Never in his wildest fancy had he imagined that the threat of danger would come, not to him, but to Imogen.
How fiendishly clever, had been his first thought upon reading the letter. How did he know? had been his second thought. But it was not altogether surprising. Percy had really quite recklessly endangered her reputation by trotting off to the dower house for each of the last several nights and not leaving it until early morning. It would be more surprising if no one knew. The whole world probably knew.
He was more angry than he had ever been in his life. But it was a quiet, leashed anger. There was no point whatsoever in blustering and lashing out with either words or fists—not unless or until he had a target for those fists, anyway. And at least half of his anger was directed against himself.
He drew the letter from his pocket and turned from the window.
“Smuggling is rife along this stretch of the coastline,” he said. “I called a meeting of the whole of my staff yesterday morning and made it clear that I would no longer harbor either smugglers or their contraband on my land.”
“Smuggling is rife along every stretch of coastline, Percy,” Uncle Roderick said. “There is no way of stopping it, I am afraid. And I must admit that I enjoy a drop of good French brandy now and then, though I am careful never to ask my host where it came from.” He chuckled.
“That was probably not wise of you, Percy,” Uncle Ernest said. “And it will do no good, you know. Your servants may pay you lip service for a while, but they will surely slip back to their old ways soon enough. If I were you, I would let the matter drop now that you have made your point.”
“You had better sharpen your cutlass even so, Perce,” Sidney said with a grin.
“And load your pistol,” Cyril added.
“The sooner we get you back to London, Perce,” Arnold said, “the better for everyone, I think.” But he did turn and look at Imogen, Percy noticed. She had gone to sit on a chair beside Mrs. Ferby, who was patting her arm.
“But there is viciousness underlying it all,” Percy said. “A bit of brandy, a bit of lace I might be tempted to ignore. Broken legs and murder I cannot.”
“Murder?” Uncle Ted said sharply.
“I have no proof,” Percy said, “but yes, murder. Ten years ago there were threatening letters when the late Viscount Barclay voiced his concerns about the trade encroaching upon his father’s land. Today Lady Barclay received another such letter. I did not ask, but I believe I can guess the answer. As far as you can recall, Lady Barclay, does this one appear to be written in the same hand?”
Mrs. Ferby had Imogen’s hand clasped in her own, their fingers laced.
“Yes,” Imogen said.
“I would like you all to read it,” Percy said, “with Lady Barclay’s permission.”
“Yes,” she said again.
Percy handed the letter to Cyril, who was closest to him, and it was passed from hand to hand until all the men had read it. Mrs. Ferby stretched out her free hand, and Knorr handed it to her.
“Somewhat illiterate, is it not?” Uncle Ted remarked. “The man can scarcely write.”
“It is upsetting for any lady to receive something like this,” Uncle Roderick said. “But it is a little difficult to take it seriously. It is all nonsense, in my opinion. Slanderous, though.”
“I tend to agree,” Uncle Ernest said. “But if this comes from one of the servants here, Percy, the man must be rousted out and dismissed immediately. He has not signed it, of course, even with an X.”
“Lady Barclay must be offered protection, Perce,” Arnold said. “You live alone, ma’am, at the dower house with only a servant, do you not? And I understand even she leaves at night?”
“You must move to the hall immediately, Cousin Imogen,” Uncle Roderick said, “until this matter has been investigated, as I suppose it must be. You must never be alone. Your maid must sleep in your room with you at night.”
“But I have no wish to leave my own home,” Imogen protested, speaking for the first time.
“It would be better if you did, ma’am,” Sidney said, “temporarily at least. There are enough of us here to offer you proper protection on the unlikely assumption that there is a madman on the loose.”
“Hardly a madman,” Mrs. Ferby said, and all eyes turned her way. “This,” she said, waving the letter in her hand, “was written by a very clever man. I would not underestimate him if I were you, Lord Hardford.”
“I do not believe I am underestimating him, ma’am,” Percy said.
“Clever?” Sidney asked.
“The multiplicity of errors in the letter suggests someone who is making them quite deliberately,” Knorr said. “And the vast changes in style of handwriting in the course of such a short note suggest a deliberate attempt to deceive. But there is a certain menace about the tone, which goes beyond the words themselves. Perhaps it is the contrast between the childish appearance of the note and the message it conveys.”