A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(62)

A more efficient chain of communication he could not imagine.
He hadn’t really expected the Pleinsworths to remain at Whipple Hill for quite so long after he left. Or perhaps more to the point, he hadn’t given any thought to the matter, not until several days had passed and they’d still remained in the country.
But as it turned out, it was probably for the best that they (and by they, he really meant Anne) had stayed out of town. It had been a busy week—busy and frustrating, and the knowledge of Miss Wynter’s presence within walking distance would have been a distraction he could not afford.
He had talked to Hugh. Again. And Hugh had talked to his father. Again. And when Hugh had returned, reporting back to Daniel that he still did not think that his father had been involved in the recent attacks, Daniel had flown off the handle. Hugh had done what Daniel should have insisted upon weeks earlier.
He took him to speak with Lord Ramsgate directly.
And now Daniel was at a complete loss, because he, too, did not think that Lord Ramsgate had tried to kill him. Maybe he was a fool, maybe he just wanted to believe that this horrific chapter of his life was finally over, but the fury just hadn’t been in Ramsgate’s eyes. Not like the last time they’d met, right after Hugh had been shot.
Plus there was the new development of Hugh’s threatened suicide. Daniel was not sure if his friend was brilliant or mad, but either way, when he reiterated his vow to kill himself if anything untoward happened to Daniel, it had been chilling. Lord Ramsgate was visibly shaken, even though it was hardly the first time he’d heard his son make the threat. Even Daniel had felt ill, being witness to such an unholy promise.
And he believed him. The look in Hugh’s eyes . . . The icy, almost expressionless way he’d delivered the statement . . . It was terrifying.
All this meant that when Lord Ramsgate had practically spat at Daniel, vowing that he would do him no harm, Daniel believed him.
That had been two days earlier, two days during which Daniel had had little to do but think. About who else might wish to see him dead. About what Anne could possibly have meant when she’d said that she couldn’t be responsible for him. About the secrets she was hiding, and why she’d said he didn’t have all the information.
What in bloody hell had she meant by that?
Could the attack have been directed toward her? It wasn’t inconceivable that someone might have realized she’d be riding home in his curricle. They’d certainly been inside the inn long enough for someone to sabotage the harness.
He thought back to the day she’d run into Hoby’s, wild-eyed and terrified. She’d said there was someone she did not wish to see.
Who?
And didn’t she realize that he could help her? He might be recently returned from exile, but he had position, and with that came power, certainly enough to keep her safe. Yes, he had been on the run for three years, but he’d been up against the Marquess of Ramsgate.
Daniel was the Earl of Winstead; there were only so many men who outranked him. A handful of dukes, a few more marquesses, and the royals. Surely Anne had not managed to make an enemy among that exalted population.
But when he had marched up the steps of Pleinsworth House to demand an interview, he had been informed that she was not at home.
And when he had repeated the request the following morning, he was met with the same answer.
Now, several hours later, he was back, and this time his aunt came in person to deliver the refusal.
“You must leave that poor girl alone,” she said sharply.
Daniel was not in the mood to be lectured by his aunt Charlotte, so he cut straight to the point. “I need to speak with her.”
“Well, she is not here.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Aunt, I know she’s—”
“I fully admit that she was upstairs when you called this morning,” Lady Pleinsworth cut in. “Fortunately, Miss Wynter has the sense to cut off this flirtation, even if you do not. But she is not here now.”
“Aunt Charlotte . . .” he warned.
“She’s not!” Her chin lifted ever so slightly in the air. “It is her afternoon free. She always goes out on her afternoon free.”
“Always?”
“As far as I know.” His aunt flicked her hand impatiently through the air. “She has errands, and . . . And whatever it is she does.”
Whatever it is she does. What a statement.
“Very well,” Daniel said in a curt voice. “I shall wait for her.”
“Oh, no, you won’t.”
“You’re going to bar me from your sitting room,” he said, giving her a look of mild disbelief.
She crossed her arms. “If I must.”
He crossed his. “I am your nephew.”
“And amazingly enough, the connection does not seem to have imbued you with common sense.”
He stared at her.
“That was an insult,” she mentioned, “in case you’re having difficulty sorting it out.”
Good God.
“If you have any care for Miss Wynter,” Lady Pleinsworth continued imperiously, “you will leave her in peace. She is a sensible lady, and I keep her in my employ because I am fully certain that it is you who have pursued her and not the other way around.”
“Did you talk with her about me?” Daniel demanded. “Did you threaten her?”
“Of course not,” his aunt snapped, but she looked away for a split second, and Daniel knew she was lying. “As if I would threaten her,” she continued in a huff. “And furthermore, she’s not the one who needs a talking to. She knows how the world works, even if you do not. What happened at Whipple Hill can be overlooked—”