by Betina Krahn
As it turned out, there was no time for such niceties.
As soon as Steig washed down his last bite with a gulp of coffee, Arthur had him on his feet and headed for the stable. Arthur’s plan was to check several out-of-the-way places in the county that might serve as a hideout for the gang that attacked the Crotons’ place.
As they were leaving the servants’ hall, Young Ned rushed after him with a ribbon tape and wrapped it around his waist as he walked.
“What the devil?” Arthur paused, arms up, staring at the old underbutler, who stooped and squinted to read the numbers on the tape. A moment later, the old fellow laid the same tape across his shoulders and then shuffled off, murmuring numbers over and over so he wouldn’t forget.
Arthur caught Steig’s confused look and shrugged before leading him out to the stables.
Midnight Mercury, the big coal-black horse that had been saddled earlier for Sarah, turned out to be the best fit for Steig. The big man wasn’t much of a rider, it turned out, but Arthur promised they would take it slow and give him a chance to learn. He saddled his own horse and took his new employee out on a ride to introduce him to Betancourt.
They stopped by a stream mid-afternoon, to water the horses and relieve and stretch their legs. Arthur found Steig staring at him, examining his every move. He faced the big man, wondering if there would be a repeat of their earlier match. Men like Steig took defeat seriously.
“We really just lookin’ for a horse?” Steig said, his head tilted to a skeptical angle.
“We are.” Arthur tucked his thumbs into his belt. “Not just any horse. Her horse. It was taken by some bandits in that forest we passed through some way back.”
“There are plenty of other horses in yer stable.”
“Not like this one. He’s a prince among horses. And Sarah loves him.”
“What if we run into the bandits what took him?”
“Then we’ll do what needs doing.” He broadened his stance. “I’d go to hell and back to return that horse to her.”
Steig studied him for a long moment.
“You really a duke? Never heard of a duke servin’ on a ship or fightin’ in a tavern or chasing down bandits like a Bow Street runner.”
Arthur thought on that for a moment. “If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that some things are worth fighting for.” He met Steig’s gaze full on. “Sarah Bumgarten and Betancourt are two of them.”
Steig studied him, turning those words over in his mind. The duchess, they called her. A woman who wore guns and loved animals and made a tough, determined man like Arthur Graham want to do battle to rescue a horse. This “duke” had a soft spot inside that hard frame. Steig realized that if he wasn’t careful, he just might come to like his employer.
* * *
“What on earth made him hire such a bruiser?” Sarah asked as she watched through the parlor window as they set off.
Red, ensconced in a chair with his feet on an ottoman, gave a huff of a laugh. “It’s plain as the nose on yer face, girl. He’s protection. Artie’s makin’ sure nothin’ bad happens to Betancourt . . . and you.”
“I can take care of myself, Uncle Red,” she said, turning to him.
Red grinned. “Most times that’s true. But these outlaws. . . we don’t know how many there are or what they’re after. Can’t take chances.”
* * *
Later that afternoon a rider arrived at Betancourt and was admitted to the house and shown to the parlor to await Miss Sarah. There, he found Red dozing in his chair with his stocking-clad feet propped on an ottoman.
Red awoke with a start to find a nattily clad young gent staring down at him with a disdainful look.
“Who the devil are you?” the man demanded as Red lowered his feet and struggled up to sit straighter in his chair.
“Redmond Strait. Who might you be—and who the hell let you in here without wakin’ me up first?” He took in the smartly tailored clothes, impeccable grooming, and superior air. Instinctively, he knew this was not a man he would like.
“I am the duke’s kinsman, and I’m here to see that in his absence, riff-raff do not invade these venerable precincts.” His unpleasant expression left no doubt that he included Red in that category. “I was admitted by that half-wit Miss Bumgarten calls a butler. I am George Graham, Baron Beesock.”
The name rumbled through Red and he ignored his awakening aches to shove to his feet. “You? I know old Beesock, son, and you ain’t him.”
