Part 8 (1/2)

Now what?

A quick glance showed that James still hung half out of the phaeton. His right glove was shredded, revealing a b.l.o.o.d.y hand. But she could not attend him just yet.

She stroked Acorn's neck. Her voice might calm the team, but it would take time. They were rolling their eyes and twitching. The wheeler stamped one foot in agitation.

”Easy, there,” she crooned softly, adding words of praise and even a song or two. Forcing gentleness into her tone calmed her own nerves. Gradually, their ears began flicking in her direction. Less white showed around their eyes. Tails swished more naturally.

It took several minutes before she dared dismount. Several more minutes of stroking the horses' heads and necks finally settled them enough that she could attend James.

He remained unconscious, but he did not smell of wine. Had he suffered a seizure? New fears made her hands shake.

She was trying to push him back onto the seat when something landed on her boot.

Blood. And not from his hand.

”Dear Lord,” she murmured as another drop fell. A good-sized patch had already soaked into the road.

His head had grazed the wheel, but the resulting sc.r.a.pe was not responsible for the blood. A deep cut lacerated a large knot just behind his left temple. Swallowing nausea, she pushed his hair aside. It was a fresh injury, but positioned where it could not have been inflicted by the wheel or railing. Yet there was no trace of blood on his coat, so he had not incurred it before beginning his drive.

She had to stop the bleeding before the smell spooked the horses. They were still nervous. Ripping the bottom flounce from her petticoat, she fas.h.i.+oned a bandage that pressed a thick pad into the wound. Now all she had to do was move him back onto the seat.

Easier said than done. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall-intimidating even in unconsciousness. Pus.h.i.+ng did no good. The side rail was so far above the ground that she could get little leverage. If only he would wake up, he could help, but nothing roused even a flicker of awareness. Giving up, she tied Acorn to the back, retrieved the offside ribbon, then climbed into the phaeton.

A rock was wedged under his boot.

s.h.i.+vers stood her hair on end despite the heat of the day. The rock was roughly four inches across, with jagged edges. And one of those edges was smudged with blood that had trapped a dark hair.

Someone had tried to kill him.

She glanced at the forest a quarter mile away, suddenly feeling far too vulnerable. The quarry yawned its sinister mouth only a few feet beyond James's head. The phaeton sat at the base of a cliff, open to attack from above. She had to get him away before his enemy could strike again.

Tugging moved him only an inch before his coat caught on the rail. Pulling harder had no effect and left her panting from exertion. The attacker had arranged a very clever accident. The rock might have killed James outright, but its main purpose had been to knock him across the right side of the phaeton, where he would eventually fall. Even if he did not immediately roll into the quarry, a helpful push would have ensured his death. The landing would erase any sign of the initial attack.

Just like Frederick.

Dear G.o.d. Frederick had been riding along this same road in the same direction, headed for Ridgeway after an evening in the l.u.s.ty Maiden's taproom. Everyone had a.s.sumed that he'd pa.s.sed out from drink and fallen. Now she had to wonder.

Later! This is no time to panic. James has no connection to Frederick.

Invisible eyes bored into her back. Was the killer still watching?

James needed help. She could not drive with him draped over the side, but she dared not leave him alone while she fetched a.s.sistance. Fear and desperation gave her a new burst of energy, Tugging finally tore a b.u.t.ton loose and pulled him onto the seat, but tears were streaming down her face by the time she was finished. His sprawl filled the s.p.a.ce. He remained unconscious, with new blood trickling down his cheek.

She frowned as she retied the bandage. His breathing was fast and shallow-not a good sign. At the very least, he had a concussion, but his injuries might be worse than that. He needed a bed and care.

Perching precariously on the edge of the seat, she set the horses to a walk, fighting the urge to spring the team. Jarring could only make things worse.

Was the culprit still watching? A fast horse could have circled the hill to get ahead of her. She had no idea how much time had elapsed since she had first spotted James. Would the man waylay her at the park gates or the stone bridge? Who was he? And why had he attacked?

The trip to Ridgeway seemed endless, though the Court was barely two miles from the quarry. Her fear increased with every step. As did her uncertainty.

