“I’m going to find your wife and have her sit with you until Lord Greystone returns. When he does, can you tell him I’ve gone to Dunnam Park?”
Cecil had a turnip for brains. Someone needed to shake sense into the man.
“So I will, Miss Lovell. And I wouldn’t be worrying about Mr Gilligan. His lordship knows what he’s about and is a man what can deal with most things.”
He was indeed. Greystone’s powerful presence roused confidence in his ability to do anything he put his mind to.
“Yes, Lord Greystone is an extremely capable gentleman. In more ways than one.”
Chapter Eighteen
Nestled between trees and overgrown shrubbery, one would struggle to find the rickety wooden shed by accident. The place was empty, but not deserted. Inside, the makeshift bed of blankets thrown over a straw mattress confirmed someone had slept there. In an old battered chest, Miles found a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth, a flagon filled with wine, candles and a tinderbox.
Dariell inhaled deeply. “One must ask themselves why a man would remain here, living in these appalling conditions, knowing that the magistrate might seize him for his crimes.”
Miles agreed. “Had Gilligan not used my name to cover his debts, I’d think he was hiding from his creditors.”
“Perhaps he has creditors of his own, and I am not talking about a measly tailor’s bill but of something far more substantial.”
“Gilligan stole from me for years to fund a gambling habit, but that still doesn’t explain what he was doing in my stables at such an ungodly hour. Theft might be the motive. He certainly knows plenty of unsavoury characters to arrange an impromptu horse sale.”
Dariell gave a doubtful shrug. “It is all supposition, no? We cannot know anything for sure. We must find the
steward.”
Miles sighed. He opened his mouth to reply, but a noise outside the wooden hide forced him to remain silent. Hearing the pad of footsteps, Miles pressed his finger to his lips and then pointed to the open door.
Damn, they should have closed it behind them.
“Listen. All is quiet,” Dariell whispered. “We must act now.”
Miles nodded. They crept to the door and peered around the jamb, just in time to notice a figure darting behind a tree.
“Gilligan!” Miles cried, racing out of the rickety shed in pursuit. “I know it’s you. Did you think you could hide from me forever?”
Gilligan darted out of his hiding place and took flight.
While the man walked with a certain finesse that belied his station, he ran like a molly. With arms held tightly to his chest and hands floppy and limp, he hopped over branches and darted behind trees. Had Dariell given chase they would have caught him in an instant, but his friend clearly thought Miles could handle the fool.
Miles closed the gap between them.
He grabbed Gilligan by the scruff of his coat and yanked him backwards. The man stumbled and landed on the ground with a bump. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Miles rounded on the fellow, wedged the sole of his boot between Gilligan’s chin and chest and applied pressure to his throat.
“Ah, we meet again, Mr Gilligan. It’s such a pleasant morning for a stroll in the woods.”
The steward coughed and grabbed Miles’ boot as he gasped for breath. His face turned beetroot red. His eyes bulged as he thrashed his legs.
Dariell strolled up to join them. “Ah, you have caught a snake in the grass, no?”
“A snake, a toad, a worthless piece of …”
“Will you kill him here? Should I find a shovel?” Dariell crouched down, patted the ground and inspected the tips of his fingers. “The soil is soft. I say we dig here.”
“No!” With a strangled cry, Gilligan hit out again. “Wait!”
Miles removed his foot. “You have ten seconds to catch your breath, and then you’ll tell me what the hell you’re about. You attacked Mr Guthrie, planned to steal my horses.”
Gilligan rolled onto his side and clutched his throat. He coughed and spluttered, raised his limp hand in the air to beg for more time. He crawled up onto his knees and retched.