He didn’t look happy about it, but Apollo, despite being excruciatingly well trained, was starting to fidget. There was a limited window of time in which the Heath would be open for horses to run this morning, which was why all the grooms were out exercising the animals at the same time.
“Apollo needs to run, Owen.” Since it was a statement that couldn’t be argued, Bianca took Atalanta’s reins and started the short walk back to the stable.
“I’m waiting until you top the hill,” the groom grumbled.
“If that makes you feel better,” she called over her shoulder.
She rubbed a hand over her mount’s soft nose and received a jarring nudge to the shoulder in return. “If that is your version of an apology, I accept.”
After one last reassuring pat to the horse’s cream-colored neck, Bianca resumed walking, though she put a bit of space between herself and the horse in case the animal tried to apologize again. “Don’t worry, we’ll be taking that saddle off and seeing what’s wrong with you in a few short minutes. Hopefully it’s nothing but a pebble in your shoe.”
The horse nudged her shoulder once more, drawing a low chuckle from Bianca as she opened the gate and led the horse into the stable yard.
She kept a tight hold on the horse’s reins, even though she expected the mare was already intent on returning to the stable. Part of the beauty of horses was their unpredictability. Of course, part of their appeal was the ability to control that volatility. She’d long ago recognized that she liked the power of having a huge animal listen to her and depend upon her.
The affection from the beasts was pleasant, too, even if it was actually a hunt for the treat they could smell in her pocket.
A masculine laugh joined hers on the air, making Bianca’s feet come to a halt. There was a man in the stable. The stable that was supposed to be empty. She and Owen had been the last ones to depart fifteen minutes ago, and the household servants never ventured out to the horses.
It was possible Mr. Whitworth, the stable manager, had decided to come by today, but he would know all the grooms would be out this morning. Besides, Bianca could count on one hand the number of times she’d heard the man so much as snicker.
So, who was in the stable?
Bianca’s blood surged so hard through her veins that her fingers shook as she secured Atalanta’s reins to the fence that bordered the drive to the grand estate house. Was it a horse thief? A neighboring stable owner hoping to convince Mr. Whitworth to make some sort of business agreement? What if the disturbing man who had tried to take the horses after Lord Stildon died had returned?
All the moisture in her mouth turned to dust as she crossed the drive with careful steps. The loose stone shifted under her feet but didn’t make much noise as long as she stayed balanced on her toes.
She was probably being an empty-headed ninny about this entire thing. Surely Mr. Whitworth’s tall, broad form was going to come into view and they’d both be able to laugh about her overactive imagination while she took care of Atalanta.
But if it was a thief, she would . . . she would . . . well, in all honesty, if he was after a saddle or two she’d simply let him be. She was female, after all, and while she considered herself to be quite the sportswoman, she wasn’t going to claim any unusual bravery or warrior-like talents. No one could be allowed to harm the horses, though.
The door to the stable had been left open to allow fresh air to circulate into the building, so Bianca crept along the wall and peered around the edge. Despite the abundance of windows, the interior was far dimmer than the exterior, and her eyes took several moments to distinguish which shadowy shapes were supposed to be there and which weren’t.
As the man came into focus, it was abundantly clear he numbered among the very out-of-place items.
Rumpled and showing signs of road dust on his boots, the man stood at Hestia’s stall. The box stall door was open, and the dark brown thoroughbred was nibbling at the carrot extended toward her in one of the man’s hands. The other hand held a coil of rope.
The man was attempting to steal away with Hestia.
The man—or whoever had hired him—was clever. Hestia had never run all that well, but her children were another story. She was the best mare the stable had, though currently she wasn’t carrying a future champion. If someone else managed to get their hands on her and hide her away, he could benefit from the theft without the horse ever showing up at the racecourse.
Bianca couldn’t let that happen. She pulled back and flattened herself against the stable wall, her breathing speeding up to match the pounding of her pulse. If Hestia left the stable with that man, they’d never see her again.
A quick glance around revealed a complete lack of anything resembling a potential weapon. In fact, it showed a complete lack of anything at all. The front of Hawksworth stable was always kept neat, tidy, and professional. Who knew they should leave a pitchfork lying about for such an occasion as this? She’d left her riding crop tied to Atalanta’s saddle, so her only options were whatever was on her person. She could not waste a moment. The man was already coaxing Hestia out of her stall.
It took a bit of tugging, and she almost fell twice, but Bianca managed to pull off her riding boot without making more noise than someone would expect from horses shifting about in their stalls. While far from a proper weapon, the heel was sturdy, and the length of the footwear gave her something to grip. It would have to do.
Hestia was depending upon Bianca and her boot.
After one more deep, steadying breath, Bianca hid the boot behind her back and entered the stable. Her gasp of pretend shock would surely have made Shakespeare cry, but it was the best she could muster. She spoke in a rush to keep the man from dwelling on the fakeness of her opening. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The man paused in the middle of looping his rope around Hestia’s neck. “I beg your pardon?”
Ha! As if she would pardon a horse thief, even if she could. “I asked what you thought you were doing.”
