William lowered his brow and urged his horse faster with a jab of his heels, and the animal responded, hastening its pace until he could no longer make out the blurry landscape that surrounded them. Raising slightly off his saddle, he leaned into the motion, savoring the brisk wind that whipped through his hair. They sailed over the grass-covered hills that bordered the northern edge of his estate, then he pulled on the reins to turn back around.
The conversation in the morning room yesterday had affected him more than he’d shown, and considering his thunderous reaction to Eliza’s mere suggestion of a ball, that was saying a lot. That night, as he’d lain awake upon his bed in unhappy agitation, he knew there was only one real course of action from this point forward. It was to go along with his sister’s plans to find him a wife.
Surely these moments of weakness with Helen were an effect of being shut away from society for so long. He couldn’t deny that he found comfort in her presence, not to mention a fiery need to possess her that plagued him constantly. Yet even in his weaker moments, when they were alone together and he was at his most vulnerable, he could not forget about his family members and their early, undeserved demise. And he could not continue to resist the need for him to fulfill his duties to the earldom—duties that included going to this damned ball.
He rode in silence for what seemed like forever, the rhythmic sounds of his horse’s hooves striking the ground the only accompaniment to his gloomy musings. Easing up on his steed as they neared Lawton Park, he guided it into the trees for a well-earned drink at a stream, and with a jolt he realized he had guided them to the very place where he and Helen had shared their last kiss.
Muttering beneath his breath, he dismounted and allowed his horse time to recover while trying not to cave in to the temptation of reliving the experience. It would do no good to recall the way his hands had greedily sought to feel her body beneath the clinging, wet fabric of her dress, or how incredibly satisfying it had been once he did. Nor would it be of any use to remember how eagerly she had arched against him, or the sound of her moans as he’d pulled her close so she could feel how much he wanted her . . . how ready he was . . . that he could take her right there in the woods and no one would ever have to know . . .
“STOP.”
William wasn’t aware that he’d spoken aloud until seeing the startled reaction of his horse, who raised his muzzle out of the stream to regard him with an anxious whicker. Unclenching the fists that had formed at his sides, he approached the animal and ran his hands along its flank until it cautiously lowered its head again to resume drinking.
By the time he arrived back at the house, dusk was starting to fall. He felt defeated and confused, but still determined not to waver from the plan set out before him. Be the earl. Find a wife. Pretend as if Helen were just another maid.
Hurrying through the halls, he was almost desperate for the quiet solitude of his study, but the soft intonations that drifted out from the drawing room caused his pace to slow.
Holding his breath, he drew nearer to peer around the door. Helen was there—of course it would be her—and he watched in fascination while she swayed gracefully from one side of the mantelpiece to the other, polishing the woodwork as she hummed her tune. She fell silent for a moment, causing William to tense in anticipation of his discovery, but it was simply that she had finished, starting once more from the beginning after her brief pause. The song sounded like a ballroom waltz. He viewed her in mystification, thinking that it was a curious thing to hear from a housemaid. Surely the distance between them was obscuring the sound.
William knew he should leave but remained there anyway, hypnotized by the slow twirling of her dance. But it was the haunted look, deep in the hollows of her eyes, that truly gave him pause. He’d seen that same sorrowful countenance in his own reflection every day for the past eighteen months, and with a vice-like squeeze around his heart, wondered what could have possibly brought her to such a similar state.
Her sudden jump made him realize that he had ventured forward while standing there, lost in his thoughts, and he mentally kicked himself for allowing such a thing to happen. Now there was no way to avoid talking to her.
“My lord,” Helen exclaimed, eyes wide and obviously flustered. She gathered her supplies. “I beg your pardon, I was just finishing here.”
He’d had every intention of just turning around and leaving, but his curiosity got the better of him.
“That sounded like a waltz,” he said.
Helen stopped abruptly, almost as if she had collided with an invisible wall. The snow-white cap atop her head rotated as she turned to reply, hesitantly, stopping short of meeting his eyes.
“Not at all, my lord,” she answered. “I’m certain the only waltzes to be heard in this house will be the ones at your upcoming ball.”
Her tone wasn’t defensive exactly, but given the current state of his mood, he found her comment did not sit well with him.
“I’m glad you brought that up,” he ground out. “Eliza is right, you know. As the earl, I have certain . . . obligations.”
