The Outcast's Redemption. Sarah Mallory

place. Florence, her dresser and myself.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I have no doubt Meesden told everyone that fact.’ The distress in the old man’s face confirmed it. Wolf reached out and touched his arm. ‘Think, Brent. Are you sure there was no one else in the house that night?’

      ‘Well, ’tis only a feeling...’

      ‘Tell me.’

      Brent paused, his wrinkled brow even more furrowed as he struggled to remember.

      ‘I told the magistrate at the time, sir, but he made nothing of it. You see, once I had taken the tea tray into the drawing room for the mistress I prepared the bedroom candles. I was bringing them up to the staircase hall when I heard a noise upstairs. Voices.’ The old man sat up straight. ‘I thought it was Mrs Wolfgang talking to someone.’

      Wolf’s lip curled. ‘Some would say it was me. That I returned and pushed Florence from the balcony.’

      Brent shook his head. ‘When I saw you kneeling beside Mrs Wolfgang’s body I could tell you’d just come in. It was bitter cold that day and we had the first heavy frost of the winter. There was still a touch of it on the skirts of your coat, as there would be if you’d been out o’ doors for a length of time. I told the magistrate, but he paid no heed to me. He thought I was just trying to protect you.’

      ‘And no one else in the house saw or heard anything?’

      Brent shook his head slowly.

      ‘No, sir. Your father and the magistrate gathered everyone in the servants’ hall and asked them that very question, but ’twere bitter cold that night, so those servants who had not gone to bed was doing their best to stay by the fire in the servants’ hall.’

      ‘But the voices you heard upstairs, could it have been my wife’s dresser? Surely Meesden might have been with her mistress.’

      ‘No, sir. When Meesden brought her mistress’s tray downstairs after dinner she said she was going to bed and she passed on Mrs Wolfgang’s instructions that on no account was she to be disturbed again until the morning. Quite adamant about it, she was, and then she went to her room. The maid who sleeps next door heard Meesden pottering about there, until she was sent for, when it was known her mistress was still alive.’

      Wolf frowned, wondering if there was some little detail he was missing. He said, ‘I must visit the house. Jones is living there, I believe.’

      ‘Aye, Master Wolfgang, he is, and he would be willing to talk to you, I am sure, but take care who else in the village you approach, sir. There’s many who lost their livelihoods when Arrandale Hall was shut up and they would not look too kindly upon you.’

      ‘That is understandable, but if I do not try I shall not make any progress at all.’ Wolf rose. ‘I must go. Thank you, Brent.’ He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘No, don’t get up. I will see myself out.’

      ‘You’ll come again, sir. You’ll let me know how you get on?’

      ‘I shall, you may be sure of it.’

      * * *

      Wolf walked back through the lanes, going over all the old man had told him. He would not risk going through the village in daylight but he would make his way to Arrandale Hall later, and perhaps, once it was dark, he might call upon one or two of the families that he knew had worked at the house, the ones he felt sure would not denounce him. The pity of it was there were precious few of those. He had spent very little of his adult life at Arrandale. Some of the old retainers would remember him as a boy, but most of the newer staff would have little loyalty to him, especially if they believed he was the reason Arrandale was closed up.

      The thud of hoofs caught his attention and he looked round to see Grace Duncombe riding towards him on a rangy strawberry roan. She sat tall and straight in the saddle, made taller by the very mannish beaver hat she wore, its wispy veil flying behind her like a pennant. Wolf straightened up and waited for her. She checked slightly, as if uncertain whether to acknowledge him, then brought her horse to a stand.

      He touched his hat. ‘That is a fine mare. Is she yours?’

      ‘Yes.’ Her response was cool, but not unfriendly. ‘Bonnie is my indulgence. I have a small annuity from my mother that I use for her upkeep.’

      He reached out and scratched the mare’s head.

      ‘You need not excuse yourself to me, Miss Duncombe.’

      She flushed and her chin went up. ‘I do not. But people wonder that I should keep my own horse when we have had to make savings everywhere else.’

      ‘I imagine she is useful for visiting your father’s parishioners.’

      Her reserve fled and she laughed. ‘With a basket of food hanging on my arm? I cannot claim that as my reason for keeping her.’ She smoothed the mare’s neck with one dainty gloved hand. ‘I have had Bonnie since she was a foal and cannot bear to part with her.’

      ‘I understand that. I had such a horse once. A black stallion. The very devil to control.’

      ‘Oh? What happened to him?’

      ‘He died. I am on my way back to your father’s house now. Shall we walk?’

      Grace used the gentle pressure of her heel to set Bonnie moving.

      Perhaps he is a highwayman and his horse was shot from under him. That might also account for the scars on his body.

      She quickly curbed her wayward imagination. She had seen a shadow cross the lean face and guessed he had been very fond of his black horse, so it was no wonder he did not wish to talk about it. She must follow her father’s example and be charitable.

      ‘You would find it quicker to cut through the village,’ she said, waving her crop towards a narrow path that wound its way towards the distant houses.

      ‘Not much quicker.’

      ‘Ah. You are familiar with Arrandale?’

      ‘I can see the church from here, Miss Duncombe, and it is clear this way will bring us to it almost as quickly as cutting back to the village.’

      ‘And you would rather avoid the villagers,’ she said shrewdly.

      He shrugged. ‘You know how these little places gossip about strangers.’

      Grace pursed her lips. He frustrated every attempt to learn more about him.

      She said now, ‘That should not worry you, if you have nothing to hide.’

      ‘I am merely a weary traveller, taking advantage of your father’s hospitality to rest for a few days.’

      ‘I fear taking advantage is just what you are doing,’ she retorted, nettled.

      ‘I mean no harm, Miss Duncombe, trust me.’

      ‘Impossible, since I know nothing about you.’

      ‘You could ask your father.’

      ‘I have done so, but he will tell me nothing.’ She paused. ‘I understand you are dining with us this evening.’

      ‘Yes. Do you object?’

      She stopped her horse.

      ‘I would worry less if I knew something about you.’

      He looked up and she had her first clear view of his eyes. They were blue, shot through with violet, and the intensity of his gaze was almost a physical force. Her insides fluttered like a host of butterflies.

      ‘One day I will tell you everything about me,’ he promised. ‘For the present I would urge you to trust your father’s judgement.’

      ‘He seems to have fallen completely under your spell,’ she snapped, seriously discomposed by the sensations he roused in her. ‘You might be an out-and-out villain for all we know.’

      Grace inadvertently jerked the reins