Fortunately, the thick fabric of her habit disguised any trembling of her weak knees. This man could not be allowed to think she was intimidated—though she was—or that she didn’t know how to actually get rid of him—though she didn’t. He had to believe her a threat to his well-being if he continued with his task.
“I’m taking this horse for a walk.” The man turned a questioning look to her. “What are you doing?”
So much for the hope that her mere presence would make him run. The boot it was going to have to be.
“I’m stopping you from stealing that horse.” She charged forward, swinging her boot around to the front so she could hold it like a club. Hopefully the heel that was hard enough to make a horse mind its rider was substantial enough to do damage when it connected with a human.
She swung the footwear to and fro, hitting as much of the stall wall and door as the man, but it had the desired effect of getting him to step away from the horse.
“Who—what—I say now—” The man couldn’t quite manage a sentence as he tried to shield himself from her swinging boot.
Confidence gaining with every inch that Bianca managed to drive the man back, she started to yell. “Get out of here,” she said, embracing the idea of being Hestia’s avenger. The boot nearly jerked from her hand as it solidly connected with the man’s shoulder, but Bianca held on and swung it again, aiming for his midsection this time. “Tell whoever sent you”—swing—“that no one”—swing—“steals”—swing—“from Hawksworth stables.”
“I’m not—” A grunt cut off the man’s sentence as the boot glanced off the back of his shoulder. He reached out, grasped the boot, and tugged, pulling Bianca into frighteningly close proximity. Close enough that he could grab her up and abscond with her, if he so chose.
Bianca brought her other boot—the one still on her foot—into play and kicked toward him. Her aim was a bit better with a kick than a swing, but she wasn’t going to be bragging about either a
s she kicked wildly into the air as often as she connected with his shin.
Finally, the man shoved her away and stumbled out the door. He stood on the drive, blinking at her for several moments, until Bianca started swinging her boot and screaming as she ran at him once more. She gave one more mighty swing and nearly turned herself around as the man ducked out of the way. He jerked back two steps, then turned and ran.
Bianca retreated to the stable, breath rushing in and out of her lungs at an alarming rate, and allowed an enormous smile to split her face. She’d done it! She’d saved the horse.
Unless the man wasn’t alone. What if he had companions nearby and he’d only run to get help, someone to hold her off while they stole away with Hestia?
No. Bianca would not allow that to happen. She would stand her ground.
With one eye on the door, Bianca limped over to Hestia’s stall and gave the horse a strong pat on the neck as she secured her back into her stall. Then she paced awkwardly, boot held at the ready. The man might return, but he would not find these beautiful animals unprotected.
She gave an anxious glance outside as she passed the open door. The boot was all well and good, but it wouldn’t hurt to send up a prayer that one of the grooms would return soon. In the meantime, it might behoove her to find a better weapon.
Two
Suffolk was as beautiful as his father had claimed, and the estate and stable were even grander than his grandfather had described in his letters, but no one had warned Hudson that the area was inhabited by crazed women.
Hudson rubbed his hands over his face and leaned against the rock wall, the jagged surface of the artfully cut stones digging into his back as surely as the woman’s bootheel had tried to implant itself in his head. He’d felt more than a little foolish running away, but what else was he to do? Hit her? Grab her?
Pushing off from the wall, he arranged a stack of crates so he could climb up and see through the thin windows that lined the back side of the stable. His ears were still ringing from the echoes of the woman’s shrill screams, but he needed to make sure that his instinctive belief that she meant no harm to the horses was correct.
She paced up and down the wide, clean aisle peering into empty stalls and giving a pat or two to the inhabitants of the non-empty ones. Her face was indistinguishable due to distance and the wave of the glass, but the stiffness of her body was easily recognizable. He rather doubted she was ready to listen to reason, should he make a reappearance.
A stall divider blocked his view momentarily, but then the woman returned, boot back on her foot and pitchfork in hand.
Definitely not prepared to listen to reason.
Who was she?
She didn’t live here at the house. Despite the fact that most of the servants had already been in bed when he arrived late the night before, he was certain the few he’d been greeted by would have let him know if the house held any other occupants. According to the solicitor, there were no close female relatives, unless one counted the woman his uncle had married in Ireland a decade prior, or the daughter they’d had three years after that.
Hudson tilted his head and considered the pacing, obviously angry woman. He wasn’t familiar enough with English ladies to guess his attacker’s age, but even a horse could see she was well beyond the age of seven. The wife, then? Not unless she had held her years with remarkable grace. Despite viewing the woman’s countenance through the blur of a swinging boot, he was certain she had been young.
She’d thought he was a horse thief. The idea inspired both humor and concern. The servants in the house hadn’t been expecting him last night, either. In fact, everyone he’d encountered seemed surprised to learn he was the new viscount. Hadn’t his grandfather prepared them?
The solicitor in London, who’d taken nearly two days to convey all the pertinent information to Hudson, had been evasive about the prior titleholder. It seemed the man had held back more than an invitation from his letters.
Eventually, she stopped pacing and leaned the pitchfork against the wall. After looking out the door in several directions, she departed. Moments later she was back, leading a horse.
