The Runaway Countess. Amanda McCabe

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      ‘I think I twisted my leg. I can’t stand up.’

      Her frown of suspicion vanished, replaced by an expression of concern. Perhaps like her sister she was too soft-hearted. ‘Oh, no! Here, let me help you.’

      ‘I’m far too heavy for you.’

      ‘Nonsense. I’m much stronger than I look.’ She wrapped her arm around him and let him lean on her as he staggered to his feet. She was rather strong, and between them they managed to hobble over to the fallen branch.

      ‘Stay here, Ramsay, and I’ll get your horse back,’ she said. ‘You need to get out of the rain and have that leg looked at.’

      She dashed away, leaving her now-silent dog to watch him suspiciously in her place. She returned very quickly with the recalcitrant horse.

      ‘We aren’t far from Barton Park,’ she said. ‘I can lead you there, if you can manage to ride that far.’

      ‘Of course I can ride that far, it’s just a sprain,’ he said, even though his leg felt like it was on fire and he could see blood spotting his rain-soaked breeches.

      ‘Good. You’ll need to save your strength for when Jane sees you. She doesn’t know you’re coming, does she?’ Emma asked matter of factly, as if she ran into estranged relatives every day.

      Hayden gritted his teeth as he pulled himself up into the saddle. The pain washed over him in cold waves and he pushed it away. ‘Not yet.’

      To his surprise, Emma laughed. ‘Oh, this day just gets more interesting all the time.’

      Emma tried not to stare at her brother-in-law like a lackwit, tried to just calmly give him directions to Barton Park as he pulled her up on to the horse behind him and set them into motion, Murray running alongside them. But she just couldn’t help it. She couldn’t believe Lord Ramsay was actually there, that she had actually stumbled on him right in the middle of the road as she tried to hurry home for tea.

      Whatever was he doing there? It couldn’t possibly be good. As far as Emma knew, Jane hadn’t even talked to him in all the time since they came to live at Barton. Jane never even talked about him, so Emma had no idea what had happened in London.

      But she did have imagination and it had filled in all sorts of lurid scenarios that could drive her kind-hearted, responsible sister away from her husband. Ramsay had become something of an ogre in Emma’s mind, so her first instinct when she saw him there in the road had been to run from him as fast as she could. Especially after what had happened to her at school, with that odious Mr Milne, the music master. He had been enough to scare her off men for ever.

      And yet—yet she remembered that one other time she had met Ramsay, on the day he married her sister in that elegant town ceremony. He had looked at Jane then as if all the stars and the moon revolved only around her and he had held her hand so tenderly. And Jane had been radiant that day, as if she was lit from within. Emma had never seen her sister, who tended to worry over everyone else so much, so very happy. Emma had even known she could endure her hated school because she knew Jane was happy in her new life with her husband.

      What had gone so wrong? Why was Ramsay here now, after so long? Emma was bursting to know, but she just said calmly, ‘Turn right up there at the gate.’

      ‘Thank you, Miss Bancroft,’ he said through gritted teeth. When she glanced up at his profile, she saw he looked rather pale. He was probably in more pain than he wanted to show, just like a man.

      ‘I hardly think we need to be so formal,’ she said teasingly. ‘I’m your sister. My name is Emma.’

      A flash of a smile touched his lips. ‘I do remember your name, Emma.’

      ‘That’s good. If you turn left here, you’ll see the house just ahead.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he said again. ‘So, Emma, what are you doing running about in the rain?’

      ‘It wasn’t raining when I left,’ she said. ‘And if you must know, I was collecting some specimens.’

      ‘Specimens?’

      ‘Plants. For my studies.’ And she really had taken a few cuttings of the plants. He didn’t need to know her other errands. No one had to know, not yet, that she was hunting for the lost Barton Park treasure.

      Emma tucked her sack closer to her side and felt the reassuring weight of the small journal in its pocket. She had found it in a forgotten corner of the Barton library last month. She had been hoping to find old plans of the gardens, but this book was even better. It was a journal belonging to the young cousin of the first mistress of Barton Park.

      It seemed this girl had been a poor relation, sent to stay at Barton to gain some Court polish. Emma didn’t know her name, but she had quickly been drawn into her sharply observed tales of the people and parties of the house back then. Barton was so quiet now, silently crumbling away with only her and Jane living there, but once upon a time it had been full of life and scandal.

      Then the journal’s writer had fallen in love with one of the naughty guests—the very man who had stolen the treasure and hid it somewhere in the gardens. Emma had been combing its yellowed pages for clues ever since.

      Surely if she could find it, their worries would be over. Jane could cease working so very hard, could lose that pinched, concerned look on her face. Jane had always been the best of sisters. Emma only wanted to help her, too.

      But she didn’t want Jane to know what she was doing. Emma didn’t want to be compared to their father, so caught up in useless dreams he couldn’t help his family. So she did her detective work in secret, whenever she could. And she had found nothing yet.

      She had also never told her sister about what had really happened at school with Mr Milne. That was only for her nightmares now, thankfully. she was done with men altogether.

      ‘There’s the house,’ she said. It loomed before them in the misty rain and she was glad he couldn’t yet see the dwelling clearly. Couldn’t see how shabby it was. If only she had had time to warn Jane! Then again, maybe the surprise was better.

      But if she had vague hopes that Ramsay’s leg would slow him down enough to give her a head start into the house, they were quickly dashed. He held on to his saddle and carefully slid to the ground, his jaw set in his handsome, hard-edged face.

      Emma leaped down and ran up the front steps to throw the door open. Murray dashed in, barking, his muddy paw prints trailing over the old, scarred parquet floor.

      ‘Jane, Jane!’ she shouted, completely abandoning propriety. She had only seconds to warn her sister. Then she could watch the drama unfold.

      Jane emerged from the drawing-room door, her eyes wide with astonishment. She had changed from her garden clothes to her best day dress, a pale green muslin with a high-frilled collar. Her brown hair was carefully pinned up and bound with a green-ribbon bandeau. For a second, Emma couldn’t decipher why her sister was so dressed up on a rainy afternoon.

      Then the Martons, Sir David and his silly sister, appeared in the doorway behind her and Emma remembered in a flash. They had guests. Respectable guests, who for some unfathomable reason Jane wanted to impress.

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