The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,130
knave to rule them via fear.
No. Whatever came, they would handle it. And, if anything, courtesy of the night, they were even stronger now.
His mind shifting to the pleasures of the evening to come, he shut his desk drawer, then heard a crisp tap at the door. “Come.”
Forsythe entered, a faintly puzzled frown on his face. In one hand he held a salver on which rested several letters, the afternoon mail; offering the salver, Forsythe said, “My lord, Aggie, her ladyship’s maid, is looking for her ladyship but can’t seem to find her. Do you have any idea where her ladyship might be?”
Accepting the letters, Ryder frowned. “She said she was going to do some embroidery, but”—he glanced at the window, at the sunshine outside—“she might have gone for a stroll.” Pushing back his chair, he stood. “She won’t have gone far. Has Aggie checked the rose garden?”
Aggie had. She’d also checked the terraces and the immediate surrounds of the house, as well as their rooms upstairs.
The maid wrung her hands. “She’s usually about, m’lord, and she likes me to check round about now over what gown she wants to wear to dinner.”
It took the footmen fifteen minutes to quarter the rest of the house.
Meanwhile, Ryder sent for Dukes, the head gardener, who immediately went out to consult with his far-flung crew.
“Her ladyship is definitely not within the house, my lord.”
Forsythe looked like Ryder felt—unwilling to panic yet, but starting to feel the first nibblings of fear. “Send to the stables. She won’t have gone riding, but perhaps she walked down to see her horse.”
At this time of day, that was a long shot, and so it proved.
“We haven’t seen her ladyship at all today, my lord,” Filmore reported.
Dukes strode rapidly back in, an unusual enough action from the normally lugubrious gardener to fix all attention on him. He nodded to Ryder. “One of my lads saw her ladyship walking in the shrubbery, my lord. He was working there. She smiled, spoke a pleasant word, then turned back to the house. Far as he knows, she returned to the east terrace, but this was some time ago, hours at least, and from where he was, he couldn’t see if she actually did come all the way to the house or turned off to somewhere else.”
A chill unlike any he’d ever experienced was seeping into Ryder’s chest. He glanced at Forsythe, Filmore, then back at Dukes. “I want every able-bodied man—assemble them in the forecourt. We need to mount a search.”
“Yes, my lord.” Forsythe looked grim.
“At once.” Filmore saluted and headed for the door.
Dukes didn’t reply, just grimly nodded and followed Filmore. Forsythe sent a footman scurrying but remained to help Ryder set out maps of the estate and surrounding areas.
Somewhat to Ryder’s surprise, Aggie stopped wringing her hands and, jaw firming, whirled and rushed from the room.
In the end, it wasn’t only the men who assembled in the forecourt but all the younger women on the staff as well, recruited by Aggie, and with the approval of Mrs. Pritchard all ready to do their bit to find their missing mistress.
That gave Ryder some leeway; dispatching the women in pairs to search every inch of the grounds left him with enough men to send riders to the nearby farms as well as organize comprehensive sweeps through the surrounding woods and fields.
Even though this was Wiltshire, as calm and gentle a county as any in England, it was nevertheless possible that some accident had befallen Mary, even if she hadn’t ventured into the woods.
That was what he was hoping, what they were all thinking. A fall, a twisted ankle—anything of that sort would be preferable to the alternative.
That something more heinous had befallen her.
It was full light when they started the search, but within the first hour, the sun started to dip, and the shadows cast by the trees lengthened. But light enough remained and the search continued, with each group reporting back to the house as they finished their allotted area, only to have Ryder send them out to another as yet unsearched locale.
Raventhorne was a large estate; covering it was going to take time. Ultimately even Forsythe, born and bred on abbey lands, left to add his number to the searchers.
Dusk was insidiously closing in when a tap on the library door had Ryder lifting his head—only to have his leaping heart crash as Mrs. Pritchard looked in. “Yes?” He tried not to sound too harsh.