‘Yes, my lord?’ Parrott enquired after a good minute of silence.
‘I am not, at the moment, on speaking terms with Miss Lattimer.’
‘So I gather, my lord.’
How the hell does he know? Then Guy dismissed the question: Parrott knew everything. ‘I am concerned about the safety of her household.’
‘Quite so, my lord. The last two roses are due tonight.’
‘Exactly.’ Sometimes Guy wondered if it would be easier just to allow Parrott to carry on without orders. Possibly he could do his courting for him. He could hardly make more of a mull of it.
‘I have already spoken to Ackland, my lord. He informed me that his orders were not to communicate with anyone in this household and certainly not to accept any assistance.’
With that he had to be content, although a near-sleepless night spent sitting at his bedchamber window watching the Moon House for any sign of disturbance or lights did nothing for his state of mind the next morning.
Parrott, who was winding the longcase clock in the hall and setting the hands to twenty-five to seven, allowed one eyebrow to rise by an infinitesimal amount when he saw his master descending the stairs. ‘Good morning, my lord. I regret that preparations for breakfast have only just been commenced. Would you wish me to have something prepared immediately?’
‘Hmm? No, thank you, Parrott. I will go out for a walk.’
‘And then call upon Miss Lattimer?’
‘If I can think what best to say to her, yes, Parrott. I got the devil’s own sleep last night.’
‘The lady is somewhat up in the boughs, I collect.’
‘You may well say so, Parrott. Miss Lattimer has a number of things to throw in my dish, of which tactlessness is probably the least of it.’
‘But surely you will not be calling at this hour?’
‘I imagine it will take me two hours to arrive at my tactics.’ Guy grimaced with an attempt at humour he was far from feeling. Somehow he had to make it up to Hester. ‘I have no idea what I am going to say. If she has been as miserable as I these past forty-eight hours, then perhaps I have a hope- but who knows?’
‘Tsk. Miss Lattimer has always seemed a lady of acute common sense to me, my lord.’
‘Exactly what I am afraid of!’
‘I will find your lordship’s heavier coat; it will not do to arrive upon her doorstep with your teeth chattering.’
Guy walked out of the gate into the frosty early morning gloom and turned to pass the front of the Moon House, heading for the expanse of the Green. An hour’s brisk walk to the canal and back, followed by breakfast at the Bird in Hand, which he could eat without interrogation from Georgy, should at least clear his head.
He looked up at Hester’s room as he passed, seeing it in darkness, wondering what her reaction would be if he stood in the garden like a lovesick fool-which I am-and threw pebbles at her windows. ‘A jug of cold water off the nightstand, I imagine, if I know my Hester,’ he answered his own musings.
Then something fluttering on the front door caught his eye and he slowed. A Christmas garland? That boded well for the mood of the household if someone had spent the time making decorations. Then, as he came closer, he saw it had no festive air about it, but instead hung heavy and dark, its ribbons black.
Surely it was not what it appeared? It was the lack of light, that was all, but Guy opened the gate and strode up the front path.
Then he saw it was a funeral wreath fashioned of yew and ivy, tied with black ribbons and with two dead roses at its centre. A card, inscribed H.L. Requiat in Pace in Gothic script was secured at the top. Fear for Hester, a superstitious dread he would have sworn he was incapable of feeling, swept through him, leaving an icy clutch around his heart. A knife in the dark? A soundless attack on Hester leaving the household unaware? Or poison and they were all lying there…
With hands that shook he wrenched the wreath from the door and hammered the knocker on its base plate. Ten more seconds and he would break a window.
There was a fumbling sound as the bolts were drawn back. Jethro opened the door, saw who it was and began to close it, alarm on his face. Guy simply threw his shoulder against the panels and knocked the boy back into the hall with the power of his entry. ‘Where is she? Is she safe?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘You cannot come in here, my lord!’ Jethro was white-faced and clutching his shoulder. In some part of his brain Guy realised he must have hit the boy’s bad side and was sorry for it, but that would have to wait.
‘Have you seen Miss Hester yet this morning? Is she awake?’
‘What? Do you know what time it is?’ Jethro demanded, shocked out of any semblance of good manners or deference by surprise and pain. ‘Of course she’s not up yet, Susan said to let her sleep in.’