The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

There was no competition—not between his wife and his self-absorbed stepmother—but Lavinia wouldn’t see it like that, which begged the question of why she hadn’t sent a note.

Mrs. Pritchard knew of the antipathy between him and Lavinia, as, indeed, did most of his staff. None of them had fared well under, much less liked, Lavinia, which was why they all viewed him as a savior of sorts.

So on learning that Lavinia had taken up residence at the Dower House, but this time secretly, Mrs. Pritchard had been quick to leap to the conclusion he was still resisting.

He simply couldn’t imagine Lavinia actively—and nearly successfully—arranging his murder. Of plotting and planning to have Mary abducted.

Glimpsing the steep roofs of the Dower House through the trees, he slowed Julius to a trot, then a walk. No need to advertise his arrival, not until he’d had a look around.

The bridle path joined the gravel drive fifty yards from the forecourt before the front porch. The Dower House had little by way of gardens, the woods crowding close on three sides. It was a very quiet, private place.

Registering that quietness, indeed, the pervasive silence, he reined to a halt just inside the path, within the shadows of overarching branches, and studied the house.

It appeared . . . not uninhabited but temporarily deserted, as if everyone had gone out for the day.

Leaving the front door ajar.

The sight filled him with cold dread.

All the thoughts he’d been avoiding consciously thinking spilled through his mind. Lavinia had the wherewithal to hire thugs to kill him—and to hire men to hire them, and so forth. She knew which routes he used when walking home in town. Here, in the country, despite the lack of friendship between the staffs at the abbey and the Dower House, Lavinia’s stableman or grooms would know where the abbey tack room was, would have been able to identify which saddle was Mary’s, the only newish sidesaddle there, and could easily have watched from the woods and seen him assessing her driving the gig and guessed which road they would take to Axford . . .

The scorpion he couldn’t immediately explain, but as for the adder, Lavinia’s staff would have known when the abbey staff would be gathered on the front steps greeting Mary, and would have known which bedroom would be hers, and how to reach it quickly and leave again via the servants’ stairs.

He sat on Julius’s back and considered that half-open door. It was clearly an invitation of sorts—which spoke to the caliber of the men behind this.

Unsophisticated, but effective.

They were currently watching him from somewhere in the woods on the other side of the drive.

He could feel their gazes, but he knew those woods. Chasing anyone through them was a fool’s errand, and he didn’t doubt there would be more than one of them; few men would be so foolish as to come against him unarmed, one on one.

Despite the difficulty his rational mind was having casting Lavinia—petty and spiteful with all the acuity of a turnip—in the role of arch-villainess, his instincts had no such problem but at that moment considered the point irrelevant; they were solely focused on how to rescue Mary.

That she was somewhere in the Dower House he didn’t doubt; that was the message of that half-open door. But he hadn’t come armed, and as far as he knew there weren’t any helpful crossed swords on any of the Dower House walls.

Holding back the impulse, the emotional imperative to gallop up, rush inside, and find her—to wrap her in his arms and reassure his oh-so-exposed heart that she was unharmed, that she was all right—wasn’t easy, but if he just rushed ahead . . . this wasn’t a situation he’d expected, much less foreseen, and he fully intended them both to survive.

How else could he exact his vengeance?

Even more pertinently, he wasn’t about to surrender all he and Mary had so recently claimed.

Pushing aside all emotion, he filled his chest and forced his mind to cool logic. It was unlikely they, whoever they were, would hurt Mary, not yet. It was his life Lavinia had targeted; she might have tried to scare Mary away, but at this moment his wife was . . . bait. No need to harm her yet, and every reason not to; a live lure always worked best.

Weighing up the possibilities, balancing them against his options, took time he forced himself to take, but eventually he dismounted. Shortening Julius’s reins, he wove them into one stirrup strap. Julius would wait for him untethered, but if anyone else approached and tried to grab him, the big gelding wouldn’t have it, and ultimately would return to the abbey stables.

It was the best he could do by way of a message should something go awry. More awry.

Not allowing himself to think further than that, he walked out into the drive, paused to look up at the old house, at the many-paned leaded windows, at the cool gray stone. His gaze came to rest on the half-open door; focusing on the dark section of shadowed hall beyond, he strode forward.

At his touch, the door opened further. The hall beyond lay in cool darkness. Not a sound reached his ears, not a scrape or a scuff, not any hint of human life.

He walked into the drawing room. It was unoccupied, as were the other reception rooms, all on the ground floor. He kept his ears peeled as he did the rounds, but the silence continued, heavy and unbroken.

Slowly, senses wide, he climbed the stairs. The bedrooms showed signs of occupation. In the largest, he found scent bottles and powders on the dressing table, and the gowns in the armoire confirmed all belonged to Lavinia; he recognized her style. In a bedroom further down the corridor, he discovered brushes, combs, and male attire. The particular designs of the coats and waistcoats, and the floppy silk scarves instead of cravats, told him who was also currently residing at the house.

Potherby. With icy calm, Ryder considered the fact. He’d known about Potherby for as long as he could recall knowing Lavinia; she and Potherby had been childhood friends, but despite the conclusion many leapt to, Ryder didn’t believe Potherby had been—or, indeed, was—Lavinia’s lover. There was something in the way Potherby looked at Lavinia, an expression more consistent with his being that childhood friend. But could Potherby be involved in the attacks on Ryder and Mary?

The man certainly had the intelligence Lavinia lacked, but . . . Ryder had always considered Potherby, despite his allegiance to Lavinia, to be a decent sort.