It was the less-wealthy men following Rainford who worried him.
Gerard rode home in the dark, trying to work out how to handle his beekeeper’s ardent suitor. He had promised she’d be safe at Wystan, and she would be. She was of age. Her father couldn’t force her to leave. But fortune-hunting mongrels might be desperate enough to stage an abduction in return for a reward or for the heiress herself.
And Gerard couldn’t protect both Iona at Wystan, and her sister, wherever she might be. Putting them in one place might be doubly dangerous, as they’d already assumed. Apart, they could blend in. As twins, they’d stand out.
Perhaps he could explain the dilemma to Rainford. The marquess had the wealth to send the women to China, if need be. But Gerard would need Iona’s permission to spill her secrets. She didn’t trust easily, for good reason, it seemed.
He rode in, sweaty and stinking of horse. Throwing the reins to the stableboy, he hurried to his tower to bathe. He might have time to catch some of the women still in the withdrawing room. He didn’t dare hope he’d find Iona. And he couldn’t arouse suspicion by sending for her. Damn.
Lowell greeted him without fuss, filling his bath and fetching clean clothes. The old batman made an excellent valet, Gerard admitted. He just didn’t need the extra baggage or expense of a personal servant. He never stayed at Wystan for long. He didn’t need a valet at Iveston Hall, where the family estate swarmed with servants. His flat in London was small. He’d be forced to find a larger one—more expense—or settle in the family townhouse. He shuddered at the idea since the ancient edifice spilled over with his relations and any of their friends who needed a temporary home.
Could he send Iona to his family? What explanation would he give? His mother could sense a lie from a mile away.
Since dinner was over, the kitchen sent up a hot meal to his room. After bathing and dressing, Gerard took the tray to his desk, where he flipped through various papers the women had left for him. Mary Mike was more efficient at communicating than Avery, he noted. She’d already acquired estimates on replacing the older trees, along with the cost of the new hives and the hedge to protect them.
He uncovered a sketch of a hillside with a dead tree and a list of herbs to be found there. Puzzled, he almost set it aside in his haste to hunt for Iona. But as he finished off his wine, he studied the sketch, trying to figure out why it had been left on his desk. The writing was not Mary Mike’s.
The sketcher was no artist, but something about the drawing compelled him to study it. He could determine what appeared to be square stones among the penciled weeds. In the distance, he thought he could see the top of Wystan’s tower. Village was penciled in to the west of the tower and Orchards to the east. So it was a map of sorts, to a patch of weeds and stones.
He picked it up and received a shock that shot up his arm as if he’d been electrified. He occasionally picked up on vibrations from old artifacts that called to him, but this. . . This was abnormal.
He hastily strode downstairs in search of anyone who might still be around in the main house. He met Mrs. Merriweather on her way to her room, and she greeted him cheerfully.
“There you are, my lord! We’ve missed you. I’ve not found anything in the library yet about ancient ruins, but I see you found Nan’s sketch. She said the bees showed her that spot. She didn’t find any artifacts, but she thought the stones and garden looked very old.”
Iona had done this? Gerard had to work at displaying his usual nonchalance. “I should thank her,” he said politely. “I’ll ride out and look for this in the morning. Is she still about?”
“Oh, no, she left this morning.” Mrs. Merriweather’s smile faded a trifle. “We tried to persuade her to stay, but she received a letter and said her family needed her. I do worry about her, but there was no persuading her to wait.”
She’d left! She’d run away even after he’d promised her safety. He would kill her if he ever found her. She couldn’t leave him. . . She had.
It tested all his diplomatic skills to refrain from punching a wall and roaring his rage. “Did she say which direction? I have to leave soon. I might catch up with her and see that she travels safely.”
Mrs. Merriweather frowned. “The only letter she received was from Edinburgh, my lord, but she didn’t say where she was going. Does it matter? I can write—”
If she had a letter from family—he could guess who wrote from Edinburgh. Biting down on his fear and fury, he waved off that suggestion. “I hope she had sufficient funds to take the train and not a coach.”
“We paid her in advance for the honey sales. It seemed the right thing to do. She was worried about her bees, but we assured her we’d take the best care of them. I suppose it’s better that she travel before the weather worsens. Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord? My kitten and my rocking chair are waiting.”
“No, I thank you for explaining. Perhaps I’ll look for Mary Mike to see if she can provide better directions to this hill.” He continued down the corridor, his stomach grinding as if he’d eaten glass.
If he asked questions, the women would want explanation of his interest. He didn’t have a good explanation, except for the fears Iona had confided and weren’t his to reveal. The sketch was all he had.
He carried the paper into the withdrawing room where Winifred and Simone cut
