Page 29 of Mine This Winter
“Happen I should return to Westmore. I’ll send a carriage, save you walking back on foot, miss. You’ll be frozen to your bones when you reach the Grange.”
The idea had merit. The cold had worked its way into every extremity. But a twinge of distrust drew Gwen to a halt.
“Are you certain Mr Garrick mentioned Whitney Grange?” Would the beach not be the best place to kill a man? One could weigh down a body and cast it out to sea.
Myrtle brushed snow from her gloves. “His lordship told Flanders to give Mr Garrick a note. Flanders said one of his lordship’s pistols is missing from the case he left on his desk.”
The butler had confirmed as much.
“And Mr Garrick said to tell me he’d come to the Grange?” Gwen attempted to confirm. It didn’t take much to put Myrtle in a tizzy, though perhaps an empty house was a perfect place to fight a duel.
“Yes. He said not to follow.” Myrtle glanced nervously behind. “I’ll go back and have Mr Davies bring the cart. If his lordship has shot Mr Garrick, we’ll need help.”
A knot of fear tightened in Gwen’s gut. Surely Oliver wouldn’t be so cruel. “No one is getting shot today. My brother will fetch the carriage once I’ve given him fifty lashes with my tongue. Now, keep up, Myrtle.”
With mumbled complaints, Myrtle kept Gwen’s pace.
While Whitney Grange’s ancient cedar tree stood as a symbol of strength, its broad branches healthy and robust, the manor’s exterior spoke of neglect. Beneath the winter blanket, the lawn was likely overgrown. A stone urn lay smashed on the steps. The rendering was cracked and faded, the windows filthy.
So why did Whitney Grange feel like home?
Memories of secret liaisons slipped into Gwen’s mind. The moonlit walks. The stolen kisses. Every tender caress. It’s why she had not ventured to the Grange for years. It represented all she had lost. But she’d be damned before she’d let Oliver ruin her life again.
Gwen stepped over the debris and entered the house. The front door creaked on its hinges as she pushed it open, the sound echoing through the damp, cobwebbed hall.
“Oliver?” Gwen called but received no response.
All was deathly quiet.
Nausea roiled in her stomach.
What if she was too late?
What if she found both men lying in a pool of blood?
Raising the hem of her skirt, Gwen raced into the drawing room. Someone had been in the house. Embers glowed in the hearth. The smell of wood smoke clung to the air.
She faced Myrtle and pointed at the burgundy coverlet acting as a makeshift bed. “Is that not the coverlet missing from my mother’s old ottoman?”
Myrtle shrugged. “Happen it’s similar.”
The creak of the upstairs boards had them glancing nervously at the ceiling. Someone was in the house, yet Gwen would stake her life it wasn’t Oliver or Simon.
“Stay here,” Gwen whispered, determined to investigate.
She crept to the first floor, though every stair groaned and the wood felt spongy beneath her feet. Dead leaves and shards of glass littered the landing.
Gwen headed for Simon’s old bedchamber.
The door was ajar.
Heart pounding, Gwen pushed it open and stepped over the threshold. The person inside made no attempt to hide or flee. She wore her black hair loose, wore a grin that distorted her pretty features.
“Mrs Samuel?”
The woman snorted. “We both know I’ve never been married, my dear. Though, I mean to rectify the situation soon.”
Gwen fought to calm her breathing. She scanned Mrs Samuel’s faded blue dress. “Does Oliver know you’ve decided to spend the Christmas season in Whitehaven?” Had she fallen on hard times and found herself destitute?
