Page 40 of Unmasking the Earl

Terrible understanding dawned. “Oh no, they didn’t!”

“Oh yes, they did. And it seems they’re quite experienced at it.”

She turned to the constable, who was busying himself sorting out the correct key for the shackles. “Mr. Marsh! Why has the Earl of Stranraer been assaulted in this barbaric fashion?”

“I hope you are going to remain calm, my lord,” advised the constable. “You won’t find the culprits. They are all gone home to their suppers.”

“What’s the matter?” Portia was hovering outside, excited about meeting her first earl, no doubt disappointed that he wasn’t leaping up in great good humor, delighted to have been released.

“The villagers have been throwing stale beer through the bars,” Cassie explained, backing away from the bedraggled and seething Ned. “At least, I hope that’s what it was, and nothing worse.”

“Oh, great heavens! How very heathen of them. I shall rush back and start filling the bathtub.”

“I should be much obliged,” replied Ned, each word grating like a knife on a grindstone. At last the manacles fell away, and he stood up.

Looking every inch the aristocrat that he was, he seemed to grow distinctly taller and larger as he moved closer to the door of his prison.

In that brief moment while Cassie waited for him to explode, she felt considerable admiration for Achilles Marsh. The constable stepped back, but only to give his prisoner space, then stood his ground, removed his hat, and bowed briefly. “My lord,” he said, “you are free to go.”

In the flickering light of the lantern and the last embers of the day, Lord Stranraer’s face—for this was not Ned, but the earl in all his rank and glory—looked positively demonic. He glared at Marsh, who stood waiting impassively. Then he moved his glare to Cassie.

She dropped her gaze in flustered embarrassment, unused to experiencing the full force of this powerful man directed straight at her.

Although the earl remained stonily silent, she sensed he was plotting his revenge…and while the constable would partake of some, she was fairly certain the brunt of his wrath would fall on her.

And the worst was, the thought of that didn’t terrify her.

It thrilled her.

Because whenever he was angry with her, he always seemed to end up kissing her.

“Th-thank you, constable. You have been very h-helpful,” Cassie stammered, quickly banishing the unbidden yearnings of her body. “Do you think someone from the inn might send the earl’s belongings along to Portia’s cottage? I mean, Mr. Ganstridge’s belongings, as that’s the name he is known by.”

“Miss, are you quite certain you wish to give the gentleman lodging? He could always try Kenville Manor if he wants to be with his own sort.”

“Quite certain.” She turned to Ned. “And I have some news for you,” she said brightly, in hopes of deflecting his mounting emotions. “A mysterious lady came to live in the village about the time your sister disappeared.” He didn’t need to know she was an old woman. Cassie could always claim ignorance later.

Her wrist was seized in a fierce grip. The constable tapped his staff in warning. After a significant pause, Ned removed his hand from her. “I would prefer not to talk here, Miss Blythe. If you could take me to your friend’s house where I might wash away this filth, I should be most grateful.”

Her heartbeat doubled. “Yes, of course,” she said.

And fervently prayed she wasn’t making the most monumental misjudgment of her life.

Chapter Twenty

On arrival at Portia’s house, the Earl of Stranraer eschewed supper with cold courtesy, and went upstairs to bathe. Cassie could only hope that once he’d washed away the smell of stale beer, he’d drop the show of chilling politeness and return to them in more friendly mood.

“I must say,” said Portia as soon as he was out of hearing, “I’m a bit disappointed with your friend’s manners. He’s very distant.”

“Ned blows hot or cold. There’s no middle ground with him. And I’d hesitate to call him my friend. He does nothing but chide me.”

“Maybe they behave differently in Scotland,” Portia suggested.

“Stranraer is as English as you or I, despite his claim to hate the South.” Cassie had been reading about his pedigree on the journey to Aston, just as a way of passing the time. It was certainly impressive.

“There was a lot about him in the papers after he went missing,” Portia said, producing a battered canteen of cutlery from a drawer. “He has land in Yorkshire as well as Scotland. Gant’s Ridge, I think the Yorkshire estate is called.”

Cassie blinked and slapped her hand to her forehead with blinding comprehension. “I am such a fool! Gant’s Ridge, Ganstridge—I should have realized.”