The troubled look returned to darken her features. Perhaps it had never left. “I am aware of that, of course.”
“They are duties that don’t include you.”
Helen recoiled, then narrowed her eyes. “Thank you for clearing that up,” she replied bitterly. “You’ll be relieved to know it is not my place to question you one way or the other.”
William could hear the tenuous edge to her voice, sense the heartache lurking beneath her biting exterior. He wished he could go to her now, as she had gone to him before, and take her hand. Assure her that it was better this way. That continuing with this madness was not a kindness to either of them. Instead, he backed away and attempted to bolster his own resolve with an authoritative lift of his chin.
“I’m glad we understand each other.”
“As am I.”
This was necessary, but God it hurt. He knew her pull on him had never just been about something as straightforward as lust. It had been his attraction to a like mind, a kindred spirit. Someone who, despite their vast difference in station, could somehow relate. A woman who could bring him out of his wretched thoughts with a simple touch of her hand, or a softly spoken word.
Remembering those times made him want to sink to his knees and beg for forgiveness, and his head dropped in regret.
“Helen, I—”
I’m sorry.
But Helen had already left the room.
Mr. Scanlan arrived two days later, presenting an impressive display in his richly decorated carriage and finely tailored suit, and accompanied by his own well-appointed valet.
Since the earl’s meeting with him had been postponed due to Rosa’s disappearance, Ashworth had chosen to invite the man to his home for a brief stay. The irony of avoiding Scanlan for so long after the accident, then entertaining him as a guest, was not lost on William. But he meant to move on with his life, and this was a good step towards doing so. He would be exploring the business venture his father had shown an interest in before his death.
Mrs. Malone had been simultaneously pleased that he was receiving a visitor, and disconcerted that the man was in trade. However, as she had commented to Clara earlier that morning, she took comfort in the fact that Scanlan was cousin to a distant noble acquaintance of the earl. This made the seemingly common guest more palatable, even if just by a tiny bit.
Despite Mrs. Malone’s opinion on the matter, when Scanlan finally arrived, it was clear there was an undeniable air of charm about him. After disembarking from his carriage, the man bowed to the earl, then reached out to firmly shake his hand. He was roughly forty years of age, his black hair sprinkled becomingly with gray.
“My lord, it is a pleasure to meet with you again in person after so long.” The taciturn acknowledgment of Ashworth’s disastrous departure from Manchester remained unspoken between them.
William tipped his head politely in Scanlan’s direction, although he suddenly felt a wave of nausea. “And you as well,” he replied evenly. “I hope your trip from Hastings was uneventful.”
Mr. Scanlan shrugged. “The weather on the coast cannot be relied on this time of year, although I enjoy the excitement of a good squall as much as anyone, I expect,” he said with a small smile.
Ashworth stepped closer to Eliza and gestured to his guest. “Lady Cartwick, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Scanlan.”
Eliza extended her hand in greeting while Rosa gazed up, clinging fast to her mother’s skirts.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir, and welcome to Lawton Park,” said Eliza. She looked down at her daughter with a wry expression. “This is my daughter, Rosa.”
The man took her hand and bowed with a deferential flourish. “Lady Cartwick, such a pleasure. And Miss Rosa, what a delight. I was happy to hear you were brought back home from your recent misadventures, safe and sound.”
Eliza bowed her head. “It was a relief to us all.”
“Let us get you settled,” William said, taking a step closer to the house and glancing at Mrs. Malone.
“Indeed. I thank you.”
Mrs. Malone nodded at Matthew and Charles, and both men rushed forward to relieve the carriage of its trunks. Mr. Scanlan’s valet joined them, and the group headed towards the side entrance.
As Clara stole a glimpse at the earl, she noticed that Scanlan’s eyes drifted casually in the direction of the servants poised along the drive, then snapped back to linger on Amelia. More surprising was when he tipped his head in greeting to the red-headed maid as he passed.
“Why hello, Amelia.”
She smiled at Scanlan in reply and dipped into a polite curtsy.
“Mr. Scanlan.”
Clara glanced over to see Mrs. Malone scowl from across the drive. Scanlan returned his focus to the earl before him and resumed his pace.
“What was that all about?” whispered Stella, glancing over.
Amelia laughed lightly. “I worked in a household near Mr. Scanlan’s a few years back,” she replied under her breath. “We saw each other in town on occasion.” She shrugged. “It was nothing. But I don’t mind the chance to make Matthew a bit jealous,” she added with satisfaction.
