The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,133

on Julius’s back and considered that half-open door. It was clearly an invitation of sorts—which spoke to the caliber of the men behind this.

Unsophisticated, but effective.

They were currently watching him from somewhere in the woods on the other side of the drive.

He could feel their gazes, but he knew those woods. Chasing anyone through them was a fool’s errand, and he didn’t doubt there would be more than one of them; few men would be so foolish as to come against him unarmed, one on one.

Despite the difficulty his rational mind was having casting Lavinia—petty and spiteful with all the acuity of a turnip—in the role of arch-villainess, his instincts had no such problem but at that moment considered the point irrelevant; they were solely focused on how to rescue Mary.

That she was somewhere in the Dower House he didn’t doubt; that was the message of that half-open door. But he hadn’t come armed, and as far as he knew there weren’t any helpful crossed swords on any of the Dower House walls.

Holding back the impulse, the emotional imperative to gallop up, rush inside, and find her—to wrap her in his arms and reassure his oh-so-exposed heart that she was unharmed, that she was all right—wasn’t easy, but if he just rushed ahead . . . this wasn’t a situation he’d expected, much less foreseen, and he fully intended them both to survive.

How else could he exact his vengeance?

Even more pertinently, he wasn’t about to surrender all he and Mary had so recently claimed.

Pushing aside all emotion, he filled his chest and forced his mind to cool logic. It was unlikely they, whoever they were, would hurt Mary, not yet. It was his life Lavinia had targeted; she might have tried to scare Mary away, but at this moment his wife was . . . bait. No need to harm her yet, and every reason not to; a live lure always worked best.

Weighing up the possibilities, balancing them against his options, took time he forced himself to take, but eventually he dismounted. Shortening Julius’s reins, he wove them into one stirrup strap. Julius would wait for him untethered, but if anyone else approached and tried to grab him, the big gelding wouldn’t have it, and ultimately would return to the abbey stables.

It was the best he could do by way of a message should something go awry. More awry.

Not allowing himself to think further than that, he walked out into the drive, paused to look up at the old house, at the many-paned leaded windows, at the cool gray stone. His gaze came to rest on the half-open door; focusing on the dark section of shadowed hall beyond, he strode forward.

At his touch, the door opened further. The hall beyond lay in cool darkness. Not a sound reached his ears, not a scrape or a scuff, not any hint of human life.

He walked into the drawing room. It was unoccupied, as were the other reception rooms, all on the ground floor. He kept his ears peeled as he did the rounds, but the silence continued, heavy and unbroken.

Slowly, senses wide, he climbed the stairs. The bedrooms showed signs of occupation. In the largest, he found scent bottles and powders on the dressing table, and the gowns in the armoire confirmed all belonged to Lavinia; he recognized her style. In a bedroom further down the corridor, he discovered brushes, combs, and male attire. The particular designs of the coats and waistcoats, and the floppy silk scarves instead of cravats, told him who was also currently residing at the house.

Potherby. With icy calm, Ryder considered the fact. He’d known about Potherby for as long as he could recall knowing Lavinia; she and Potherby had been childhood friends, but despite the conclusion many leapt to, Ryder didn’t believe Potherby had been—or, indeed, was—Lavinia’s lover. There was something in the way Potherby looked at Lavinia, an expression more consistent with his being that childhood friend. But could Potherby be involved in the attacks on Ryder and Mary?

The man certainly had the intelligence Lavinia lacked, but . . . Ryder had always considered Potherby, despite his allegiance to Lavinia, to be a decent sort.

Then again, he’d never imagined Lavinia would turn her hand to murder.

Leaving the question of Potherby for later, Ryder quit that room. He paused in the corridor, listening. The house was so eerily silent that he didn’t doubt there was no one else—no other breathing being—on that floor. His senses, flaring wide,