Meteor was in his paddock, one shared by an aging pony named Grendel. They paused in their grazing as Eve approached, but only Meteor sidled over to the fence.
“Hello, old friend.”
Between his cheekbones, at the throat latch where his neck and his head joined, Meteor had a sweet spot, a place he couldn’t reach himself that he loved to have scratched. Eve’s ritual with this horse started with attending to that spot for him, and Meteor’s ritual with her with allowing the familiarity.
“Have you ever been so angry you’re sick with it?”
The pony flicked an ear, but being a pony, did not abandon his grass merely to watch another horse being cosseted.
“Deene said, of course I’m angry. What does he know? Would you like an apple?”
The horse did not answer, except by ingesting the proffered slice and turning big, brown, beseeching eyes on Eve.
“You are such a gentleman, my friend.”
Deene had been a gentleman. Eve was going to have to thank him, and that would rankle, but not thanking him rankled more.
Everything rankled. “I can hardly think. I’m so overset these days. If I were a girl, I’d saddle up and go for a gallop, leave the grooms behind, and let the wind blow the cobwebs from my soul. Another slice? Grendel will soon come to investigate.”
Grendel did not investigate, exactly, but he turned his grazing in the direction of Eve’s tête-à-tête with Meteor.
“I keep recalling things, things that make no sense. We had an early spring that year, and then an onion snow, so as I lay there in the mud, I smelled both green grass and snow. Snow has no scent, but it did that day.”
She fed the stallion another slice. “I did not call for help because I was afraid Canby would find me.”
And oh, the shame of that, to lie in the cold mud not just helpless and hurting, but terrified—and afraid she’d wet herself from fear if nothing else. Grendel lifted his head as if considering the probability of cadging an apple slice and took a step closer to the stallion.
“All I could think was I would never be able to face my family, though if I hadn’t been in such a tearing hurry to get back to them, I might not have overfaced my mare on bad ground, and lamed us both for the duration. Thank God my brother Devlin found me first. I had been such a fool. I did not know the half of it then.”
Meteor had another sweet spot, just below his withers. As a girl, Eve had scratched that spot for him until her arm had ached. She pushed the cloth full of apples near the fence and climbed between the boards.
“I don’t have to marry. I know this.” When she applied her fingernails to the horse’s shaggy spring coat, a shower of coarse dark hairs cascaded to the ground. “But where would that leave me? Papa’s little charmer, the doting maiden aunt who isn’t a maiden.”
Who will never be a maiden again.
Who threw away her greatest treasure on a worthless, scheming, lying, manipulative, evil man.
The anger hit her then like the initial staggering gust of wind announcing a brutal tempest, had her leaning into Meteor’s neck just to stay on her feet. Yes, she was angry. She was infuriated, enraged, magnificently wroth over a past she could not change and a future with too few choices.
Deene had been right about that, but as Grendel sidled close enough to poke his nose under the fence and help himself to an apple, Eve identified the emotion fueling all her anger, and maybe some of her shame as well.
As the tears came down again, what Eve felt was bitter, heartrending sorrow.
* * *
“Where the hell have you been?”
Anthony stopped short at Deene’s tone, and from the surprise on his cousin’s face, Deene surmised nobody had warned Anthony that Deene was in residence at Denning Hall.
“Good morning to you, too, Cousin.” In a blink, Anthony’s features had composed themselves into a slight smile.
“I beg to differ.” Deene aimed a look at the footmen stationed at either end of the breakfast buffet, and they silently left the room. “I thought you were summoned here from Town, Anthony. I come down on your heels and find my cousin is nowhere to be found.”
“I’m to report all my comings and goings to you now?” His tone was mild as he helped himself to a full plate.
“Since you are my only adult family, my heir, and what keeps my senior stewards in line, yes, I think that would be both courteous and prudent. Tea?”
“Please.”
Deene moved the pot that had been sitting by his left elbow to Anthony’s place on his right. “I came out here in part to find you, Anthony, and instead spent more than a few minutes wondering what had become of you. They were not comfortable minutes.”
“I’m touched. Pass the cream, if you please.”
The alternative to bracing his cousin on sight would have been an interview in the library, with Deene seated at the estate desk and Anthony called onto the carpet like a truant schoolboy awaiting a birching.
That would not serve. They were family first, employer and employee second—or so Deene hoped. Deene passed the cream and the sugar.
“I was in Surrey, and congratulations are in order. I’ve become a papa again. Where’s the salt?”
Deene passed the salt cellar too, but took a moment forming his reply. “A papa, again? Did I miss a wedding, Anthony?”
“Of course not. There is cheese in this omelet.”
“I prefer cheese in my omelets, and because the kitchen had no notion you’d be gracing us with your presence, my preferences carried the day. Anthony, explain yourself.”
“There’s little to explain.” Anthony put a spoonful of egg on a toast point and took a bite. “I maintain a household in Surrey for my domestic comfort, and as happens in the usual course, the household includes children. I have two girls and now a boy. There was a stillbirth too, so the children’s mother was a trifle worried this time around.”
