And moving fast.
She crunched gravel beneath her riding boots, curiosity mounting. Wasn’t the man behind the reins one of Father’s tenants? The one who leased a small, eighty-acre farm she rode by sometimes, with a thatched cottage and barley fields?
As the cart came within feet of her, the tenant jerked on the reins and leaped down. He pulled a sweat-stained hat from his head and flattened it against his chest, looking for all the world like a timid mouse ready to be squashed underfoot.
Isabella withheld a smile. “Is there something I might do for you, Mr.—”
“Abram.” He bowed. Twice. “Nash Abram, Miss Gresham, and rightly ’morseful I be for bargin’ in this way, but …”
“But what?”
He wrung the hat in his hands and motioned toward the cart. “Found him, I did, on the way to the village. Lyin’ in the road. Dead methoughts. ’Twould have taken him to my own place, but wot with the fancy clothes—”
Heartbeat thrumming in her ears, Isabella hurried around the cart.Mr. Kensley.
His body was folded into the small space, with his head pressed into his shoulder and his legs draped over the back of the cart. His flesh was ripped. Blood stained his hair, his face, his neck, his stomach, while clumps of mud clung to his shredded clothes.
Queasiness struck her abdomen. She whirled back around, clamped her hands over her mouth to stifle any sound. This didn’t make sense. What had happened?
“Miss Gresham?” The farmer touched her elbow, as if to steady her.
“Is he … dead?”
“Not when I loaded him up. Might be now.” Distress rippled through the man’s words. “Just tell me wot I can be doin’ to help. Please.”
“Can you carry him?”
“Sure enough.” With surprising strength for a man of fifty-some years, Mr. Abram flipped down the back of the cart and hoisted Mr. Kensley into his arms.
They hurried for the manor, up the stairs, through the foyer, panic racing helter-skelter through her limbs. Nothing made sense. What was Mr. Kensley doing here? How had he arrived so quickly from London? How had—
“What is this?”
Isabella froze, Mr. Abram nearly bumping into her as they halted before the winding marble steps.
Father waited at their base. A muscle tightened in his jaw as he swiveled his gaze to the body in Mr. Abram’s arms. Rage flushed his cheeks. “Get this man out of my house.”
CHAPTER 6
Father, no.” Every inch of her body tightened as she matched his stare. “Continue on, Mr. Abram.”
Just as she’d known, Father stepped aside, his back pressed against the banister as the tenant lumbered his burden up more steps. Blood dripped from the dangling arms as Isabella started after them.
Father snagged her elbow and pulled her toward him, growling, “What is the meaning of this?”
“I know as little as you.”
“I do not want that man in my house. After what he has done—”
“His offenses to us are not so great we can let him die.” Confusion, and perhaps disappointment, weakened her knees. This was not her father. The one who chuckled at her and coddled her and read his political pamphlets and smoked his pipe …
This was a man she did not know or understand. How could he be so heartless? What was the matter with him?
As if sensing her thoughts, Father released her and marched away, his footfalls echoing across the marble.
Isabella raced up the stairs, clutching the skirt of her riding habit, careful to avoid the nauseating blood trail. She directed Mr. Abram into a guest bedchamber, where he leaned Mr. Kensley within the four-poster bed.
His skin was white as the counterpane.
