Buried Secrets Read Free Page B

apparently unbound by social convention, almost guaranteed a fascinating mystery to explore.
    Not far away, in Rose Cottage, Miss Gillian Tate was also making herself ready for bed. The knot she had so carefully crafted to keep her thick mane of brown hair concealed under a bulky hat had come loose and had been hanging below the hat brim for the last half hour. The reason for this defection became immediately apparent. Drat! She had lost one of her favorite combs. Not that she used it much, since it was suitable only for evening dress, but it was sturdy and serviceable—just the thing for binding up one’s hair for unauthorized activity.
    She discovered that her hands were still trembling slightly. Who the devil, she wondered, had been on her trail? No, no. Surely, it was purely by accident that another rider had happened along the same path as she. There was no doubt that having seen her, the man had attempted to follow, but she had successfully eluded him. Had he recognized her? Dear Lord, if anyone so much as suspected that she was given to ... to midnight excursions, she would be ruined—to say nothing of Uncle Henry. But, no, the rider could not possibly have so much as determined she was not a man, let alone make out her features. She certainly had seen nothing of his.
    Who could he have been? The staff at Wildehaven consisted of Mr. Moresby and his wife, plus Mr. Standish, who tended the garden. Standish was seventy if he was a day, and she’d absorbed the distinct impression of a tall, muscular stranger who was, if not precisely youthful, certainly a strapping figure.
    Bundling her hair into a plait, Gillian climbed into bed. Tomorrow she would have another chat with Uncle Henry on the unwisdom of his current activities. She would no doubt be wasting her breath, as she had on all the other occasions she had expostulated with her uncle. He was a dear soul, but sure as she sat here fretting, one day he would cause a scandal that would get them all tossed out of the university on their ears, and the cottage, as well.
    They were fortunate, Aunt Louisa had told her, to have a roof over their heads. Aunt Louisa had never met the new owner of Wildehaven personally, although she had heard that he was a titled gentleman. Mr. Jilbert, the estate agent, had told her that since he had no real obligation to honor Sir Frederick’s gift of tenancy, it was only out of the goodness of his heart that he had done so. Uncle Henry, of course, had experienced not a twinge of concern, but Aunt Louisa had breathed a sigh of relief.
    “I mean, where would we have gone, child?” she had asked with a sniff. “We could certainly afford our own domicile, but we are comfortable here, and removing to another location at our age would be such a strain. Lord Cordray must be a good Christian gentleman, and so I told Sir Henry. Not that he paid me any heed.”
    Of course, he would not have, reflected Gillian ruefully. Uncle Henry’s thoughts, scattered as they were, rarely strayed from his studies these days. And his studies, of course, rarely strayed from that wretched diary. Dear Heaven, she wished the poor old soul had never heard of Samuel Pepys.
    Gillian breathed one last hope before closing her eyes for sleep that she would never again encounter the tall rider who had nearly been the ruination of her and her two elderly charges.
     

Chapter Two
     
    Despite the lateness of his arrival at Wildehaven, Cord rose early the next morning. Declining to ring for Hopkins, he dressed for a ride before breakfast.
    Arriving at the stable yard, he glanced approvingly about him. It was a spacious complex, apparently well maintained.
    “Good morning, me lord.” Cord turned at the sound of a hearty voice to behold a sturdy personage, red of face and beaming of expression. The man touched a respectful forelock.
    “Ephraim Giddings at yer service, me lord. I be the head groom, and I’m pleased t’tell ye yer mount is ready for ye, tail high and eyes