A Suspicious Affair by Barbara Metzger

Author:Barbara Metzger
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The apprehension of the robber became even more crucial. One of Boynton’s friends was set upon after leaving the christening party. The thief got away, and Sir Oswald returned to Denning Castle late that night, shaken and considerably lighter in the purse. Sir Oswald accepted Marisol’s offer of a guest chamber for the night and her assurance that, since he was a guest of the Castle, the Castle would make good his loss. Sir Oswald did not protest as much as he ought, Foster felt, but there was no escaping the evidence of a bullet hole through the man’s curly-brimmed beaver. While Rebecca, Nolly’s nursemaid, offered to brew a special tisane for Sir Oswald, Marisol and Foster waited downstairs for the constable from the village, Dimm from the inn, and the magistrate from Kimbrough Hall.

Carlinn had just gone to bed, so he threw on his shirt and breeches and an old pair of boots and followed the messenger back to the Castle.

Sir Oswald’s profile of the highwayman matched the previous description, but still did not match any of the known local miscreants: for the most part poachers, inebriates, and dealers in goods without excise stamps. This little section of Berkshire countryside was not known as a hotbed of crime, Lord Kimbrough tried to reassure the duchess.

“At least not until we Londoners arrived,” Marisol replied, offering the earl sherry in the parlor after his interview with Sir Oswald and his later conference with Dimm and the constable. They had decided the night was too advanced to look for clues in the dark; they’d meet in the morning where Sir Oswald had been waylaid, but without much hope of success.

“I could see it on the faces of those ladies today,” Marisol went on, “underneath their politeness. Thank goodness Foster will be on his way Tuesday. No one can accuse him of anything untoward.”

Foster was pouring the drinks. He still wore his uniform, unbuttoned, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Dash it, I’m sorry to be going. I’d like to help in the hunt, find the dastard, and stop this infernal gabble-grinding.”

“You’d do better to concentrate on stopping the Corsican, bantling,” Kimbrough told the younger man, which brought a grin to Foster’s lips.

Marisol could not be so easily diverted. She lay awake fretting after the earl left and the house had settled down, and that was how she came to hear the noise next door, in Nolly’s room.

Marisol reached for a light, and knocked a book off the night table in her fumbling. She heard a muttered curse, then a cry from Rebecca, and a door closing. To hell with a candle, Marisol thought, flying to her son, calling his name loudly enough to wake everyone but Aunt Tess and the dowager in the far tower.

By the time the duchess reached the makeshift nursery, Rebecca was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. Nolly was wailing, the nursery lamp was still glowing, and no one was in sight.

“I thought, that is, I couldn’t be sure, Your Grace.

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