An odd thrashing drew Elizabeth’s attention from sketching ropes of ivy, marigolds, and camellias that had entwined like a painter’s palette along the water’s edge.
Water tripped over the stones in the brook and birdsong sounded overhead as she paused, stilling the pencil tip to page. A breeze carried across the cobblestone bridge where she stood, tugging wisps of hair loose in a playful dance against her neck as she listened.
Light mornings like this one had provided an escape from the manor and her dear ma-ma’s every whim to make Elizabeth’s the most celebrated walk down an aisle since Queen Victoria but three years before. It was the blushing twenty-year-old bride who’d made ivory the fashion in such demand that Elizabeth’s gown, too, must have lace trimmings of the Honiton variety and the fabric woven of the finest silk and satin from Spitalfields.
She’d have allowed, maybe even enjoyed, Ma-ma’s marriage meddling under normal circumstances. But cares choked like thorns loosed in an untended garden. The revolver . . . a quite enigmatic groom . . . the slow, aching simmer of long-nursed pain and Elizabeth’s pursuit of justice for her father made her chase the only solace she might find at Parham Hill—with a sketchbook and wide-open landscape to keep her occupied.
Vengeful shouts erupted from the trees, startling her to certainty this time.
The thrashing of leather upon flesh continued, so violent that Elizabeth dropped her pencil in the binding, certain the estate must be under some sort of attack.
A workman emerged from the tree line into the open meadow, his shirtsleeves rolled and vest flapping in the breeze as he muscled a series of whips to a stallion’s hindquarters. Impulse forced Elizabeth to pull the blush skirt of her morning dress free from her ankles and burst out at full speed. Her slippers pounding over cobblestones, she took to the meadow, not stopping even as her hair loosed from the heavy coil at her nape.
“Stop this at once!” she cried, breaths racking in and out of her lungs as she became a shield between the poor creature and its attacker. Elizabeth pulled the reins free from the man’s grip and flung her arm out—palm open in front of his face.
“Mind yerself, miss. This ’ere horse kicked a groom an’ near put ’em to the grave. He’s a beast, he is. An’ mind he gets what he deserves. Won’ be long before he takes a saddle, or a series of licks on the road back to the stables.”
The horse bobbed its head in an angry spurt, eyes wild and defiant as it pulled the reins she’d fisted. Elizabeth re-coiled the leather around her palm, firming her grip. “Shh . . . shh . . .”
She turned back to the man. “This is the way you choose to break a horse—by beating it into submission? Is it not better to pursue gentling a horse’s spirit instead of breaking it completely? Have you no mercy?”
“You are a sprite wit’ mighty opinions. Out o’ the way an’ back to his lordship’s parlor. Ye ’ave no business ’ere.” He advanced a step on her and reached for the reins.
Oh no you don’t . . .
She hid them behind her back. “You make it my business, sir.”
“I warn ye not to interfere, miss.” He eyed her, hand still clutching tight to his leather strap—which he raised a shade higher as a warning. “The groom kicked by this shod beast until the undertaker near be summoned is me brother. So I will do what I see fit so it doesn’ happen again to no man.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your brother, sir. But even an accident such as that does not warrant your actions. I cannot allow you to continue.”
His scoff carried on the breeze. “Ye cannot allow?”
Elizabeth noted the viscount’s crest branded in gold upon the bridle. She countered with a raised chin. Though the breeze blew strands of loose wisps across her neck and cheek, she issued a blazing stare that said he’d have to go through her if he wished to administer one more swing.
“Viscount Huxley would not allow his horses to be treated such. It is in your best interest to quit this estate, sir, before his lordship hears of this grievous offense upon his property.” She paused, adding truthfully, “I do not know what he’ll do to you when he learns of it.”
The man flinched, his brow tightening as if the words were a jest. He was all bristle and brash against a defenseless horse. But to challenge the cool indifference of a real murderer . . . The man did not know what fate could await him. But she did. And if it were proven, she may well be saving his ungrateful hide from the temper of his master.
