Haversham paused and considered briefly, before saying, “Not that I know of, my lord . . . except perhaps for Lady Christiana’s maid, Grace. She is probably still about.”

“Right,” Richard muttered, and then waved him on. “Go ahead and go to bed. And in the future, Haversham, there’s no need for you to stay up so late, but we will talk about that tomorrow.”

“As you wish,” Haversham murmured and pulled the door closed.

Richard waited a moment, giving the man time to get away from the door, and then bent to hoist the blanket-wrapped George up again. Sighing as he straightened with his burden, he crossed to the door Haversham had just closed, listened briefly, and then cracked it open. Once assured the hall was empty, Richard hurried out, and rushed straight to the front door.

The Woodrow carriage waited on the road where they’d left it. The driver was slumped on his perch, chin on chest, apparently asleep. Richard sped to the vehicle, opened the door and dumped George across one of the two bench seats, or tried to: stiff as he was, he rolled right off. He also stuck out the door.

Richard hesitated, but he couldn’t leave him hanging out of the carriage. Cursing, he glanced nervously around and then began to massage and bend first his brother’s neck and then his legs until he was able to bend him enough so that he could position him on his side on the bench seat. He then took a moment to make sure the blanket hadn’t dislodged and that everything was covered before straightening and peering back at the house.

There was still no sign of Daniel. Where was the man? They had to sort out what they were going to do with George. Richard, himself, had no idea where they were going to keep the body for the next few days and since this was all Daniel’s idea, he was hoping his friend had a thought or two in that regard.

After another couple moments passed with no sign of Daniel, Richard closed the carriage door and headed impatiently back into the house.

“Idiot man,” Christiana muttered staring at the drapes over her bed and wishing they would stop swaying. “Dumb Dicky. Dumb Earl Dicky. Earl Dicky Dumb.”

She made a face at the spinning drapes and sighed unhappily as she waited for him to return home so she could look at his bottom . . . which she didn’t want to do, she assured herself and wouldn’t have to do if he wasn’t a big dumb Dicky. That was the conclusion Christiana had come to since Grace had left her alone, because frankly, she was a fine woman. She wasn’t a raving beauty, but she wasn’t ugly either, and she was smart enough and nice.

Goodness, she never nagged the man or made demands: all she’d wanted was to love him. But he was a big dumb idiot who didn’t seem to realize his good fortune. Or at least hadn’t seemed to since their wedding. Before that while courting her he had . . . and tonight . . .