Buried Secrets Read Free Page A

disenchantment with his routine. Too many late nights, he supposed. Too much wine, women and song—though not necessarily in that order. He frowned. Perhaps it was wrong of him to leave the management of his affairs in the very competent hands of his agents and stewards, but he had done so for years. Why should he bother with such mundane affairs when there was a world of gratification to be explored? The frown deepened. When had it all begun to pall? he wondered—and what was he to do now to fill his time?
    He wondered idly if there were neighbors in the area with whom he might strike up a convivial acquaintance. Surely, being so near to Cambridge, there must be more than a few choice spirits ripe for any spree with whom he could liven the tranquility of quiet country evenings.
    This train of thought led him to his near-encounter earlier with the mysterious rider. He removed the comb from his pocket and subjected it to a meditative examination. The gems were faux, as he had expected, but he was more than ever convinced that the comb had been dropped recently.
    “Tell me, Moresby,” he inquired of the butler, who had just entered to remove his tray. “Who are our nearest neighbors?”
    “That would be Squire Trent, my lord. His estate marches with yours in an easterly—or no, strictly speaking, your very nearest neighbor would be Sir Henry Folsome. He lives right on your property.”
    “Indeed?” asked Cord in some surprise.
    “Yes, my lord. He and his sister and niece live in Rose Cottage, about three miles from here—not far from the river. Sir Henry,” continued Moresby chattily, “is a fellow of Magdalene College. He and Sir Frederick were great friends, and upon Sir Henry’s retirement. Sir Frederick offered the use of the cottage to him on a lifetime basis. In other words, he will be living there until both he and his sister pass on.”
    Cord’s pulse quickened. “Indeed. I remember the agent—what’s his name?—Jilbert, telling me about them. Yes, I agreed to let the commitment stand. But I don’t remember a niece.”
    “Yes, my lord—or rather, no, my lord. Her name is Miss Gillian Tate, and she’s the daughter of yet another sister, I believe. Mrs. Ferris—Mrs. Louisa Ferris, that is—Sir Henry’s sister—kept house for her brother for years, but, the frailties of age having caught up with them. Miss Tate came to stay. She will, of course, be obliged to leave when both the Folsomes are gone. However, they are still in reasonably good health, so-”
    “Yes, I understand, Moresby,” said Cord, his thoughts on the unknown niece. “But, tell me,” he continued, determined to cover all the possibilities, “might there be a family living—say, in a westerly direction—who number in their household a young man, possibly in his twenties, or younger?”
    Moresby fingered his chin dubiously. “N-no, my lord. There’s the Winslows. Their son, Tom, is two and twenty, but they live at some distance. Might I inquire, my lord, why you ask? Perhaps, I—”
    Cord waved a hand. “Never mind, Moresby. Just an idle question.” He gestured to the tray and the remains of his meal. “Do thank Mrs. Moresby for an excellent repast. And now, I believe I will seek my bed.”
    With great ceremony, Moresby conducted Cord to the master’s suite and deposited him tenderly into the keeping of a waiting Hopkins. Thereupon, with due reverence, the valet prepared his master for his night’s repose. Cord’s last thought before sliding into sleep was that on the morrow one of his first priorities would be to visit Rose Cottage to make the acquaintance of Sir Henry and his little family. To be sure, the presence of a lithe stranger, possibly—or even likely—a female, on his property in the dead of night did not present a problem of earth-shaking proportions, but solving the puzzle might provide a bit of piquancy to the tedium of his sojourn in the wilds of Cambridgeshire. The presence of a young female,