The peddler, well aware that he'd been the subject of the conversation, decided he was close to outstaying his welcome in Lulworth. He'd planted his mantraps in the undergrowth on the manor approach to Webster's Pond, and perhaps it was time to move on to the next village, staking out the traps at dawn until they caught what they were intended to catch.
Of course, it was always possible they'd snap up another victim by accident, but poachers got what they deserved. An accidental victim, however, would be spared the bullet in the head… or perhaps "spared" wasn't the correct word. The bullet would put a man out of his misery when the vicious teeth bit into bone and sinew. Gamekeepers had been known to leave men screaming in those traps for days sometimes before loss of blood brought an end to their suffering.
The peddler grinned, picking his teeth. He'd enjoyed a succulent rabbit stew for his midday meal. That Mrs. Woods was a cook to steal a man's heart away. He'd be sorry to move on.
Theo completed her afternoon's business and rode home, still unable to come to terms with the image of a disabled Edward. He was such a sportsman, so agile and swift, a superb marksman, a bruising rider to hounds, such a physical being…
Tears blinded her again, and she hurried across the hall and upstairs, heading straight for her old room, feeling the need to touch childhood memories that would bring Edward alive for her.
Foster, who knew everything that occurred under the roof of Stoneridge Manor, informed his lordship, when asked, that he would find Lady Theo in her old bedroom. The butler's face was impassive, his tone as politely distant as always, but Sylvester could read his unease beneath the tranquil tones.
"Thank you, Foster. You've heard the news about Lieutenant Fairfax?"
"Yes, my lord. A great tragedy. Mr. Fairfax is a fine gentleman… one of the finest, if I might be so bold." Foster straightened a stack of papers on the library desk. "He'll make Lady Emily a fine husband."
"I'm sure," Sylvester said, going to the door. He strode up the stairs. Outside Theo's door he hesitated, wondering why he was pursuing her when she'd made it so clear that she wanted to be left alone. But something wouldn't let him walk away. She was his wife when all was said and done, and she was in pain.
Quietly, he lifted the latch and eased the door open. Theo was sitting on the window seat, her forehead resting against the panes, her body very still.
He was about to close the door again, when she said without turning her head, "Sylvester?"
"May I come in?"
"If you wish."
There was no welcome in the flat statement, it was much more "If you must."
Regretting his impulse, he left her without another word, closing the door quietly. He was an intrusion on her grief, an irrelevancy when it came to her beloved friend's agonies. Well, he'd know better another time.
He went back to the library and the ledgers, telling himself that if comforting his wife was one marital obligation he didn't have, he should be grateful. Somehow, though, he couldn't be convinced. He kept thinking of Edward Fairfax. Theo wouldn't have rejected solace from that quarter.
Alone, Theo rocked herself on the window seat, hugging her breasts with crossed arms. Why had she sent him away so coldly? She didn't know, except that she couldn't imagine opening her soul to him. It wasn't that kind of marriage.
A great wave of sorrow engulfed her, and her head drooped against the window again, the glass cool against her hot forehead as she wept, no longer sure whether she wept for Edward or for herself.
Chapter Thirteen
Lawyer Crighton was not comfortable. His neighbor on the London-to-Dorchester stagecoach was a particularly fat lady festooned with boxes, parcels, and hampers. She was on her way to her daughter's confinement and clearly transporting all her worldly goods. She was also an inveterate talker and rattled on continuously with a minute description of every member of her large family and their own extended circles, until he wished every one of them a peaceful but speedy demise.
The man opposite did nothing to alleviate Mr. Crighton's discomforts. He slept throughout the journey, snoring loudly, his open mouth exuding a fetid aroma of stale beer and onions. His farmer's boots were caked with manure and his legs stretched across the narrow space between the two benches, his feet firmly planted between the lawyer's own.
A nervous lady with a canary in a cage and an obstreperous little boy completed the stage's way bill, and after the child had kicked the lawyer's shins for the umpteenth time and the fat lady had offered him a greasy bacon sandwich that turned his stomach, Mr. Crighton was ready to abandon his seat inside for the seat on the box next to the coachman. But he had on his best coat and new Hessians, and the roads were thick with white dust in the still sweltering summer heat.
It was late morning when the stage drew up in the courtyard of the Dorchester Arms, and the lawyer climbed stiffly down, bidding a heartfelt farewell to his fellow travelers. He stood pressing his hands into the small of his back to relieve the ache, squinting up at the bright sunshine.
"Well, good day to ye, Lawyer Crighton." The landlord bustled across the cobbled yard, wiping his hands on his baize apron. "It's that time again, is it?" He snapped his fingers at a liveried inn servant. "Take the gentleman's bag to his usual room, Fred. Yes, sir," he went on to Crighton, his good-natured face wreathed in smiles. "Can't think where the time goes. It'll be Christmas before we blink."
Lawyer Crighton nodded his agreement to this and followed the landlord into the cool, oak-beamed tap room.
"Ye'll take a bumper of porter, sir," the landlord said, rhetorically. The lawyer paid quarterly visits to the Dorchester Arms when he came to do routine business with his landowning clients in the county, and his tastes and habits were well-known to the innkeeper. He set a pewter tankard on the shiny mahogany surface of the bar counter. "The missus is preparin' a nice saddle of mutton for dinner, and I'll fetch ye up a bottle of best burgundy."
Mr. Crighton took a deep, revivifying swallow of porter, wiped his mouth on his handkerchief, and declared, "I'll be going to Stoneridge Manor directly, Mr. Grimsby. If you'd be so good as to have the pony put to the gig."
The innkeeper nodded, understanding that the lawyer expected an invitation to dine at Stoneridge, as had been standard practice in the days of the old earl. Of course, things might be different now, no one had yet formed a definite opinion on the new Lord Stoneridge, but with Lady Theo still at the helm things couldn't change too drastically.
"I'll be doing business with Squire Greenham tomorrow," the lawyer said deliberately. Again Mr. Grimsby nodded. The squire was not known for his hospitality, and a saddle of mutton at the Dorchester Arms would not come amiss on that occasion.
"I'll tell the ostler to see to the gig, then," he said comfortably. "But maybe ye'd like a nice meat pie as a spot of nuncheon before you go."
Lawyer Crighton acceded to this and settled down in a window alcove looking out on the busy main street of the county town. He enjoyed these quarterly visits to his country-based clients. It was more like a holiday than business, he reflected with a little nod of satisfaction, and a real pleasure to leave the dust and grime and noise of London for a couple of days.
Theo was walking down to the dower house in the early afternoon with an armful of roses for her mother's drawing room. It was very hot, and halfway down the drive she stopped and perched on a fallen log in the shade of an ancient oak, closing her eyes, inhaling the fragrance of the roses, listening to the drowsy bumbling of a bee in the clover-strewn grass at her feet.