“You must be referring to my father.” The gent stepped back and made an adjustment to his riding coat. “He is deceased. I am now the Baron Beesock. And I ask again, who are you, sir?”
“This is my uncle, Redmond Strait,” came Sarah’s voice from the archway. Both men turned to look at her, and the young baron strode immediately to her and seized her unoffered hand. “He is here as a friend of Betancourt and”—she remembered his previous criticisms—“a chaperone.”
“I am relieved to see you have taken my advice,” George crooned, giving her hand more attention than was necessary. “I have come to see how you and Betancourt are doing. You look wonderful.” He looked around and past her. “I take it your patient has been released into the wild once more.”
“Who?” Red asked, jamming his feet into his boots and breathing hard as he yanked them on.
“My patient, Arthur.” She looked at Red.
“Ohhh, the duke. You say you’re Duke Arthur’s kin?” Red came to stand beside Sarah. It took a moment for the baron to respond.
“You cannot mean . . . you truly believe that man is the Duke of Meridian?” He looked between Sarah and her uncle.
“I believe it because it’s true,” Red declared. “I spent time here with the duke, some years back. Come to think of it, with yer pa, too. You favor him.” He tilted his head to a critical angle. “Maybe more’n you should.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Beesock’s face clouded.
“It means . . . I know Arthur Graham when I see him. And this fella’s proved he’s the real deal. No question. Hell, all ye gotta do is look at him to see it.” He scowled. “If you’re really his kin, you should know that.”
“I am his kin . . . but I have not seen him since he was a boy. And it is common knowledge that he is missing.”
“Not any longer. He is home,” Sarah said, watching the baron’s reaction to their claims. “Though there are questions still to be answered, I am certain that when his brother arrives, all will be resolved.”
The baron looked surprised. “Cousin Ashton is coming? Here?”
“We received a telegram last night saying he has taken the first ship out of New York. Weather permitting, he’ll be here in a week or ten days.”
Red watched Sarah studying Beesock and sensed now was not the time to ask the question.
“Where is this ‘Arthur’ now?” Beesock asked. “I would speak with him directly.”
“He’s out looking for my horse . . . it was stolen.” She paused, grappling with a sudden surge of emotion. “A brilliant and priceless stallion and my beloved mount. We were set upon by some outlaws in the Meriton Woods. Fancy had picked up a stone and couldn’t outrun them. They shot at us and we had to leave him. It is a great blow.” She placed a hand over her heart as if assuaging pain. “He’s a mix of Andalusian and Thoroughbred . . . dappled white with black mane and tail . . . with gaits as smooth as silk.” Her voice cracked. “H-he’s so spirited and so smart . . .”
“When was this?” The baron seemed truly alarmed as he reached for her hand again and held it tightly.
“A day ago. Arthur went out to search for him.”
“Good God—forgive my language—but I am appalled. It appears that conditions on Betancourt are worse than reported. Armed bandits and outlaws roaming free, unopposed. Something must be done.”
He straightened and raised his chin as if he were reciting on stage. “From this moment on, I shall devote myself to finding your beloved horse. Trust
me in this—I shall find him, no matter what it takes.”
Red retreated to his chair, but didn’t sit as he watched Sarah escort Beesock into the hall, where Young Ned held the front door open with a scowl. He saw the way the old baron’s offspring turned on the charm toward his Sarah and, despite her retreat, pressed a kiss on her cheek. Damned peacock—takin’ liberties with his little girl.
When the door closed behind Beesock and Sarah returned, he waved her to a seat and settled beside her on the settee.
“Arrogant arse. Throwin’ his title around an’ gettin’ fresh with you. Who the hell does he think he is?”
Sarah told him about the baron’s former visits . . . including the one that resulted in Arthur revealing his identity. She confessed her mixed feelings toward Arthur’s revelations, and for the first time gave voice to her concern that accepting him as duke would somehow be disloyal to Ashton and Daisy.
Red smiled and patted her hands.
