“I heard something from the gamekeeper about plans for a proper foxhunt. But I doubt there’ll be any sport for two or three days. Maybe four.”

“Damn.” He could not spend two to four days, confined to this house with the entire party underfoot, and Charlotte provoking him to all manner of disastrous mistakes. “Why?”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Ridley raised a brow. “That’s why.”

Piers was a bit peeved. “Where did you acquire that irritating talent for perfectly timed foreshadowing?”

“Perhaps you missed that day of training, my lord.”

“Yes, well. At least I’m not rubbish with waistcoats.”

Piers sent Ridley to the servants’ quarters and waited an hour or so before gathering a candle and quietly leaving his room. If it was going to rain, he wouldn’t be able to do any searching during the day. That left him the nights—less than ideal. If he was caught poking around private rooms in the dark, explanations became much more difficult. But his stay was almost halfway over, and the damn British weather wasn’t leaving him much choice.

Moving in smooth, silent steps, Piers entered the corridor and turned toward the main stairs.

He hadn’t made but a few feet of progress before he froze and tightened his grip on the candle.

A still, shadowy figure hunched in the middle of the carpet, some ten paces ahead.

Piers took a few steps forward and lifted the candle to illuminate the space. He squinted and peered into the gloom. It took a few moments, but eventually he was able to make out . . .

Edmund.

The boy sat cross-legged at the head of the staircase, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. He held a wooden sword gripped in one hand. Gesturing with the other, he laid a finger to the side of his eye, then pointed it at Piers.

“I have my eye on you,” he whispered in an unnerving high-pitched rasp. “I know what you did.”

Right. Piers passed a hand over his face. So much for searching the house tonight.

He reached for a book on a nearby side table, lifting it and waving it for Edmund’s view, as though it were his entire reason for emerging from his bedchamber. Then he turned on his heel and went back the way he came.

After closing the door, he angled his taper to read the spine of the book he’d picked up.

The Collected Sermons of Rev. Calvin Marsters.

Well. That should put him to sleep.

He flung the book aside, irritated at having been thwarted by a child standing sentry, and sat on the bench to remove his boots. He might as well go to bed.

Then something in the darkness outside caught his eye. He moved closer to the window, extinguishing his own candle to better make it out.

A tiny, warm light flickered in the walled garden below. Darting this way and that. If he were a fanciful man, he would have thought it a fairy. But Piers had no such illusions.

Someone was moving about the garden in a strange, directionless fashion, bearing a small lamp or a single candle in hand.

The sight was odd. Suspicious. He needed to investigate.

But with Edmund standing—sitting, rather—sentry in the corridor, he couldn’t go that way. It would have to be out the window. What was it Charlotte had said? Down the ledge to the northwest corner, and from there a short leap to the plane tree.

He threw on a black coat, then opened the window as far as he could. His shoulders made for a much tighter squeeze than Charlotte had likely encountered. After a few twists and contortions, he managed to pull himself out and attain solid footing on the ledge.

What with the approaching rain, the night was windy. He had to take care. Facing outward and stretching his arms to either side, he edged his way along the lip of stone. When he felt a window with his leading hand, he first twisted his neck to check for any signs of someone stirring within. After he made sure no one was watching, he slunk across.

Before long, he had a rhythm established and was making swift progress. He reached the northwest corner with little difficulty and located the plane tree. As Charlotte had mentioned, a thick, leafy branch stretched most of the way toward the ledge, like a beckoning arm.

He sized up the distance and made a mental calculation. But just as he prepared to make the jump, a gust of wind kicked up and pushed him off-balance.

Too late to the abort the leap. He had to lean into it and pray for the best. The jump was ungainly and too short by half. He only just barely managed to grab the limb with one hand. He dangled there a moment, heart pounding, then reached up to grab the knotty surface with the other.

By using his body weight as a pendulum, he managed to sway back and forth until he could hook one boot over the branch. From there, he swung himself upright and straddled the limb.

And found himself looking straight into the housekeeper’s window. He knew it was the housekeeper’s window, because the housekeeper was staring right back at him.

Brilliant.

Just bloody brilliant.

Allowing Sir Vernon to believe he defiled virgins on desktops was bad enough. Now he’d be caught peeping in at gray-haired housekeepers in their nightgowns? He was going to leave Parkhurst Manor with a reputation for sheer depravity.

Piers froze every muscle in his body and held his breath. The squinting housekeeper slowly raised a pair of spectacles to her face.

Before those spectacles could reach the bridge of her hooked nose, Piers dropped. His fall was broken by one branch; then another, until he collided with the ground with a muffled groan. He flattened himself at the base of the tree—hoping the housekeeper would blame it all on a trick of her eyes and the wind.

Also because he was hurting everywhere.

After a few minutes had passed and no alarm had gone up, Piers decided he was in the clear. He rose to his feet, brushed the dirt from his coat and trousers, and tried not to think about the magnificent bruises he’d be sporting the next day.

Instead, he rounded the corner of the house and headed for the enclosed garden.

Because of the high walls, he couldn’t even see the flickering light from this vantage. In fact, it was probably only visible from a few rooms of the manor other than his own.

Was the light bearer waiting on a midnight assignation? Hiding or burying something in the garden?

Piers found the iron gate slightly ajar, and as he pushed it inward, the hinges creaked.

The small, yellow light bobbing in the darkened garden stilled.

And then, a female whisper: “Who’s there?”

Piers exhaled in a rush. “Charlotte?”