Before The Scandal (13 page)

In his defense, the moment he set eyes on her, he wanted to be close to her. It was becoming an obsession. He wanted Alyse. And his…lust was beginning to interfere with the business of discovering who was vandalizing the property and putting a stop to it. Hell, he was risking his disguise just by kissing her.

He left Saffron around the corner from the surveyor’s office. It would have been helpful to at least know the name of the man in charge of the county’s property tax assessments, but he couldn’t very well ask anyone for an introduction. William and Beth couldn’t know what he was up to, and he didn’t trust anyone else. Except for Alyse, that was.

“Hello?” he called, pushing open the door.

The office was lined with books and maps, while the floor was covered by barely visible tables which in turn were sagging with the weight of still more rolled maps. Phineas sneezed.

No one appeared. It took less than a minute to peer into the corners and make certain no one had been buried in the rubble. If the office were well-organized he would have considered some time alone in there a bounty. As it was, he would be lucky if
he
didn’t end up smothered beneath the chaotic stacks.

Shrugging out of his greatcoat and his jacket, he rolled up his sleeves and dove into the closest stack of rolled maps.

If his suspicions were correct, Smythe’s overlay had something to do with the area around Lewes, and more specifically with Quence Park. The problem, though, was scale. An exact match would be nearly impossible, but the surveyor’s selection of maps seemed his best chance.

Of course, first he needed to find a map that covered Quence. Thankfully over the years he’d spent a great deal of time perusing various terrain maps and battle schematics, and he eliminated an entire table in short order. That only left another two hundred or so rolls of maps before he even got to the back room.

The door rattled and opened. Phineas pasted a bewildered smile on his face and turned around. “Thank God. Please tell me this is your office.”

A tall, white-haired man, a pair of spectacles pinching the bridge of his nose, squinted at him. “This is my office,” he returned raspily. “Who are you, pray tell?”

Phineas picked his way over and stuck out his hand. “Phin Bromley. And you are?”

“Artemis Spyres.” They shook hands. “Bromley. Quence Park?”

“The very same, Mr. Spyres. Can you assist me?”

“That depends, sir. I’m the only one what should be putting my hands on the maps. It’s for the government, you know. All very precise.”

Ah, a bureaucrat
. Easy to spot, and easier still to work with, if one knew how to encourage them properly. “Splendid,” Phineas said aloud. “We’re having some difficulties replacing our irrigation dams,” he continued. “My brother the viscount disagrees, but
I
thought that you would have the most accurate maps we’re likely to find anywhere.”

Mr. Spyres squared his shoulders. “I should say I do, or I haven’t been doing my work. Now let’s see what we can see.”

Over the next two hours they found six maps of Quence—one of all East Sussex, one of the area north of Lewes, one of the land bordering the River Ouse, two featuring Donnelly, Beaumont, Quence, and Roesglen, and finally one solely showing the Bromley family estate. With an assessing glance at Spyres, Phineas went over to his jacket and pulled the rice paper map overlay from his pocket.

“A friend sketched this for me,” he said, unfolding it, “but I’m having the devil of a time trying to decipher what he was trying to tell me.”

With a frown Mr. Spyres set it over the map, sliding it this way and that while Phineas clenched his fists to keep from interfering. “What scale was he using, your friend?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Well, I would guess that your friend’s map wasn’t of Quence Park. These lines here look like a road, and there’s no lake or pond of that shape on the property.” He gestured at another of the squiggles. “And unless you’ve put up a sheep barn or other walled structure—which would require an additional tax assessment—there’s no outbuilding here.”

Phineas looked at the overlay. “May I have a look?” When Spyres stepped back, he turned the rice parchment forty-five degrees. If he slid it a little to the north and west, there were bits that intersected with the actual map—a bridge, the old tumble of ruins in the south pasture, one corner of the river where it passed from Donnelly to Quence property. “What scale is this map?” he asked.

“One inch to a quarter mile,” the surveyor said promptly.

This was not good. Low uneasiness ran through his gut. It was a feeling to which he’d long ago learned to pay attention. “Thank you, Mr. Spyres,” he said easily, folding the overlay again and returning it to his pocket. “You’ve been a great deal of help.”

“Glad to be of service, Mr. Bromley.”

Shrugging back into his jacket and greatcoat, Phineas left the office. Saffron still stood where he’d been left. For appearance’s sake he would have to go to one of the local taverns for luncheon, at least, though he would have paid a fair sum to avoid all of his old haunts. And then he needed to go take a look at the pasture where someone evidently thought there was or should be a road.

He’d barely sat down at the Caesar’s Ghost for a mug of bitters when Gordon rushed inside. Spotting him, the sergeant hurried forward. “Thank Christ I’ve found ye, Colonel,” he panted.

