The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,84
good riding near the house—rolling hills, twisting lanes, and hedges to jump. The enclosure acts had reached the farms here, but we still found plenty of open country through which to have long runs.
Grenville’s guests began trickling in over the week. I noted that he’d been very careful, inviting only the most congenial of gentlemen and their ladies, with a mix of the aristocratic and genteel-born intellectual and artistic friends. None were scandalous, though some were unconventional, but no one would create any dramatic scenes at this gathering.
They’d been chosen because they’d not condemn Marianne nor snub her, I concluded. Grenville was canny enough to keep the guest list small, so that the fashionable would hear of this exclusive party and put aside their shock at his marriage to try to gain admission to future gatherings. Grenville was making Marianne interesting, an introduction to her something to be sought after.
I chuckled at his ploys but admired his wisdom. I let him play congenial host while I mostly kept to horseback, honing my son’s already excellent riding skills.
On a brisk October day, Peter and I took a trail that led along a descending fold between hills. Peter cantered his horse ahead of mine, disappearing around the hill’s bulk.
I followed more slowly, delighting in the view before me. The land receded into the distance, a blue haze swallowing it as it reached the gleam of a faraway river. If I were an artist, I’d paint the scene.
I continued riding around the gentle hill, expecting at any moment to find Peter.
I did not. I reached a gate in a grassy field, but it was shut. Deciding Peter must have leapt his horse over the low wall next to it, I turned my mount in a wide circle and jumped it across, landing on a downward slope.
At the bottom of that slope, in the waving grass, I saw a horse. It had no rider.
My alarm growing, I urged my mount forward. I rode a fine stallion, and he took me easily down the hill to the horse that skittered away from us.
Something had spooked him. I scanned the ground, but nowhere did I see Peter’s small body lying with broken limbs.
I gazed about, becoming more frantic by the moment. “Peter!” I shouted.
I heard no small voice calling back to me, no answer or cry for help.
“Peter! Damnation, where are you?”
I guided my horse forward, circling Peter’s mount in ever widening swaths, my gaze everywhere. I saw and heard nothing but the wind in the grass, the sharp cry of a sparrowhawk.
Mouth dry, I returned to the horse, walking mine slowly to keep Peter’s mount calm. Once I was close enough, I reached over and caught its reins. The horse trembled but did not attempt to bolt.
It was then that I saw the paper peeping out from under the saddle’s pommel. Speaking soothingly to Peter’s horse—which was a feat, as my voice cracked with panic—I withdrew the page.
On it was a simple sentence.
Bring me Denis, and you will see your son again. Creasey.
CHAPTER 21
T he note balled in my fist, I rode to the top of the nearest hill, desperately scanning the horizon. I saw no one, not a party of horses or a carriage taking away my son.
There were no hiding places to my eyes either. The abductors had planned well, likely scouting the area long in advance. I’d made no secret that I would visit Grenville at this time, and I’d come to Gloucestershire in the innocent belief that here, we’d be safe.
I knew Creasey did not mean I should fetch Denis and bring him to some hideaway in the Cotswolds. He wanted me to return to London, truss up Denis, and carry him to Creasey’s warehouse by the wharves.
Tears wet my face as I turned my horse toward Grenville’s home, leading the second horse behind me. I now had to find Donata and tell her I’d lost her son.
Brewster panted up to me on foot as I moved down the trail. “Guv.”
“Did you see?” I demanded. “Where did they take him?”
“That way.” Brewster stretched out his broad arm to the south. “They circled the hills, but they’re on fast horses. They outran me.” He leaned his hands on his knees, dragging in breaths.
“It was Creasey,” I said grimly. I handed him the paper.
Brewster smoothed it out and read it, his breaths slowing as he took it in.