C rescent Barrows’s knocker sounded off the warped door, echoing with a dull bang as if the manor were full of only shadows and dust. The clatter of Magdala’s clogs loud on the flagstones soon put that image to rest. She opened the portal and invited the landlord inside.
“Where is your mistress?” Handing his hat and gloves to the woman, Gregory scowled.
Magdala answered with her usual severity. “My lady is out, Mr. Harrow.”
“Out?” he enunciated the word as if it were foreign. “And just where would out be?”
Magdala did not answer, heading toward the great hall for the gentleman to follow. “Would you care for a cup of tea while you warm yourself by the fire?”
“I have no interest in your tea.” He looked around the room for some sign of the missing Imp. “My interest solely lies in where Lady Iliffe is hiding.”
Magdala motioned to the room’s best chair and said not a word.
“Shall I guess then?” Mr. Harrow sat back with a suggestive smile.
Gregory had called after he had given her time to think over her temper and his threats, after he had washed and dressed, but found she had not returned from the moors. So the man had gone straight to the caravans. The Imp was not there either, and the Romani were already packing up to leave. There was no sign of her on the grasslands, no black smear of her horse running to and fro. Nothing for two days.
“Seeing as I called yesterday and made it clear I wished to see her today, imagine my surprise when I find that she is still not in... It leads me to believe that she is hiding from me, or that in regards to the Imp’s location, you. do. not. know.”
An agitated breath came from the woman. “It is her ladyship’s way.”
Closing his eyes as if being tried by the most obnoxious of children, he took a deep breath. “It is her way.” Black eyes flashed open and leveled venom at the housekeeper. “And just what way is that?”
If not for the tiny pinch of her skirt, it would have been almost impossible to see Magdala’s concealed disquiet. “When the mood has passed, she will grow hungry and return.”
“From where, pray?” He sucked his teeth before a wicked grin, spread his lips. “I have changed my mind. I will have some of your delightful tea. And you shall have the silent one make up a room for me—the southwest suite overlooking the courtyard. Furthermore, I prefer pork for dinner.” All was spoken with derision, Mr. Harrow lifting the nearest discarded book, and settling in like lord and master. “And since you seem to be unable to control your little mistress, when she gets back I will put her over my knee and beat some sense into her.”
Shoulders stiff, her face angry, Magdala left the room.
Supper came. Roast chicken was served to the gentleman sitting by the fire, the angry landlord still at vigil. He counted the servants. All were there: the brawny, dark one. Magdala. The silent, thin Mary. Even Hugh slunk around with his books and papers once chores were done. But they seemed unsettled, out of balance with no mistress in the house.
Expecting to hear Mamioro’s hooves on the gravel at any moment, all retired, except Mr. Harrow, the man pacing as if the sheer will he exercised would manifest Arabella.
It did not.
When the hour was well past midnight, he set the finished book aside and glanced to see the portrait of his mother. There was not a trace of that woman in him, not a single line or detail. He should know. When he was young he had stared at the picture often enough.
He hated that portrait.
His drudge up the stairs echoed off stone walls. He found his bedchamber, pulled off his boots, cravat, jacket, and waistcoat, and reclined upon the mattress. Having forgotten the noise of shrill wind tripping across the corner of the stone manor, having forgotten the never-ending rattle against the panes, he closed his eyes.
Just as sleep was about to take him, hooves clattered in the yard, the sound almost lost in the ruckus. Gregory shot out of bed, eyes at the window to see her dismount.
Feet bare of boots, he crept silently, knowing where to step to avoid the creak of old wood and how to slip quickly to evade the beatings of his uncle should he have been seen in his younger days.
Arabella entered the house as if nothing were amiss. Setting the fastenings of her cape free and tossing it onto the bench, she went straight to the fire of the great hall. The African servant showed himself at once, as if he too had known the second she had returned.
Tossing herself in the large leather chair, she ignored the gentle rebuke in Payne’s rumbling voice. “It is late.”
“Dear Payne.” Soft green eyes matched the look of apologetic admiration on her face.
Clenching his jaw in the dark, recognizing her familiarity with the man, Mr. Harrow watched a woman who hesitated to touch men, who hesitated to touch even himself, allow her servant to take her hand.
The burly African had more to say. “You worry Magdala when you do not return overnight, Arabella.”
“Everything I do worries Magdala.”
Payne spoke gently yet admonished like a father. “And just where have you been?”