Never Dance with a Marquess (The Never Series Book 2), Maggi Andersen [best short novels of all time TXT] 📗

upon him. Warren swung around to face him, his gun pointed directly at Nicholas.

“Michael.” Once the gun lowered, Nicholas ran up to him. “Jerry has gone missing. Did he pass this way?”

Warren shook his head. “Haven’t seen him.”

“That worries me. Where has he got to?”

“Do you want me to search for him? Perhaps he’s ventured farther out.”

“No. Fetch a lantern for me. I’ll check on the others.”

Warren slipped into the dark.

Good man, Warren, Nicholas thought. You couldn’t beat an experienced soldier watching your back when times get tough. He was mighty glad to have him at his side.

His gaze searching the shadowy gardens, Nicholas moved to the corner of the house and edged around it. Giles saw him and hurried over to him.

“Have you seen Jerry?”

“No, milord.”

“Keep a sharp eye out.”

Alex ran up to Nicholas when he appeared. He hadn’t seen Jerry either. “Something’s not right. Better you go inside.”

Alex clutched his pistol. He looked eager for a fight. “No, milord. Let me stay.”

“Until we find Jerry, but if anyone comes, sound the alarm. Don’t be a hero.”

“Right, milord.”

Nicholas returned to the front. His unease grew. Where was the young footman? Light spilled from the entry hall as Warren emerged through the front door carrying the lighted lantern. He handed it to Nicholas. Would Jerry have gone inside? He hoped it was so. Holding the lantern high, Nicholas shone the light into the shrubs bordering the path. Several yards on, the light picked out a booted foot beneath the bushes. His breath stopped in his throat as he ran over and parted the branches. Jerry lay on his stomach.

“Jerry!”

He didn’t move.

When Nicholas placed a hand on Jerry’s shoulder and gently shook him, blood spilled over his fingers. He went cold. “Help me get him out,” he said to Warren, who squatted beside him.

They carefully eased Jerry out and laid him on the ground. Nicholas stared down at the twenty-one-year-old country lad, delighted to be given a responsible job who sent money home to his mother.

They turned him gently over. “He’s alive,” Warren said, relief in his voice.

“Let’s hope that head wound isn’t as bad as it looks,” Nicholas said through clamped teeth. “We’ll get him inside. Take him to the library.”

They carried him there and laid him on the leather sofa. Jerry groaned. His hand touched the wound on his head.

“My poor fellow, are you in pain?” Nicholas asked him over his shoulder as he poured brandy into a glass at the drinks table.

“My head hurts damnably, milord. But I daresay I will live.”

“Good lad,” Nicholas tamped down his fear. What sort of monster were they dealing with? “I’ll send for the doctor in the morning, but until he comes, the housekeeper will tend to your wound. Did you see who hit you?”

“No. The blighter came up behind me. Said something. But can’t think now what it was.”

Nicholas came over to the sofa and handed him the glass. “Don’t think of it now. You will remember in time.” But would he? What did this miscreant want? Was Simon behind it?

Somehow it didn’t fit. What did the man think he could achieve by attacking Nicholas’s home? Ice threaded its way down his spine. If it were Simon, would he try to kidnap the children? He’d expected the man to employ more subtle means to achieve his ends. To wait until he could find the children unattended. Were they dealing with a madman? “I’m going to check on the children,” Nicholas said grimly. He ran up two flights of stairs to the children’s bedchambers. Both were safe, asleep in their beds. He knocked on Miss Scotsdale’s door.

When she opened the door groggily, with a long gray braid over her shoulder and her cap half over one eye, he quickly explained, trying not to alarm her.

“Dear mother in heaven,” she said. “I shall sit on a chair in the corridor outside their rooms with my hatpin. If anyone comes, they shall have to deal with me!”

“I don’t believe they will come inside, Miss Scotsdale. I don’t want the children alarmed.”

“Trust me, my lord,” she said, thrusting out her chin. “I shall say nothing to Bella and Jeremy. The chair will be gone at first light.”

“You are a brave woman,” he said helplessly, realizing nothing he could say would dissuade her from her course.

When he returned, Jerry sat up sipping the brandy. “Were you bending over or standing up when attacked?” he asked him.

“I was standing, milord. Searching through the trees where I’d heard a noise. He must have tossed a rock, and when I went to investigate, he came up behind me.”

Was it Simon? Jerry was tall. It would have been difficult for Simon, who was short, to hit him on the head, but not impossible. Still, it seemed unusual to visualize a man as unfit as Simon appeared to be taking on a strong young footman.

“I’ll send for the parish constable in the morning. In the meantime, we must get Giles and Alex inside,” he said grimly to Warren. “Bring the lantern.”

They left Jerry on the sofa with Chester, attempting to lick his face.

“The dog is happy,” Warren observed.

“Chester’s always delighted to have company,” Nicholas said wryly. “It’s curious, but I doubt Simon Leeming attacked Jerry.”

“No, milord? Then who?”

“That we have to find out.”

Outside, a few clouds drifted across the sky. They blotted out the moon, the stygian darkness sinister. Somewhere in the distance, a fox barked. Guns cocked, he and Warren rounded the corner of the house.

Giles spun around, gun in hand. “Oh, it’s you again, milord.”

“Nothing stirring?”

“No. Nothing, milord.”

“Come with us. Someone hit Jerry over the head.”

“Thunder an’ turf! Is he all right?”

“He will be. But we’re dealing with