Clara had been intrigued, listening to the murmured discourse between Stella and Amelia, when the latter glanced over and pierced her with a black look.
“What are you looking at?” Her tone was not civil.
Clara rolled her eyes and turned away, wishing for a moment that she could reveal herself as Clara Mayfield and put the shrewish Amelia in her place. A small smile danced across her lips as she imagined the scenario. Then, with a sigh, she followed the rest of the servants into the house.
Due to the small party, dinner that evening was an intimate affair. Ashworth had taken the liberty of inviting Lord Evanston, to round out the number of guests, and he was next to him now as they received bowls filled with a creamy celery soup. The earl glanced over at Mr. Scanlan, who was conversing with Eliza while they ate. Her laugh rang out across the table at some amusing comment, and Evanston eyed them warily.
Ashworth’s impression of the man was positive. It was obvious he was well-versed in business dealings, and possessed much of the tact generally required to woo potential investors to the table.
“Lady Cartwick,” Scanlan murmured after a sip of wine. “Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I do know of your great loss, and I am sorry for it.” He glanced at William. “For the loss all of you have suffered. I can see you are still mourning for your husband,” he added, gesturing to the deep violet of her evening gown, “but also can’t help but notice your enduring vivacity. Have you considered attending the London season next year? I feel society could greatly benefit from a woman such as yourself.”
“Why do you ask?” Thomas demanded from his side of the table.
Ignoring the viscount, Eliza turned to face Mr. Scanlan. “It is something I have discussed with my brother,” she said simply.
Lord Evanston choked on his soup, and William surveyed his friend with some amusement. “Surely, that is no surprise,” he muttered under his breath.
“No, not at all,” Thomas assured him reluctantly, his eyes watering. “I’m only shocked to just be hearing about it.”
“That is excellent news,” exclaimed Scanlan happily. “You are young, my lady, and it would be a waste for such beauty to hide away in the country forever.”
“I am young, because I was married young.” She brought her wineglass to her lips, taking a long swallow before returning it to its position on the linen tablecloth. “Mr. Cartwick was a good man, and a good father. While I detest the necessity of finding another husband, I cannot deny its importance, nor the security it will provide.”
Scanlan nodded grimly. “Mr. Cartwick was a fine man. I had the privilege of meeting him briefly in Manchester. Please don’t misunderstand me. I ask not out of disregard of your affection for him, but only because I am sure he would wish to see you and your daughter cared for in his absence.”
Lord Ashworth glanced across the table at his sister with pride. He admired her greatly, not just for her poise in handling the social intricacies of her situation, but for the resilience she had shown over the past year and a half. While descended from noble lineage, Reginald Cartwick had not been of the peerage himself. As a member of the landed gentry, however, his ancient name and massive land holdings had gained him the significant respect of the aristocracy, and his pleasant demeanor had placed him highly in their father’s estimation. She had been married young, a move he’d disagreed with at the time, but their father had been certain that the match would work well for her.
William couldn’t say he’d been wrong; although not entirely a love match, the pair had grown into a mutual affection that had lasted until Cartwick’s untimely death. Through it all, Eliza had shown an incredible fortitude—something he hadn’t known she’d possessed. She would need to draw on this strength to sustain both her and Rosa in the trying months to come, as the final entailment of her late husband’s property meant they were now losing their home in Hampshire.
Her letter months ago had spurred the earl into action, and he’d spent these many busy weeks making arrangements for them to relocate to the estate’s Dower House, while she had worked to tie up affairs back home. Staying close to her remaining family was Eliza’s preference. Financially, she was secure, but even if the late Earl of Ashworth had not made annual provisions for his daughter, which he had, William would not have permitted the awful event that took the lives of their father, brother, and her husband to cast her into precarious circumstances.
The disharmonious clank of a fork against a fine china plate brought Ashworth back into the present moment, and he followed the sound to his friend. Lord Evanston, looking displeased in the wavering light of the candelabra, flashed a bright blue glare in Scanlan’s direction.
“I thought you came to discuss cotton mills?” he asked hotly, his eyes settling on the target of his annoyance.
Ashworth’s head came up in surprise. Evanston knew the discussion was planned for the morrow. What on earth was he doing?
