“Not me—you.” She hal
ted beside him and jabbed a finger into his upper arm. “It’s much more likely that it’s you who’s the target, and I just happened to be there. And before you argue”—she jabbed his arm again—“I’m not the one who owns things other people want.”
He wrapped a hand about hers before she could jab him again.
“And”—she determinedly wagged the index finger of her other hand in his face—“before you say I hold the position of your marchioness, which, admittedly, other ladies want, I really can’t see any lady hiring a thug to do away with me in order to step into my shoes. The only lady who might even be said to have cause is Frances, and she wouldn’t—she’s not like that.”
“Frances Halbertson?” He nearly goggled. “Good God, no.”
“Exactly. So I think we should accept that all these attacks are directed at you, and I was merely an innocent bystander.” She’d released most of her frenetic, fright-induced energy; she drew in a breath and, her gaze steadying on his, asked, “So who might be behind attacks on you?”
He stared into her eyes and mentally reviewed the few who, at a very long stretch, might fall into that category. Eventually, he slowly shook his head. “I’m finding it difficult to imagine anyone I know as being the villain behind these attacks. However…”
When he frowned and didn’t continue, she prompted, “Yes?”
Jaw setting, he refocused on her face. “There’s someone—someone I can’t imagine is behind this—but who I believe I need to eliminate as a possibility.”
While she remained at risk—and no matter what she said or who the intended target truly was, she’d consistently been threatened by the attacks—then he couldn’t sit on his hands and leave any potential avenue unexplored.
She searched his eyes, then nodded. “We need to follow every possible lead, even if it’s only to eliminate someone as a suspect.”
He didn’t point out that, currently, they had no real suspects at all.
When, in clear demand, she arched her brows at him, he replied, “It’s Brougham. I can’t believe he would ever stoop to this—I’ve always thought him a sound man. Priggish and stiff, maybe, but at base, a staunchly honorable gentleman. Against that, he must be spitting chips over that recent auction and losing the book to me—and he was at the meeting yesterday, so he knows I’m back in town.”
Her eyes widened, and he saw realization dawn.
“Other than this household,” she said, “we didn’t tell anyone we were coming back. We didn’t announce it, and other than your meeting and my visits yesterday, which were private and to people who wouldn’t bruit the news abroad, until this morning, we haven’t been seen in public.”
He nodded. “Whoever sent someone with a pistol to hide in the woodland near the end of Rotten Row knew we were back in town.”
“And that, when in town, riding early in the morning is a long-standing habit of yours.”
“Indeed. Which is why”—he turned toward the door—“I’m going to Hampstead to have a word with Brougham.”
She looped her arm with his and turned to walk with him. “After breakfast.”
He slowed as he realized they hadn’t yet broken their fast. “Ah—yes.”
“And of course, I’ll accompany you.”
He weighed the pros and cons of that as they walked to the breakfast parlor. By the time they’d helped themselves from the sideboard, and he’d seated her and sunk into his chair, he’d decided that, all in all, taking her with him was a sound idea.
Given Lady Brougham would likely be at home, Stacie’s presence might be helpful, but more importantly, having her with him—within arm’s reach—would allow him to focus on the matter at hand without being distracted by his otherwise apparently inescapable concern over whether she was safe. Whether she was well and happy and, most important of all, still his.
No one had ever told him that love could be so discombobulating.
Stacie sat beside Frederick on the box seat of his curricle during the unexpectedly pleasant drive to Hampstead. Just beyond the village, they came to a neat redbrick house set back from the road behind a high stone wall. The gates flanking the gravel drive stood propped wide; Frederick turned his curricle through, and they rolled around the curved drive to the steps that led up to a narrow, pillared porch.
Stacie drew in a long breath. Her principal purpose in accompanying Frederick was, first, to bear witness as to what transpired and whatever might be revealed and, secondly, to ensure his safety, whatever that might entail. She was starting to feel distinctly protective of him in what she mentally termed a lioness-like way; she’d originally used the term to describe Mary’s fierce protectiveness of Ryder, but apparently, the reaction wasn’t peculiar to her sister-in-law.
Frederick drew his horses to a halt before Brougham’s front steps. He hadn’t previously visited Brougham at home. The house was substantial, in excellent repair, and painstakingly neat, the flower beds regimented even to the colors of the plants growing in them and the drive edged with bricks to prevent the thick, manicured lawn from creating a raggedy edge.
Every element his gaze lit upon spoke of quiet prosperity; Brougham had inherited a tidy estate from his father, more from a doting aunt, and had, as common parlance put it, married well to boot. While with his house, Brougham’s outward show of wealth was restrained, when it came to his purchases of rare books, he was significantly less reserved.
Frederick stepped down to the gravel as a groom came running from around the house. Frederick hadn’t brought Timson, knowing that during the drive, he and Stacie were likely to mention sensitive subjects and would want privacy.
Brougham’s groom slowed, his eyes widening as they took in the magnificence of Frederick’s matched bays, then the lad hurried forward to take the reins.