The Spurned Viscountess by Shelley Munro

cottage. The directions she gave us took us through the forest.” She gestured at the trees behind them. “I thought Mary was behind me, but she wasn’t. I heard something crashing through the undergrowth. A deer bounded across the path in front of me. The next minute the men arrived, and they started shooting.”
    “A deer? It sounds as if the men were hunting and you managed to get in the way.”
    Her chin jerked up. “The men were shooting at me. I heard them say so. And if they were hunting, why did they grab Mary?”
    Lucien found himself staring in fascination. Her argument had brought a delicate color to her cheeks while her blue eyes had darkened. They flashed at him, leaving him in no doubt of her feelings. She was furious because he doubted her. He wondered if he were wrong. Perhaps she was innocent.
    “It is my feeling,” he said, scrutinizing her closely, “that someone wanted me dead. They hoped I’d lose control of Oberon and suffer a fall bad enough to kill me. What have you to say to that?”
    “What have I—” She broke off to glare at him. “Come, Mary. I desire a bath.” With that, she whirled away and stomped down the slight hill, her maid trailing her.
    The maid was limping, Lucien saw as he resumed a slow walk after the two women. Had she lied? She appeared dirty and windblown, but no more so than after a vigorous walk. Then he recalled the absolute disgust when she’d realized he thought she’d made the whole story up, followed by sheer incredulity on her expressive face. Lucien’s scar drew tight when he frowned, then slackened when his mouth eased into rueful humor. Ten minutes ago he’d been sure, but now he doubted his first instincts.
    He ambled after the women into the village. This time the villagers appeared a mite friendlier, with the children swarming about the two women while the womenfolk bobbed brisk greetings as they went about their business.
    When they walked past the public house, a stooped figure limped from the stables. His head was swathed in a grubby white bandage.
    “Matthew.” Rosalind darted forward before pulling up in consternation. “Whatever happened to you?”
    “Aye,” the maid chimed in. “We waited for you.” She looked him up and down and drew back suddenly. “Have you been drinking?”
    Lucien winced at her shrill screech. The footman did too, his hands creeping up to hold his head. A large rip ran the length of his green St. Clare livery, while mud and straw splattered his white stockings. Lucien’s nose twitched when he stepped closer. Along with the pungent aroma of whisky, he smelled the distinct odor of stable manure.
    “Have you been sitting in Nag’s Head drinking?” the maid demanded again.
    “Shush. Let the man speak.” The English mouse stepped alongside the footman and touched him gently on the upper arm. A small gasp escaped his wife. Lucien sent her a curious glance. The color fled her face, leaving her cheeks pale. “I expect your head hurts, Matthew.” She turned to Lucien. “Is there somewhere Matthew can sit down?”
    Lucien snorted. Matthew wouldn’t sit if he had his way. The footman had neglected his duties. He’d be lucky if he kept his job. “Explain,” he said curtly. There were a few too many accidents for his liking. He glanced at Rosalind. Beads of blood on her jaw line snagged his attention. A scratch. Concern welled, taking him by surprise. Pushing aside the unease, he concentrated on the footman. Lucien didn’t want to feel anything for the English mouse.
    “I was on my way to meet up with Lady Hastings, just like ye told me.” He paused, saw the look on Lucien’s face and wavered on his feet.
    “Sit, man,” Lucien snapped. “Before you fall.”
    The footman slumped against one of the wooden pillars at the entrance to the Nag’s Head. “Took a short cut, I did, through the small alley that runs behind the stables. Someone hit me on the noggin. That’s the last I remember.”
    Lucien studied the