No rest for the wicked, he thought wryly as he rounded the turn.
Up ahead, a faint pool of candlelight spilled into the corridor from a half-open door.
Strange. It seemed a trifle early for a ghillie to be up and checking the fowling guns or loading the cartridge bags. On instinct, Devlin ducked into the recessed doorway of a storage closet and cocked an ear to listen.
Nothing. No cocking of hammers, no shifting of canisters, no thumping of canvas. The silence made the situation even more suspicious. He waited, watching the erratic flicker of the light moving within the room.
Finally, after several long minutes, a figure emerged and drew the door shut.
First pistols, and now muskets and rifles?
Despite her protests to the contrary, Anna Sloane must have a very vivid imagination.
That, or something far more nefarious than a play was being scripted inside that clever little head.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning dawned gray and unsettled, with ominous clouds in the distance threatening rain.
The mood was somber as well, as the group started to climb into the hills. Or perhaps, observed, Devlin, everyone was simply suffering the effects of too little sleep and too much brandy.
A dull ache was pulsing against the back of his skull, though not from a surfeit of spirits. Much as he wished to believe Anna incapable of being involved in any serious wrongdoing, her activities were becoming too alarming to ignore. Her explanations simply didn’t ring true.
And yet, Devlin couldn’t quite bring himself to accept that she was the agent in charge. She must be working with someone.
But whom?
Surely it had to be someone she knew from London. Colonel Polianov? His rudeness might only be an act, for the Russian government was meddling in German politics and had good reason to wish ill to befall Prince Gunther. Or maybe the young heiress’s father and Anna were having a clandestine affair, and the man had drawn her into an international intrigue.
Ye gods, he thought in some disgust, his conjectures were growing dangerously demented. There had to be a more reasonable answer.
“This way,” called McClellan, interrupting Devlin’s brooding. “Watch your step. The stones are slippery.”
Ducking low to avoid sna
gging his hat on a branch of thorny gorse, Devlin made his way up the narrow path. He had deliberately chosen to bring up the rear, as it afforded a chance to keep an eye on all the rest of the hunters. But given the patches of fog and swirls of mist obscuring the moors, there wasn’t much to see. The men ahead were naught but ghostly silhouettes.
“The grouse will likely have far more sense than we do,” he grumbled, “and won’t seek to stir from their nests.”
“Ja, it is gloomy,” came a disembodied voice from just ahead. Count Rupert rose from his crouch after making a final adjustment to the buckle of his hunting boot. “But I think I see a peek of sun to the east.”
“Wishful thinking,” said Devlin.
The winds had suddenly shifted just after daybreak, blowing a new squall in from the sea. However, the prince had been anxious not to miss another day on the grouse moors, so Lord Dunbar had prevailed upon his wife’s cousin to carry on according to plan. A few of the gentlemen—the sensible ones, thought Devlin glumly—had demurred. But loath though he was to forego the comforts of a roaring fire and glass of whisky on a rainy day, he had felt compelled to come along. After all, Thorncroft was paying him well.
“You don’t like hunting, Lord Davenport?” asked the count.
“Not when it’s colder and wetter than a witch’s tit.”
The other man looked puzzled for a moment, and then began to chuckle. “Ha, ha, ha. You English have a very peculiar sense of humor.”
“Would you two stop cackling over bawdy jokes and pay attention?” called McClellan testily. “This is excellent terrain for the hunt, and if we spread out in a line parallel to the trail, the beaters and dogs can try to flush some birds before it’s time to return to the castle.”
Though several sarcastic quips came to mind, Devlin took his assigned place without comment. The prince, he noted, was positioned at one end of the line, next to Vicomte de Verdemont.
A signal from the head ghillie indicated that the hunt was about to start.
“We’ll shoot in order, from left to right, as the birds take flight,” called McClellan. “The prince will go first.”