Marcus stared at her in apparent incomprehension. Antonia stamped her foot in exasperation. ‘For goodness sake, it was only yesterday! Do you sentence so many men that you have forgotten them already?’
‘Please sit down, Antonia.’
Antonia glared, but she sank onto the sofa behind her, her legs suddenly weak with reaction. Marcus appeared about to speak again as he pulled up a chair opposite her, but he was forestalled by the entrance of a footman with lemonade and orgeat.
By the time the servant had left, Antonia felt calmer, but as she sipped the cooling drink her hand was still shaking.
‘Now, perhaps you can explain to me why it is a matter of concern to you that three violent rogues are about to receive their just desserts?’
Antonia met the hard eyes, remembering with a shiver the day she had been dragged before him as a poacher. ‘Just because they had a set-to with your keepers – who are all too ready to use violence themselves – does not make them violent criminals. These men have families to support. Why can you not relax your implacable opposition to a little local poaching? You do not need all those birds, and this is a time of such agricultural hardship.’
‘The law is the law, Antonia, and should be observed. You do no good with your meddling. I am sworn to uphold His Majesty’s peace – what would you have me do when it is broken?'
‘Meddling? Can you show no mercy? You may uphold the letter of the law, but there are moral laws as well and I hold you entirely responsible for Bethan Johnson’s predicament.’
‘And what might that be?’ he enquired, only the whiteness around his mouth betraying the mounting anger within him.
‘She is with child.’
‘I assure you, I am not the father. I have no recollection of the wench, and whatever your opinion of me, I can assure you I always ask their name first before seducing village virgins.’
Antonia found she was on her feet, her cheeks burning. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’
Without answering, Marcus strode across to the fireplace and tugged the bell pull sharply. Antonia turned away from him to hide her flushed cheeks and stared out stormily across the tranquil park. Behind her she heard him order, ‘My curricle, at once.’
A furious silence hung in the room until they heard the crunch of gravel beneath hooves. Marcus took her by the elbow in a none-too-gentle grip and marched her out of the door and down the steps to the curricle.
‘Where are we going?’ Antonia demanded when she found herself seated on the high-perch seat. She had not struggled with him in front of the servants, but she had every intention of demanding he let her down the moment they were out of sight of the house. ‘How dare you manhandle me? Stop and let me down at once.’
‘No, there is something you should, and will, see.’ All she could see of Marcus’s face was his grim profile.
‘If you do not let me down, I will jump,’ Antonia threatened, gathering her skins in readiness.
In response, he transferred the reins and the whip to his right hand, throwing his left arm across her to pinion her to her seat. The horses, unsettled by the sudden shift of balance, plunged in the shafts and broke into a canter.
Antonia felt herself thrown back against the seat, his arm like an iron bar across her. ‘Do not be such a damn fool,’ he snarled, controlling the horses one-handed.
It was only a few minutes before he drew up in front of a lodge at one of the side gates into the park. Another vehicle, a modest gig, was standing outside. As Marcus handed her down, Antonia recognised the local doctor emerging from the back door of the lodge.
‘Your Grace. Miss Dane, good day to you. A bad business this, but he is young and strong and will come to no harm in the end. I will call again tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Dr Rush. Whatever he needs, he must have. You will send your account to me.’
The doctor mounted into his gig and drove away with a polite wave of his whip. ‘Why have you brought me here?’ Antonia asked, an unpleasant foreboding overcoming her anger.
‘To see the handiwork of your innocent and starving tenants,’ Marcus replied tautly. He pushed open the door without knocking and ushered her through.
Antonia found herself in a small but neat kitchen. A little girl was rocking a cradle by the hearth. She turned a tear-stained face towards them and Marcus patted her gently on the head. ‘Are you being a good girl and helping your mother, Jenny?’ The child, no more than four, nodded mutely. ‘We will just go and see your father. The doctor says he will soon be well, so don’t you cry now.’
In the back room, a woman was spooning water between the lips of the man laying on the bed. When she saw Marcus, she put down the spoon and laid the man gently back against the bolster. ‘Oh, Your Grace…’
‘Do not get up, Mrs Carling. How is he?’
Antonia realised with horror that the man so limp and helpless on the bed was Nat Carling the underkeeper. His head was swathed in bandages, his eyes were black and blue and his nose askew. He seemed barely conscious, except for a faint groan which escaped his lips every time he breathed.
‘In a deal of pain, Your Grace. The doctor says his ribs are broke, but his skull’s not cracked, thank the Lord.’
‘What has happened to him?’ Antonia asked, although, with a sinking heart, she could guess.