And likely shoot off his own foot, Mirabelle thought. Only, by the way her uncle’s face was once again turning red, it was clear she hadn’t just thought it. In her muddled state of mind, she’d said it out loud.
She wasn’t given much of a chance to regret the error, just the time it took for her uncle to turn the gun around and bring the butt of it down on her head.
Hartsinger lowered his arm and stared at Mirabelle’s crumpled form.
“You idiot,” he snapped at Eppersly, snatching the baron’s gun away and tossing it safely out of reach. “How do you propose we get her out of the house now?”
Whit and McAlistair watched from around the stall walls as a heavyset man with a thick crop of dark hair entered through the front and called out. “Christian? Christian, my good man, have you seen our girl today?”
It must be the perpetually absent Mr. Cunningham, Whit decided. Mirabelle had said he was an amiable sort, and Whit couldn’t imagine any of the other guests would refer to Mirabelle as “our girl,” or know to ask Christian about her whereabouts.
Odd though, that man didn’t appear to be suffering the aftereffects of a long illness. He walked down the center aisle with a clipped step and continued to call out in a booming voice. “Christian? Are you in here?”
Whit leaned forward and squinted his eyes. He knew that voice. He knew the man. The hair color was different, and there was something off about the nose, but he knew him…and not as Mr. Cunningham.
He straightened and stepped forward from the stall. “Any particular reason for you to be looking for her, Mr. Lindberg?”
Lindberg started, then winced. “Thurston. Blast. Ah, well. It was only a matter of time, I suppose.”
“Before what?” Whit asked.
“Before this business ended,” Lindberg responded cryptically and moved forward to close the remaining distance between them. “Hello, McAlistair.”
McAlistair sniffed once. “You reek.”
“God, man, what is that?” Whit took two steps back. “Bad fruit?”
“Old cabbage and a healthy splash of vinegar, actually. Pungent, isn’t it?”
“It’s noxious. Why the hell are you attending the baron’s party, disguised, and smelling of old cabbage and vinegar?”
“Didn’t want the girl getting too close,” he explained. “What if she recognized me in London?”
“She couldn’t bloody well recognize you as you’ve spent the whole of the party in your room.”
“Yes, well, this time. But I learned you were to come, you see, and—”
“Explain ‘this time,’” Whit instructed.
“I’ve played the role of Mr. Cunningham for more than ten years.”
Ten years? “Why?”
“To watch over the girl, of course.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Just following orders.”
“There’s a lot of that going round,” McAlistair murmured.
Lindberg blinked and smiled. “I believe McAlistair just made a joke.”
A new voice sounded from the doors. “Are we all here, then?”
Whit whirled around to see Christian striding forward with long, uneven steps. Whit shot a glance at McAlistair.
“Didn’t you hear him coming?” McAlistair always knew when someone was approaching. Before McAlistair could respond, however, Whit’s eyes widened in realization of something and he turned back to Christian. “You’re not stooping,” he accused. “Why aren’t you stooping?”
Christian came to a stop in front of them, his limp and weak arm still apparent, but his back was straight and his shoulders squared. “It was only for the girl’s benefit. I fancied I was less of threat to her that way. Evening, McAlistair. Lindberg, your smell is bothering the horses.”
“Can’t be avoided,” Lindberg responded. “It appears things are drawing to a close. Or a head. I’m not quite sure which.”
Whit looked at each of the three men and the hand holding the crop tightened. “I want answers—”
“William sent us,” Christian informed him.
Though he hadn’t meant to have the answers now, he couldn’t help responding. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve had this same mission, for years?”
“Only four,” Christian replied and shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
“Holy hell.” He held up his free hand when Lindberg looked as if he might add something to that. “Not now. I need to get Mirabelle out. You,” he snapped at Lindberg, “Go keep Eppersly occupied. The rest of you meet me at Haldon in an hour.”
He didn’t wait to hear if there were any objections, but simply turned and strode from the stable. He’d deal with William and the others after he’d gotten Mirabelle safely to Haldon. A man could only worry over so many things at once. He had to have priorities.
And Mirabelle was his first.