hadn’t taken kindly to being turned down, but she could not see how her death would benefit him.
Besides, how would any of her enemies know she was staying here—or where she would be that particular morning? The answer must be that they would not so it followed that the shot had been a mistake even if it had seemed to John that the poacher had fired with intent.
Sarah would be foolish to allow the incident to play on her mind. It was an unfortunate accident and unlikely to happen again.
She changed quickly out of her riding habit. No one had been hurt so they could go on as if nothing had happened.
* * *
Why would anyone want to kill Sarah? Rupert puzzled over it after having had a word with the groom.
‘Did you see the poacher, Jed?’
‘Yes, my lord. He seemed to act on impulse, if you ask me. Just fired quickly and then ran for it. I would’ve gone after him, but I thought I should stay with Master John.’
‘Quite right. And I was concerned for Francesca. I fear the rogue got away too easily. It will not happen again. In future I want another groom to follow at a distance when the ladies go riding—and he is to be armed.’
‘Do you think it was intentional, sir?’
‘More like someone seeing his chance and acting impulsively. The question is, why would anyone want to harm either Francesca or Miss Goodrum?’
‘We’ve never had anything like that here before, sir. Miss Francesca is an innocent—never been out in company much. Begging your pardon, sir, but none of us know much about Miss Goodrum. Not that I mean any offence, my lord.’
‘None taken. One thing I am certain of, whoever this rogue is he should not be allowed a second chance. I do not believe Miss Goodrum to have done anything that should make anyone want to kill her. She has excellent references.’
‘Yes, sir. It was just a thought.’
It was indeed a thought, Rupert mused. He’d defended her to the groom, naturally, but it was perfectly true that they knew little enough about Miss Goodrum. She had been given an excellent reference, but—was she truly who she claimed to be? Could she have done something that had made someone want revenge—enough to pay an assassin to kill her? It would have to be something serious.
Rupert had drawn back from searching Sarah’s room for the key to her writing box, but there was clearly a mystery and, after this morning’s incident when Francesca had come so close to being injured, he needed to know the truth. He would ask to speak to her that afternoon and get to the bottom of this affair.
* * *
Sarah walked over to her desk. She had been mulling over the offer made her that morning, torn this way and that by indecision. Selling would be the easy way out, but she was not sure she wished to sell to someone who refused to identify himself. Perhaps if he were more honest she might consider it—and she would tell her agent that...
The drawer of her desk was not quite shut. Sarah stared at it and frowned. She was certain she’d shut it properly before she went out that morning. Had one of the maids been looking through her things? She pulled the drawer open and saw that her box was still there, but it had been taken out and replaced the wrong way round. She was quite certain it had been facing the other way when she’d left it.
Sarah checked it and found it was still locked. Whoever had been searching her things had balked at breaking the lock and would not have found the key in her room for she kept it with her at all times. The box contained money and her valuable pearls, as well as her papers, and she never let the key out of her sight, even at home.
Frowning, Sarah replaced the box as the gong sounded in the hall. It was time for nuncheon. She wondered whether she should speak to Mrs Brancaster, but, looking round her room she thought nothing else had been touched. Whoever had started the search must have drawn the line at going through her clothes. Besides, there was nothing of value for anyone to steal—other than her box and that had not been breached. Perhaps she had been mistaken. She might have placed the box differently that morning because she’d been anxious about her reply to Sam’s letter.
Pushing the matter to the back of her mind, she went downstairs to the small dining parlour, where the others had already gathered.
‘Forgive me if I’ve kept you waiting.’
‘I’ve only just arrived,’ Francesca said. ‘I’m hungry. The ride out must have done me good.’
‘Yes, you have colour in your cheeks. It was pleasant to ride together. We must do so again when the weather is fine.’
‘You should give your attention to the picnic now,’ Rupert said. ‘Once the invitations go out we are bound to have people calling to leave a card and someone ought to be here to receive them. It will be good for Francesca to greet our guests and give them refreshments. You will help her, Miss Goodrum?’
Sarah heard the question in his voice and was puzzled. ‘Of course, sir. I shall be there to give Francesca any assistance she needs and to lend propriety to the occasion should a gentleman call.’
‘Yes, that was what I meant, of course. I wondered if you might have business of your own elsewhere?’
How could he know that? Sarah hesitated, her spine prickling. Was it Lord Myers who had entered her room while she was out? She had known he did not quite trust her for a while now.
‘If I do, I shall let you know in plenty of time, my lord. At the moment I think I am able to manage my affairs by letter.’
‘Indeed?’ His eyes seemed to probe into her mind, searching for answers that she had no wish to give. ‘I wonder if I might speak to you before tea, Miss Goodrum. I do not wish to interfere with your plans for the afternoon, but I should like a few moments of your time in private.’
‘Certainly, my lord.’ Sarah gave him a frosty look and then moved to the sideboard to select her meal from the array of cold meats, cheeses, small boiled potatoes and green leaves picked fresh from the kitchen gardens.
She sat at the table and ate her meal, concentrating on her plate and trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. What could he possibly have to say to her this time?
* * *
Sarah had asked for basket chairs to be placed outside on the lawn and they took a pile of poetry books and a blanket in case the wind turned cooler. For the next hour or two they discussed the merits of the modern poets, comparing Coleridge, William Blake and Lord Byron, against the work of Shakespeare and Colonel Lovelace.
Finding themselves in almost complete agreement over the various romantic poets and their work, they laughed a great deal, their heads together as they pored over the slender volumes, some of which were worn with age and obviously loved.
Sarah was able to forget the impending interview with Lord Myers until she glanced at the time and realised they must go in and tidy their gowns for tea.
‘I must speak with Lord Myers,’ she said, gathering up the books. ‘We shall continue this discussion another day. We must not neglect your music and of course you will begin dancing lessons as soon as the dancing master arrives.’
‘I’m
