Wheels crunched heavily on the gravel drive.
Phyllida jerked upright. Her eyes flew wide. The murderer?
Her panicky wits calmed enough for her to distinguish voices as the conveyance rolled on around the house. Not the murderer-the Manor staff. She looked at the unconscious stranger.
For the first time in her life, she found it difficult to think. Her heart was still racing; she felt light-headed. Dragging in a breath, she fought to concentrate. Horatio was dead; she couldn't change that. Indeed, she knew nothing of any relevance. His friend was unconscious and would remain so for some time-she should make sure he was well tended. That was the least she should do.
But here she was in Horatio's drawing room, in breeches, instead of being laid down on her bed at the Grange with a sick headache. And she couldn't explain why, not without revealing her reason for being here-those misplaced personal belongings. Worse, they weren't hers. She didn't actually know why they were so important, why their revelation was to be avoided at all costs, which made it all the more incumbent on her not to reveal their existence. Aside from anything else, she'd been sworn to secrecy.
Damn! She was going to be discovered any minute. Mrs. Hemmings, the Manor housekeeper, would even now be entering the kitchen.
Think!
What if, instead of waiting here and landing herself in a morass of impossible explanations, she left, cut home through the wood, changed, and returned? She could easily think of an errand. She could be back in ten minutes. Then she could make sure Horatio's body had been discovered, and oversee the tending of the stranger.
That was a sensible plan.
Phyllida clambered to her feet. Her legs wobbled; she still felt woozy. She was about to turn away when the hat on the table beyond Horatio's body caught her eye.
Had the stranger carried a hat when he'd entered? She hadn't noticed it, but he was so large, he could have reached forward and put it on the table without her seeing.
Gentlemen's hats often had their owners' names embroidered on the inside band. Stepping around Horatio's body, Phyllida reached for the brown hat-
"I'll just go up and check on the master. Keep an eye on that pot, will you?"
Phyllida forgot about the hat. She shot through the hall, out of the front door, then raced across the side lawn and dove into the shrubbery.
"Juggs, open this door."
The words, uttered in a tone Lucifer usually associated with his mother, jerked him back to consciousness.
"Nah-can't do that," a heavy male voice answered. "Mightn't be wise."
"Wise?" The woman's tone had risen. After a pause, during which Lucifer could almost hear her rein in her temper, she asked, "Has he regained consciousness at all since you picked him up from the Manor?"
So he was no longer at the Manor. Where the hell was he?
"Nah! Out like a light, he is."
He wasn't, but he might as well have been. Beyond hearing, his senses weren't functioning well-he couldn't feel much beyond the massive ache in his head. He was lying on his side on some very hard surface. The air was cool and held a hint of musty dust. He couldn't lift his lids-even that much movement was still beyond him.
He was helpless.
"How do you know he's still alive?" The woman's imperious tone left little doubt she was a lady.
"Alive? 'Course he's alive-why wouldn't he be? Just swooned, that's all."
"Swooned? Juggs, you're an innkeeper. For how long do swooned men stay swooned, especially if they're jolted about in a cart in the fresh air?"
Juggs snorted. "He's a swell-who knows how long they stay swooned for? Right liverish lot, they are."
"They found him slumped by Mr. Welham's body. What if he hasn't swooned but sustained some injury?"
"How could he have sus-got any injury?"
"Maybe he fought with the murderer, trying to save Mr. Welham."
"Nah! That way, we'd have his nibs here and someone else the murderer-that'd make two people coming in separate from outside in one day with no one seeing either of 'em, and that just plain doesn't happen."