Page 55 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
The accusation of ‘horse theft’ should never havestood up in court, but the late viscount had bribed the magistrate to pronounce the harsh sentence.
Mallon could hardly credit that Silas was still alive after all those nights hiding on the moor. He’d spent the first in akistvaen, huddled in the ancient hollow of some other man’s burial, hoping he’d see the sunrise without freezing to death. After that, he’d made toward the hall, knowing his brother would help him. Taking shelter in the chapel had hardly been better than exposure on the moor, since the place had no form of heating and was as cold as any grave. It had been Withers’ idea to bring Silas into the hayloft above the stables.
Withers had taken Scroggins into his confidence, as well as Mrs. Fuddleby. Between them, they’d done what they’d thought best.
As Mallon rose, Withers also pushed himself to his feet.
“There be another matter, Master, if you can spare the time t’hear me.”
Withers was not a man to ask favors, nor to gossip.
“Of course.” Mallon offered his arm. “We’ll withdraw to your butler’s parlor, shall we? I’ve already sent Ida to make sure the fire is lit. I want you to rest for the next few days. The first footman can take some of your duties, until you’re feeling stronger.”
Withers nodded mutely, allowing himself to be led. His little parlor was just big enough to hold the table at which Withers sat to record his accounts of the wine and spirits used in the house. There was a single, battered armchair, too, in thecorner, beside a small fire grate. Withers folded himself into it, while Mallon took the harder seat.
The butler passed his hand over his forehead before speaking, clearly anxious, but needing to relieve his conscience of some burden.
“Come, Withers, you can tell me.” Mallon leant forward upon his knees.
“I be ashamed, m’Lord, seein’ as it caused trouble to the lady, but ‘tis best you know, and p’raps ye may set her mind to rest.”
Mallon had no idea what Withers was talking about, but gave his encouragement nonetheless.
“’Tis the dogs, y’see. That Sergeant Hawky what came when Silas first made escape, with them other poor sods, him was sayin’ they’d be scourin’ the moor until all was recaptured.”
Withers grimaced. “I were that worried, thinkin’ the police’d be sniffin’ round, or some other folk who’d pass on a sightin’—in hope of a reward, as it were. They might’ve found Silas up at the chapel, so I made sure Master Hugo’s dogs were gettin’ short rations, to keep ‘em a bit ‘ungry like, then let ‘em out around dusk each night, to prowl an’ scare off anyone close by. Mistress de Wolfe approved o’ the dogs havin’ more time outside, but she thought I were doin’ it to frighten off the convicts, rather than those who be lookin’ for ‘em. O’ course, I introduced the hounds to Silas first, so they’d know he were a friend.”
He took out a handkerchief to blow his nose. “I were hopin’ folks would think the Wisht Hounds were about,and word would travel to stop ‘em wantin’ to venture near.”
Withers shook his head and seemed to shrink in his chair. “Wicked o’ me I know! Not that the dogs will’ve suffered much. They’ums are always snaffling bits o’ food orf the floors! But I felt bad about the lady, when her did come over in that faint, seein’ our shaggy beasts up by the chapel. Mrs. Fuddleby told I about it, an’ I knew straight orf it were Master Hugo’s daft buggers that did it. More like to lick a man to death than anythin’ else, but us’uns know what it be like after dark on the moor. Yer imagination can make ye think all sorts.”
“You did right to tell me,” said Mallon. “Though I wouldn’t worry unduly about the countess. She’s made of sterner stuff than she appears.”
Withers picked up the poker and gave the logs a push before looking back to Mallon. Despite having admitted his folly, his face remained downcast.
“There’s summat else, m’lord, that’s been playin’ terrible on my mind since Silas did tell me.” He gave a shiver. “It be about Master Hugo’s guest, as came in the fancy motor car.”
Mallon frowned. Slagsby had disappeared the day of the hunt, and Mallon had been glad of it, even though it had distressed Hugo. It had been ‘good riddance’ as far as Mallon was concerned.
Withers seemed to steel himself to say what he next needed to. “The young man set orf just afore the mist came down. You remember, m’lord, it werequite bad by around midday.”
Mallon nodded. An uneasy feeling twisted his gut.
“Silas says he were driving like a madman. From up on the hill, above the chapel, he watched him headin’ orf, but not in the direction o’ the main road. Somehow, he took the track toward Fox Tor. He’un must’ve realized his mistake, for he did fix himself about, but then he took the wrong turn altogether—down the old track that goes toward the mire.”
Withers’ face had become bloodless, his hands shaking in his lap.
“The mist had started rollin’ over by then, and Silas do say him can’t be sure, but he heard a shout, way off, and then, when the next wave of mist had passed over, the car was nowhere to be seen—as if the devil had swallowed it whole.”
Mallon’s stomach lurched. Beware the mire, so every moorlander said, and they were right. Its bewitching landscape held him under its spell, but it was a treacherous lover to those who entered its embrace unwary.
He’d have happily given Slagsby more than a bloody nose the night he’d attacked Geneviève. He’d cursed him to hell as Hugo had escorted him back to his bed, but he would never have wished him to such an end as this—dragged to a slow, terrifying death in the mire!
Mallon’s head swam at the imagining of it. The mire near Fox Tor. The same mire in which his mother had met her end.
Withers was speaking again, obliging Mallon to push aside those grim images, drawing him back to the here and now.
“I sent Scroggins to look all along that’n road. Hefound the lord’s scarf twisted upon a bush at the edge o’ the bog, like as if he’d gotten hisself out o’ the sinkin’ car and was a-tryin’ to pull hisself to safety.”
