by Sarita Leone
Instantly her new friend looked chagrined, turning Vivian’s shock at discovering her jealous nature to sympathy. Only a fool—and a blind one, at that—would not see how Miranda felt about Oliver. There were no grand gestures, flowery words or silly machinations, but the subtle clues and longing glances whenever Oliver was near were impossible to miss.
Vivian was so glad she did not want him for her own. High regard for Miranda and her feelings would have made a close association with the man entirely unsuitable. Perhaps he would eventually see what was right before him, the love a sweet woman offered so willingly.
Then, it occurred to her that maybe Oliver did see how Miranda felt. Perhaps her affections did not inspire similar emotions within him.
Who can ever tell the mind of a man? Surely not I, Vivian thought.
When she looked up Oliver was studying her. “An excursion? What exactly do you have up your sleeve, Lucie? I am sure it will fun, whatever it is, but the suspense is turning me inside out. Do tell, please.”
A smile played across Lucie’s lips. “I have an appointment at Lady Drabble’s.”
“Lady Drabble’s? Surely you jest.” Miranda placed a splayed hand upon her bodice, clearly forgetting all about her jealousy as well as the man who, even now, watched her the way a cat might survey a canary. “Why, I have heard she has a waiting list at least four months long, that no one save the most well-heeled is able to gain entrance into her salon. Lady Drabble’s—you must be joking!”
Oliver chuckled, but the sound was lost beneath his sister’s laughter.
She caught her breath. “Apparently Lady Drabble can find the time to see Mrs. Nicholas Grayson. Honestly, I am not all that overcome by the prospect of a morning in her company but I thought Vivian might enjoy the experience. And you, also, are invited, Miranda. You did not expect I would leave you out, did you?”
Miranda’s mouth opened and closed, and she looked like a startled carp thrown to the shore and left gasping for air. She did not speak, but shook her head in denial of the show of jealousy she had demonstrated only minutes ago.
Vivian could not stand the suspense any longer. She did not care that she would look, yet again, socially inept. “For heaven’s sake, who is Lady Drabble?”
Oliver held up a hand when his sister tried to answer. He said, in a falsetto voice that was by far the most amusing thing he had done since their initial meeting, “Lady Drabble is the ton’s most fashionable hairdresser. She is, by all accounts, called frequently to the castle.”
The hairdresser to royalty? Shock stilled Vivian’s lips. She never imagined being in on an “excursion” to visit the royal hairdresser!
Before anyone could say anything more, the wide double doors flew open and Will rushed in from the hallway. In direct opposition to Oliver’s faultless appearance, his cravat was half undone, his breeches wrinkled and his curls wind-blown. The aroma of horseflesh clung to him, permeating the room in a wave that was hard to ignore.
Miranda wrinkled her nose but Vivian’s pulse quickened at the sight of Oliver’s assistant. It did not matter that his wild-eyed expression merely glanced over her before he caught and held his boss’s gaze.
“Well, good morning to you too, Will,” Lucie joked.
If he heard her, he did not let on. He looked ready to burst, his lips pulled tight over his teeth and his breath coming in ragged bursts.
“Will? What is wrong?” Oliver stood, crossed the room and took the other man by the shoulders. “Tell me—what is it? You look ready to drop!”
“I have just been to the stables. We have turned them upside down, actually, but there is no sign of her. No sign at all—it is as if she has vanished into thin air. I cannot understand it. Why, she was there just last night but by this morning she was gone—disappeared without a trace.” Will sighed, his shoulders falling and an air of disbelief settling over him like a mantle.
“Who?” Oliver spun around, his gaze moving from woman to woman as if he made a silent count. Lord and Lady Gregory were visiting friends for the day, so aside from the household staff Miranda, Lucie and Vivian were the only women at the estate. He turned back to Will. “Who has disappeared?”
Vivian saw the hesitation in his answer, the way he stared at the floor for a long moment before lifting his head and meeting Oliver’s questioning eyes.