Was this the one she’d arrived on? Had she thought Hudson was a horse thief because she was one? Surely she didn’t think to trade horses. While the beast she was leading was certainly a fine animal, the only thing it had in common with the glorious racehorse was both seemed to be in possession of four working legs. No one but a blind man could confuse a dun with a dark bay, even if they didn’t know the difference between a thoroughbred and a pleasure horse of indeterminate breed.
She didn’t approach the racehorses, though. Instead, she unsaddled the cream-colored horse and led it into one of the empty stalls. Without any apparent hesitation, she set about doing the work expected of the grooms—brushing down the horse, seeing to its hooves, filling the water bucket.
Hudson had been in and around stables his entire life, and never had he seen anything like it. Surely the dark green riding habit and tall, round hat with its towering feather plume wasn’t the normal attire for working women. Nor did he want to consider whether or not the man his grandfather had left in charge of the stable was hiring women as grooms to begin with.
A breeze ruffled the sleeve of his thin linen shirt, sending a shiver across Hudson’s shoulders. He’d been in such a rush to see if the stable he’d inherited was as fine as the prior viscount had claimed that he’d simply thrown on the same shirt and trousers he’d traveled in the day before and made his way to the stables. Between the lack of proper outer garments and the dirt and wrinkles, it was little wonder the woman had confused him for a man with criminal intent.
He shivered again and rubbed a hand roughly over his arm as he climbed down from his perch on the stacked crates. Why did it have to be so cold here? He’d been chilled for the few days he’d spent in London when the sky was grey and the sun little more than a suggestion, but today was bright and sunny. Shouldn’t that mean it would be hot enough to make a man sweat? Apparently not in England.
There was nothing he could do about the weather, but he had to decide what to do about the woman. It was obvious she meant no harm to the horses, so there was no need to chase her off until he knew who she was. His curiosity urged him to circle the building and confront her immediately, but she still had that pitchfork within easy reach.
Another breeze wafted through his lightweight shirt, and he trudged along the back wall of the building with a sigh. Even if the woman gave him time to introduce himself, she wouldn’t believe his story, given his current state. He wouldn’t even believe him. First, he would take care of his appearance, then he would deal with the woman.
Hopefully, donning all the proper layers would make him warm enough, even if the fabrics were more suited to India’s warm days than England’s brisk air. He’d have to see to acquiring new clothing soon. He should probably hire a valet before that, though. Perhaps leaving all his staff behind in India hadn’t been the wisest decision, but he couldn’t see uprooting his servants from their lives simply to accompany him onto a boat. He certainly couldn’t see any of them being any great help in England, where they would likely be even more baffled than he was.
A maid squealed and jumped out of the way when Hudson burst in the back of the house, slamming the heavy wood door into the wall in frustration.
Hudson gave her a nod but kept walking, ignoring her wide-eyed stare as she took in his disheveled appearance. He took four wrong turns, then went up three levels and down two before finding the correct passage to the wing of bedchambers and private parlors.
Whoever had thought a round house would be ideal had obviously never lived in one. It was impossible to know where one was going when all the corridors curved. Fortunately, the private living quarters wing was somewhat normal. At least it was a rectangle.
A manservant stood near the end of the corridor, and Hudson requested a bath be prepared. Such a task likely wasn’t in the man’s duties, but surely he’d
know how to accommodate such a request. Thus far Hudson had met a total of three servants—no, five, if one counted the screeching maid and the lurking footman. Only the butler had been a position Hudson recognized. He’d told the man to have the house presented later this morning, since he hadn’t wanted to delay seeing the horses.
He should make his appearance respectable before he met anyone else. It wouldn’t do to keep scaring the servants, or to have them think he constantly wallowed about in travel dust.
Two more wrong door attempts preceded his finally locating his bedchambers. All he’d cared about when he finally got in the night before was finding a horizontal surface that didn’t move. He’d even told the terrified scullery maid to leave his trunks in the front hall until the other servants woke. The trunks had been gone when he passed through on his way to the stables, so he had to assume they’d been delivered here, but they weren’t in the bedchamber itself.
Other doors lined the room, though, and presumably one would reveal his clean clothing. He knew which portal led to the washroom and, obviously, the one he used to enter and exit, but that still left three doors unaccounted for.
The first went to a small office of sorts. On one of his wrong-turn wanderings this morning, he’d seen a large library and an elaborate study. Perhaps his grandfather had used that one for impressing guests? Whether or not Hudson wanted to maintain two studies remained to be seen. It was the least of his concerns at the moment.
Opening the second door revealed a short, narrow passage. This certainly wasn’t the way to his dressing room, but where did it go? It was too dim and narrow for a servant’s corridor, but the decor was nonexistent, so it wasn’t meant to be seen or lingered in. He stepped into it, squinting his eyes to look into the shadows.
Light from his bedchamber was enough to guide him to the door at the other end of the short corridor. Opening it revealed another bedroom, presumably waiting for a new mistress for the home.
Hudson slammed the door. Yes, choosing a wife was something he needed to see to—and soon, since he was now the only person standing between his uncle and the title he’d wanted all those years ago. But would a wife make settling into a new country easier or more difficult?
Vying for the Viscount Page 2