Ignorant to her deliberations, the man took a brazen step forward. “Just who do ye think ye are to speak to his lordship?”
“She is my wife,” the viscount thundered from behind, his voice as raw and real as Elizabeth had ever heard it. She turned to see him emerge from the shadows of the tree line, where the road cut the willows in two. “And I would consider how much you value your life before you dare speak another word to her.”
The viscount shed his coat and tossed it on the ground without care, giving a brisk roll to his shirtsleeves. Though his hands flirted with making fists at his sides, he stalked forward with eyes that raged a wicked warning.
He was not to be challenged.
Not by anyone.
Gray stone and gold pierced the man as though he were a foe on a battlefield, so deadly the groom might have mere seconds left in which to flee with his life. The viscount stopped when he was anchored at Elizabeth’s side, his shoulder just teetering on the edge of brushing hers as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“You heard Lady Elizabeth. Go.” The viscount flitted his glance to the road bordering the meadow where a coach had stopped and its door flung open. Franz lingered out front, leaning against it in the pomp of full traveling regalia in royal blue and satin top hat, but without the usual posh smile.
“But me brother!” The groom’s cry was urgent. Insubordinate. And woefully lost.
“Your brother will retain his position, should he wish it. Once his injuries are sufficiently healed I will welcome him back as long as he can respect what is owned on this estate. But you, sir, are dismissed forthwith. I consider it forgiveness of a debt that you do not find yourself before the magistrate as it is.”
“That creature is a beast. Mark my words—”
Elizabeth gasped as Lord Huxley lunged without warning, twisting the groom’s arm behind him to tear the strap free.
“Beasts are made,” he gritted out, edging fully in front of Elizabeth so she only saw around the haven of his shoulders. “By a temper that cannot be controlled and so it sickens everything around. That darkness has no place on this estate. Go before I forget that a lady is present and lose what civility I have left.”
With little choice the groom huffed and stalked from the meadow. Franz tipped his hat in a jovial manner that said, As you like, my good man! as he reached the road.
“Gut! And quite a turn, Huxley,” he called out. “Am I relieved this did not degrade into my aid being rendered in an uncomfortable exchange of fists. As it is your courage has saved the day. And I shall make myself useful and see that the uncultured Schweine is tossed from the front gates without delay.” Franz tipped his hat to Elizabeth before strolling down the road behind the groom who was dusting his heels upon it.
The viscount couldn’t temper a smile as the portrait maker disappeared, his top hat moving fast beyond the rock wall in his zeal to remove the offending party from the estate. Elizabeth could hold back neither and battled the relief with an unconscious smile of her own, almost forgetting in whose presence she remained.
She breathed deep, palmed the pleats of the morning dress across her middle, and banished the smile so he would not see it. “Franz would have fought a man. Was that a jest?”
Viscount Huxley shook his head. “It is a strange contradiction—a painter with an angry right hook. But don’t let the peacock bit fool you. Franz can handle himself. He’s as comfortable in a palace as he is in a roadside inn, though his sensibilities much prefer the luxuries of the former.”
Before she had a chanc
e to inquire about the circumstances in which either of them had been drawn into a bawdy brawl, they were alerted by the horse’s whinny. The viscount’s smile melted away, replaced by a serious furrow to his brow.
“You are not harmed?” he asked her, palm open, asking for the reins.
Elizabeth’s heart drummed in her chest and her fingers ached from clenching so tight. She released them, placing the leather in his hand.
“No—I am well. Thank you.” She looked to the bridge, remembrance making its presence known. “I heard the commotion and I fear your horse has been injured because of the man’s actions. I’m afraid I didn’t think better of getting involved. It just . . . happened. I saw it and had to react.”
He nodded, eyebrows raised a shade. “Yes, it seems Cisco here has found himself a champion. I fear his affections may not lie with me after this.” He raised his hands, ever careful, and approached the animal. “Aye, Cisco,” he whispered under his breath. “Calm. Shh, shh . . .”
