“Jasper,” Kit whispered. “This is mad.”

“It’s a party,” Jasper replied. “We need them to have a good time.” He stretched out in the hide the best he could and used his coat as a pillow. His valet would chide him for days about the state of his clothes. “Keep shooting. I’m going to nap.”

He closed his eyes, but every rifle report jarred him alert. Every whoop of success made his feet twitch.

The successful shooting made the return trip to the house much more of a party. Even Raines was happier, given that he’d bagged the largest bird—a pheasant Jasper pledged to serve for dinner during the party. Kit, dour-faced and trudging two steps behind, refused to be drawn into the celebration. Jasper, itchy, filthy, and cold, spent less time talking than he did listening.

It wasn’t the words he heard. No one would be daft enough to say something about an errant shot. He listened for the tone of each comment. Did someone sound guilt-ridden over almost killing their host? Worse, could someone’s disappointment in the outing be interpreted as failure at meeting another goal?

Stapleton met them at the end of the stairs, and his eyes went wide at Jasper’s appearance. “My lord. Should we send for the constable?”

“I’d be better served by a laundress, I believe.” Jasper sighed when the man refused to smile at his joke and move from their path. Both would have been satisfying. Either would have been sufficient.

“You can’t blame him for asking, Ramsbury,” Wareham said. “You look as though you’ve been through the war.”

As though the tipsy blowhard would know anything of war.

“It’s not that, my lord.” Stapleton leaned forward to whisper, “One of the pistols is missing from the armory. Did you take one?”

“We didn’t.” The pool of dread re-formed low in Jasper’s stomach, filled by the cold trickle running down his spine. “Search the house and the grounds.”

“It’s being done now. The house has been searched from attic to larder. The young men are in the garden now. I’m going back to direct them.”

“Thank you, Stapleton.”

Jasper trudged up the stairs and into the house, imagining he could feel Kit’s breath on his neck. When they reached the door to his room, Kit stepped around and entered first. For the first time, Jasper didn’t mind his friend’s overprotective instincts.

“Our plans must change,” Kit said once they were alone in the room. “I cannot leave for Cardiff with a killer in the house.”

Jasper stripped out of his boots, trousers, and shirt before pouring water in the basin. “We cannot send Claudette to Wales alone, and she must go.” He scrubbed the dirt from his face and hands, and the bracing water helped clear his thoughts. “She and Gareth’s family have to stop blaming each other and put pressure on the police to investigate his murder.”

Travis, his valet, entered the room. “I apologize, my lord. The house is in an uproar, and I wasn’t…” He took in Jasper’s appearance and the pile of dirt-splotched clothes. “Oh dear.”

He went to work then, dressing Jasper in clothing more suited to an afternoon at home. Jasper shook his head when he lifted the coat. “I’d like to be able to move freely, Travis. Thank you.”

After all, an assassin might be lurking around every corner, or even at the top of the stairs.

“As you wish.” Travis unrolled his shaving kit and used his limited medical supplies to address the cut on Jasper’s cheek. “If I may, sir. You should have taken me with you as a loader. You might not have needed me in that position, but it is clear I could have been of help.”

After he was finished, the reflection in the mirror looked more like the confident host Jasper needed to be. He let that feeling seep into his bones. “Thank you, Travis. You are right, of course, and I will rely on you, Stapleton, and the others when Kit leaves for Cardiff in the morning with Mrs. Hughes.”

He turned to Kit. “You must go to Cardiff. Even if the investigation does not move forward, it is what Gareth would have wanted. We owe him that, at the very least.”

Jasper left the room without looking back, certain that Kit was giving orders to the valet, who had been a batman for an overly brave officer in Egypt. For the first time, he was glad his home was so full of retired soldiers that it might well be considered a barracks. Not for the first time, he was happy not to see another soul as he entered the library.

His favorite book waited on the shelf across from the fireplace. He’d read it so often in the last three years that the spine was already ragged. It was a good afternoon to sit quietly with an old friend.

He caught the movement in the corner of his eye and whirled, prepared to use the book as a weapon, if only to allow him to gain ground and throttle his opponent himself. It would be a gratifying experience to take revenge on the culprit who had made him afraid in his own home.

Annabel Pearce stood next to the fire, wide-eyed, her hand motionless on her skirt. “My apologies, your lordship. I did not mean to startle you.”

Spencer’s spy. Or perhaps an assassin sent to do him in. A pistol would have made it easy for anyone to accomplish the task. “I didn’t expect a mouse in my library.”

It was an apt description for the slight woman who was always in gray, perpetually plain, and so quiet that most of the party failed to see her.

Though last night, her eyes had been bright, and her cheeks had still held the bloom from their ride. Even her gray dress had seemed prettier. He had the impression that the ladies in the party, even her professional compatriots, saw her and chose to look the other way.

“I’ll go, then.”

Was it possible that Annabel Pearce, the very proper baron’s daughter, would steal a pistol, trek across the countryside, and attempt to shoot him in the back? Jasper dismissed the theory with a mental wave of his hand.

If Annabel wanted to kill him, she would do it while facing him.

“Please don’t. I apologize for my remarks.” He took a chair and motioned to the one she’d vacated. “My failures in shooting this morning have made me cross.”

She touched her cheek, marking the spot where his wound appeared. “Did the birds defend themselves?”

He barked a laugh. “A branch caught me unaware.”

A fresh-faced maid scurried into the room, carrying a rattling tray of coffee and sweet biscuits. Though it was almost as large as she was, she managed to set it on the table between them without spilling anything or toppling headfirst onto the carpet.

“Thank you,” Annabel said to the girl as she departed. She looked to him. “Shall I pour?”

“Please.” Jasper waited as she filled his cup. Steam curled over liquid dark enough to match his thoughts. Or, at least, his previous thoughts. In this room, things didn’t seem so dismal. “What are you reading?”

“Currer Bell’s novel.” She divided the biscuits between them. “It’s a favorite of mine. And you?”

“Dumas’s novel about the musketeers.” He wondered over her choice of a book about a governess in love with her secretive employer. It seemed far too romantic for such a practical young lady. “A favorite.”

Her smile creased her eyes for a moment before she opened her book and returned to the pages. Jasper followed suit.

The fire popped and crackled, warming his toes as the coffee banished the chill in his bones. He relaxed against the chair and reached for a biscuit.

“That is my plate, your lordship.”

“Apologies,” he replied around a mouthful of sweetness. He risked a sideways glance. She was curled into the chair like a cat, her feet tucked under her as she bent over the page. “Have you reached a suspenseful part?”

“There’s a fire set to kill Mr. Rochester,” she whispered without looking at him.

He returned to his book, and after a moment reached for another biscuit.

Annabel swatted his hand. “Cad.” Laughter infused the word.

Jasper chuckled and turned the page.

Chapter Six