Maynard woke with a pounding heart. He glanced over at the clock: three in the morning.
What did the dream mean? He must be more troubled about the note than he’d thought. He trusted the men in the brotherhood—men who believed in philanthropy without the egregious self-congratulatory posturing that accompanied most charitable works. But he couldn’t shake the idea that someone from the Black Scroll didn’t want him at the ball tonight. Didn’t want him in his own summer house.
Early as it was, he gave up on sleep and dressed. Perhaps a visit to the college’s stable would settle his disquiet. He’d always found the company of horses soothing. Ever since he was a boy, the summers spent on his uncle’s farm were more pleasurable than anywhere else. He could read a horse’s mood, and understood its temperament.
As Maynard made his way to the stable, he thought more about the Black Scroll. Some things had been odd about the Brotherhood lately: Isley’s request that he place an order with his brother-in-law, a jeweler, for cufflinks and a pin emblazoned with the symbol of the organization. Too few to be given to each member, certainly, and Maynard hadn’t seen them distributed to anyone. Then there was the request that he open his summer house early, to host the Masquerade Ball.
But it wasn’t the Brotherhood as a whole that was odd, he realized. During membership meetings, the same few men—Isley among them—broke away afterward to talk among themselves. Were they responsible for the bogus message? But why lure him away from his own home? What in blazes was going on?
There was only one solution: Maynard had to see for himself. Surely, President Langdon wouldn’t mind if he borrowed his new buggy, even at this hour.
At the stable, Maynard was greeted with a sleepy whinny from Ransom, a sturdy black Frisian. Maynard rubbed the velvety nose that was thrust his way and glanced into Chestnut’s stall.
Chestnut was gone.