Deene looked at the fellow munching on toast and eggs beside him and saw a familiar figure: blond hair, blue eyes, a lanky, elegant build, and the Deene family features on his face.
And yet he saw a stranger. “One can understand why you would detour to greet your son upon his arrival into the world. I gather mother and child—children—are doing well?”
“She’s from peasant stock. Mary Jane knows how to look after herself, and I provide amply for her and the children. Do I take it you also like cinnamon on your toast?”
Deene’s gaze fell on the little container sitting near the butter. “Occasionally, and in my coffee.”
“Bit of an extravagance, don’t you think?”
A casual question, but it might also be an attempt to shift the interrogation away from Anthony’s bastard children and to put Deene on the defensive.
Or were the rumors in Town just taking a greater toll on Deene’s composure than he’d realized?
“I have larger problems than whether I can afford to stock my spice rack, Anthony, or perhaps I should say, we have greater problems.”
Anthony frowned at him. “If you’re going to harangue me about the ledgers, old boy, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in nigh a week, and much of what you want is kept in Town.”
“Anthony, while you have the luxury of maintaining a casual establishment with a female, I am very publicly soon to be in the market for a wife.”
Anthony topped off his teacup and stared at his plate. “I know you feel you must marry, Deene, but you’re hardly at your last prayers, and if need be, I can stick my neck in the marital noose. If nothing else, we know I can get children. Mary Jane will raise ten kinds of hell, but sometimes a little liveliness has enjoyable results.”
“You’d marry to spare me the effort?”
Anthony’s gaze when he met Deene’s eyes was hard to read. “I am your heir. I am your only adult family. I am your cousin. Yes, I would marry if you asked it of me. I don’t like to think I’ve spent most of my life laboring in the Denning vineyards so Prinny can get his fat fingers on all ou
r wealth should the title go into escheat.”
Something eased in Deene’s chest, a doubt, a worry, something he was relieved not to have to name.
“You cannot know how grateful I am to hear it, Anthony, because our situation might come to such a pass.”
They spent more than an hour in the breakfast parlor, dissecting each rumor, tracing its likely impact.
“Kesmore isn’t a gossip, but he lurks in the usual places—at the clubs, in the card rooms, and at Tatt’s. I trust his information.”
Anthony’s expression was thoughtful. “What about his motives?”
“In what sense?” While it was good to have a sounding board, Deene could not like the direction of Anthony’s thoughts.
“He’s married to a Windham, and there are at least two of those yet available for marriage. If he’s not in favor of your courting his countess’s sisters, he’ll want to discredit you—all’s fair in love and war, right?”
Eve had brought up the same point. “I served with him in Spain, Anthony, and as far as I can see, the man would simply tell me to take my business elsewhere. He does not lack for courage or suffer an excess of delicate sensibilities. Moreover, it makes no sense he’d start a number of rumors and then be the first to inform me of them. I say we’re back to Dolan.”
Anthony winced and rearranged his cutlery on his empty plate. “What’s his motive?”
“Spite. The same motive he has for keeping Georgina from us.”
When there was no reply, Deene lifted the pot to refresh their tea, only to find it empty.
“What aren’t you saying, Anthony?”
“I, of all men, have a reason to hate Dolan. Marie and I…” Anthony looked away, out the windows toward the pastures rolling beyond the gardens. “That is ancient history, but I cannot help but wonder from time to time about what might have been. I should know better, but memory is not always the slave of common sense.”
This was tricky ground. Deene did not interrupt.
“But even I, who cannot stand to hear Dolan’s name, am not entirely comfortable ascribing this behavior to him. For one thing, if there is a scandal to be brewed regarding unsound health or finances, the scandal will eventually devolve to Georgina’s discredit. Whatever else he is, Dolan is not stupid.”
Valid point—an aggravatingly valid point, and yet Deene did not want to acquit Dolan of mischief he’d clearly delight in.
“Dolan is cunning, I’ll grant you, but he’s an upstart. He will not know that ten years is nothing when it comes to Polite Society’s recall of scandal and gossip. He might very well think he can topple my expectations now, and when Georgie makes her come out, there will be no association between my ruin and her fortunes. It makes one worry for the girl.”
“Worry for the girl will not redress the reality that insufficient worry was devoted to her mother, though to the extent that I can, Deene, I appreciate your sentiments regarding Georgina’s welfare.”
On that sad note, Anthony took his leave while Deene remained at the table for another half hour, staring at the empty pot.
* * *
Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, was looking adorable. Her husband of more than thirty years closed the door to his private study and took a moment to appreciate the privilege of seeing her thus.
She was curled on the end of the sofa closest to the windows, her feet tucked under her, a lurid novel in her hand, and a pair of His Grace’s reading spectacles on her elegant nose. As the door clicked shut behind him, she looked up and smiled at her spouse.
When he’d suffered a heart seizure two years past, His Grace had lain amid all the ducal splendor of his household, praying with abject fervor to be allowed to live for a just few more years—even a few more months—basking in the warmth of that smile.
“Percival Windham, you shouldn’t have.”
He glanced down at the yellow tulips in his hand. “I spared the roses, and it’s my own damned garden. I can pick a few posies for a pretty girl when I jolly well please to.”
