by Brenda Hiatt
"Pray don't underestimate your father, Miss Seaton," he said when she would have turned away. "He is capable of more than you give him credit for, and it would do him good if he could believe that as well."
She took a step back, her brown eyes now flashing. "I believe I know my father better than you can after a mere evening in his company, my lord. In all likelihood, he will be unable to rise from his bed tomorrow, after tonight's exertions —and the task of nursing him will fall to me. I must ask that you and your friends not visit again, especially if you are to put ambitions in his head that can only upset him when he realizes they are beyond his ability to realize."
With that, she turned and went up the stairs, leaving Anthony no option but to follow his friends out the door to their waiting horses. He was certain, however, despite the finality of that dismissal, that he had by no means seen the last of Miss Seaton.
* * *
Tessa heard the front door close with profound relief, though her anger at Lord Anthony's parting words still simmered. Who did he think he was, to imply that she was harming her father with her care of him? He had never seen Papa when he was unable to do anything but stare out the window, which happened all too frequently of late. He did not know how great an exertion tonight must have been for Sir George after years of seclusion.
"They are gone, then, my dear?" her father greeted her when she reached the top of the stairs. Was that regret in his voice, or only weariness?
"Yes, Papa, they're gone at last. Let me call Griffith, for it is well past your bedtime. Where is Harold?"
"Gone to talk to Mercer, I believe," he said dismissively. "So, Tessa, what think you of those gentlemen? Fine young men, I should say, and they all seemed to admire you—and to have a good time. All in all, I'm quite pleased with how our first dinner party went, aren't you?"
"First?" Surely, he didn't mean—
"Why, yes. Now that we've proved we are perfectly capable of entertaining, I expect this will be only the first party of many. Who knows? After a bit of practice, perhaps we will even hold a ball and invite the neighborhood. You never have had a proper come-out, after all."
Tessa stared, for it was not at all like her retiring father to suggest such a thing. "A ball? I can't imagine —that is— We haven't the servants for such a thing. And the ballroom hasn't been used in—"
"In more than ten years," he said. "Not since your mother died. I know. I've been very selfish, Tessa, and you've been deprived as a result, but now I'm determined to make it up to you."
"Oh, Papa, no! You haven't been selfish, you've been ill. It's not at all the same thing. And I haven't felt deprived in the least."
She must dissuade him from this notion. Not only would he task his strength beyond endurance, but the ballroom, which was in the west wing, could not be made presentable without far more money than they had any hopes of obtaining. Its ceiling had been damaged by the leaking roof, and half the crystal from the chandelier had somehow gone missing. Then there was the sadly dilapidated giltwork, the motheaten wall hangings . . .
"Truly, Papa, I haven't the least desire for a ball," she said firmly. "I doubt I even remember how to dance."
He waved that objection away. "It will come back to you. You were a delightful dancer as a child, I recall, and we can always hire a master to give you a refresher lesson or two."
Griffith, Sir George's manservant, appeared and Tessa beckoned to him. "We'll discuss it in the morning, Papa. Right now, you need to get to bed. Good night." She kissed his brow and he held her close for a moment.
"Good night, Tessa, and thank you for being such a perfect hostess tonight. It meant more to me than you can know." He released her with a smile and allowed Griffith to wheel him to his bedchamber at the rear of the floor.
Tessa listened for a moment as he regaled Griffith with highlights of the evening just past, then headed upstairs to her own chamber with a sigh. It would be a miracle if her father was able to function at all tomorrow after so much excitement today, and she needed her rest if she was to be able to care for him.
* * *
"You're sure you don't want to join the Quorn today?" Anthony asked Killer one last time before mounting Cinder. "There may yet be a hunter available for hire. We can ask when we get there."
The viscount shook his head. "I plan to use Firebolt's sore hock as an excuse to see how Carter is getting on with Nimbus. I haven't had a chance to watch him in action since purchasing him."
"Mind you don't get too close," Stormy cautioned, glancing in the direction of Nimbus's stall as he pulled on his riding gloves. "He's a terror, that one is. Anthony here could probably handle him, but—"
"But not little Killer, is that what you're saying?" their friend demanded, his pride clearly stung. "Size is no measure of horsemanship, you know. Look at Miss Seaton."
"No, no, of course not," Stormy said hastily, glancing at Anthony for support. "I didn't mean—"
"That's all right, never mind," Killer said, recovering some of his habitual buoyancy. "I know you mean well, both of you. Not to worry, however. Even if he threw me, I'd doubtless bounce." He patted his rounded stomach with a grin.
Anthony chuckled, then frowned in sudden concern. "But you're not—"
Killer interrupted him, saying, "Go on, go on, you're going to be late for the meet. I'll want to hear all about the hunt when you get back— particularly if Miss Seaton rides again."
Though still worried about what Killer might attempt in their absence, Anthony knew that to say anything else might be to prod his friend into taking a foolish risk.
"And we'll want a report on that bay's progress on our return, too," was all he said, silencing Stormy with a look. They both mounted and headed out, cantering to catch up with Rush and Thor, who'd left two or three minutes earlier.
