“She has told you nothing?” Officer Farley asked again, his hands clasped behind his rigid back and his nearly invisible brows rising toward the brim of his hat.
“She apparently saw very little, being occupied by the difficulties presented by the waves and wind,” Blackwold repeated, staring past the Customs Officer’s shoulder to the winding road leading back to Blackrock Manor. He contemplated pointing out that they wouldn’t have needed to question Hannah if Farley hadn’t sent him on a wild goose chase the very night that the wreckers had lured the Orion to her doom, virtually on Blackrock Manor’s doorstep.
But there was no point in arguing about the past.
Farley frowned. “You said she saw the leader.”
“His back. Backs are notoriously difficult to identify.”
The officer had the grace to look abashed. He glanced down at the rutted dirt road and shifted his booted feet. “There is nothing else, my lord?”
“No. I have repeatedly questioned Miss Cowles. Her story has remained consistent. As I may have mentioned, if there is any additional information, I will send word to you. There is no need to meet otherwise.”
“Yes, my lord.” Farley pressed his hat more firmly on his head. “Much obliged, my lord.” A cascade of polite thanks, mingled with obsequious apologies, erupted as Blackwold turned and walked away.
“Idiot,” Blackwold muttered under his breath as he rounded the curve in the road before the drive straightened to lead directly to Blackrock’s massive stone portico, sheltering the front door.
The sight of the manor, ungainly though it might be with various additions jutting out at odd angles, chimneys dotting the jumble of roofs, and the seemingly random placement of windows, never failed to make him smile. It seemed as rumpled and comfortable as an old jacket.
Home.
Instead of going in the front door, he walked around to the stables. A ride would clear his head and perhaps allow him to develop another strategy for identifying the man responsible for so many tragic deaths. While he enjoyed his three a.m. talks with Hannah, they were proving to be less helpful than he had hoped.
Nonetheless, he had the niggling thought that she’d seen more than she was willing to admit. If only she trusted him…
The frantic activities of two grooms, running thither and yon in the stable yard caught his attention. Increasing his pace, he strode through the gate and caught the youngest man, Jim, by the arm.
The groom turned a pale face to him. Sweat beaded his brow as he gulped for air. He blinked, recognized Blackwold, and grew so white that the freckles on his face stood out starkly.
“My lord!” he yelped.
“What has happened?”
“It be that mare—Hera.”
“Hera?” A knot clenched his gut. While generally docile, the horse was easily spooked. “Was anyone injured?” He grabbed the young man’s flapping waistcoat. “One of the women?”
Jim’s eyes rolled up in his head, flashing white in the sunlight.
For a moment, Blackwold thought he was going to faint, and he gave the groom a shake before repeating, “Is anyone injured?”
“Don’t know, my lord,” he moaned. “Gone—she be gone—clean as the wind.”
“Gone?” He glanced around. The gate leading to the garden path hung open. He pushed the lad away. “Get a rope and bridle. Now!”
“Yes, my lord.” The groom stumbled away.
Blackwold strode to the garden gate and waited. New green growth had appeared—vegetation a horse might want to investigate. Less than a minute later, Jim came running back, a rope and bridle hanging from his hands.
“Come with me,” Blackwold said, grabbing the items from the groom and striding through the gate.
Halfway down through the garden he paused. The horse wasn’t far away—he could hear the heavy thudding of hooves.
“The cliffs, my lord!” the groom exclaimed, pointing. “She be heading for the cliffs!”
Blackwold nodded and raced in that direction. The horse had too much sense to gallop over the edge, but he’d noticed that Hannah liked to walk along the path that followed the edge. She showed absolutely no fear of heights, which normally would be cause for admiration, but at the moment, only tightened the fist of anxiety strangling his gut.
Sure enough, when they cleared the last of the hedges bordering the garden proper, he saw the gray horse, Hera, neighing and cantering over the rough turf. Miss Cowles stood on the cliff path facing them and the horse.
Stay still! He prayed the horse hadn’t seen her, hadn’t noticed the white gown draping her solitary figure.
A gust of wind whispered around them, lifting the hair off his forehead. The hem of her gown rippled.
The horse, seeing the movement, jerked back a step. Snorting and rolling her eyes, Hera stamped the ground and then reared on her hind legs.
When he’d purchased the horse, she was described as very docile and well-behaved. And she was—as long as she encountered only men. There was something about women—and the flapping of women’s skirts—that drove the animal mad with fear. He’d warned his family, and the ladies gave the horse a wide berth, but Hannah didn’t know.
“Hera!” Blackwold called in a strong, calm voice, striding toward the animal. “Don’t move, Miss Cowles. And keep your skirts under control.”
He was too far away to see the expression on her face, but Hannah, apparently sensing danger, pulled and twisted her skirts into a tight corkscrew around her limbs.
Jim edged around Blackwold and began a flanking movement.