“I don’t think you have to worry on that account. Daize was never much for titles, even when she was courtin’ a duke. She went after a title to get you an’ Frankie an’ Cece into society. She was happy as a clam that she got Ash instead of Artie.” He nodded for emphasis, but could tell it didn’t reassure her as much as he hoped.
“And hey—when did that telegram come, sayin’ Ash is on his way?”
She frowned, looked uncomfortable, then sheepish.
“There wasn’t one. I made it up.”
That was all the evidence he needed that Sarah had her head on straight. He began to laugh.
“Sarah, you’re a gal after my own heart!”
* * *
“Damned fools!” George Graham used his crop viciously as he raced into the rolling hills just beyond Betancourt’s boundaries. “What the bloody hell do they think they’re doing? I told them to stay put and be invisible until I tell them when and where to go. Imbeciles!” He ground his teeth so hard that his jaw began to ache.
The sun was sinking as he kicked his weary mount up the rocky path to the cottage his hirelings were using as a base. He slowed as he entered the thick stand of trees. There should be lookouts posted to make certain no one stumbled onto their camp by accident, but no one stopped him and there was no signal to alert the men in the cottage.
As he broke into the clearing, it was deadly quiet and there were only three horses in the lean-to that served as their stable. There should have been a dozen or more. George rode right up to the cabin, no longer worried his hirelings might mistake him for an interloper.
The only resistance he encountered was the rickety front door. When he kicked it open, he found two men inside, neither of whom seemed properly concerned about his presence. They were preoccupied with their injuries. One had a bandaged head and an arm in a sling, and the other’s ribs were bound and he was using a cut branch for a makeshift crutch.
“Where is everyone? What the bloody hell happened to you two?”
They both began to talk at once and between them he managed to put together an infuriating story. The ale and whiskey had run out, and the men had sobered up and gotten restless. One of the more intrepid dolts declared he was done waiting for orders, proclaimed himself leader, and roused the rest of the gang to follow him on a raid.
But once on Betancourt proper, they argued about which farm to attack first and the losing side sat out the raid at a camp in the woods. The others returned with nothing but some chickens, proving the winners hadn’t chosen well. They quickly killed and cooked the birds, then, as they argued over what to do next, a man and a woman came riding through the forest not far away. They decided to recoup their lost opportunity and went after the pair.
The man and woman escaped, but they managed to capture a looker of a horse the couple had with them. At least, they thought they had. The beast reared and kicked and fought like a demon. A couple of the men wanted to shoot it, but cooler heads prevailed. The beast managed to inflict plenty of damage before they got it under control.
“Damn your eyes—that horse had better not have a scratch on it. Where is it now?” George demanded, knowing from Sarah’s story that it was her horse. For the first time in hours, he drew a confident breath.
“In th’ shed,” the fellow with the injured ribs said, waving stiffly in that direction. “But ye’d do well to keep away from that devil.”
George’s smile twisted as he smacked his crop against his boot.
“There’s not a horse born that I can’t handle.”
As he approached the shed he could see the beauty’s luminous color and luxurious dark tail. They had tied it up away from the other horses and there was plenty of room and enough light to see it. George stood for a moment studying the beast, surprised to realize that Sarah Bumgarten’s emotional description of her horse was literally true. Even an untrained eye could see what a magnificent animal he was . . . and, of course, George was no novice. He knew quality when he saw it, in horses and women. The beast didn’t look any the worse for wear. His smile broadened as he thought of Sarah’s gratitude when it was returned.
Yes, this beast was his ticket into Sarah’s confidence and likely her affections. That thought was all the sweeter because Arthur was out searching for the same blasted prize, and he had no idea the contest existed or that it had already been won.
With his crop twitching, he walked straight up toward the horse’s right side and—wham!—Found himself on his arse several feet away, blinking, then cursing as he grabbed his thigh and shuddered through a blinding wave of pain. He’d been kicked! Was his leg broken? As soon as he could breathe again he scuttled back and shoved to his feet. His leg bore his weight, but it hurt like every demon in Hell was jabbing it with white-hot pincers!
