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

The three ran toward the east wing of the house. Only a few hours until daylight, Nicholas thought with relief. Then they would have a better chance of finding this assailant, or assailants, and dealing with them.

Warren raised his head and sniffed. “I smell smoke.”

“Me, too. It’s coming from the east wing.”

They reached the corner. The footman, Alex, lay sprawled on the ground. His attacker had piled bushes up against the wall of the house and set them alight. As Warren ran toward the flames, the fire blazed high, already eating into the wooden window frame. Another few minutes, and it would be inside the house.

Warren and Giles set about shoving away the pile of blazing sticks and bushes from the wall while Nicholas knelt beside his footman. He, too, had been attacked from behind.

“Alex, can you hear me?”

He didn’t stir. Nicholas brought the lantern closer. Alex was dead, his skull savagely crushed.

Nicholas’s stomach roiled. He swore violently. Jumping up, he went to assist the two men fighting the fire. “Alex is dead,” he said grimly. The heat seared his skin as he pulled away a burning branch and stamped out the flames.

Warren turned to him, his eyes wide and appalled in the reflected reddish glow from the fire. “God, no!”

“I swear I’ll find this villain and pay him in kind if it’s the last thing I do.”

Once the last embers had died away, they carried Alex inside the house and laid him out in the lesser-used parlor. Tomorrow, he would send for the magistrate, Sir Henry Markham. He’d summon the parish constable, along with the vicar and the doctor for poor Jerry. He’d also have to write to Alex’s father. Deeply saddened, he bowed his head.

“Giles, go to bed. You get some rest, too, Michael.”

“But I’m perfectly all right, milord. Let me take this shift,” Warren protested.

Nicholas wouldn’t sleep until this man was caught. “Thank you, but no. You won’t get much sleep, either. We’ll go after this villain first thing in the morning.”

Nicholas left them and made his way outside. For the last remaining hours of the night, he grimly continued to circumnavigate the wings of the big house, his gun cocked and ready, willing the murderer to come and try to strike him down. Wanting him to make the attempt. But apart from the nightingale, whose sweet tune now stirred no joy in him, no sound or movement came from the gardens or the wood beyond.

The sky lightened to gray. Close to dawn, the temperature dropped. He shivered and rubbed his arms. His mind began playing cruel tricks on him, summoning up his failures.

Earlier, he’d been tempted to declare his feeling for Carrie. To go down on his knee and ask her to marry him. He was relieved now that he had resisted. The death of his young footman had shaken him and brought back with vivid clarity his failure to protect those he cared for. He swallowed on the raw pain of loss. How cruel fate could be. He did not deserve happiness.

After Sylvia’s death, he’d thought himself unworthy of living, but Max had helped him to get on with his life. And now, this. A young man’s life ended far too soon in a senseless manner. Nicholas groaned, and as the sun rose, casting its bright light over the trees, he went inside to write that letter to the boy’s father.

At his desk, he forced himself back to the present, his jaw tight, determined to banish everything else from his mind until these scum were found.

***

Two housemaids murmured together in the corridor when Carrie came down to breakfast. They bobbed and hurried away. In the breakfast room, the footman, Alex, who usually served breakfast, was absent. Instead, Abercrombie stood at the buffet.

“Good morning, Abercrombie. Where is Alex?”

The butler brought her coffee. “Good morning, Miss Leeming. I’m afraid we had a sad event last evening. After breakfast, his lordship wishes to speak to you in the library.”

Carrie took a few sips and put down the cup, as concern for Nicholas churned in her stomach. “Never mind my breakfast. I’ll see him now.”

She knocked on the library door. When Nicholas replied, she entered and saw him at his desk writing. He looked up. “Good morning, Carrie.” He stood and slowly crossed to her. “Sit down for a moment, will you? There’s something I must tell you.”

“What happened last night?” She sank down with a sense of foreboding while studying his face, noting his rigid jaw. His gray eyes met hers, deeply troubled. She swallowed and waited for him to tell her, guessing the news would be grim.

He sat beside her. “Someone attacked two of my footmen last night. They killed Alex and knocked Jerry out. We don’t know who is guilty or what their motive is.”

Shocked and saddened, Carrie shivered. “Oh, no. Poor Alex.” She swallowed, grief-stricken for the footman who always greeted her with a warm smile. “Is Jerry all right?”

“He appears to be. Fortunately.”

She longed to reach out to Nicholas, to put her arms around him. But he held himself rigid and seemed so far away from her, she guessed any attempt to comfort him would be unwelcome. “Are we in danger? Nicholas, please tell me.”

“They appear to have gone, but don’t worry. We’ll keep guard.” His cold, emotionless voice chilled her. “The villains tried to set fire to the house. Warren, Giles, and I put the flames out before much damage was done.”

“Is my Uncle Simon behind this?” she asked after he grew silent. She struggled to believe a relative of hers could be so evil.

A murderous expression heated Nicholas’s eyes but vanished when he softened his gaze. “I don’t know, but Warren and I intend to find out. I’ve sent for the magistrate and the constable, the vicar,