The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

Rohan leaned down and pressed his fingers against the pulse in his neck. It was slow and thready.

He looked over at the portrait, lying face up, his sixteenth-century ancestor looking smug. No, this was silly. It was just a stupid portrait. He frowned. The man had simply collapsed, for no good reason. “Well, our fellow here is still alive. Have Dr. Foxdale fetched again, Fitz. Mrs. Beete, have one of the maids bring some blankets. I don’t think we should move him.”

“Gullet him is what I’d like to do,” Mrs. Beete said, shaking a fist at the unconscious man.

“My lord,” Fitz said, his face whiter than that of the man at their feet, “did you see the portrait attack him? It was your great uncle Fester Carrington. Oh, my.” Now everyone was staring at the painting, which lay harmlessly not a foot from the fallen man.

Rohan picked up the portrait and handed it to Fitz, whose face spasmed as he took it. Then he looked from one footman to another. “How did this happen? How the devil did he get out of his room and have a gun?”

It was Augustus who stepped forward, shoulders back, chin high. “It is I who am responsible, my lord. I looked at him every half hour or so, since he was still unconscious. I guess I finally dozed off. It is entirely my fault.”

Rohan gave him a very long look, then said, “I will speak to you in the morning, Augustus.”

12

IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT.

“You should go to bed now, Susannah.”

“Not yet. I would have nightmares. How could he have just collapsed like that, Rohan? It happened so quickly. You didn’t even hit him. Nobody touched him.”

“Probably that head wound did him in. At least Dr. Foxdale believed that to be the case when he examined him just a while ago. Don’t worry, we’ll find out what’s behind all this even if the fellow doesn’t wake up again.”

“He’s not Theodore Micah.”

“No, but he knows who that is. You were right to tell me about those two men with George. I had rather hoped they were involved, since we needed names, but I really didn’t credit it until tonight. Yes, they are involved, up to their hairlines.”

“I hope he wakes up. I’d like to help Mrs. Beete gullet him!”

“I would rather like to see that. Now, if you don’t want to go to bed yet, then keep eating the broth that Mrs. Horsely heated for you and tell me the rest of it.”

There was a light knock on the door.

Rohan rose, saying over his shoulder to Susannah, “I expected her sooner, truth be told. I suppose she was comforting poor Augustus for his guarding lapse. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”

“He is handsome,” Susannah said. “Those snapping black eyes of his—they simply make me shiver.”

Rohan grunted and she giggled. She thought she heard him snarl, “Women.”

Charlotte was subdued. She took the chair beside Susannah’s. “Have you told Rohan anything yet, my dear?”

“We were just beginning, Mother. Now, Susannah, before we were interrupted you were telling me what belongings you have that belonged to George.”

“A vest, some books. I didn’t tell him about the locket. It’s very small, there couldn’t be a map in it.”

“Where are the books and the vest?”

“I left them at Mulberry House. But I had already searched them, Rohan. I’m not entirely without wits, you know, and I decided it must have something to do with George, so I thoroughly examined the three books and tore the lining out of the vest. There was no map there. He had left nothing else at Mulberry House.”

“All right, then, where is the locket?”

“But—”

“Bring us the locket, Susannah.”

“I’m wearing it.” She lifted her hair to let Charlotte unfasten the clasp.

Charlotte gently undid the clasp. She was on the point of opening the locket when she paused, looked at her son, who had his hand out, sighed, and handed the locket to him, the thin gold chain hanging down between her fingers.