Well, he would sit back and see where Scanlan took this.
Eliza’s fine brow creased at Thomas. “He meant no offense.”
“No, no, it was a bold question and I take full responsibility for it,” replied Scanlan. “I am willing to change the subject if the earl is amenable?”
William nodded at him, and Scanlan took a few seconds to compose himself accordingly.
“Well my lord, as we have discussed, Manchester has seen a great boom in textile mills, particularly cotton mills—”
His dialogue was interrupted by the arrival of the footmen presenting the next dish, which was poached fish in herb-scented broth with root vegetables. Scanlan took the opportunity to lean forward and breathe in the hot steam rising from his plate.
“Magnificent, my lord. Are these fish from your own estate?”
The earl nodded. “Nearly everything is from my estate.” He gestured for him to continue. “You were speaking of cotton mills . . .”
Diversifying the family’s interests was something his father had intended to do for quite some time. With the exponential increase in profitable mills and factories in the north, England had seen an increase in both population growth and profitability. Ashworth was still eager to find out more about investing in an endeavor that had the potential to provide jobs to so many, although he and his brother had both been concerned about the quality of living for the mill workers. Their tour of Manchester had been enough to convince him that, were he to finance a mill, either wholly or in part, steps would need to be taken to ensure health and safety for all.
Scanlan tucked his napkin more firmly over his lap and picked up his fork and knife. “Indeed. As you may remember, Manchester is happily suited to this type of endeavor. Water and coal provide affordable steam power for the mills, and through many technological advances, the production process is now fully mechanized.”
“Yes, I know about Manchester, its canals and the ease of transporting goods and coal,” said William. “What I need you to remind me of, however, is why I should invest in a mill with you.”
Mr. Scanlan, unhurried, skewered a small piece of fish with his fork and ate it. “You should invest with me, my lord, because I have nearly twenty years of experience in manufacturing and textiles. I have factories throughout Manchester and the surrounding area, including Salford and Rochdale . . .”
“Right,” interrupted the earl, “but you approached me this year with the notion of building a cotton mill on the level of Cambridge Street, with nearly two thousand employees. That will require an immense amount of capital and, you will forgive me, but your small factories of two hundred employees provide little in the way of assurance that my money will be well appropriated in this new venture.”
Scanlan halted his meal and glanced at his host. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Of course, my lord, you seek precedents. In lieu of those, I hope you will find reassurance in the fact that I have found great success with my factories to date, and am well acquainted with many of the mill owners in the north. I feel they have established a productive model that we would do right to emulate—”
“Productive it may be, but I have seen these mills and the conditions are abhorrent,” Ashworth replied evenly. “Any investment I am involved with in Manchester will have measures included to make improvements for workers. This is not negotiable.”
Scanlan set down his fork and dabbed discreetly at his mouth with a napkin. “I will take another look at the numbers, my lord. But you should be aware that any additional improvements over and above the standard set by other mills will add to your expenses considerably.” After a pause, he said, “Perhaps finding an additional investor would help ease your anxieties?”
At this, his attention shifted from Lord Ashworth to Lord Evanston, whose eyes widened. The viscount snorted.
“You’ve got some brass—” His black hair glinted as he glanced at the earl’s sister, who was demurely attempting to conceal her amusement with her napkin. Rather than continue with that line of thought, he took a breath and started anew. “Fine. I’ll tell you what . . . if you can present the figures for both scenarios, then Lord Ashworth and I will examine the numbers together. But for the record,” he added, deftly raising an eyebrow at Scanlan, “I have never expressed an interest in this project. I make no guarantees or promises.”
“Nor should you,” Ashworth interjected. “The concern is not about the capital.”
Scanlan was unruffled, looking first at him, and then to Evanston. “I will have both versions of the proposal ready for your review within the next two days.”
Normally, Ashworth preferred investing with like-minded people. It worried him that Scanlan did not necessarily appreciate the benefits of improving conditions for factory workers, but he was not taken aback. There was very little concern shown at all within the current climate of Manchester. He was still willing to give the tradesman a chance given his experience and considerable expertise, with the hope that he could perhaps be swayed in time.
“We will review the matter then,” he said, with a polite tip of his head.
Amber shafts of late-morning sunlight illuminated the stairwell as Clara journeyed to Mr. Scanlan’s room with her cargo, the china tea set jiggling upon the silver tray as she stepped carefully up the stairs.
