through the vegetation. They took turns walking and stopping until they had frightened a few rabbits into making themselves known. They were both good sportsmen and had killed three rabbits when a horse and rider approached. It was Mr. Tate.

“Good morning, Tate. You’re up early. Is there any trouble?” Mr. Burns asked.

Tate narrowed his eyes at Mr. Eliot, whom Mr. Burns failed to introduce. “There are a few things that need discussing before we sail out.”

“Yes, but are they urgent? Why come so early? We were to meet this afternoon.”

Tate glanced at Philip.

“Thank you for this morning’s sport, Mr. Burns,” Philip said. “Those rabbits are enough blood on my hands for one day.” Philip bagged the rabbits and handed them to Burns. “I’m expected at the Spencers. You wouldn’t mind taking these rabbits to Miss Worthington, would you? Please make my excuses. It’s unlikely I will be there for luncheon.” Philip mounted his horse. “Mr. Burns, may I stop at your house for a moment to wash up in the kitchen? I dislike arriving at the Spencers in this state.” Philip motioned to his face, which he hoped bore a trace of gunpowder. This was the opportunity Philip had hoped for, to explore Burns’ house. Something inside might hint at the man’s character.

“Certainly, Mr. Eliot. Mr. Tate and I are heading there now. You may follow behind us.”

“I don’t like that man,” Tate complained as he and Mr. Burns rode and Philip followed behind, though not far enough to miss their conversation.

“I cannot imagine you like him less than I do, but he is harmless. I don’t believe we have anything to fear from him. Now, what is the trouble?”

“We need to make the delivery tonight.”

They had reached the house. Hating to miss their exchange but not wanting to draw attention to himself, Philip dismounted and walked toward the nearest entrance while Tate and Burns continued their discussion outdoors. Philip entered the house through the kitchen door and found a bowl of water. Once he’d tidied himself, Philip would try to find Burns’ private study. But what was this about making a delivery at night?

He poked his head out the kitchen door, looking right and left. Seeing no one, he wandered in forced nonchalance down the hallway and up the stairs into the main part of the house. Through a window, he glimpsed Burns and Tate. At least they had not entered the house.

Hearing footsteps from down the hall, Philip rapidly searched for a reason to be where he was. A painting hung across from where Philip stood, so he studied it, knowing that any decent servant would report a stranger in the house.

“Good morning, sir. What brings you here?” The owner of the footsteps was a young maid with gigantic eyes and a small, tight mouth.

Philip didn’t want to speak with the girl long. He worried Burns would see him through the glass.

“Good morning. I am sorry to appear out of nowhere. Mr. Burns is just outside. I am Philip Eliot. I’m an artist and there is a painting that Burns wanted to show me, but he was interrupted by Mr. Tate. I came in to see if I could find it myself, but I am lost. I wonder, will you show me your master’s library?” Philip hoped his smile was enough to assure the junior maid there could be nothing wrong with showing this stranger around. To his relief, she led him down the hall and into a dark, heavily furnished room.

“There you are, sir.” With a curtsy, the maid left Philip alone.

Crimson velvet curtains framed the windows. A swirling pattern in red and gold covered the walls. An abundance of large, darkly stained furniture filled the room, making it feel smaller that it was. Philip marveled at Mr. Burns’ garish taste as he walked toward the prominent desk in the center of the room. He found not a single paper on the desk, but there were plenty of drawers, each with a keyhole. Heart rate slightly accelerating, he tried unsuccessfully to open each drawer. They were all locked. Philip ran his hand beneath the desk in search of a key but found nothing. He knelt to examine under the chair.

The sound of footsteps indicated that he was not alone. For a moment, he considered hiding beneath the desk, but a pair of boots stationed themselves beside Philip. As soon as he was standing, a burly arm came around him, pushing a knife against the skin of his neck. Philip froze.

“What are you looking for?” Mr. Tate asked.

Mr. Burns would not be so foolish as to allow Tate to kill him, but that was little consolation to Philip. Burns leaned against the door frame and nodded at Tate. The knife pressed harder against Philip’s throat.

“How dare you come into my home and walk about it as if it were your own? What are you doing, Mr. Eliot?” Burns’ eyes glinted, giving Philip a clear picture of the pirate Burns had been.

Philip tried to appear calm, but a knife at his throat was not conducive to relaxation. “I don’t trust you. And a gentleman does not keep a man at knifepoint.”

“A gentleman does not search another man’s property,” countered Mr. Burns, pushing off from the doorframe.

“Touché. Why not declare it a truce and call off your dog?”

Tate growled, which made Philip laugh. If he didn’t like being called a dog, he should refrain from growling.

“I am my own master,” Tate said.

“I assure you, Mr. Tate, I have no ill will toward you. At least, I didn’t until you pulled your knife on me.”

“Let him go, Tate.” Malcolm faced the pair directly, and though he spoke to Tate, his eyes bored holes into Philip’s.