Page 56 of A Daring Pursuit

Of course she was interesting, her intelligence obvious, her passion equally so. But it was more. He wanted her. And hehatedthat he wanted her.

It. Made. No. Sense.

And Noah was nothing if not sensible. He was a bloody scientist: logical, pragmatic, analytical.

He pulled to a stop, dropped to the ground and, without even bothering to secure his horse, stalked up to the house. Takinga page from Julius’s book—though he did give two sharp raps—Noah entered without waiting for someone to answer.

Cook, practically Docia’s only servant, entered the hall wiping her hands on a towel. The fifty-ish woman was unusually thin for a cook in his opinion. “Oh, ’tis you, sir. The mistress an’ ’er friend took the trail to the beach.”

“The beach. What the, er, what for?”

“Said they needed air.” Her brow furrowed, adding additional creases to her already wrinkled forehead. “Been gone awhile, tho’.”

“Thank you. I’ll find them.”

Noah took a side door out of the manor and found the closest path that led to the water. Urgency tore through him, but he forced himself to slow. He couldn’t very well find Miss Wimbley and Docia with a broken leg, or worse, neck. There was no sign of the women once he’d reached the ground, but he spotted an unusual brush in the sand he suspected as the result of the hems of their skirts. The longer he followed the markings, the higher inexplicable panic tore through him.The caves.

His gaze shot to the sea. The tide was still out, thank God. He let out a small, pursed breath, but it did little to absolve the sense of urgency. A vision of Miss Wimbley’s limp, unconscious body flashed before him and he took off in a run. He raced along the trail, his alacrity growing with precipitous speed.

Fear, so thick in his veins, it was tangible—and spreading from his toes up. The blood rushed his ears, drowning out the pounding waves. His breath came in short, rapid pants. He stopped and shaded his eyes toward the cave’s entrance up the hill.

A flash of bright green disappeared inside and he took off again. There was no chance of that cave being affected by an incoming tide, but there would be no other way up to the houseif Docia and Miss Wimbley lingered too long. They would be stranded overnight.

Noah reached the entrance and his insides plummeted…

There was a sharp inhale, from whom, he couldn’t tell, then Miss Wimbley’s low wail bounding against the stone walls. “Oh, no. Not again.”

“Who’s hurt?” he demanded, rushing forward.

Docia was on her knees next to a pile of moth-eaten clothing—except for pieces of ivory lying at odd angles.

“Oh, shit,” he breathed.

Docia’s face was in her hands, her body trembling with silent sobs.

To Miss Wimbley’s credit, she lowered herself beside Docia and placed an arm about her shoulders. “Who is it?” she asked softly.

Noah darted forward and attempted to check the pockets of a greatcoat to no avail, as it disintegrated from the slightest touch. The silk waistcoat beneath had fared better—so he’d been a gentleman—and Noah found a fob watch. There was an inscription, but it didn’t matter—he couldn’t have read it for the lack of clear lighting.

“It’s Papa,” Docia said. Her voice was numbly calm. “He never made it to London. And no one ever realized.”

While most of the fabric had deteriorated, there was a clear slash that went through the layers. Most disturbing was the dark spread over the heart of a yellowed lawn shirt. Noah pocketed the fob then came to his feet and assisted Docia and Miss Wimbley to theirs.

“Come. The tide’s rising. We don’t wish to be stranded.” He spoke gently but firmly nudged them along. “Docia, I’ll notify the parish constable so they may retrieve his… him.” Noah wanted to check old Chaston’s skeleton, but now was not the time for obvious reasons.

In stark hindsight, he was eternally grateful that Miss Wimbley had been angry with him and chose to stay with Docia. As difficult as she could be, Docia and his family had long ties. Finding her father’s remains in this manner was abhorrent. No one deserved such answers as these in so great a dramatic fashion.

*

“I owe youan apology.”

He did. Geneva stood by the hearth in Miss Hale’s prim, old-fashioned drawing room and rubbed her arms, staring into a blazing fire Mr. Oshea had so kindly brought to life. “I suppose a stabbing having taken place so many years ago was worth noting,” she said dryly, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He grimaced.

She turned back to the fire. “When do you suppose it happened?”

“Twenty years ago is my guess. And for the record, my entire purpose for coming here was to make my apologies. I had no notion Docia’s father—” He let out a small cough. “Everyone believed he’d taken off for London that year. And with the rumors of his extensive travel, well, it was thought he’d taken off for America or Australia. I was a child at the time, so I suppose my memories are somewhat faulty.”

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