A feeling of dread—inexplicable and uncontrolled—washed over her. She held her breath, knowing the answer would not bring joy to the room.
“The gray mare, the one you bought at Tattersall’s. She is gone from her stall. No one knows where she went, or when she was taken out. None of the stable hands can say who took her.” He paused. Then, in a calmer tone of voice, “It is clear she has been stolen. There can be no other explanation for her disappearance, I am afraid.”
Seconds before he turned, Vivian knew she was going to be the first suspect on the list of horse thieves. She knew it, yet could do nothing to prevent the fact.
It was stupid, really. She had never so much as filched a button from an employer, so the idea of her stealing an actual horse was almost incomprehensible. She would no sooner steal a horse than a button—but that, apparently, did not matter to the man who turned to face her.
As she felt the full effect of Oliver’s red-hot glare, she realized how snow beneath the sun’s rays must feel. Unlike snow, however, she did not melt. Instead, she stood and faced her silent accuser.
She might be a poor relation, but she was no horse thief!
Chapter 9
Lady Drabble and her chamber had been so effusively heralded that when Vivian finally walked into the hallowed hairstyling halls she was completely disenchanted by what she found. This could not be the place where ordinary women became sirens, where fates were sealed by the flip of a curl or the placement of a braid. She looked around, her eyes scanning the space for some sign of the stylist’s magic or talent, but found none.
The salon looked utterly, and truly disappointingly, ordinary. Several velvet settees with matching side chairs were scattered in the nearly claustrophobic space. Four large looking glasses lined one wall, and gave a tiny illusion that there was more room in the parlor than there actually was. Tables, some heaped with trailing ribbons, wide-toothed combs and feathers of every size and color, flanked the seats and were the only real evidence of the owner’s occupation.
A uniformed maid had shown them in. She dipped a curtsey, departed through a side door and left Vivian, Lucie and Miranda standing in the center of the room. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, they looked at each other and smiled.
She did not wish to be disrespectful, especially since this treat was designed to impress her, but Vivian could not help herself. She leaned forward, so as not to be overheard even though it seemed they were alone. “Is this what all hairstyling parlors look like? I confess, I have never been inside one before.”
“Not what you expected, is it?” Lucie’s eyes grew round and her smile broadened. She was such an attractive woman, and her obvious pleasure at their situation made her even more so. Her eyes sparkled, the hair she was to have styled already looked silky and smooth and when she smiled it was as if additional lamps had been lit. Again Vivian was hit by the thought that being near her distant relation was standing in the presence of someone whole-heartedly in love.
“I did not know what to expect.” She hoped someday to have the same glow, brought on by unrivaled devotion. “As I said, I have never been inside one of these places so I had no idea what they are like on the inside. This is, I admit, not exactly what I thought it would be.”
“Me, either. My hair is usually dressed at home, so this is my first time in a stylist’s salon.” Miranda reached out and fingered what looked to be some small, dead animal but which was a clump of hair with a large pin attached. Pulling her gloved finger back delicately, she added, “My Abigail has stuck me all over my head countless times over with all manner of hairpins but I have never, thank goodness, worn one of those. I am as ga
me as the next woman for adventure, Lucie, but if Lady Drabble tries to put that on my head I am running for the door!”
Vivian silently seconded the vow. No one, not even one who teased royalty’s locks, was going to pin the ratty looking clump of hair on her—not if she had anything to say about it.
She had almost decided against the trip this morning but could not disappoint Lucie by refusing Lady Drabble’s attention. It seemed preferable to stay at the manor, by herself, but to be that rude was not something she could do.
Most of the previous night had been spent staring at the ceiling, wondering how much messier her visit might get. So far she had behaved like a social disaster, arrived on the scene just when a burglary was being committed, argued with the man everyone hoped she might enchant and now looked like a thief.
No one had come out and accused her of stealing the gray mare but she knew it had to be on everyone’s minds. What else could they think? She had vehemently championed the horse’s cause, quarreling with Oliver and spoiling their outing, so it seemed to follow that if anyone had a motive for ferrying the animal away it was her.