Anger exploded in him and he staggered to the front of the beast, slashing with his crop, heedless of possible damage. He wanted revenge.
He managed three slashing blows with his crop before the frantic horse reared and struck out with its front hooves and he went down again—not to awaken for some time.
Chapter Fourteen
By the end of their second day of searching for Sarah’s horse, Arthur and Steig had covered all of Betancourt, met every tenant, and checked every potential hideout in half the county. Arthur spoke little as he and Steig entered the stables and handed over their horses to Eddie. Both were walking like every muscle in their bodies was on fire.
Red grinned at the sight of them approaching the house and called to Sarah. She ran out the front doors to greet them, but one look at their taut faces and tortured movement and she stopped.
“I’ve never spent so much time in a saddle,” Arthur said, rubbing his lower back and wincing. “Every bone in my body has been jarred loose.”
Red had a hard time suppressing amusement as they waddled, bow-legged, into the hall. “Aw, ye just need some of Sarah’s liniment and a good night’s sleep,” he declared.
“Yeah?” Arthur looked ready to punch the old prospector—except that would require raising his arms.
“Uncle Red, really.” Sarah took Arthur’s arm to help him to the stairs and then looked at Steig, whose jaw was clamped shut, but whose eyes told the same story. “You come, too. I’m not sure you’ll make it up three flights of stairs tonight. We’ll put you in Arthur’s old room.”
There were several volunteers to apply liniment to Steig’s aching frame, but in the end, stableman Eddie was drafted to the task—him being the most experienced at tending the aches of big muscular beasts. The servants were horrified by the thought of such personal duty with their duke, and he had no valet. That left Sarah to do the deed herself, with Red chaperoning from the open doorway.
Arthur’s groans of relief and twitches betrayed an interesting dance between pleasure and pain . . . something Sarah had never experienced with a patient before. The feel of his warm, naked flesh beneath her hands as she kneaded his muscles was stimulating, to say the least. Her face reddened, her nerves came alive, and her body grew sensitive in pla
ces that she now associated with pleasure and him.
When she finished massaging liniment into his back and shoulders, she stood for a moment contemplating his sheet-covered derriere and the backs of his muscular legs. She carried the salve to Red, and thrust it in his hands.
“You’ll have to carry on from here.”
She couldn’t meet her uncle’s eyes as she hurried out the door, and his laughter followed her down the stairs.
* * *
The lights were already dimmed and the house was settling in for the night when there came a pounding on the front doors. Gas lights flared back to life and robe-clad servants scurried to see what was happening. Sarah was in her room, but hadn’t yet begun to change into her nightclothes when she heard the distant thumping. She slipped her feet back into her shoes and headed for the front hall.
A disheveled George Graham staggered through the open front doors, looking like he might collapse. He ordered Ned, “Call your mistress—now!”
She appeared at the top of the stairs before Ned had a chance to oblige. At the sight of the baron limping forward, she hurried to meet him at the bottom of the stairs.
“What’s happened?”
“I found him, Miss Sarah,” he said, his voice as strained as the rest of him looked. His beard was three or four days old, he wore only a shirt, riding breeches, and scuffed boots. He was covered with dust and his clothes bore spots that had a rusty, old-blood look. There was an ugly gash on his forehead that had crusted over. “Your horse.”
“Fancy? You found my Fancy Boy?”
“I did. I promised you I would, and I did.” He tossed a hand toward the door. “He’s just outside. I brought him back to you.”
“Is he all right? Is he hurt—did they—”
She collected herself and gestured for Ned to help her guide the baron to a seat in the darkened parlor. She ordered Mazie and Deidre to turn up the gas lamps and then bring her medicine bag. Ned was sent to the liquor cabinet for a decanter of brandy.
“Rest here, Baron,” she ordered as he gulped the liquor and lay his head back against the chair. “I’ll return shortly.”