"You don't think he'll really try it, do you?" Stormy asked worriedly as they rode. "Not yet?"
"Not ever, I hope, unless that horse is capable of more improvement than I believe is possible," Anthony replied. "You know Killer, though, with his eternal optimism. I hope we stopped needling him in time."
Stormy nodded. "I think we did. Glad you shut me up when you did, though. Have a tendency to run on at times, don't I?"
"At times," Anthony agreed with a grin. "Look, there they are, taking that next turn. Let's gallop."
The four founders of the Odd Sock Club arrived at the Quorn meet together, and as one they searched the assembled riders for the burgundy flash of a habit.
"Don't think she's here," Thor said after a moment.
Anthony wasn't surprised, as she'd said nothing last night about hunting today. He only hoped her absence didn't mean that she'd been right about Sir George. Surely they hadn't tired the man as much as she seemed to think. If anything, the opposite had seemed to be the case.
Mr. Assheton Smith raised his horn to signal the hounds to the covert. Anthony resigned himself to not enjoying Miss Seaton's company that day, then wondered why he should feel so disappointed when he hadn't expected it anyway. Soon, however, his attention was given wholly to the chase, though still he found himself wondering at odd moments how Miss Seaton would have taken a particular jump, or what comment she might have made on some sportsman's blunder.
As the day wore on, he found himself very much hoping that she might turn out for the Cottesmore tomorrow, for hunting somehow seemed more enjoyable with her along for the ride.
* * *
The afternoon was growing cool and damp when Tessa returned from a long ride on the promising new gelding that Uncle Mercer had bought Monday. Her uncle had been right that with a bit of training, the hack could become a perfectly good hunter. She only hoped she'd be given enough time to work with him.
She was heading up the stairs to change out of her old brown habit before dinner when she was startled from her thoughts by a loud knocking at the door. Had she been wrong? Had the horse created some sort of problem once she was off his back? It hadn't seemed—
&n
bsp; "Is Miss Seaton here?" came Lord Anthony's agitated voice the instant Griffith opened the door.
Turning, she hurried back down the stairs to interrupt the manservant's stammering excuse that she was not prepared to receive visitors at the moment.
"It's all right, Griffith," she said, dismissing him. "Lord Anthony, I did not look to see you here today. Is something the matter?"
He was still dressed in hunting attire, which surprised her, as the hunt must have concluded hours ago. At her appearance, he swept off his hat and bowed, though there was no mistaking the tension in his expression.
"I hope I find you well, Miss Seaton . . . and your father. Did we tire him unduly last night?"
"No," she was forced to admit. "He has seemed perfectly well today, somewhat to my surprise." She saw no point in confessing that her father was in fact more alert than she could recall seeing him since his accident six years ago—and more cheerful than he'd been since her mother had died, four years before that.
Some of the tension went out of Lord Anthony's face, but not all of it. "Good, good. If he will be all right on his own for a bit, perhaps I might ask a favor of you?"
"A favor?" she echoed, confused.
He slapped his hat against his thigh a few times, as though trying to choose his words before speaking them aloud. "It's Killer," he finally said. "That is, Lord Killerby. While we were at the Quorn today, he went out riding on Nimbus —alone."
Tessa's hand went to her throat. "Is . . . is he all right?" she asked, trying not to let her fear show in her voice, as that would be to admit the horse was unsafe.
"We don't know," he replied. "Neither he nor the horse has returned."
* * *
CHAPTER 7
All color drained from Miss Seaton's face and Anthony stepped forward to put a hand on her shoulder, lest she collapse. "I'm sorry —I didn't mean to frighten you," he said. "But I was hoping, as you seem to know the horse better than anyone, that you might be willing to help me find them."
She took a deep breath, then nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course. I just need—" She put a hand to her head for a moment— "I need to let my father know I'm going out. Wait here."
With another steadying breath, she squared her shoulders, then headed up the stairs. Anthony watched her go, his appreciation for her well-shaped backside muted by his concern for his friend. He never should have left Killer this morning. He should have picked up on the clues in Killer's manner, should have—
But self-recrimination would get him no closer to finding Killer, as he'd reminded himself frequently over the past two hours. Besides, if he was going to throw blame around, surely Miss Seaton deserved a fair share of it. That thought had driven him here, a desire to see her acknowledge her wrongdoing. Only when he reached the house had he realized that it in fact made perfect sense to ask for her help.
He was still trying to sort through his conflicting feelings when she returned, tripping lightly down the stairs, her brows still knit in a frown of concern.
"Let's go," she said. "I sent to the stables to have Cinnamon brought round, as Nimbus always seemed more comfortable with her than with any of our other horses."
"Cinnamon. The roan you rode yesterday?" Anthony asked.
She nodded, and Anthony realized that must be why Mr. Mercer had ridden that particular horse in the first hunt, on Monday. The mare, as well as Miss Seaton herself, had a calming influence on the ill-mannered Nimbus.
"How long ago did Lord Killerby ride out?" she asked as they waited on the front steps for her mount to arrive.
