they come for him? Had he mistaken their purpose? Was it Trevor they wanted or the house’s treasures? Either way, he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.
He backed into the withdrawing room and looked around. Someone had left a lantern, partially hooded, near the bow window. The glow bathed the settee, sturdy armchairs, wood-wrapped hearth and sundry side tables in gold, and left the back of the room draped in shadow. He hadn’t done more than glance in here when he’d arrived, but he didn’t think anything was missing.
Indeed, something had been added. The stone shepherd was standing in the center of the bloodred pattern of the carpet.
A chill ran up Trevor. But he didn’t believe in ghosts, or statues that moved by themselves. Some days he wasn’t even sure he believed in God, at least not a god who cared for humankind. His life was proof that a gentleman only had himself to rely on.
But what would his enemies want with a statue, and why had they abandoned it? Keeping an eye out for movement, he crossed to the statue and picked it up with his free hand.
The piece was heavier than he expected, the stone cold in his grip. He jiggled it up and down, but nothing rattled to indicate a secret compartment. He turned it front to back, but in the dim light he couldn’t even be sure of the stone used to carve it, let alone any distinguishing marks.
“Put that down.”
Fool! Why had he looked down, even for an instant? Trevor turned slowly toward the voice, ready for anything. What he’d taken as a solid wall across the back of the withdrawing room was clearly a pocket door allowing access to the dining room beyond. Framed in the doorway was a cloaked figure, shorter and slighter than him, a lad by the timbre of his voice. Trevor could have taken him easily, if it weren’t for the pistol extending from the shadows in his gloved hand.
“Is it valuable, then?” Trevor asked, making a show of eyeing the statue even as he eased closer across the carpet toward the fellow.
“You wouldn’t have come to steal it if you didn’t think so,” the lad countered.
Trevor cocked a smile and took another step closer. “Takes one to know one, eh? What are you after?”
The pistol was lifted to aim at his heart. “Anyone who dares disturb this house. Now— Put. That. Down.”
“Certainly,” Trevor said. “Catch.” He hurled the statue at the fellow and dove into its wake. The statue fell with a thud against the carpet, and Trevor and the intruder went down in a tangle of arms and legs, sword snared in the cloak.
The pistol roared, the flash blinding him for a moment. His heart jerked, but he felt no wrenching pain, no blow from a lead ball.
“Now look what you’ve done!” his captive cried, obviously unhurt, as well. “Dolly! Dolly, here!”
In that second, Trevor realized two things. Something very large was thundering back down the stairs.
And the person he held pinned to the floor was a woman.
Gwendolyn Allbridge glared up at the man who held her flattened to the carpet. With the lantern across the room and behind him, all she could make out was height and strength. The arms that pushed on her shoulders were like pillars of polished oak. She wiggled against the pressure but only managed to press herself deeper into the pile of the carpet.
“Let me up!” she demanded. “Dolly!”
To her surprise, he immediately released her and rose. She scrambled to her feet, breath coming in gasps. Taking a step back, she nearly tripped over the useless pistol, its single ball spent. She should have brought both her father’s pistols. She should have woken her father and made him come up to the house to investigate the strange lights himself. She was unarmed and alone with a looter in an empty house, and no one would hear her if she screamed.
Well, no human, perhaps. Dolly bounded through the door, a dappled mountain that only looked larger with the shadows thrown by the lantern. The mastiff took one look at the intruder and bared her teeth. Her growl reverberated through the room.
“What on earth?” he said. “You have a trained bear?”
She smiled at his confusion. Dolly was the largest mastiff ever bred in the Evendale Valley. Her massive head reached above Gwen’s waist, and, at nearly two hundred pounds, she outweighed her mistress by over sixty.
“She doesn’t like strangers,” Gwen said. “I’d leave now if I were you.”
Dolly let out a bark, deep and demanding, and he took a step back.
“I fear I have two problems with leaving,” he said, and she was a little disappointed he didn’t sound more terrified. In fact, he didn’t sound like the vagrant she’d expected. His voice was educated, cultivated. And, if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was amused.
“And what would those be?” she asked sweetly while Dolly growled and prowled closer to him.
“Your bear is standing between me and the door,” he replied. Then he turned his head to look at her. “And I own this house.”
The owner?
Gwen’s breath left her lungs in a rush. But it couldn’t be. They’d received no word, seen no one at the gate. Two months had gone by since Colonel Umbrey, the previous owner, had passed on, and they’d only just heard the estate had been sold.
“Prove it,” she challenged.
He sketched her a bow that made Dolly pull up with a grunt of surprise.
“Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam, baronet, of Blackcliff Hall,” he said, “at your service. And you would be?”
“Unconvinced,” Gwen said. “Dolly, come!”
The mastiff edged around him and pressed herself against Gwen’s side. Now that her pulse was calming, Gwen felt every bruise along her backside. She’d have to use some of her mother’s liniment tonight. Leaning into the dog’s strength, Gwen crossed to the table in front of the bow window, where she’d set and hooded her lantern on arrival to avoid detection. As she opened the hood, she turned and let light flood the space.
Oh, but he was a handsome one! Raven-haired, square-jawed, with features clean and firm. She couldn’t be sure of the color of his eyes—blue like her father’s? Brown like hers? Green?—but they were deep set and narrowed now as he considered her.
What did he see? A slip of a woman with untamable auburn curls and a pert nose? She was certain she didn’t look like the respectable daughter of the estate’s former steward. The brown cloak was slipping off the shoulders of her green wool gown, and both were wrinkled from her collision with the floor.
On the other hand, she could well believe he was the master of the house. His navy coat was cut to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders, and his fawn trousers hugged muscular thighs. The lantern light glinted off the gold filigree buttons on his satin-striped waistcoat, and a gemstone winked from the hopelessly rumpled folds of his snowy cravat.
Oh, Lord, what have I done!
“If you could provide proof of your identity, sir,” she said, knowing her voice sounded decidedly fainter,