He crossed to the sideboard, poured some water in a glass, and stuck the flowers on the windowsill. His wife would pass by the bouquet, move a couple of blooms about and rearrange the greenery, and instead of looking ridiculous in a ducal study, the flowers would look exactly right.
He adored this about her as well.
She set her novel aside—reading one by daylight was a sure sign none of the children were in residence—and patted the place beside her on the sofa. “What’s the occasion?”
“Does love need an occasion?”
She cocked her head and studied him. “Give me a hint.”
“It is the anniversary of our third kiss.”
The smile blossomed again, a trifle naughtier to a doting husband’s eye.
“The Scorcher.”
She had named many of their earliest romantic encounters.
The Scorcher. The Ambush. The Ravishment of My Reason. The Obliteration of My Resistance.
He particularly enjoyed recalling that last one and thought she did too. Nothing had pleased a young husband more than to hear a catalogue of his wooing as categorized in Her Grace’s intimate lexicon.
“Yes, the Scorcher.” He took a seat beside her, and when he reached for her hand, she was already reaching for his. “Such an occasion is not to pass without a token of my esteem.”
“And we have the day to ourselves.”
“My love, though I know you enjoy my company without reservation, you do not sound particularly happy to find us home alone without a single child underfoot.”
She blew out a breath, her expression suggesting His Grace’s marital intuition had scored a lucky hit. “I worry about the girls.”
She worried about all the children, their spouses, the grandchildren. Her husband.
“They’ll look after one another. How much trouble can they get into with the entire Morelands staff ready to peach on them should they get up to mischief, and Kesmore close at hand?”
“Peaching is all well and good, but better yet they should be prevented from getting up to mischief in the first place.”
His Grace did not entirely agree with his wife on this point. Children needed to err and stumble and right themselves early and often, in theory. In practice, he knew he had the luxury of assuming such a posture—for it was a posture—only because Her Grace was indulging a rare spate of fretting.
They took turns at it, truth be known.
“You are concerned for our Evie,” His Grace observed. “Or am I mistaken?”
“Mostly for her. The Season hasn’t even started, and the proposals have already begun, haven’t they?”
How did she know these things? “Trottenham asked for a private audience last week. I’m hearing noises at the club from some other directions as well.”
“Trottenham.” Her Grace heaved out a sigh that spoke volumes of maternal frustration. “Percy, she’s begun the year riding with the third flight. What if one of them takes advantage? Another mishap would be her undoing.”
The third flight. An apt term referring to the riders at the back of the hunt, the cautious, the unskilled, or—in His Grace’s experience—the ones too drunk and uncaring of the sport to keep up with the real hunting.
As for Her Grace’s reference to Eve’s mishap… It must go unremarked. “Evie has acquired wisdom since her come out, my love. I have faith in her.”
“My faith in her has never wavered. It’s my faith in the company she’s keeping that fails to inspire.”
Trottenham was above reproach, but those other fellows… “I think her sisters will chaperone her more effectively than anyone else. They’re very protective of our Evie and recruit their husbands in the same cause.”
They all were—now, when it mattered a great deal less than it would have seven years ago.
“Maggie told me something.”
He patted her hand. Her Grace and Maggie had become thick as thieves since Maggie had married the Earl of Hazelton—and
about damned time.
“Don’t keep me in suspense. Hazelton would never betray the girl’s confidences.” Well, hardly ever. Women apparently thought gentlemen’s clubs were only for cards, beefsteak, and reading the newspapers.
“She said having her own establishment was the only thing that kept her sane in recent years because of the privacy it afforded, the sense of control over her domain. I think Eve needs that too.”
This was Her Grace, easing into one of her radical notions. Her radical notions had a way of working around to occupying spaces near to common sense by the time she was done with them, but still…
“Evie is far too young to have her own establishment, my love. If we allowed that, it would be like, like… giving up. On her. Or casting her aside. You cannot ask that of me.” The idea of Evie, their baby girl, all alone and growing older without family around her—it was enough to provoke something almost as bad as a heart seizure.
Her Grace patted his hand, which was coming to resemble the calloused paw of an old soldier, while hers remained as pretty as the rest of her.
“I agree. It isn’t time, and it may never be time, but I was thinking I might see Lavender Corner put a little more to rights.”
“You are speaking Female on me, Esther. Does this mean you want to double the size of the place or send the servants over to dust?”
“The servants already keep it in good order. I was thinking perhaps I’d make sure the flower gardens were getting proper attention, the linen aired, the sachets kept fresh. A mother sees things a housekeeper cannot.”
He grasped the agenda now. Dense of him not to see it earlier.
“This will require that you jaunt off to Kent posthaste, won’t it?”
“The Season hasn’t started. There’s no time like the present, and I wouldn’t be gone long enough for you to miss me.”
She carried off airy unconcern quite credibly. His Grace wasn’t fooled, but he also wasn’t the only one capable of dissembling in the interests of parental pride.
“I have another idea.” He brought her knuckles to his mouth for a warm kiss. “How about we get a leisurely start tomorrow and break our journey at The Queen’s Harebell?”
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