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Authors: Andrea Penrose
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more of the paper popped up.
Sure enough, she could now see that several sheets of folded paper had been tucked inside the binding. Slowly, slowly, she eased the sharpened metal down the edge of the marbling, loosening the glue. When finally the gap seemed big enough, she gingerly extracted the hidden papers.
Secret chocolate recipes? A smile tweaked on her lips. Oh, wouldn’t that be a delicious discovery. Or perhaps it was a pirate map, with a skull and crossbones marking buried plunder. Or . . .
Or perhaps I should stop reading Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.
The reality would likely prove much more mundane. A packing list, a notation of expenses, tucked away for safekeeping during a trip.
A faint crackling teased at her fingertips as she unfolded the sheets. There were three in all—two were grouped together, while the third was on its own. Sitting back, she skimmed over them quickly.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
Arianna closed her eyes for an instant, and then read them again. “Bloody, bloody hell.”
Like the hapless grouse flushed into flight on the moors, all notions of a peaceful country interlude had just been blasted to flinders.
Saybrook crossed the clearing in a flash and darted into a stand of oaks. Pressing up against a gnarled trunk, he held his breath and peered into the gloom, looking and listening for any sign of movement within the grove.
He detected nothing, save for the silent, shifting shadows. The air was very still, the earthy musk of damp decay tinged with lingering traces of burnt gunpowder. The earl waited a moment longer before heading deeper into the trees.
Leaves crunched softly beneath his boots, punctuating the whispery brush of the pine boughs against his coat. He stopped every few steps and listened for footfalls up ahead, but heard only the distant cackle of a raven and muffled cracks of gunfire out on grouse moor.
“Damn.” After surveying the tangle of underbrush and the dense thickets ahead, he swore again.
“Sandro?”
“Over here, Charles,” he answered. As Mellon crashed through the brambles, the earl added an exasperated warning. “For God’s sake, man, try not to rouse the dead.”
“Sorry.” Mellon stumbled up beside him, gasping for breath. He had lost his hat and his normally impeccably groomed hair was standing on end. “I haven’t as much experience in this sort of thing as you do.”
“Which is exactly why I ordered you to stay where you were,” snapped Saybrook.
“What the devil is going on?” Mellon’s expression pinched in shock. “Christ Almighty, you’ve been shot!”
The earl touched his shoulder. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
“It is hard to believe a poacher would be so bold—or stupid—to be shooting with our party close by.”
“It wasn’t a poacher, Charles. A poacher would not possess a rifle,” replied Saybrook grimly. “Such a weapon is very expensive.”
“H-how do you know it was a rifle?”
“The sound. It’s quite different from that of a musket.”
“But who . . . ?” Mellon left the rest of the question unsaid.
“I haven’t a clue.” The earl swung his gaze back to the forest. “And there’s no point in trying to chase after the fellow. He’ll have no trouble losing himself in the forest.”
Mellon blinked, suddenly noting the blade in Saybrook’s hand. “You were going after the fellow armed with naught but a knife ?”
“As you say, I am experienced in warfare.” He shifted his grip on the hilt. “You, on the other hand, have no such excuse.”
“I couldn’t very well let you charge off into danger on your own,” muttered Mellon.
“We’ll argue the fine points of battlefield strategy later,” said Saybrook. “Come, let us return to the hunt.”
But as he edged back to let his uncle go first, his eyes narrowed. “A moment,” he murmured, angling another look through the overhanging leaves. Several quick strides took him over a fallen tree and through a screen of young
Sure enough, she could now see that several sheets of folded paper had been tucked inside the binding. Slowly, slowly, she eased the sharpened metal down the edge of the marbling, loosening the glue. When finally the gap seemed big enough, she gingerly extracted the hidden papers.
Secret chocolate recipes? A smile tweaked on her lips. Oh, wouldn’t that be a delicious discovery. Or perhaps it was a pirate map, with a skull and crossbones marking buried plunder. Or . . .
Or perhaps I should stop reading Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.
The reality would likely prove much more mundane. A packing list, a notation of expenses, tucked away for safekeeping during a trip.
A faint crackling teased at her fingertips as she unfolded the sheets. There were three in all—two were grouped together, while the third was on its own. Sitting back, she skimmed over them quickly.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
Arianna closed her eyes for an instant, and then read them again. “Bloody, bloody hell.”
Like the hapless grouse flushed into flight on the moors, all notions of a peaceful country interlude had just been blasted to flinders.
Saybrook crossed the clearing in a flash and darted into a stand of oaks. Pressing up against a gnarled trunk, he held his breath and peered into the gloom, looking and listening for any sign of movement within the grove.
He detected nothing, save for the silent, shifting shadows. The air was very still, the earthy musk of damp decay tinged with lingering traces of burnt gunpowder. The earl waited a moment longer before heading deeper into the trees.
Leaves crunched softly beneath his boots, punctuating the whispery brush of the pine boughs against his coat. He stopped every few steps and listened for footfalls up ahead, but heard only the distant cackle of a raven and muffled cracks of gunfire out on grouse moor.
“Damn.” After surveying the tangle of underbrush and the dense thickets ahead, he swore again.
“Sandro?”
“Over here, Charles,” he answered. As Mellon crashed through the brambles, the earl added an exasperated warning. “For God’s sake, man, try not to rouse the dead.”
“Sorry.” Mellon stumbled up beside him, gasping for breath. He had lost his hat and his normally impeccably groomed hair was standing on end. “I haven’t as much experience in this sort of thing as you do.”
“Which is exactly why I ordered you to stay where you were,” snapped Saybrook.
“What the devil is going on?” Mellon’s expression pinched in shock. “Christ Almighty, you’ve been shot!”
The earl touched his shoulder. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
“It is hard to believe a poacher would be so bold—or stupid—to be shooting with our party close by.”
“It wasn’t a poacher, Charles. A poacher would not possess a rifle,” replied Saybrook grimly. “Such a weapon is very expensive.”
“H-how do you know it was a rifle?”
“The sound. It’s quite different from that of a musket.”
“But who . . . ?” Mellon left the rest of the question unsaid.
“I haven’t a clue.” The earl swung his gaze back to the forest. “And there’s no point in trying to chase after the fellow. He’ll have no trouble losing himself in the forest.”
Mellon blinked, suddenly noting the blade in Saybrook’s hand. “You were going after the fellow armed with naught but a knife ?”
“As you say, I am experienced in warfare.” He shifted his grip on the hilt. “You, on the other hand, have no such excuse.”
“I couldn’t very well let you charge off into danger on your own,” muttered Mellon.
“We’ll argue the fine points of battlefield strategy later,” said Saybrook. “Come, let us return to the hunt.”
But as he edged back to let his uncle go first, his eyes narrowed. “A moment,” he murmured, angling another look through the overhanging leaves. Several quick strides took him over a fallen tree and through a screen of young
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