The animal stirred and bobbed about, stamping its hooves to the ground as the viscount whispered the words in a low cadence, over and over as he reached for the gold ring on the bridle. He grasped the reins that dangled in front of the stallion’s shoulder, slow and steady, then knelt on the dew-laden earth, uncaring that his trousers would be soiled as he inspected Cisco’s flank and leg to the hock.
He ran his palm over the horse’s stifle. “He’ll not suffer permanent damage. Not on the outside at least. But I don’t know how we’ll break him now. It will take quite a bit of work for him to learn to trust again.” He stood, sighing as he patted the horse on the mane. “And we were nearly there.”
“And your stable master? Should he not have been here?”
“He was otherwise engaged.” The viscount turned his attention to the road, the coach abandoned along it. “I’ve business in London and Franz has a commission in Belgium. I sent a missive through your maid but received no reply. My apologies that we could not wait. But we heard the commotion and then with you blazing across the field . . . it stirred worry.”
“Oh. I see.”
Nary a doubt entered Elizabeth’s mind that it was the man before her and not the horse that might have been labeled a beast. Up to that very moment, she’d have believed it without question. But the contradictions in his character were mounting in swifter fashion than Elizabeth could see fair to work out. The eyes that once seemed so capable of depravity now looked on her with something akin to softness. A genuine, unbidden worry overpowered her defenses to see him as what she knew him to be.
Surely a man could not be so convincing in strength of character yet still possess a murderous intent at his core.
“You needn’t be troubled, Lord Huxley. I shall be more careful in future.”
“No—you misunderstand. I want to thank you for stepping in. Pray forgive me if I was shaken.” He ran a hand through his hair, like he was thinking with his fingers. “But if anyone had harmed you, I would not have . . . And referring to you as my wife when we’re not yet . . . I apologize. Unreservedly. This arrangement is new and I don’t yet know how one responds in such matters.”
Elizabeth stood under his gaze, unable to find a response to the tripping of his words. Until he stopped trying to find them. He allowed the slow fade of a smile upon his lips and a slight tip of the head in notice of something. “You have . . .”
“What?”
“There’s something in your hair.” He stepped forward as carefully as he’d done with Cisco moments before and raised careful fingertips to the loosed braid at her temple. He plucked a tiny breath of a white flower from it—the petals no bigger than a pin’s top—and dropped it to float away on the breeze.
“Oh—I was in the gardens, and the wind . . .” She tried to smooth her mussed coif with a palm against the spot where he’d pulled the flower. “But I should go in. My mother will be anxious after me.”
“You needn’t feel you must be tracked here. I open every door to you. Give you every right of property to come and go as you wish. Though I might request in return that you inform me in advance before you throw yourself in front of any more horses. Just so Franz and I might be at the ready.”
Humor? On top of everything else?
She stifled the tiniest twinge of familiarity that attempted to settle into her heart.
“I will be honest with you, about anything.” Pausing as if he’d been ready to lead Cisco away but something drew him back, he took a step closer. “I wish these things, and yet . . . it is to no end.”
“What is?”
“Attempting to pretend we do not know exactly who each other is,” he whispered.
Her throat very nearly closed up. “I’m sorry?”
“We’re strangers, are we not? I can see that pains you considerably. And our treatment can’t have been welcoming. Franz is an acquaintance who even for his eccentricities and rather unpredictable tongue has become a trusted friend. I apologize if he caused you discomfort with his forthrightness in the library that first night. I’m afraid I haven’t many intimates, and a friend’s follies are not enough to excommunicate his arrogant hide from this house.”
“I was not offended. I can see Mr. Winterhalter does not mean any real harm. Do you, Lord Huxley?”
“Do I mean you harm, Lady Elizabeth?” He tipped his brow, questioning, and shifted his weight sharply as if surprise ran the length of his limbs. Truly, he looked almost wounded by her question. How on earth could that be?
“No . . . I meant, do you not also see Mr. Winterhalter’s nature is without harm?”