Dancing nervously, Hera pawed the earth and flung her head up. Once again, she eyed Hannah, for all the world as if trying to judge how best to force her over the cliff. The horse cantered a few more steps toward the woman and jerked violently again in response to another, stronger gust of wind.
The ribbons on Hannah’s bonnet fluttered, and the hem of her shawl flapped.
Blackwold was almost to the horse. He could feel the heat pouring off the animal’s flanks. Under her sweaty coat, her muscles rippled as she prepared to leap forward.
“I’ve got her by the mane, my lord!” Jim’s voice called.
Hera reared again, flinging off the groom. Her front legs pawed the air before she dropped with a thud.
At that instant, Blackwold flung the rope around her neck and flung his arm over her neck. His arm swept around her head to hide her eyes. If she couldn’t see Hannah, she wouldn’t be afraid.
“Hera—easy, girl,” he murmured into the horse’s twitching ear.
The groom grabbed the bridle out of his hand and quickly shoved the bit into the horse’s mouth. Blackwold moved the horse’s head so that he could stand between the horse and Hannah, blocking the animal’s view, all the while stroking her neck and murmuring soothing words.
“Get her back to the stable,” he said when Jim finished adjusting the bridle.
“Yes, my lord.” Jim turned to lead the horse back, careful to keep her facing away from the cliff.
“Wait—Jim. How did Hera get out of her stall?”
The groom looked at him, his dark eyes as white-rimmed and panicked looking as Hera’s had been. “Sorry, my lord. I never seen—Tom and I just seen the door open—right before you came.”
“Who else was in the stable? Or stable yard?”
“I—I doesn’t know, my lord. Honest. Mr. Henry and the vicar arrived, and we was busy with their gig—we never saw what happened.”
Once again, he was left wondering which of his male relatives might wish to arrange an accident for Hannah to prevent her from remembering anything useful. They all knew about Hera and her fear of women. Releasing the horse was sure to result in a tragic accident. There was always a stiff breeze sweeping in from the ocean, and they all knew Hannah’s custom of walking along the cliff path. Her skirts were certain to flutter in the wind, and Hera could be depended upon to fly into a fit of terror at the sight, either killing Hannah outright with her hooves or sending her over the edge.
“Very good, Jim. Walk her around the yard before you rub her down. And lock the bloody stall door.”
“Yes, my lord.” Jim led the horse away.
Head hanging docilely, Hera followed Jim, the entire incident forgotten by the animal.
Blackwold turned to find Hannah hurrying toward him.
“What happened?” she asked. Her pale skirts fluttered in the brisk wind.
“Hera—that horse—got out of her stall. Like many of us, she has a horror of women.” His mouth twisted wryly as he held out his arm and waited for Hannah to slip her gloved hand through.
“Horror, indeed.” In an attempt not to laugh, she snorted, and her blue eyes twinkled as brightly as the clear sky beyond her. “It is a wonder to me that the British race can manage to survive at all if half the population maintains a horror of the other half.”
“It is a miracle, is it not?” he asked with a bland expression fixed on his face.
“Miracle, indeed.” She snorted and shook her head as he drew her toward the house.
He smiled and pressed her fingers against his arm. “Thank you for listening.” Relief swelled in him when he considered what might have happened to the lovely woman walking next to him.
“You can thank my father—he taught us well when we were in the wilderness of North America. You learn very quickly when to obey and when to argue, or you are likely to find yourself in the embrace of a Grizzly Bear. Or worse.”
“Is there worse?”
She shivered, and the corners of her mouth drooped. “Oh, yes. Rattlesnakes. I cannot abide poisonous snakes.” Her voice grew low and somber. “My youngest sister, Eleanor, was struck by one. She perished—it was terrible.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” Her words quavered with grief, and her grip on his arm tightened. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at him. “Why do you keep that horse if she is so dangerous?”
“I have no wish to see her put down. I believe, in time, I might be able to convince her to forget her fear.” He shrugged.
“You are very kind. I wish you luck—I truly do.”
They climbed the steps to the terrace in silence, and they were within a yard of the French doors when Georgina burst outside.
“Hannah! I have been waiting for you for ages! Grandmother has received the latest copy of La Belle Assemblée!” She grabbed Miss Cowles’s hand and dragged her away from Blackwold. “Come—you must see—there is the most elegant mourning dress you can imagine!”
Bereft of Hannah’s warmly generous company, Blackwold strolled into the library, only to be met by his secretary.
“The accounts, my lord,” Harris reminded him, tapping the black leather cover of the ledger book he held. “If you would grant me a few moments of your time?”
“But Grandmother just received a new copy of La Belle Assemblée,” he said, unable to resist.
Harris stared at him and then heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, my lord. The accounts?”
“If you insist.” This time Blackwold sighed before he followed his secretary obediently, wondering if pouring over fashion plates might not be preferable, all things considered.