“What’s happened?” Phineas asked sharply, his first thought going to William and his brother’s uncertain health.

“It’s dogs, sir. A dozen of ’em got into the west pasture and tore up the sheep somethin’ awful.”

Phineas dropped some coins on the table as he pushed to his feet. “Let’s go.”

In a moment they were galloping back down the road toward Quence. “Did you see the animals?” he asked.

“Aye. Mr. Bibble the shepherd came up th’ road screamin’, and me’n Warner rode straight back. Shot two of the curs meself, and th’ rest tucked tail’n ran.”

“How bad is it?”

Gordon worked his jaw. “Ye know how dogs’ll work themselves into a blood frenzy, Colonel.”

“How many sheep?” Phineas asked again.

“Nigh half th’ flock, would be my guess.”

Phineas cursed. Quence ran three flocks of Southdown sheep. This was the smallest of them. If Gordon’s assessment was correct, and he had no reason to think otherwise, they’d just lost ten percent of their stock. Under good conditions Quence could weather the blow, but these were not good conditions.

As they rode up on the pasture, he slowed. Half a hundred white and red-splashed bodies lay scattered amid the soft green grass. At the far end of the pasture, among the trees, he could make out the remainder of the flock. Mr. Bibble stood in the middle of the carnage, openly weeping.

“Where are the dogs you shot?” Phineas grunted, his jaw clenched hard against the useless soldier’s profanity he wanted to spew into the air.

“This way, Colonel.”

Gordon led him over to one edge of the mess. As he spied the two large brown bodies, Phineas kicked out of the stirrups and jumped to the ground. “Wolfhounds,” he said, squatting by the nearest and checking the insides of the beast’s ears and then lifting its upper lip to peer at the red-stained gums.

“Anything?” the sergeant asked, walking up beside him.

Phineas straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers. “No, damn it all. No tattoos. No marks at all.”

“Just a pack gone feral, ye think?”

“No. If twelve wolfhounds were running wild through here, we would have heard about it before this.”

“Who would do this on purpose, then?”

“I damned well mean to find out, Sergeant.”

He pushed her away with one elbow before she could grab on to him. “It’s not my blood,” he grunted.

A tear ran down her cheek. “The sheep?”

Phineas nodded. “Where’s William?” he repeated.

“Going over accounts,” she returned, her voice still shaking. “Try not to upset him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Outside the office, Phineas paused. He looked liked he’d been on the losing side of a brawl, but neither did he want to wait until he’d washed and changed his clothes. Taking a breath, he rapped on the door.

“Come in.”

He opened the door to find his brother surrounded by ledger books and almanacs. “William.”

“Digby said that your Mr. Gordon went to find you,” his brother said, looking up from his scribbling.

“He did.” Digging into his pocket, Phineas pulled out thirty quid and set it on the desk. “Forty-seven sheep. We carted them into town and sold them to the butcher. They’ll likely end up as feed for the same dogs that killed them.”

“You found out to whom they belonged?”

“No ownership marks at all. But they were well fed and healthy-looking. I don’t suppose anyone else has been bothered by packs of roving dogs?”

William looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Thank you for cleaning things up.”

“Is that it? No anger, no frustration? Only ‘thank you for toting my slaughtered sheep out of the pasture’?”

“What would you have me do, Phin? Scream and stomp my feet? Run away and join the army? It’s done. Now we move forward.”

“You
move forward,” Phineas murmured. William knew precisely how to strike the most painful blow. “I’m going to make certain the way remains clear.” He turned on his heel.

“Phin!”

Keeping in mind that he’d been asked not to overset his brother, Phineas stopped his retreat. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m finished here,” he said, turning around again. “But I’m not going anywhere with things as they are.”

“I apologize,” his older brother said quietly. “I shouldn’t have s—”

“No,” Phineas cut in sharply. “Do not apologize to me. Ever.”

She descended the stairs and retrieved her aunt’s basket of yarn. On the way back down the hall she paused before the wide mirror there. This was her portrait now. Clothes clean but every day falling a little more behind the current fashion, light brown hair in the simple twisted bun she could manage without a maid’s assistance and wisps of it already coming down, a load of items fetched on someone else’s behalf in her arms.

She had thirty pounds put aside now. That would get her to London and into a rented house for a time, but it wasn’t enough. She needed to be able to earn a living once she got there. Open a shop, perhaps. But that would take more funds, which would take more time. An unexpected tear ran down one cheek. Swiftly she wiped it away, but the basket tipped and three balls of yarn bounced onto the floor.

“Drat,” she muttered, shifting the basket awkwardly beneath one arm and hurrying after the escaped yarn.

She scooped up the first ball and scrambled forward. All she needed was for her aunt to decide she was being defiant and lazy again. Because unpleasant as she found her present circumstances, they could always get worse.

