“My lord! You’re back!” Mrs. Connimore rushed out, followed more slowly by his steward, Griggs, leaning heavily on his cane.
In the ensuing melee, Jack lost sight of his recent companion; he surrendered to Mrs. Connimore’s wild hug and nonstop exclamations. He was instantly aware of, and seriously alarmed by, Griggs’s frailty. When had he grown so old?
Perturbed, distracted, he deflected their solicitiousness onto the unknown, still unconscious man.
Mrs. Connimore and Howlett rose to the occasion and quickly organized to spirit the poor soul indoors and into a bed.
Crawler took charge of both horses and assured Jack he’d send his lads to clear the wreckage from the road.
Jack directed Adam to the traveling bag. As the crowd cleared, he was almost surprised to see Boadicea still standing by the front portico, still watching—he suspected still waiting to exact retribution. “I’ll be in shortly, Griggs.” Jack smiled and took Griggs’s arm to help him back to the house. “Everything seems in excellent order—I know I have you to thank.”
“Oh, no—well, everyone here quite understood…I daresay your new responsibilities are quite onerous…but we’re so glad you’ve come home.”
“I couldn’t stay away.” Jack smiled as he said it, not his polished smile but one of real feeling.
He stopped before the portico and urged Griggs to go in. “I must speak with Lady Clarice.”
“Oh, yes.” Reminded of her presence, Griggs halted and bowed low. “Please do excuse us, my lady.”
She smiled, warm and reassuring. “Of course, Griggs. Don’t concern yourself.”
Her eyes lifted to meet Jack’s. The look in them stated very clearly that she had no intention of forgiving him so easily.
He waited until Griggs had gone in and the footman had shut the door before strolling the last few feet to her.
She met his gaze directly, her dark eyes accusatory. “You’re Warnefleet.”
Not a question. Jack acknowledged the comment with an inclination of his head, but was at a loss to account for the condemnatory nuances clear in both her inflection and stance. “And you’re Lady Clarice…?”
She held his gaze for a definite moment, then said, “Altwood.”
Jack frowned.
Before he could ask, she added, “James is a cousin. I’ve been living at the rectory for nearly seven years.”
Unmarried. Living buried in the country. Lady Clarice Altwood. Who…?
She seemed to have no difficulty following his train of thought. Her lips thinned. “My father was the Marquess of Melton.”
The information only intrigued him all the more, but he could hardly ask why she wasn’t married and managing some ducal estate. Then he refocused on her eyes, and knew the answer; this lady was no sweet young thing and never had been. “Thank you for your assistance with the gentleman—my people will handle things from here. I’ll send word to the rectory when we know more.”
She held his gaze, brows lightly arching. She considered him for a totally unruffled moment, then said, “I vaguely recall hearing…if you’re Warnefleet, then you’re also the local magistrate. Is that correct?”
He frowned. “Yes.”
“In that case…” She drew a deep breath, and for the first time Jack glimpsed a hint of vulnerability—perhaps a touch of fright—in the dark depths of her eyes. “You need to understand that what happened to the young man was no accident. He didn’t overturn his phaeton. He was deliberately run off the road by another carriage.”
The image of a black carriage rattling off to Nailsworth flashed through Jack’s mind. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Clarice Adele Altwood folded her arms and sternly suppressed a shiver. Displaying weakness had never been her style, and she’d be damned if she let Warnefleet, the too-charming prodigal, see how unsettled she was. “I didn’t see the overturning itself—the noise of it was what brought me running—but when I reached the road, the other carriage had stopped, and the man driving had got down. He was approaching the phaeton, was about to go around it to the driver, but then he heard my footsteps and stopped. He looked up and saw me. He stared at me for a moment, then he swung around, walked back to his carriage, climbed in, whipped up his horses, and drove away.”
She could still see the scene, frozen in her mind. Could still feel the menace exuding from that large, heavy male figure, feel the weight of his consideration while he’d debated…. She blinked and refocused on the man before her, on his green-and-gold eyes. “I’d take an oath the man in the carriage meant to murder—to finish off—the gentleman in the phaeton.”
Chapter 2
“I came into the road there, through that gap in the hedge.” Clarice pointed, then looked at the wreckage a hundred yards farther on. “I stopped, surprised to see the other carriage there, then I remembered I’d heard shouting just before the crash—the young man swearing, I think.”
She glanced at the man beside her; she kept expecting him to play the autocratic male, pat her on the head, assure her all was right, and dismiss all she’d seen and more importantly sensed. Instead, he was listening, quite as grimly as she would have wished.