“Hasn’t been here for two days, milord.”
Hart stroked the prickles on the back of his neck. “Are you sure you didn’t miss him?”
He shook his head. “Left in the morning the day before yesterday. Said he’d be in for supper, but never showed up. I have his baggage here when he wants to claim it.”
Climbing into the curricle, Hart took up the reins, then considered what best to do. The situation had become dire. Boyle would never have left for London without his baggage. Hart hoped to learn something at Pembury. But the worrying thought persisted. Had Wakeham spotted Boyle on his land and ordered his men to deal with him?
It was late afternoon when Hart drove through the gates and onto Pembury drive bordered by aged elm trees. Emerging into the gardens in the soft light of the setting sun, the old mansion sat above freshly scythed lawns, the timbers enhanced by a fresh coat of paint.
At the stables, one of his older grooms took the reins. “Nothing untoward happened while I was away, Bevan?” Hart asked.
Bevan blinked, surprised at the possibility that anything might disturb his peace. “No, milord.”
At the house, Hart ordered a footman to bring him a light meal, then sent for his steward. In the library, he poured brandy from the crystal decanter and took it to his desk.
Albert came swiftly in response to his summons.
“Have my uncle’s solicitors returned to inspect the property?”
“A few days ago, milord. Said they would contact you in writing. They appeared to be impressed with the work.” Albert paused. “I heard you have married, milord.”
“I have, Albert,” Hart said with a smile.
He hurried over and offered his hand. “Allow me to congratulate you. Is the marchioness here with you?”
Hart rose to shake it. “Thank you. Lady Montford remains in London, but is eager to view the house. I wasn’t sure it would be ready for her.”
“They’ve completed the work. I believe Lady Montford will find her suite to her liking. The painters and decorators have done a magnificent job.”
“Excellent.” Hart paused as a knock at the door brought a maid with his luncheon. She placed it on a low table, and after Hart requested coffee, bobbed and left the room. Hart left the desk. “I shall ride out this afternoon and see what’s been done. Will I like what I find?”
“I believe you will, milord. The last few weeks have brought good rain. The farmers are cautiously positive.”
“No one has called for me? Not a Mr. Boyle?”
Albert raised his eyebrows. “Boyle? No. And I’ve heard nothing from the footmen at the door.”
“Very well, Albert. We’ll speak again later.”
When the door closed behind his steward, Hart reached for a slice of bread and slapped a piece of meat and cheese on it. Having not eaten since early morning, he was hungry, and he took a large bite. He would ride over the estate on Blaze tomorrow. And tonight, when it got dark, would go in search of Mr. Boyle with little hope of finding him, and if he did, what condition would he be in?
Some hours later, when the moon rose above the long stand of pines on the far hill, Hart rode Blaze over his land and continued onto his neighbor’s. He left his horse tied up a distance from the Wakeham stables, ran across the ground, and vaulted a fence. Keeping low, he crept toward the three outbuildings near the stables. All was quiet. No lantern light showed in the stables or the staff quarters. They appeared to have all retired for the night. Hart skirted the stables and chose the nearest of the buildings used for storage. Inside, he struck his tinderbox and lit a rushlight. Its feeble glow enabled him to see that apart from brushes, hoes, spades, and bags of manure, the shed was empty. He pinched the rushlight out between his fingers then slipped from the building. Keeping to the shadows, he entered the next. That, too, was empty. Losing heart, he eyed the last one, situated a distance from the stables, its roof groaning under the weight of pine needles. It was much older, the boards falling into disrepair. Hart listened at the door. Nothing, just the creak of the timbers as the wind picked up.
Then he heard it. A faint moan. Or was it the wind?
He found the door barred. Hart removed the bar and opened the door. It gave a loud creak. He paused to listen, but when no one challenged him, he shut the door behind him. The interior turned black as pitch, except for a sliver of moonlight shining on the floor from a high window. Something moved within it. At first he thought it was a rat, but as his eyesight adjusted to the dark, he discovered a foot.
“Boyle?” With a hissed curse, Hart was at the man’s side in a moment. He risked lighting the rushlight again. In its faint light, the runner’s bloodied face became clear as he peered woozily up at Hart. “Is that you, Lord Montford? Or am I dreaming?”
“Not dreaming, Boyle.” Hart squatted beside him, but couldn’t find evidence of a wound. “Quietly, man. How badly are you hurt?”
Boyle struggled, his hands tied behind his back with twine. When he moved his head, he groaned. “Wakeham’s men crept up on me, knocked me out. My head aches, and I’ll have a lump to rival Scafell Pike, but apart from that, I’m remarkably unhurt.”
Hart moved over behind Boyle and wrestled with the tightly tied twine. “Will you be able to walk?”
“My legs will probably cramp something fierce, but I’ll crawl out of here if I have to.”
“Hopefully, that won’t be necessary. Did you discover anything before they found you?”