Page 41 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Annabeth’s mother rushed in, exclaiming, “Oh, my dear! Are you all right?” She gripped Annabeth’s upper arms, gazing deeply into her daughter’s eyes. Martha was a more dramatic yet somehow more bland, weaker version of her sister, Lady Drewsbury.

“Yes, Mother, I’m perfectly fine.” Annabeth smiled at her reassuringly.

“I suppose everyone is calling on us because you have heard about Annabeth being kidnapped,” Lady Lockwood said. “To think running off an intruder early in the wee hours was just the start to a string of interruptions.”

Russell gave an incredulous look, popping up from his seat in alarm. “Annabeth, dearest, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Annabeth hastened to say. “Really, there’s no need to worry.”

“Of course we’re worried!” Martha’s hand went to her chest. “I haven’t had a moment’s peace since I heard about the incidents.”

“I don’t understand how any of you knew about either one,” Annabeth said. “They just happened a few hours ago.”

“Well, my maid, of course,” Martha replied as if it were obvious.

“My valet got it from the egg man, I believe,” Russell offered. “He’s a pipeline of news. One never needs to read those gossip sheets.” He added, “Though I must say they’re entertaining. The editor of The Onlooker has a wicked way with words.”

“Stop wandering off the subject, Russell...” Lady Lockwood sent him a stern look. “A child in a sweet shop is more attentive than you.”

“Edgerton and I were so distressed when we heard, weren’t we, darling?” Martha turned toward her husband, a tall, conservatively dressed man with white hair and a permanent expression of disapproval.

“Yes, Martha was most upset, naturally,” he replied. He nodded to Nathan and to Russell, his mouth tightening as he took in Russell’s attire.

Russell Feringham was short and rather pear-shaped, and his hair was thinning on top, but he was always dressed in the latest fashion. Today he was wearing buff-colored breeches and a dark green jacket with eye-catching gold buttons in a double row across his upper chest, a colorful paisley waistcoat showing beneath, and an intricately tied neckcloth.

Lord Edgerton’s gaze went on to Sloane, and he scowled, then came forward to make a formal bow to Annabeth’s grandmother. “I’m sure you were quite frightened, my lady.”

“Frightened?” Lady Lockwood stiffened. “Of some petty criminal? I should say not.”

“Lady Lockwood has never suffered from cowardice, Edgerton,” Sloane said. “Though that may not be something easily understood by you.”

“Are you calling me a coward?” Edgerton’s face reddened. “Well, such words carry little weight coming from a traitor to the Crown like you.” He swung toward Lady Lockwood. “My lady, what were you thinking letting a scoundrel like this into your home?”

Russell, who until now had been quietly watching the show, said, “Now you’ve done it.”

Edgerton flicked a dismissive look at Russell and turned to Sloane. “Leave this house now. Do you hear me?”

“I suspect the whole house can hear you,” Sloane replied mildly.

“Don’t you move a step, young man,” Lady Lockwood ordered Sloane. “This is my house, and I am not in my dotage. I assure you that my reputation will stand up to a great deal more than one of Annabeth’s and Nathan’s old friends calling on us. If I say Rutherford is welcome, then he is. Now, sit down, Edgerton, and stop acting like a fool.”

Lord Edgerton puffed up, but he clamped his lips shut, and when his wife murmured, “Please, dear,” he sat down.

“Now, before everyone arrived, we were discussing Lady Lockwood and Annabeth going to Bath.”

“Running away isn’t the answer,” Annabeth told Sloane. “We should focus on finding what Papa wrote.”

Sloane shot Annabeth a harsh look. But right now she didn’t care that Sloane and the government wanted secrecy. She just wanted this to be over with.

“Hunter?” Martha said in surprise.

She turned to her mother. “Something Papa wrote was apparently important.”

Beside her Edgerton snorted and said, “Hunter Winfield never wrote anything important.”

“Somebody seems to think he did,” Nathan put in.

“But, my boy,” Russell said, looking puzzled. “Hunter was a wonderful man, but he was not a literary sort.”