rider.”
“Come here,” he gestured. Stephen knelt down and fingered the girth. “The girth goes underneath the horse’s belly to secure the saddle. Henry fell off the horse because the girth was no longer holding it in place.”
“He didn’t secure it properly?”
Stephen held up the buckle. “I checked it myself before he mounted. The buckle is intact.” He slid his hand to the broken section. “The girth snapped.”
He held the broken girth to show her. Miss Hodges looked at him questioningly before kneeling down beside him and taking the girth from his hands. Her fingers brushed his palm momentarily, sending tingles up his arm. He cleared his throat again. “What do you notice about this?”
She fingered the tear. “Why is it only partially frayed?”
Sir Stephen ran a hand through his hair. “It had help. Someone cut it in a discreet spot underneath the flap and to an extent that a ride, especially ending with a gallop, was enough strain to complete the damage.”
Bonnie was dumbstruck. Her eyes were wide when she lifted them to the man kneeling next to her. “Wha—”
Sir Stephen stood and retrieved something else from behind the sofa. He placed a large plank of wood across the saddle and knelt down again. He pointed at one end and Bonnie turned her eyes there.
Similar to the girth, part of the end was splintered, but a good two thirds of it was a smooth angled cut, such as made by a saw.
Dear heavens. “From the bridge?” she choked out.
“It was only a matter of time before it gave out. There is no telling who would have been crossing at the time.”
“So it—I—when . . .”
“Yes, it could have been you on the bridge.”
Bonnie took in a shuddering breath. It didn’t reach her lungs, so she tried again. And again.
She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I can’t breathe.”
Sir Stephen moved quickly, his fingers undoing the laces at her back. Once accomplished, he went to the decanter table and poured two generous glasses of Scotch. Bringing them over to her, he held one out.
“No, breathe, I need to breathe.” She was gasping deeply.
“This will help you.” He forced the glass to her mouth and poured a bit down her throat. She choked and sputtered and he did it again. The fiery liquid trailed down her throat, drawing tears to her eyes and burning her stomach. Bonnie gasped, air finally making its way to her lungs.
“Better?”
She nodded. “What do we do?”
His voice was solemn. “We must keep this quiet. I believe the attacks may be on the viscount title itself, so if Henry comes to harm, attention would shift to Arthur.”
“But they are children!”
“I highly doubt that matters. And as their governess, you are likely to be caught in the line of fire.”
Bonnie swallowed, her throat working tightly. “My mother raised me to be a governess. Prepared me for a wide range of situations. This was not one of them.” She took a sip of the remaining Scotch. She turned to look at him. “How did you know?”
Stephen didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. He pulled out the much-creased letter he always carried in his coat’s inner pocket. “Darrow wrote me less than a week before his death. I didn’t receive it until two weeks after. Read this paragraph.” He pointed.
Bonnie scanned the contents and then had to read it again. “So when Lady Darrow—”
Stephen stopped her there. “Don’t. Do not start analyzing every incident. There is no way to tell what was intentional or not. I was extremely lucky with the bridge.”
Bonnie looked down at the letter again. “And he asked for your help?”
“Yes. We knew each other for nearly twenty years.”
“Yet I hadn’t met you before two weeks ago.”
He shifted uncomfortably but remained silent. After a moment, he stood and offered her his hand. Bonnie took it, noting the calluses and the warmth. When she stood, her loosened gown gaped open and she had to clutch it from falling off.
Stephen stared. He
“Come here,” he gestured. Stephen knelt down and fingered the girth. “The girth goes underneath the horse’s belly to secure the saddle. Henry fell off the horse because the girth was no longer holding it in place.”
“He didn’t secure it properly?”
Stephen held up the buckle. “I checked it myself before he mounted. The buckle is intact.” He slid his hand to the broken section. “The girth snapped.”
He held the broken girth to show her. Miss Hodges looked at him questioningly before kneeling down beside him and taking the girth from his hands. Her fingers brushed his palm momentarily, sending tingles up his arm. He cleared his throat again. “What do you notice about this?”
She fingered the tear. “Why is it only partially frayed?”
Sir Stephen ran a hand through his hair. “It had help. Someone cut it in a discreet spot underneath the flap and to an extent that a ride, especially ending with a gallop, was enough strain to complete the damage.”
Bonnie was dumbstruck. Her eyes were wide when she lifted them to the man kneeling next to her. “Wha—”
Sir Stephen stood and retrieved something else from behind the sofa. He placed a large plank of wood across the saddle and knelt down again. He pointed at one end and Bonnie turned her eyes there.
Similar to the girth, part of the end was splintered, but a good two thirds of it was a smooth angled cut, such as made by a saw.
Dear heavens. “From the bridge?” she choked out.
“It was only a matter of time before it gave out. There is no telling who would have been crossing at the time.”
“So it—I—when . . .”
“Yes, it could have been you on the bridge.”
Bonnie took in a shuddering breath. It didn’t reach her lungs, so she tried again. And again.
She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I can’t breathe.”
Sir Stephen moved quickly, his fingers undoing the laces at her back. Once accomplished, he went to the decanter table and poured two generous glasses of Scotch. Bringing them over to her, he held one out.
“No, breathe, I need to breathe.” She was gasping deeply.
“This will help you.” He forced the glass to her mouth and poured a bit down her throat. She choked and sputtered and he did it again. The fiery liquid trailed down her throat, drawing tears to her eyes and burning her stomach. Bonnie gasped, air finally making its way to her lungs.
“Better?”
She nodded. “What do we do?”
His voice was solemn. “We must keep this quiet. I believe the attacks may be on the viscount title itself, so if Henry comes to harm, attention would shift to Arthur.”
“But they are children!”
“I highly doubt that matters. And as their governess, you are likely to be caught in the line of fire.”
Bonnie swallowed, her throat working tightly. “My mother raised me to be a governess. Prepared me for a wide range of situations. This was not one of them.” She took a sip of the remaining Scotch. She turned to look at him. “How did you know?”
Stephen didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. He pulled out the much-creased letter he always carried in his coat’s inner pocket. “Darrow wrote me less than a week before his death. I didn’t receive it until two weeks after. Read this paragraph.” He pointed.
Bonnie scanned the contents and then had to read it again. “So when Lady Darrow—”
Stephen stopped her there. “Don’t. Do not start analyzing every incident. There is no way to tell what was intentional or not. I was extremely lucky with the bridge.”
Bonnie looked down at the letter again. “And he asked for your help?”
“Yes. We knew each other for nearly twenty years.”
“Yet I hadn’t met you before two weeks ago.”
He shifted uncomfortably but remained silent. After a moment, he stood and offered her his hand. Bonnie took it, noting the calluses and the warmth. When she stood, her loosened gown gaped open and she had to clutch it from falling off.
Stephen stared. He
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