The Elusive Miss Ellison Read online

Thornton regarded him steadily before saying slowly, “And your poor. You are responsible, whether you like it or not.”

  “I know, I know. But how can I spend money I don’t have? James’s recklessness has always carried a high price.” Like the death of Lavinia’s mother. Sorrow rippled across his heart. How could he ever make amends?

  “Your brother’s actions are not yours, Stamford,” Thornton spoke softly.

  But he still paid the consequences. Nicholas grimaced.

  “And you are the earl now, so you must do what is best for your estate and your tenants. Now, do you think Johnson is stealing?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. I do not wish to accuse an innocent man.”

  “That sense of justice is something I’ve always liked about you.” Thornton grinned. “Let’s see what we can discover—and if we can get you into Miss Ellison’s good graces at last.”

  Within the hour a plan was formulated. Thornton would use his scouting skills from army days to watch Johnson’s movements, while Nicholas would carry on as usual with his steward. “Your many visits these past weeks will provide a nice cover for you.” Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure the young ladies won’t mind missing your company?”

  “Miss Ellison is a good sport. She won’t miss me.”

  “Lady Milton may.”

  Thornton’s cheeks took on a reddish hue. “I did not think it would be quite so difficult to extract myself from her invitations.”

  “You may need to tread carefully. That woman desires nothing less than her daughter marry eligibly.”

  “She does not attempt for you?”

  “Lady Milton may attempt but will never succeed. Sophia holds no interest for me.”

  Thornton stared at him hard.

  “Come.” Nicholas pushed back his chair as his own cheeks heated. “A few days of covert operations might be just the thing.”

  NICHOLAS PEERED OVER his letters from the past week. His mother’s missive that he return from the wilds of Gloucestershire he ignored, likewise the invitations from the Winthrops and Pavenhams to stay as their guest in upcoming house parties at their flourishing estates. House parties meant young ladies he had no interest in courting. Not when his only desire was to see his own estate prosper.

  He leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window. How was Thornton getting on? He’d barely seen him these past two days, save for late at night. His friend’s remarkable surveillance skills were taking up considerable time, but whenever he asked, Thornton only laughed and said it was the most fun he’d had since Spain.

  A scratch came at the door.

  “Yes, Giles?”

  “Today’s post, m’lord.”

  Nicholas retrieved the thick cream envelope from the platter, glanced at the red seal and sighed. A quick perusal of the contents only confirmed his fears. The Viscount and Lady Aynsley expressed the desire for the company of the Earl of Hawkesbury for a small house party at their estate in Somerset.

  He grimaced. Small house party meant unavoidable contact with unmarried daughters. And the Aynsleys had three!

  He scrawled a polite refusal then pushed to his feet. Sitting around waiting for something to happen was making his head ache. He found Giles in the hall.

  “Get McHendricks to saddle Midnight.”

  And he raced up the wide steps to change.

  HE CAUGHT UP with Thornton at the Pickled Hen. “Well?”

  “The landlord says Johnson is often here, never for long, but meets various strangers along by the river. He is not particularly well liked. Apparently he never buys enough pints.”

  “Crime indeed.”

  They ate in silence until Thornton glanced out the window. “He’s here. At the stables.”

  Nicholas followed Thornton to the stables, thankful he’d had the foresight to house Midnight at the blacksmith’s—stabled here would have been rather too obvious.

  Thornton peered through the window and whispered, “He’s talking to a young boy—no, he’s leaving. I’ll follow him. You talk to the lad.”

  “Don’t you think—?”

  “No. He’s wary of you. The lad might respect an earl, though.” Thornton disappeared, and Nicholas strolled round to the front of the stables. “Hello there.”

  The young lad’s sweeping stilled. He looked up, eyes widening. “Yes, me lord?”

  A few minutes of discussion—and an appropriate coin—elicited the information required. The lad had shamefacedly admitted to allowing Johnson to make use of an abandoned barn on the southern outskirts of the property.