While she had not been accused, Vivian still felt the weight of their silent fingers pointing on her.
Before she could fall too low, the same door through which the maid exited opened wide and a rail-thin woman swept into the room. Immediately the air filled with the fragrance of roses, so thick and heavy the scent was almost a cloud hanging over Lady Drabble’s head. She rushed to where they stood, threw her arms open wide and silently surveyed them in turn. Finally, she nodded to the maid trailing behind her, gesturing for them all to sit.
She lowered herself onto the edge of the nearest settee, all thoughts of Willowbrook, horses and even Oliver completely turned from her mind.
“You are off for Lady Winter’s fete this afternoon, are you not?” Lady Drabble’s deep, hearty timbre sounded strange coming from the small, bird-like woman.
“Yes, we are. I am Lady Grayson, the one who requested your services for the occasion. Thank you for accommodating us, Lady Drabble.”
“One does what one must.” Her fingernails were long, pointed and sharp-looking, and when she put a finger to her temple and tapped her head thoughtfully Vivian could not help but stare. “Your friends are…?”
“This is Miss Spencer, of London,” Lucie said, gesturing with an open hand first to Miranda, then to Vivian. “And this is my cousin, Miss Fox. She is visiting from Stropshire for the Season.”
A penetrating stare from the hairdresser. Then, the haughty tone in her voice icy, she said, “Indeed.”
Lucie would not be cowed by the woman’s apparent dissatisfaction at being called to dress a Stropshire head. She took charge of the situation, sitting up straight and catching the salon owner’s gaze.
“I would like you to begin with Miss Fox. Her dress for Lady Winter’s party is the loveliest shade of lavender, and will highlight her gorgeous eyes beautifully. They are purple, in case you have not noticed—it is, I believe, one of the Regent’s favorite colors, is it not?” She did not wait for Lady Drabble to answer. Vivian watched admiringly as Lucie easily gained the upper hand in the situation. “I am sure you have some spectacular violet ribbon or feather to ornament Miss Fox’s natural beauty. It should not be a difficult task to turn her hairdo into something quite fetching—not for a skilled stylist. I trust you will take special care of her, and then fix Miss Spencer’s fabulous red locks. Finally, I would like you to dress my own hair up a bit.”
Lady Drabble had turned from dragon to bunny rabbit in mere minutes. She nodded meekly, her taloned fingers folded in her lap.
Lucie was not done. She nodded to the tangle of hair and its attached pin. “Oh! One last thing—none of us wish to have anything even remotely resembling that on our heads. Not today. Not ever.”
“As you wish, Lady Grayson.” The stylist stood, turned to the maid and, in a low voice, requested several brushes. She twisted around to face Vivian, smiling for the first time, and said, “Miss Fox, would you please come this way? The chair beside the looking glass is much more comfortable, and while it will not take long to transform you into a vision I do so want you to be as relaxed as possible.”
Vivian could not believe her good fortune. So this is what it is like to be pampered!
*****
Oliver smacked his open palm against a horizontal beam on the horse stall. His flesh stung but he did not stop to consider it. He slapped the beam a second time. The horse locked into the stall whinnied, taking a step back with a shake of its mane.
“You are going to scare the devil out of her,” Will reached a hand over the beam and nickered softly to the startled animal. He held his hand steady until the horse nudged it with her nose, allowing him to stroke between her eyes while he spoke in a low voice. “She has been through an ordeal. Frightening her will only make whatever has happened worse for her.”
Of course Will was right. He usually was, and that was one of the things he most liked about his assistant. Will could be counted on to provide a reasonable, logical and usually straight-on assessment of any situation. And, equally as important, he told the truth—always.
He slumped forward, placing his arms on the beam he had so recently assaulted and threading his fingers loosely together. To her credit, the horse forgave easily and did not shy away when he moved close.
