That put Ashcroft in his place. Less important than an acre of soggy pasture.
He didn’t turn to look at Burnley and his future marchioness. He couldn’t bear to see Diana again. It hurt too much. “Don’t wait on my account,” he called over his shoulder.
“Lord Ashcroft,” Diana said softly but clearly. “I did you wrong, and I deeply regret it.”
“Too late for that, my dear,” Burnley said imperiously. “Coming?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, subdued.
“Ashcroft, don’t let us detain you,” Burnley said.
The dog whimpered. Ashcroft guessed the animal wasn’t particularly fond of the lord of the manor. Clever beast. He wasn’t too fond of the wretch either. Odd to think all his life he’d missed his father, yet now he’d found his real father, and he felt less emotional connection than he did to his scullery maid.
“Shh, Rex, it’s all right.” Diana’s voice sounded thick as if
she cried.
I will not care. I will not care.
“If you’ll follow us, my lord.” The burly footman gestured with spurious politeness toward the exit.
“I’m at your disposal, gentlemen,” Ashcroft drawled and stepped between them, every nerve on alert. Burnley had no reason to rough him up, except that a beating scored a final point over his defeated rival.
Such was the reality of his dear, fond Papa.
Ashcroft strode ahead of Burnley’s henchmen along the faint path under the overarching trees. Then, like a shout, he felt the change in the air.
He whirled, raising his fists. It was inevitable he’d go down. When he did, he intended to take a few of these thugs with him.
Chapter Twenty-six
Lord Ashcroft! Lord Ashcroft, can you hear me?”
The strident voice that made Ashcroft’s ears ring emerged from a distant world. Ashcroft struggled to escape it, but he couldn’t move.
Vaguely, he wondered why that was. Then pain struck like a thousand red-hot hammers. He’d been split into jagged pieces and nailed together again without much care.
“Lord Ashcroft?” The voice persisted, making his skull vibrate in agony.
Rough hands on his head provoked another clanging blast. Like cymbals with gunpowder. When he groaned, only a weak, mewling sound escaped. He battled to open his eyes, but the lids weighed more than bricks.
“Let’s get him inside.” The disembodied voice came in and out of focus in a bewildering fashion.
He wanted to protest the order. Tell the grating voice he was perfectly capable of walking. That he resented the implication he couldn’t make his own way.
Hell, he must have had a skinful last night. His head pounded fit to explode. When he tried to point out he needed no help, he couldn’t force the words out.
The voice droned on. It was damnably familiar although right now, he couldn’t place it. Thoughts flitted through his mind, but before he caught them, they darted away like moths fluttering around a lamp.
Nor did he know where he was. Some vague recollection insisted he should be lying on grass, and it should be morning. Even behind closed eyes, he knew it was dark, and something hard and cold and solid under his aching ribs jabbed him.
Steps?
“Careful with his lordship, boys. Heaven knows what’s happened.”
The voice briefly made sense again. It continued while Ashcroft faded away into a nightmare world crammed with fiery agony. What the devil had he been drinking?
“Charles, grab his shoulders. I’ll take his legs.”