Free Allison Lane by A Bird in Hand

God!
    The proprietor was sitting at a desk.  Explanations would waste time he couldn’t afford.  He had to see Sedge.  Why had no one summoned a doctor?  Nobody else up there has a lick of sense.  Was he already dead?
    At least Anne’s confusion gave him a ready explanation for his presence.
    “Lord Symington was supposed to meet me here,” he said without preamble.  “But I just heard that he was injured.  Where will I find him?”
    He frowned.  “And you are?”
    “Mr. Randolph.  Where is he?”
    “Ravenswood.”
    “Would you have a horse for hire?”  The innkeeper was glaring suspiciously, so he offered the first explanation that popped into his head.  “My own disappeared after tossing me in the river last night.”
    Pulling out his purse did more to assuage suspicion than his words, he realized when the fellow’s eyes lit.  No one cared a whit about his business.  Negotiations produced a broken-down beast for only four times normal custom.  But he was too anxious to care.  If Sedge died, he would never forgive himself.
    Ravenswood was easy to find.  The gates were only a quarter mile beyond the village.  Lacking any idea of how far the village was, Sedge must have turned in there to fetch help. 
    He shuddered as he passed the wreckage of his coach, and shuddered again when he spotted a horse’s carcass, still in the traces.  The Ides of March had brought disaster all around.
    He tried not to look closely.  No purpose would be served by imagining Sedge’s ordeal.  Instead, he pressed his undistinguished mount to a canter.
    Ravenswood was a modest manor house that had acquired a more imposing facade a century or so ago with the addition of a Corinthian portico reached by twin sweeps of stairs curving up from the drive.  They enclosed an ostentatious pedestal topped by a crumbling Roman statue.  The entrance strongly resembled sketches of triumphal arches his father had made on his Grand Tour.
    But as he drew closer, the family’s poverty became apparent, for the statue was not all that was crumbling.  Stonework needed pointing, paint peeled from window frames, and draperies showed signs of shattering from decades of sunlight.
    He tethered his horse to the balustrade, irked when no one appeared to take the beast.  He was not known as a harsh taskmaster, but his own staff would never have allowed a stranger to approach unseen.  Hurrying up the stairs, he cursed when his fingers automatically reached for his card case.
    No identification.  Money wouldn’t work here.  And fear increased his sense of urgency.  He had to see Sedge.
    A butler answered the door.
    “I am Mr. Randolph,” he began.  “Until we became separated yesterday, I was traveling with Lord Symington.  The villagers claim that he was injured.  I wish to see him.”  He adopted the demeanor his grandfather used to command instant deference from his subordinates.  It worked – to a point.
    The butler frowned.  “You will wait here, sir,” he said coolly, indicating a chair in the entrance hall.  “I will ask if his lordship is receiving.”
    Randolph suppressed a grimace.  He had been relegated to a drafty hall like an unwelcome tradesman.  But what had he expected?  Whitfield’s haughty commands had never been his way.  He lacked the imposing physique and arrogance that marked his father and grandfather.  When he added his filthy clothing, scrapes, lack of a carriage, and apparent lack of title, he was lucky to be inside at all.
    And if Sedge was still unconscious, how was he to convince anyone of his identity? 
    He wandered toward the back of the hall – ostensibly to examine a portrait – and watched the butler’s progress.  Obviously the man was not headed for the bedchambers, so the lordship he was consulting must be Fosdale.  Did that mean that Sedge was dead?
    Don’t panic , he reminded himself sharply.  It merely confirmed that he was unable to speak, which was already apparent.  The