This morning, the earl had ridden out to meet with his tenant farmers, no doubt for an update on whether the flooding on their property had improved with the recent alterations. Ashworth’s business associate had declined to join him on the excursion, instead choosing to shut himself up in his chambers and ringing the bell to request a pot of tea so he could continue working on his proposals in privacy. Since Eliza and Rosa had taken the carriage to spend the day shopping in the village, the estate had been left curiously devoid of family members.
As Clara neared the man’s room, she heard a strange noise from down the hallway. It was an odd sound, akin to a muffled cry. She froze in place, gazing alertly in the direction of Eliza’s bedchambers. The earl’s sister was not in the house, which meant if anyone was in her room, it was likely a servant. She tried to recall whether Amelia or Stella was working upstairs this morning.
She reached over to knock on Mr. Scanlan’s door, wanting to shed her burden so that she could go investigate. But she jumped in surprise as another shriek issued from down the hall. Quickly she crouched down and placed the tray on the floor outside his bedchamber, then hurried down the hall. Seeing the door was ajar, she curled her fingers around the edge and eased it open. She spied a discarded feather duster lying haphazardly on the floor, and peered in further.
Mr. Scanlan was there, using the bulk of his weight to press Amelia down onto the bed. The terrified housemaid was fighting him, but she was obviously about to lose this battle. One of the man’s large hands was clamped firmly over her mouth while the other reached down to grab at her skirts. Amelia twisted and clawed frantically at his hair and face, and he relinquished his hold on her mouth to detain her wrists above her head instead.
She sobbed as she continued to fight him off.
“No! Please!”
“Quiet,” he snapped, his voice guttural in a way that made bile rise in Clara’s throat. “Be still.”
Clara had heard tales of servants, especially women, being abused by their masters or even guests. But she had not thought Scanlan capable of such brutality. Until witnessing it herself, she could not have understood the awful reality of it, though her few moments with Baron Rutherford had given her some idea of the horror of such a situation.
Her eyes searched the room for something that would function as a weapon. The vase on the side table . . . too small and light. Letter opener . . . too lethal. Stepping backwards, she surveyed the hallway, spotting the silver teapot on the floor. That could work, but it contained scalding hot liquid that could disfigure him, or worse, harm Amelia. Then she spied the silver salver beneath it. It would have to do.
Quickly, she ran over and unloaded the tea set, placing each item noiselessly on the floor. Gripping the hefty tray, she entered the room once more to approach the pair from behind. Clara’s stomach roiled hearing Amelia weep beneath Scanlan. Tasting the bitter flavor of her own fear, she swallowed hard and tiptoed forward. She needed to act fast—the element of surprise would be the only way for her to triumph over a man his size. Clara raised the salver over her right shoulder and it caught a ray of sunlight, gleaming brightly as she angled her arms for maximum force.
“Mr. Scanlan!”
Surprised, he rose upwards from his victim and Clara twisted her body with all her might, striking him hard on the side of his head. Scanlan collapsed next to Amelia with an unpleasant grunt, and sobbing, the maid scrambled off the bed to safety, taking refuge behind a bedpost. The man moaned and clutched his head, but still managed to push himself upright.
He spun around groggily to face them. Clara could see a large knot growing near his hairline as they stared at him, paralyzed, unsure of whom he would lunge for first. Both women started for the door simultaneously, but Scanlan reached out and snagged Clara by the arm before she could reach a safe distance. Furious eyes greeted her when she turned to look over her shoulder.
“Get back here, you bitch,” he sputtered.
She cried out in distress and Amelia whirled around, her eyes wide.
“Go find help!” Clara shouted at her, just before he jerked her around to face him, his arm cocked back. With no time to dodge, she took the full force of his vicious, close-fisted blow. The impact caused bright stars to scatter across her vision, and she flew backwards to land in a heap. Stunned, she lifted her head to a spinning room.
He came at her again, but stopped abruptly at the sound of Amelia’s screams echoing through the halls and receding. Knowing the remaining household would descend momentarily, he rose, enraged, and rushed from the bedchamber, leaving her laid out on Eliza’s soft, beautifully patterned carpet.
Clara lowered her elbows and squeezed her eyes shut in relief, wincing at the resulting pain. Distantly, she registered the sound of approaching footsteps thudding down the hallway, before a greedy black void claimed her utterly.