“…lost forty-seven, and made thirty quid,” she heard from Richard’s office. It sounded like Lord Charles, though she hadn’t been aware that he’d come calling.

“That was quick thinking, really,” Richard returned. “Hold a moment.”

The door opened directly in front of her. Alyse straightened, nearly dropping the yarn basket. “Richard,” she squeaked. “You startled me.”

He squatted to retrieve the other two balls of yarn. “Apologies,” he said, straightening again to hand them to her. Pale blue eyes regarded her for a moment. “You should get that to my mother,” he continued.

“Yes. Yes, I shall. Thank you.” With a quick, forced smile Alyse headed for the stairs and hurried back up to the sitting room.

Low uneasiness ran through her as she delivered the yarn and then went up to her bedchamber to retrieve her basket of mending. Thirty pounds and quick thinking. What did that mean? Perhaps Phin’s insistence that something was afoot had tickled into her mind more than she’d realized. Alyse shook herself. The only thing worse than trouble would be looking for it where none existed.

“Miss Donnelly.”

She jumped again. Someone was going to give her an apoplexy today. “Lord Anthony. I hadn’t realized you were here.”

He stood in her bedchamber door, gazing at her. Counting The Frenchman, she’d now had two men in her bedchamber over the past three days. “Charles and I came to go shooting with Richard.” The duke’s grandson shifted his attention to her tiny room. “This is…cozy,” he said after a moment.

“It’s convenient if my aunt should need my assistance during the night.”

“No doubt.” Slowly he wandered into the room and over to the window where she kept her books. “I saw the Marquis of Layton during this past Season,” he said offhandedly.

Her heart dropped. “Did you?”

Lord Anthony nodded. “That American wife of his brays like a donkey when she laughs.” He sent her a sideways glance. “You read Donne?”

“I read whatever is available. I really need to return to my aunt. Feel free to borrow any book you like. Excuse me.”

“You spent your childhood here at Donnelly House, didn’t you?”

She paused on her way out the door. “Yes, I did.”

“How long have you known Lord Quence and his family?”

“All my life. We haven’t been as close in recent years, however.”

“No doubt. Colonel Bromley seems a friendly enough fellow.”

Friendly
. “Charismatic” seemed a more apt description, but she nodded anyway. “Yes.”

“Has he said how long he intends to stay on at Quence?”

“He doesn’t confide in me, Lord Anthony. Excuse me.”

Leaving him alone in her bedchamber felt unsettling, but she simply added it to the overall oddness of the day. Keeping Aunt Ernesta waiting any longer would be worse than any feeling. She was certain of that.

Twice in a handful of days, Lord Anthony Ellerby had sought her out. The old Alyse would have been flattered—he was a handsome young man, only a year or two older than herself, and he would one day inherit a substantial fortune. As things were now, she had to wonder what his motives were, and why he seemed so interested in Phin.

And if her cousin and his friends were going shooting this late in the day, she couldn’t help but think they might be hunting after something other than pheasant or quail. Specifically something that spoke French and rode like the devil.

Especially now that he’d returned her mother’s pearls, she wasn’t certain she wanted them to find The Frenchman. It would be a bit like being caught, herself.

She passed Saunders outside the sitting room door, and he sent her a fond nod. “A note arrived from Miss Bromley,” he whispered before he descended the stairs.

Aunt Ernesta was still reading it as she entered the room and took her seat again. “Where have you been?” her aunt demanded, looking up from the missive.

“Lord Anthony wanted to borrow a book,” she improvised.

“You do not want to be known as a bluestocking, Alyse.”

“I’m not a bluestocking. I simply enjoy reading when I have the chance.”

“Hm. Don’t argue with me, for heaven’s sake. And the Bromleys will not be joining us for dinner tonight. Lord Quence has a fever.” She refolded the note and set it aside. “I shouldn’t wonder if that unmanageable brother of his will be the death of him.”

“What a terrible thing to say,” Alyse exclaimed before she could bite it back. “Phin only returned home,” she continued in a calmer voice, “to help his family.”

“So
you
say.
I
think he’s returned home hoping to inherit the title. With Quence ill, it’s only a matter of time.”

Alyse felt ill, herself. Her aunt spoke about losing William the same way she talked about…pudding. It was hurtful and it was wrong, and she didn’t dare say anything about it. Not yet. One day she planned on telling Aunt Ernesta precisely how she felt.

If she knew one thing, it was that Phin wasn’t after an inheritance. He’d never been comfortable with the idea of being the family’s spare son. And aggravating as he could be, it was nice to have him back. More than nice, actually. Since he’d returned, she felt…cared for. And hopeful. Both were sensations she’d missed terribly. Almost as much as she’d missed Phin himself.