this when he accepted that they had mastered a thrust or a parry?
‘And wait until someone blunders into view with a gun or a phial of poison? Yes, I will guard you outside this house and advise your husband on precautions for securing it. But it would be better to catch whoever this is sooner rather than later, do you not think?’ When she nodded he sat down again and picked up the notebook. ‘So, why Guinevere? Are all your family equally Arthurian?’
‘What on earth has that got to do with anything?’
‘Humour me, please.’
I have nothing else to do all afternoon but fret and practice looking calm for Augustus. I may as well indulge this man. He was, after all, both good to look at and refreshingly astringent.
‘My mother thought it a charming idea. At my christening she realised that all her family were sniggering at her, so she reverted to solidly conventional names for my younger siblings. I, however, am stuck with Guinevere. And you, Mr Hunt, what were you baptised?’
For a moment his lips tightened, but it was so rapid she thought perhaps she had imagined it. ‘My name is Jared. One of my hellfire Parliamentarian ancestors at the time of the Civil War was a great believer in Biblical names for his offspring. Fortunately the son I am descended from was not called Hezekiah, although as a boy I always rather favoured Zelophehad. I liked the rhythm.’
He said it so seriously that Guin was caught unawares by her own laughter when she saw the twitch of his lips. So, the fierce hawk had a sense of humour, had he? ‘What does it mean? Zelophe– whatever it was?’ she asked, serious again, but now she had a smile inside.
‘Shadow from terror, which is apt for a bodyguard, although I only found that out later.’
‘And Jared?’
‘One who rules.’
Yes, that suited him. She could not imagine Jared Hunt taking orders, however respectfully he presented himself as an agent for hire. But shadow from terror, that suited too – a darkness, but one that protected.
‘Perhaps we can begin by you telling me about the attacks,’ he said, reverting to business as though that intimate joking moment had never happened. ‘Was the first the shot through the carriage when it was moving or – What was that?’ He was on his feet, staring at the cold fireplace. A curl of soot swirled down and settled on the polished marble of the hearth like a black feather on snow.
‘Just soot falling. No, wait, I hear it too, up the chimney.’ There was a faint scrabbling sound that echoed down to them as though from a great distance. ‘We have the sweep in, I think,’ Guin said as Hunt turned. ‘I certainly told our butler Twite to organise it because the chimney in my husband’s study has been smoking. They must have sent a climbing boy into the stacks from the room above this. Oh!’
There was a loud rattle, a cloud of falling soot and Guin found herself dragged from her seat, thrown, falling, landing with a thud with something heavy on top of her. She struck out, hit a very solid body and then there was a bang and the room shook.
She was under Jared Hunt, she realised. She tried to shake her head to clear it and found he had curled one hand around the left side of her face and they were pressed together cheek to cheek. The full length of his body was over her. Heavily.
Confused, Guin tried to push him away, then realised that he had pulled her forcefully from her chair, thrown her behind the sofa and flung himself on top of her before the bomb –
‘That was a bomb!’ she said, more furious than fearful, her cheek moving against his as she spoke. His skin was slightly rough and he smelt of warm man, coffee and spice. Furious she might be, but it felt safe here. It felt very…
As the echoes died away Hunt hauled her to her feet and dragged her towards the door. The room was full of smoke and soot and small flames were licking the charred area in the centre of the hearth rug.
‘It was an explosive, certainly,’ he said as he turned from a rapid study of the mess.
He had a knife in his hand – Where has that come from? – and when they reached the door he pushed her behind him before he opened it and looked out. Through her ringing ears Guin could hear shouts and the sound of running feet and then they were outside and he was still keeping her behind his body as Augustus and Twite arrived, both wheezing with effort and alarm.
‘Guinnie!’
‘I am here, dear, please do not agitate yourself.’ Augustus looked in danger of a seizure at any moment. ‘Mr Hunt, will you please let me go?’
‘Not until I am certain that whoever it was who sent those explosives down the chimney is not still in the house. Twite, you need footmen and water in there, the rug is smouldering. Where are your armed gamekeepers?’
‘In the kitchen, below stairs.’ Augustus said. ‘No, here they are.’
‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’ Hunt demanded. ‘Who has come in or got out while you have been away from your post?’ The men stood looking sheepish. ‘Make yourselves useful now you are here – cover us while I bring Lady Northam downstairs. Yes, like that, one in front, one behind. My lord, stay close.’
He guided them downstairs in a tight huddle, checking around corners, one of the keepers backing along behind, shotgun raised, then bundled Guin into the scullery. ‘Stay here.’ He took the key from the outside and handed it to her. ‘Lock the door and open it only to me.’ He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. ‘And only when I call you by your given name. Do you understand? No one else, not even your husband. I do not care who it is.’
Then she was alone in the windowless little room with one tallow candle and the terrified pot boy, up to his elbows in a sink full of dirty dishes. ‘Goodness, what an adventure,’ Guin said brightly as she locked the door. She found a smile for the boy. ‘No need to worry, Sammy, Mr Hunt has it all under control.’ I hope. And then she began to shake.
Jared left one of the keepers in front of the scullery door with Lord Northam. ‘Stay there, my lord. You will slow us down.’ Ignoring the furious exclamation from his employer he swept through the house with the other keeper, a footman and Twite with his keys, locking each door as they checked the rooms.
They found the chimney sweep and his boy on the leads, the man stunned from a blow to the back of the head, the lad stuffed headfirst into a sack and too terrified to try and free himself. The man recovered quickly enough, although the blow had been both real and hard: Jared checked the lump, not prepared to take anything for granted. They had seen no-one, they said, heard no-one until they were attacked from behind as they were lashing their rods together ready to fix the brushes. Two men, they thought, or perhaps only one, but they were unsure even of that much.