James had claimed only yesterday that the servants were hiding information. John had hired every member of the staff, so she could not trust them, despite knowing that they had not liked him. She had no reason to believe they liked James, either. A disgruntled servant might have planned this attack. Or an angry tenant. Or any number of other people. Had one of his changes threatened someone? Was there a man who hated all Underwoods?

But that made no sense. James had not been near Ridgeway in years.

Think logically.

The only real threat James posed was to John's killer. So either his investigation was making progress, or the culprit had decided to prevent it from doing so. Thus she had to help him search for justice. If the culprit was willing to strike at anyone who threatened to expose him, then they were all in danger. They had to catch him before anyone else died.

But the man was smart. Knowing that a second murder would force Squire Church to reopen his inquiry, he had chosen to stage an accident, taking Frederick's as his pattern. Everyone knew the quarry road was dangerous. Every few years the pit claimed a new victim. Who would question another fall?

It fit all too well. But she still had no idea who was behind it. And an unconscious James could not protect himself against a second attack.

She could not remain in a bachelor establishment to nurse him, so the only protection she could provide was to keep the nature of his accident a secret. The killer must believe that no one suspected the truth. As long as James remained in bed, he was vulnerable.

”What happened?” demanded Harry, bursting outside in response to a footman's summons. Edwin followed more slowly.

She shrugged. ”It looks like he fell. I found him out by the quarry. Can you carry him inside?”

”Of course,” said Edwin.

They made lifting him look easy. Harry sent a footman to fetch the doctor.

”He will need constant watching. Head injuries can be quite unpredictable,” she suggested as she held open the door to James's room-which was not the master suite, she noted in pa.s.sing. Did he dislike the idea of occupying a bed John had slept in? But this was not the time to think of such things. - Especially when the sight of his dark head against the white pillow sent heat sizzling through her veins. She had to leave before she offered to nurse him.

James had been right about the staff. They were sullen and antagonistic. Would they turn on him? But she had hardly formed the question when Edwin proved that his thoughts matched hers.

”We will watch him,” he promised, exchanging a thoughtful look with Harry. ”We can take turns. The servants are not overly friendly.”

They were hiding something, but she did not question them. Perhaps they were helping him investigate John's death. Or they might know of some other threat on his life. It didn't matter. They would protect him until he recovered, and that was the important thing. Taking leave of them, she headed for home, the rock wrapped in his handkerchief and tucked inside her reticule.

By the time she reached Northfield, reaction was shaking her in long waves. New fears tormented her. Had the killer watched her stop the phaeton? Had he seen her bandage James's head or pick up the rock? Did he know that she recognized an attempt at murder?

She played out the scene in her mind again and again, but she had no answers. He must have remained. If James had not tumbled into the quarry on his own, the killer had to be ready to help him. So he had seen her. Which accounted for her edginess. It had been eyes peering out from the forest that had made her so nervous, not the yawning quarry.

How obvious had she been when she'd found the rock? She frowned. Had she glanced at the cliffs? Someone who had not seen the phaeton emerge from the woods might believe the rock had fallen. If she was lucky, he would expect her to accept the incident as an accident, but she could not count on that. A rock from above would not have struck the side of his head.

Thus she had yet another reason to help James find the killer. If the man had attacked because James had learned something, then he would have to eliminate her as well. So she had to protect herself. And the only sure way was to identify him.

Perhaps she should approach the problem from a different direction. She could hardly ask questions about John without drawing attention. But James had found no evidence of an argument or even a meeting on the day John had died, so his death probably had its seeds in his last trip home with Frederick. By investigating Frederick's final days, she might learn something useful. John and Frederick had always acted together. She had turned a blind eye to most of their escapades, knowing that she had no power to stop them. But perhaps she could use a desire to make amends as her excuse for peering beneath this particular rock.

That last trip home had been unusually eventful-the inn fire, the damage to Wilson's farm, a week-long orgy at Ridgeway, and finally Frederick's accident. What else might they have done?

She could eliminate one possibility immediately. As soon as she brought her nerves under control, she would pay a call on the Wilsons. She had thought that her intervention had defused his fury, but she may have been wrong. Had he struck out at John for instigating that ride? Was he afraid James would learn about it? If he had been away from the farm this afternoon, she must suspect him.

Evil had stalked the district for too many years, but it had not died with its princ.i.p.al perpetrator. It had taken new root in the man who had killed John. Until he was exposed, none of them were safe.