  “Me uncle told me to clears it out—’e’s got no use for it, ’e said. So I didn’t think I was doing wrong by letting someone else use it.”

  “Perhaps in future you’ll consider why someone may wish to be so clandestine.”

  He followed the directions the boy gave, down to a dilapidated byre situated next to the river, toward which Thornton moved stealthily. Nicholas slipped behind a tree, his actions recalling similar missions in the Peninsular, only this time he doubted lives hung in the balance.

  Thornton peered through the door. “I say, Johnson, is it? Whatever are you doing here?”

  A murmur came from within. Nicholas stole closer.

  “Aren’t you the earl’s steward? Why are you here and not off stewarding?”

  There was a sudden clank and thud and then the pounding of footfalls. Nicholas peered round the door to see Thornton’s prone form. He raced to kneel beside him, his stomach twisting at the sight of a bloody gash in his head. Memories flashed: Burgos, battle-scarred men, his failure—

  “Go after him,” Thornton groaned. “Forget me.”

  “Never.” He hoisted Thornton to his feet and half carried, half dragged him halfway to the public house, where the red-faced landlord appeared, wringing his hands. “Get someone to guard your barn in the southwest corner and send for the doctor. My friend here is hurt.”

  The portly man hurried away, shouting orders to others unseen.

  “I don’t need your coddling.” Thornton pushed his arm away. “Go, get Johnson. He’s already got a lead.”

  “I won’t leave—”

  “This isn’t Spain, Nick. I’ve been hurt far worse than this, and so have you. Give me a moment, and I’ll be able to stand.”

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  Nicholas turned and raced toward the blacksmith’s. A minute later he was in the saddle, spurring Midnight to a fast trot, peering round corners in the hopes of discovering Johnson’s whereabouts. Finally, he spotted his bailiff’s roan, cantering along the lane and up the hill toward the Hall. Of course. Nicholas grimaced. Johnson would want to secure whatever else he’d pilfered.

  He pressed Midnight to a faster pace. Thankfully few people were out to speculate at the earl racing after his bailiff—no doubt word would soon filter out about the scandal it was sure to be. His hopes were dashed as he rounded a corner to see old Mrs. Foster’s gaping face behind a donkey cart. He nudged Midnight’s flanks, and together they soared over the cart to the cheers of two boys nearby.

  “Good boy.” He patted Midnight’s neck as he cantered up the road. Midnight’s panting grew more frequent, but the steady surefootedness did not falter. Slowly they gained on Johnson.

  They raced along the straight to where the road curved narrowly, at the tall oak. Miss Ellison was right—the hedges were too high here. He slowed, rounding the next corner, when a bark and a whinny were swiftly followed by a yelp and a scream.

  He tumbled off, into the dirt, rolling to avoid the clashing hooves, catching a flash of tan and white and gold and green before the world went black.

  PAIN SEARED HIS forearm. He cursed. Blinked. Who knew rocks contained so many colors? He always supposed them to be brown. And since when did grass grow sideways?

  He swallowed. Thunder filled his senses. Groans, the cries of horses, a whimper, more pounding of hooves, dust. He coughed and pushed himself up, wincing as discomfort sliced
his arm.

  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen. The great Stamford, indeed!” Thornton wavered before him. “Seems this is a day for disaster.”

  “I don’t know what happened.” He grimaced and moved into a sitting position and gingerly tested his other limbs. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “My horse was much more handy than yours. And when I saw you chasing—Oh no.”

  Nicholas followed Thornton’s gaze to where Miss Ellison crouched on the far side of the road. “Miss Ellison! What the devil are you doing here?”

  Ignoring his arm’s throbbing, he pushed to his feet and moved closer. She cradled something white and tan. Memories flashed of a time long ago, images of a man cradling something infinitely more precious. Guilt burned his chest, froze his steps.

  Thornton knelt beside her. “He’s still breathing.”

  Tears stained her cheeks. She shook her head.

  “McHendricks is wonderfully insightful with animals. We can take him there.” Nicholas moved to pick up the dog.

