Hugo couldn’t help but smile. “No doubt there is.” He turned to Flanders and was about to chastise him for not dragging along his coachman when Miss Bennett marched over to the vehicle and dropped
the boot hatch.
Flanders sidled up to him and whispered, “Hurry up and make your choice, Denham. I intend to offer for that girl before the weekend is out.”
Hugo inhaled deeply. It took effort to maintain his composure. “A lady like Miss Bennett does not marry out of duty or for convenience.” Did the man know nothing? Had Flanders not heard the passion in her voice when she spoke of her parents’ marriage? Miss Bennett would marry for love or not at all. More’s the pity.
“This should suffice.” The lady removed a short-handled drainage shovel and beckoned Flanders forward. “Start with the roof.”
“What the devil do I do with it?” Flanders looked upon the tool as if it were a medieval means of torture.
“The slim end is for digging trenches.” Hugo had never dug a trench in his life, but some things were common sense. “Use the handle to push the snow off the roof.” When Flanders stood with nothing but bewilderment swimming in his eyes, Hugo took control of matters. It was too damn cold to dally.
He cleared the coach in minutes.
Flanders unfastened his greatcoat and withdrew the thick canvas package. Together, they covered the carriage and secured the sheeting with ropes. They found Miss Bennett’s conveyance stuck two hundred yards along the road. Hugo retrieved her valise, forced Flanders to balance the luggage on his lap, leaving him one hand to grip the reins.
On the ride back to Wollaston Hall, the cold extremities did little to cool Hugo’s blood. He was rather partial to a woman who exuded confidence as opposed to arrogance. And few had a knack for remaining calm during trying situations.
Had Hugo known of the horrific sight waiting to greet them at the iron gates of his ancestral home, he would have escorted Miss Bennett through a different entrance. Had he known a party to appease his mother’s need for an heir would involve murder, he would have withdrawn the invitations.
The first sign something was dreadfully amiss occurred when Miss Bennett pointed to a black heap by the arched gateway, half-buried in the white snow, and said, “Lord, what on earth is that? Tell me some poor fellow hasn’t collapsed from the cold.”
Hugo drew Spurius to a halt at the gate. He dismounted and moved with caution towards the dark mass squirming and groaning amidst the drifts. Thieves and blackguards often preyed on charitable folk during wintertime when food was scarce and few ventured from their firesides.
“You there!” he called out and waited for a response. He hoped the man’s accomplice wasn’t hiding in the hedgerow, ready to mount a surprise attack. Miss Bennett would be more use in a fight than Flanders. “Are you hurt?”
Miss Bennett climbed down from Hugo’s mount and hurried to his side. “I have a terrible feeling about this. But we cannot stand here and do nothing. What if he’s injured?”
“Perhaps I should ride up to the house and fetch a few men from the stables?” Flanders’ suggestion rang of cowardice.
“Wait there!” Hugo snapped. “I am quite capable of dealing with a drunkard in the road.” The comment was to reassure Miss Bennett, not Flanders.
The lady gripped his arm. “Be careful.”
Hugo glanced at the dainty hand resting on his coat sleeve. He wasn’t sure whether his heart raced because of her caring comment, because the instant connection sent a rush of energy shooting up his arm, or because the vagabond’s groan grew louder.
His fingers slipped over Miss Bennett’s hand, but the action in no way calmed his rapid pulse. “If he attacks, you’re to mount Spurius and ride to the house. Is that understood?”
She nodded, though he suspected this lady did not run away from trouble.
Hugo crept closer.
Only when crouched at the fellow’s side did he notice the blood. The pool glared a shocking red against the pure white snow. There were spots of blood splattered about the blank canvas like flicks of paint from an artist’s brush. Hugo grabbed the man’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back.
“Good God!” Though he recognised the ashen face instantly, his brain struggled to accept the disturbing vision. “Bellham?” The word left Hugo’s lips on a gasp when his friend’s greatcoat gaped and he noticed the blade pushed deep between Bellham’s ribs. A smear of blood tainted the unusual mother-of-pearl handle. “Who did this? Footpads?”
Footpads did not work in these harsh conditions. Footpads did not leave a dying man without stealing his expensive coat and boots. Indeed, Bertie’s gold medallion was still attached to the silk ribbon poking out of his fob pocket.
Nausea rolled in Hugo’s stomach.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
“You know this gentleman?” Miss Bennett came and knelt beside him. She pressed her fingers to Bertie’s neck, remained still for a time before shaking her head and sighing. “There’s little hope of saving him, I’m afraid.”
“By Jove!” Flanders steadied his anxious mount. “I’ll fetch help from the house.”
This time Hugo did not protest.