It galled him to think there was a thief among the residents of the family estate. He hated to believe it, but what other explanation could there be? Since the cottage incident, he had insisted patrols to the all buildings be undertaken by the gardening staff. He had increased his vigilance, riding to all points of the estate without announcing his plans. So far there had been no further break-ins, nothing that seemed even mildly disturbing.
Until this. Horse robbery was not an act to be overlooked—no matter how much he wished he could do so. If their resident bandit had grown as bold as to steal a sixteen-hand horse, what would be next? The manor itself?
“It is too bad she cannot speak.” Will’s hand made a shh-ing sound against the horse’s coat. He gave her a gentle pat, then pulled his hand back. “It would make things much easier, wouldn’t it?”
Leave it to Will to state the obvious.
Oliver stood silently for a long moment, his gaze on the animal before him.
“How long do you think it would take for you to teach her how to talk? Come on, I know you are capable of almost anything. I have seen you work miracles before. Surely teaching one horse to talk will be effortless for a man of your diverse talents.”
Will laughed. The mare whickered but she did not step away. Oliver grinned, his anger giving way to resignation. It was obvious he could not uncover the truth of the horse-napping by staring at the animal, so why give himself a headache over it?
“You flatter me. I assure you, I am not as talented as you seem to believe.” Will spread his hands wide, and, addressing the horse, asked, “Where have you been? Pray tell, we are anxious to hear of your escapade.” He waited a few beats, then added, “Ah, not talking today, are you? Well, that does not shine a good light on me, does it?”
Oliver laughed, the sensation chasing most of the tension from his shoulders. The situation was almost beyond reason. Theirs had been, for generations, an estate where nothing untoward happened, no one was maligned or taken advantage of and everyone—including the animals—lived in peace and comfort. Suddenly they were in an entirely different state of affairs and he could not think of a way out.
“That woman has brought chaos with her. My dear, distant cousin has created a maelstrom the likes of which this place has never seen before.”
Will turned to face him, his brows pulled together so tightly they looked like one furry caterpillar marching across his forehead. “Miss Fox? Surely you cannot truly believe she is responsible for any of what’s been going on.”
He shrugged. “What else can it be? We were all so calm and quiet here until she fell out of the carriage
and onto our doorstep. I hate to think it, but she seems the only one to blame.”
“I don’t believe it.” The refusal was rapid and adamant.
“What else can explain what’s been happening? Really, Will—give me one good explanation that does not involve the woman and I will leave off my suspicions. Just one, it is all I ask.”
“I wish I could think of something—anything—but nothing comes to mind. Still, I don’t believe she is behind all of this.” With a wave of his arm, Will took a deep breath and stubbornly set his jaw. A muscle worked in his cheek, throbbing in time with the pulse Oliver saw in his temple.
Recognizing the brick wall when he went up against it was one thing. Leaving off trying to bridge the wall was another. Oliver inhaled, pulling the scent of horse and hay into his lungs. He held it there for a while, considering his words before he spoke. Annoying Will needlessly held no appeal but he could not readily agree his relation was not behind the uproar.
“I cannot think of any other explanation. I would like to think I am not—even distantly—related to a crook—even one as fetching as this one—but no other logical conclusion comes to mind. I am sorry, but that is the truth of it.”
Like a dog with a soup bone, Will would not let go of his position. “We have been in some tight spots together, and have seen some unsavory characters in our days, yet—and I know you must agree—we have never, ever met a nefarious character anything like Vivian.”
Vivian? Familiarity with anyone except himself was surprising coming from Will. The use of a Christian name told more than the rest of the conversation just how deep his friend’s faith in the charming lady went.
“I do agree.” Oliver knew when he was out-maneuvered. It would not hurt to bend on the point, at least for the time being. “Miss Fox—Vivian—is nothing like any of the less-savory types we have met in the past. Still, I would like to know what’s been going on since her arrival.”
Will patted the horse’s neck. “Give me time. Perhaps I can coax this gal into talking, after all.”