My Bratty Wife
Chapter 143 - Hundred And Forty Three

Chapter 143: Chapter Hundred And Forty Three

The air in the stables was thick with the scent of hay and horse sweat. Excitement filled the air as the nobles, dressed in their finest hunting attire, began to select their mounts for the day’s pursuit. The anticipation was palpable; the hunt was a time-honored tradition at Oakwood Manor, a display of both equestrian skill and social standing.

Byron, his brow furrowed in concentration, walked through the maze of stalls. He had been assisting his brother for what seemed like hours in their search for Count Edmund, but their efforts had yielded nothing. Ryan had insisted that something was amiss, that someone was targeting Edmund, and Byron, despite his initial skepticism, was starting to believe him.

As he rounded a corner, he noticed a figure moving with unnatural stealth amongst the horses. The figure was cloaked and masked, their face obscured from view. Byron’s instincts screamed danger. This was no ordinary stable hand.

He moved silently, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of straw. As he drew closer, he saw the figure crouching beside a magnificent black stallion, its coat gleaming in the dim light of the stable lanterns. The figure was working quickly, their hands darting beneath the saddle.

Byron held his breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. He had to act, but how? If he confronted the figure directly, he risked a violent confrontation. He needed to assess the situation, to understand the nature of the threat.

He crept closer, his eyes fixed on the figure’s movements. Suddenly, the figure straightened, their hand withdrawing from beneath the saddle. Byron saw it – a glint of metal, a small, sharp object.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the pounding of his own racing thoughts. "What in blazes is that scoundrel doing?" he thought, his eyes glued to the masked figure. The way he was fumbling with the saddle, that furtive glance... it wasn’t the work of a simple thief. This was something far more sinister. The figure had been tampering with the saddle.

"Sabotage," the word whispered through his mind, chilling him to the bone. "But why? Why would anyone want to harm Count Edmund?" The Count, a pillar of the community, a kind and generous man. Who could possibly have a grudge against him?

Who could be behind this? Was it a disgruntled servant, a jealous rival, or perhaps a more dangerous enemy? The possibilities were endless, each more chilling than the last.

A wave of dread washed over him. The Count was due to leave for the hunt soon, and if this tampering was successful... the consequences were unthinkable. He had to warn Ryan. But how? He couldn’t risk alerting the saboteur. He needed to be discreet, to move silently, unseen.

Byron began to back away, his eyes fixed on the figure, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had to be careful, to tread lightly. He tiptoed towards the stable door, his breath held, his senses on high alert.

But disaster struck. His foot landed on a brittle twig, snapping it with a sharp, brittle sound.

"Damn it!" He cursed silently, his mind racing. The figure froze, his head snapping up, his eyes narrowing into slits. Byron’s blood ran cold. He’d been caught.

—————-

"Blast it all!" Ryan muttered, a knot of worry tightening in his gut. The gunshot echoed through the forest, a sharp, jarring sound that pierced his ears, snapping him from his search.

He froze, his brow furrowed in concern. It was already midday. That was the signal for the start of the hunt, but something felt amiss. That shot has gone off but Count Edmund still hasn’t been found. Has he already joined the hunt?. A shiver ran down his spine. Where was Byron?

Anxiety gnawed at him. He saw a stable hand carrying hay to the stables. He inquired about Byron giving him enough description of him. The young lad responded " Oh yes your grace, I saw my lord going towards the stables. He seemed to be in a hurry."

Ryan sprinted towards the stables, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Each step brought him closer to a growing dread. He burst through the stable doors, his eyes frantically scanning the dimly lit interior. "Byron! Where are you, man?"

And then he saw him.

Byron lay sprawled on the floor, a dark stain dripping on his head. Blood. Someone had ambushed him and dragged him out of sight. Ryan’s breath hitched. "Byron!!!" He screamed as he rushed to his side, dropping to his knees, his voice rough with panic. "What in heaven’s name happened? Who did this?"

Byron’s eyes fluttered open, a look of sheer terror etched on his face. He gasped for air, his voice a mere whisper. "Count Edmund... danger... horse... sabotaged..."

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Ryan. "Who did this to you, Byron?" he demanded, his voice trembling.

Byron’s eyes rolled back, his grip on consciousness slipping. "Save him," he whispered, his voice fading into a groan.

Panic surged through Ryan. He had to get help. But Byron’s words echoed in his mind: "Count Edmund... danger..."

He couldn’t leave Byron here. But he couldn’t ignore the warning either. The Count’s life might be in peril.

A decision formed in his mind, swift and decisive. He quickly assessed the situation. There was a strong, sturdy mare in the corner of the stable. It was a risk, leaving Byron, but it was a risk he had to take.

He gently lifted Byron, his body surprisingly light, and carried him towards the small infirmary close to the stables. He laid him down on the makeshift bed, his gaze lingering on the pale, drawn features of his brother.

"Hold on, Byron," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ll get help. I promise."

He rushed back to the stables, his mind racing. He found the young lad from before, feeding the horses with the haystack he was carrying. " Your grace."He said, looking at Ryan with concern. " Send a doctor to the infirmary close to the stables. My brother is in there, he’s injured." Ryan urged, his voice hoarse. The stable boy simply nodded.

Ryan quickly saddled a mare, his movements a blur of urgency. He leaped onto its back, the animal responding instantly to his urgency. With a thunderous pounding of hooves, he galloped out of the stables and into the depths of the forest.

The wind whipped through Ryan’s hair as he rode for hours, his eyes scanning the horizon. He hadn’t caught up with the rider in time. The horse, spooked by the sudden release from the broken saddle, had bolted, throwing the rider to the ground.

Ryan reined in the mare, leaping off and rushing to the fallen man. He knelt beside him, relief washing over him when the man groaned and sat up, rubbing his arm.

But something was not right. It wasn’t Count Edmund. Instead, it was Lord Harrington, his face pale, struggling to regain his balance after a nasty fall.

Ryan moved closer to him, concern overriding his initial anger. "Lord Harrington! Are you alright?"

Lord Harrington, his breath coming in ragged gasps, brushed off the dirt from his velvet coat. "Just a few scratches, thank you, lad. Seems my saddle strap gave way." He looked up at Ryan, his eyes wide with surprise. " Oh Duke Ryan... Pleasure meeting you here."

"Likewise" Ryan replied, pulling him up. " What are you doing with Count Edmund’s horse?"

Lord Harrington replied, "He wasn’t feeling good after having too many drinks and I warned him, oh yes I did but he never listens to me" He paused then sighed and continued " He allowed me take his horse since his is faster."

Ryan’s blood ran cold. This was a distraction. A cunning, chillingly effective one. While they were all chasing after a falling rider, someone had struck.

"Stay here," Ryan barked, his voice laced with urgency. "I need to find the Count."

He wheeled his horse around and galloped back towards the manor, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had to get to the Count. He had to make sure he was safe.

He burst through Count Edmund’s quarters door, his eyes frantically searching for any sign of the Count. Then he saw him. Count Edmund lay sprawled on the marble floor of the floor, his eyes rolled back, whitish foam flecking at his lips.

"My God!" Ryan cried, rushing to his side. He checked for a pulse, his fingers trembling. It was faint, barely there. He was late again.

The air in the hall seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken fears. Ryan’s gaze darted around the room, searching for clues, for any indication of what had happened. But there was nothing. No sign of a struggle, no forced entry, no indication of foul play.

Just then, Davis burst into the room, his face pale and drawn. "Your Grace! Thank God I found you! The Duchess... she’s gone!"