“His nature, perhaps. But an addiction to his art causes trouble at times. He has difficulty keeping acquaintance. As do I.” He stopped, turned to her, this time the sun playing in shadows at their backs and the light fully shining upon his face so she could see every feature upon it. “Forgive me, Lady Elizabeth, but I am direct in nature. And I find in this circumstance, I must be such with you.”
“Very well.”
“I have been made privy to your circumstances.” He hesitated. “All of them.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard.
If the viscount knew of their circumstances, he’d believe her identity as a fortune hunter. A wily woman without character. That was enough to send both her and her mother from Parham Hill in the next coach and could preclude any future invitations in society—a circumstance Elizabeth wouldn’t have shed a tear over, but one her mother surely would never recover from.
But if he referred to the other . . . to the death on a sidewalk in Piccadilly in which he’d played a part, Elizabeth was prepared to be as direct as he. “And those are?”
“My steward was able to confirm your father’s title passed to the new earl some years ago—a cousin from Preston, Lancashire. He inherited all the land, the property, and capital, save for your manor in Yorkshire. But it has fallen onto . . . difficult times.”
Why should I mince words?
“Ruin, my lord. It has fallen to utter ruin. I should bring nothing but a pile of rotting stones to a marriage.”
“The manor’s disrepair is indeed the report that has reached me.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I wonder now why you ever agreed to a marriage contract with me, had you suspected our aim in coming to Parham Hill was an advantageous match.”
“Was that your aim particularly?”
“No. But like your artist friend, my ma-ma, too, means well, and her zeal to improve our future prospects is not enough for me to excommunicate her from my life. So if you’d prefer, we shall pack our trunks and quit this estate by teatime. There is no reason to further the discomfort of this association on either side.”
“While I appreciate your candor, Lady Elizabeth, you misunderstand. I do not accuse you. I was attempting to share a confidence. It is in part because of your circumstances that I requested your hand.”
A wave swept over her—the last thing Elizabeth expected was that the gentleman had not been tricked into a contract. Instea
d . . . he’d asked. “You requested?”
“I know you do not love me. And I do not ask for it. In fact, it is my requirement if I take a wife that she have no affection for me at all—even less for my estate or how many pounds I earn per year. When I learned of your aversion to any similar arrangement, I knew you would be such a match. So, yes, I did ask for your hand.”
“I am of age.”
“And may make your own decisions, yes. But you are also dutiful to your mother. I see that tension in you and it is commendable. So I should like to make you an offer. If you wish to leave I will arrange a carriage at once. But if you should require more time to consider the proposal, I offer that as well.”
Everything in Elizabeth reviled at the thought of marriage to him.
It was what kept her pacing a hole in the hardwood of her chamber floor through the night, and why, if she could manage sleep, it was with a letter opener under her pillow. Had she the stomach to enact justice of her own volition? No, heaven help her. But perhaps she possessed enough gumption to find restitution in another way.
If he offered more time, perhaps that was exactly what she needed.
An entire manor of secrets loomed before her. If Elizabeth were to tread carefully, she might have every opportunity to find evidence that pointed to her father’s murder. And if not that, then some other misdeed that might draw out his true character. A letter tucked away in a drawer, a conversation overheard among the staff—anything might prove fruitful. If she could just bide her time, then justice may yet be served.
With shades of indecision pushed aside for the prize she sought, Elizabeth nodded. “Very well. I will consider your proposal.”
Something in him shifted, with softness at the corners of his eyes that said he’d placed an odd sort of hope in her answer. He looked over to the rock wall as a satin top hat was making its way back in their direction.
“May I assume we’ll keep this arrangement between us?”
“You assume correctly, Viscount. I’d much prefer it, for everyone’s sake.”
He nodded and walked on to lead Cisco back to the road but turned back, his eyes searching hers. “And you might call me Keaton from now on. If it suits you. Good day, Lady Elizabeth.”
The Painted Castle Page 14