  “Don’t touch him!” She pushed him away.

  Pain slivered his heart.

  “Miss Ellison, please allow me.”

  She ignored Thornton’s plea, cradling the whimpering dog closer to her chest.

  “I’ll let McHendricks know, then.”

  Thornton gathered Midnight’s reins and galloped ahead while Nicholas accompanied Miss Ellison to the stables. She clutched her dog, her hair loose, her cheek dirt-smeared, blood staining her dress, her steps slow, faltering as she stopped regularly to shift her laden arms. But each attempt to relieve her of her burden met with fierce resistance.

  “Miss Ellison, I am so sorry.”

  She said nothing, the broken look on her face saying it all.

  “I did not see him.”

  She shot him one scornful glance and returned her attention to the animal, whispering affection as a mother might murmur to a sick child.

  Remorse grew. Why hadn’t he insisted on the hedge trimming? Why had he never at least pretended to like the dog?

  They reached the stables, McHendricks’s grizzled face softening as he hurried forward.

  “Ah, Miss Livvie.”

  “Mickey. He’s—” She gulped.

  “You leave him with me.” He collected her burden and hastened to the barn.

  She moved to follow, but Nicholas placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Come inside. Mrs. Florrick will help you clean up and give you something to eat.”

  “Clean?” She jerked her arm away. “Do you think I care about being clean?”

  “Miss Ellison, please. Come have a cup of tea. Mrs. Florrick is convinced it is the answer to all of life’s troubles.”

  “No! Mickey needs me.”

  Thornton stepped forward. “Miss Ellison, how may I assist you?”

  She pushed hair from her eyes, smearing her face further. “Could you tell Papa where I am?”

  “At once.” Thornton ran to his horse and galloped away.

  As if in a trance, she moved inside the stables to where McHendricks ran his fingers over the dog’s body. She crouched beside him, heedless of the hay and muck, crooning to her pet, whose whimpers eased.

  Her head down, she didn’t see McHendricks look up, catch his gaze, and shake his head.

  Nicholas’s heart panged. He nodded, and after checking that Midnight had suffered nothing more than a fright, removed himself to the house, where he met Giles in the hall.

  “M’lord!”

  “Tell Edwin I need a bath and some new apparel. Oh, and send for the doctor.”

  “At once, sir.”

  Half an hour later, clean and freshly clothed, he made his way downstairs to find Thornton in the dining room, the cut on his head now bandaged. He glanced up. “The doctor’s here, not that there’s anything he can do.”

  Nicholas nodded and moved to the window where he could see the corner of the stables.

  “What happened?”

  “We were racing round the bend and next thing I knew Midnight was rearing and I was falling.” Nicholas shook his head. “I didn’t see them.”

  “You’re lucky it was the dog.”

  Thank God. If it hadn’t—He shuddered.

  “Johnson got away?”

  His head swam with yet more recrimination. He groaned and moved to the door. “Giles!”

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Take a footman to Johnson’s rooms and check through his possessions for anything you think might not belong to him.”

  “Very good, m’lord.”

  At Giles’s exit, Thornton ran a hand through his hair. “Johnson won’t show his face around here again.”

  “I should have got rid of him long ago. He’s cost me too much.” Nicholas moved to the decanter and, using one hand, poured himself a whiskey, swallowing it in one gulp. Fire roared down his throat.

  Thornton frowned. “Why are you holding your arm like that?”

  “I fell on it.”

  “And you sent the doctor to examine the dog first? Why, Stamford, I do believe you’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

  Mrs. Florrick, his aged, rotund housekeeper, appeared at the door. “Excuse me, my lord. I thought you should know the doctor’s almost finished.”

  “Miss Ellison?”

  “Still refuses to eat. I did try.”

  “Thank you.”

  He glanced at Thornton, and they moved to the stables. McHendricks and the doctor met them halfway.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing I could do.” Dr. Hanbury’s eyes held apology.