When she awoke she was in the servants’ hall belowstairs. She was seated on a bench at the far side of the room next to someone she could not see, the person hugging her tightly while holding a cool, wet cloth to her cheek. Many voices swirled around her. They were angry, worried voices, and in her bleary state, it was impossible to focus on the thread of the conversation. All she knew in this moment was that her face hurt and her head was pounding. She shifted uncomfortably as her regained consciousness brought a wave of nausea along with it.
“She’s waking!”
“Helen, can you hear me?” cried a woman’s voice next to her. Slowly, she managed to lift her head and behold the face of the person holding her in their arms. To her shock, it was Amelia. Clara furrowed her brow in confusion and struggled to sit upright, pushing away as Amelia tried to keep her close. Mrs. Malone’s was the next voice she heard.
“You must relax, Helen. You’ve taken an awful blow to your head,” she added quietly.
Clara gazed up blurrily at the housekeeper’s serious face. Exhausted, she allowed her head to collapse back against Amelia’s shoulder as the housemaid tended to her. The tense discussion continued to buzz until the intrusive clatter of footsteps interrupted, approaching from down the staircase and coming into the hall.
“His lordship’s just arrived back at the estate,” she heard Charles exclaim breathlessly.
“And Matthew is with him?” asked the housekeeper.
Charles nodded.
“Good. Don’t leave him alone. One or both of you must be with him at all times . . .”
She was cut off mid-sentence by the sound of more footsteps now thundering down the staircase. The large group in the dining hall parted as Lord Ashworth pushed forcefully through them. Matthew caught up a few moments later to stand beside Amelia, out of breath, and shot an apologetic glance at the stern-faced Mrs. Malone.
“Sorry. He’s quick.”
With the arrival of the earl, Clara struggled again to sit up. Something important must be going on, she only wished she knew what it was. Amelia assisted her, gently gripping her arms and pulling her into a seated position.
The hall had gone strangely silent. And as she glanced blearily at the earl, she understood why.
He looked like he was about to murder someone.
Ashworth’s fists were clenched and his chest heaved. His eyes were black, dilated pools, full of rage, and they darted from Clara to Amelia, not missing Amelia’s ripped seams and mussed hair.
“Are you well?” His deep voice was simultaneously irate and sympathetic. Clara wasn’t sure how he managed that.
Amelia nodded. “Just a few bruises, thanks to her.” She dipped her head towards Clara.
Clara recoiled in shock at the housemaid’s statement, twisting on the bench to stare at Amelia. She could remember nothing of what she was referring to, and icy spirals of panic began spreading through her chest. She gripped Amelia’s sleeve tightly.
“What’s happened?” she croaked.
The earl came forward to kneel before her. His hands reached out, seemingly to take both of hers, then he pulled them back with a subtle glance at the group of concerned servants.
Ashworth searched her eyes urgently, running a fingertip gently down her bruised cheek. Clara flinched and hissed in pain, turning away to avoid his inspection.
“Please don’t. That hurts.”
The earl frowned. “You’ve been injured and I need to examine you,” he responded. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
There was a slight pause. “Who am I?”
“You’re the . . . Earl of Ashworth?”
Uncertainty crossed his features at her reply. “And do you know your name?”
“Of course,” she answered. “I’m Clara Mayfield.”
A collective gasp erupted throughout the room and Clara jerked in surprise, tears shining in her eyes. She could hear Amelia utter in awe behind her, “He hit her so hard, she thinks she’s a Mayfield.”
Ashworth tersely raised a hand to silence the servants, then reached forward to grasp her hand, his eyes fearful.
“What have I done wrong?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he murmured softly, reassuringly. “You need to rest.”
Lord Ashworth remained crouched before her for a long moment. Mrs. Malone was staring mournfully at them, but snapped to attention when the earl rose.
“Fetch the doctor. For both of them,” he demanded. “Where is Scanlan’s valet?”
“Upstairs with his master, my lord.”
“They’d better be packed,” the earl spat. “Bring their carriage round. Now.”
With that, Ashworth turned and pushed back the way he’d come. The next noise they heard was him blasting through the green baize door.
“Go follow him before he kills the man!” Mrs. Malone yelped to the footmen in rising alarm.
Matthew and Charles snapped out of their daze and bolted abovestairs to catch up with the earl.