The boy peeked at her then back down at his hands. “In a manner of speaking,” he mumbled.
Francesca frowned. Why didn’t he just tell her the message? “Oh! Is it about Mrs. Ingleton’s baby?” she asked. Young boys were often embarrassed by talk of female matters. She smiled encouragingly. “Has the baby come?”
The boy didn’t answer, just glanced up quickly then back down again, twisting his fingers together.
A queasy feeling began in her stomach. “Is there a problem?”
The boy gave her another troubled look, and that was all Francesca needed. “I’ll go right away! Mrs. Ingleton might need me.” She picked up her skirts and dashed for the hall.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” the boy called after her.
Francesca paused on the threshold to give him a puzzled look. “Why, yes. Isn’t that what you came to tell me?”
The boy nodded forlornly. “Yes, ma’am. I just thought—” Then his head jerked up and his expression brightened. “It looks like it will snow. Maybe you’d better wait until tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow might be too late.” The boy’s face fell, and Francesca smiled at his sweet concern. “What is your name?”
“Ralph, my lady. Ralph Brompton.” He stared at the floor again as he said it.
“Thank you for your concern, Ralph, but I think I can handle a little snow. Why don’t you go find the kitchens and have something warm to eat now?”
“Yes, my lady,” he said and followed her into the gallery.
Ten minutes later Francesca and Daniel were riding for the Ingletons’ farm, Francesca on Thunder and Daniel on the gelding he usually rode.
Daniel frowned. “Pardon me, again, my lady, but I don’t like this.”
“What’s not to like, Daniel? I’m sure the boy was upset over nothing, but I’d feel better if I checked on Mrs. Ingleton myself.” Francesca glanced at the darkening sky. The boy had been right. The air smelled of snow. “We may be a little late in delivering the packages to the poor, but if you and Isaac don’t mind, I don’t.”
“It’s not that, my lady,” Daniel answered. “I didn’t recognize that servant, and no one else can remember ever seeing him before either.”
“Oh, surely that boy is harmless.”
Daniel nodded but looked unconvinced.
Up ahead, Francesca could see the crumbling towers of the Norman castle, and behind it the sinister Yorkshire sky. She shuddered. It was silly to feel so apprehensive when she saw the castle. The storm would probably bring them snow for Christmas, and the ruins would look lovely under a blanket of white.
They had just turned away from the ruins and onto the path toward the Ingletons’ farm, when Francesca heard a sharp cry. She pulled Thunder to a halt, and Daniel rode up beside her.
“What was that?” she said, twisting to regard the old keep. Once again she noticed how jagged, how skeletal, the ruins were.
“I don’t know, ma’am. It sounded like it came from the ruins.”
They heard the cry again. And this time Francesca recognized it—the sound of a wounded animal or child. Her protective instincts flared, overriding her apprehensions. “I think something’s wrong.” Without waiting for Daniel’s acknowledgement, she dug her heels into Thunder’s flank and rode headlong for the ruins. Behind her Daniel pressed his own mount to follow, calling out for her to wait.
But Francesca had no intention of waiting. Her heart pounded in her ears and the queasy feeling in her stomach grew. Oh Lord, please don’t let me be too late, she prayed. If only her hospital were ready! But the building, though it had four walls and a roof, still needed to be painted and supplied. She reached the castle and practically leapt from Thunder’s back. A quick survey of the ruins gave her no indication where the cry had come from. She took a step forward, intent on searching among the fallen stones, when she heard a loud crack behind her.
Francesca spun around, darting her gaze among the trees for the source of the sound. She saw no one. A few yards away, Daniel clutched his chest and toppled from his horse.
“Daniel!” Francesca screamed.
“Leave him.” The cold voice stopped her in mid-stride.
She swung around to see Roxbury step from a small cluster of trees. He held a pistol in his hands.
“Roxbury!” She took a step back, clutching her hands to her breast in an effort to still her heart. “What are you doing here?” She stared at the pistol. “What have you done?”
Roxbury only smiled and tucked the weapon into his waistcoat. “I think the answer to that question is obvious, Francesca.” He nodded evenly to the footman lying behind them on the ground.