  McHendricks rubbed his grizzled jaw. “Mickey is old. Miss Livvie said he’d been walking stiff and sore for some time now.” He jerked his head to the stables. “The lass is in there, saying goodbye.”

  “She seems quite attached.”

  “Aye. She was given him as a wee pup, after she lost her mother.”

  Fresh guilt pulled tight around his heart. He nodded to the doctor. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m sorry I could not be of greater assistance.” Dr. Hanbury’s faded blue eyes sharpened as he cast Nicholas an appraising look. “You are hurt, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes. I landed on my arm in the fall.

  “May I?”

  He nodded, and the doctor felt his arm. “You have a nice bandage.”

  “I had some training with wounds and illness in the war.”

  He restrained an oath as a particularly tender spot was pressed.

  “I suspect it might be broken.”

  Nicholas managed a wry smile. “I rather thought that might be the case.”

  “You should have had it seen to at once!”

  As the doctor steered him back to the house, he thought he heard the doctor mutter, “A dog!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WEEKS PASSED. TREES turned, apples plumped, pumpkins were picked. After a few days lying quiet in her room—and being scolded by Aunt Patience for caring more about a dog than real relationships—Lavinia had picked up her basket and recommenced her visits to the village. But many visits had to be cut short when well-meaning kindness threatened her composure. Only years of habit enabled her to go through the motions of caring, because her heart hurt.

  Mickey might have been merely a dog, but he’d been her best friend, the one who had comforted her all those nights when she cried for Mama, his soft body squished beside her, his heartbeat thumping reassurance. Now he was gone.

  As was her independence.

  Traipsing across hill and dale was lonely now. Without Mickey’s reassuring bark to guide her, fear lurked behind tree and rock. Everyone from the earl to Eliza had offered to find her another dog, but she refused. It was too raw, too soon. Another animal would never be Mickey.

  She leaned against the old oak tree, guardian over Mickey’s grave. Only McHendricks had been permitted into her sanctuary, to bury him, and she’d caught a tear in his eye before he gruffly turned away. Every time she visited the grave, her heartach
e eased for an infinitesimal moment. Here they were still together. Beyond the hedge, the loneliness overwhelmed again.

  A cool wind sang a desperate song, shivering the leaves above. Her face pressed against the sharp bark of the tree trunk, but she cared not. Nothing hurt like her soul’s forlorn emptiness.

  Captain Thornton had gone, summoned by his father, as he explained in an apologetic interview. The earl—after a thousand apologies she could not bear to listen to—was in London. Sophia was away also, visiting cousins in Weymouth. Even Perry Milton had gone back to university; that, at least, was a blessing.

  There were some blessings, she supposed. Johnson’s mysterious disappearance had fueled gossip, but had resulted in immediate repairs to several village houses. Work had commenced on new houses for those where the worst of the damp could not be remedied. The earl’s broken arm had given rise to speculation, though the captain had soon given her the facts.

  She lifted her gaze to the faraway hills, golden-green in the shafts of afternoon sun. Her lips flickered. How strange to think the proud earl would consider her poor dog should receive the doctor’s attention before himself. Perhaps there was some hope for him after all.

  A russet-colored leaf drifted from above, its fragile descent fitting her mood. Coolness nipped her skin. She shivered. Her sanctuary wasn’t the same. It was too quiet. Her eyes blurred as she studied the hedge, now cut so severely it seemed impossible it would ever bear flowers again. Not that it mattered. She had no inclination to draw, or paint, or sing. She didn’t visit her sanctuary except to talk to Mickey. She only played at church, but even that was mere facade.

  God was so very far away.

  Nicholas perused the books Mr. Banning presented him. “They appear in order.”

  “I can assure you, my lord, they are in order,” the small man said primly.

  He swallowed the smile. Thornton had warned him of the pedantic manner of his father’s former estate manager, while assuring of his complete trustworthiness, proven over twenty years of service until Banning’s wife’s ill health had forced early retirement. Nicholas’s time in London for tedious legal duties had been alleviated somewhat by Thornton arranging for him to meet the recent widower.