Phyllida headed for the nearest of these indentations. She could feel the heat of the motorcar as it roared up behind her as she practically dove into the alcove.

She plastered herself tightly against the wall as the blaring headlights and vicious machine leaped toward her in a loud, angry growl.

She closed her eyes, held her breath, and prayed.

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

BRADFORD SIMPLY COULDN’T SAY NO TO HER. WITH THOSE BIG, SAD brown eyes and that unruly mop of soft-as-silk dark hair, and the absolute joy with which she greeted him every time he returned from anywhere—even just going into the house to eat—she was utterly irresistible.

“Mrs. Bright isn’t going to like it,” he told Myrtle as he opened the door to the Daimler.

The dog—she was just barely past being a puppy—leaped in and wriggled about in such delight, bouncing from seat to seat, that he couldn’t help but laugh.

“I know—she’ll just have to live with it, won’t she?” he said, imagining the prune-like fashion into which the housekeeper’s pretty lips would shrink when she saw the extra passenger. She’d lift her chin in that way she did when she was irritated—which was nearly all the time when he was around; a fact that Bradford not only enjoyed but deliberately provoked. A man who’d been to war had to have some levity in his life.

Bradford had wasted no time in bringing back the servants to Mallowan Hall after the festival and enlisting them to help unload the supplies from the motorcar. Mrs. Bright claimed she wasn’t worried about being left alone at night when a murderer was about, but Bradford did have a bit of a conscience when it came to leaving females—even annoying ones—alone in potentially dangerous situations.

God knew, he’d learned not to waste his breath arguing with Mrs. Bright. The blasted woman was as immovable as Stonehenge. Instead, he was determined to return to Listleigh and retrieve her—as well as the ominously missing Rita—as quickly as possible. And since he hadn’t seen much of Myrtle all day, he decided she deserved to ride along, particularly since she’d asked so sweetly.

“Make certain you sniff at her as much as possible,” he told the mop of dog hair, who sat in the front seat, panting, drooling, and, doubtlessly, shedding hair on which Mrs. Bright would likely place a remarkably fine posterior for a woman her age. “You know how much she hates it when you lick at her through her stockings, too, Myrtle, so have at it. It’s always a pleasure to hear her shriek a little.” He chuckled.

It was quite a sight, watching the uptight and proper Mrs. Bright attempt to keep herself calm and collected when the wet-nosed dog unexpectedly nudged her palm or slurped at her shin.