"According to his groom, he left about noon— which means he's been gone more than four hours." Anthony's anxiety, momentarily pushed aside by other thoughts —and her presence —returned full force. "He would have returned by now if he were able."
She put a comforting hand on his sleeve. "No doubt, but we needn't assume the worst. He could have been thrown, far from home, and is having to make his way back on foot. He could be perfectly well, but that would still take some time."
"I suppose so," he admitted, realizing he had indeed assumed the worst from the moment he'd learned what Killer had done. Her explanation seemed no more rational, however, and he was suddenly irritated by her soothing tone —so similar to the one he'd heard her use on horses. He would not let her uncanny gift— magic, or whatever it was— divert him from his purpose or his responsibility to his friend.
"He should never have gone out on that brute in the first place," he said sharply, moving a step away from her distracting nearness. "He wouldn't have, if you hadn't misled him about Nimbus's tractability."
Her hand dropped to her side and he saw shock and hurt in her eyes, but only for an instant, for anger quickly took their place. "Lord Killerby is a grown man," she snapped, "and, one might assume, able to draw his own conclusions and make his own decisions. I said nothing to him about Nimbus, as I recall, good or bad."
"You didn't have to," he retorted. "But did you honestly think—" He broke off as a stable lad approached, leading the roan mare, Cinnamon.
"Mr. Emery thought there might be some mistake," the boy said when he reached them, his gaze frankly curious. "Didn't you just come back from riding that new chestnut gelding, Miss Seaton?"
She nodded. "Yes, Billy, but I need to go out again. I don't suppose Nimbus has shown up at the stables?"
The lad shook his head, eyes wide. "Should he have?"
"No, never mind," she said. "You may tell Mr. Emery that I've been invited to dinner at a neighbor's, if he demands some sort of explanation of you."
"Aye, Miss," the lad responded, handing her the reins.
"I told father I was invited to dine with the Hilltops," she said to Anthony once the stable lad was out of earshot. "I didn't want him to worry."
"And young Mr. Emery? Does he keep track of your movements as well?" He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
She shrugged. "It seemed prudent to give him the same explanation I gave Papa, to lessen the chance he might let slip the truth. Besides—" she broke off.
"He might try to stop you, if he knew you were going out alone with me?"
"He might," she confessed. "He and Uncle Mercer seem to think it their place to protect me, though I've told them time and again that I can look out for myself perfectly well."
Anthony suspected there was more to it than simple concern for her welfare, but didn't say so. "Shall we go, then?" he asked, recalled to the urgency of their mission.
With a quick nod, she used the step as a mounting block to leap into the sidesaddle, then deftly arranged her worn brown skirts. "It's as well Papa didn't get a good look at me when I went upstairs," she commented, "or he'd never have believed I was going out socially. I suspect he was so delighted to think one of the neighbors might extend such an invitation that he didn't ask for details."
Anthony waited until they were cantering down the drive to ask, with studied casualness, "Do you often deceive your father, Miss Seaton?"
"Of course not!" she exclaimed. Then, after a moment's silence, "At least, not without good cause, to spare him anxiety, which could undermine his health."
Partly to himself, to mitigate his growing attraction to her, he commented, "It would appear that honesty is not one of your more prominent, ah, virtues." Honesty was a quality he'd always regarded highly. He'd be wise to remember that.
"What an ungallant thing to say." Her voice was prim, but lacked conviction. "You scarcely know me, after all."
A light mist began to fall as they turned down the road toward Ivy Lodge. "I know that you ride out in breeches and don't want your father to know it. I know that you and your uncle have conspired to sell at least one horse, and very probably more, at inflated prices. And I suspect that you are keeping Sir George ignorant of the true state of Wheatstone by keeping up only those portions he can reach in his chair."
She slowed her mare to a walk to stare at him, obviously stricken. "You haven't said any of this to my father, have you?"
/> "Of course not," he said, matching her pace. "In fact, I have only now puzzled it all out."
"And . . . and you won't tell him? It really would upset him dreadfully to know that the estate —and the Seaton name —is not what it once was."
Against his will, he felt a stab of sympathy for her, for the trials she must have endured and still be enduring in her efforts to preserve her father's sense of pride. Slowly, he shook his head. "No, I won't tell him. But I think you should."
"But—"
"Let's continue this later, shall we? Killer— Lord Killerby —is still out there somewhere." He kicked Cinder back into a canter and she followed suit, though from what he could see of her averted face, she was still upset.
They rode in silence until they reached the stables at Ivy Lodge, Anthony busy with his thoughts, and Miss Seaton no doubt busy with her own. Thinking over what he'd said? He hoped so.
"No word yet?" Anthony asked Carter, Killer's groom, who was waiting outside the stables.
The man shook his head. "I did try to stop 'im, m'lord, I told you. But—"
Anthony reached down to put a hand on the man's shoulder. "I know you did, Carter. It's not your fault. Lord Killerby has always been stubborn. Miss Seaton here has agreed to help me find him, as she knows that horse well."
The groom squinted up at her. "Does she, then? You must be the lady my master spoke of, what rode Nimbus so well in the hunt. What's your secret, Miss?"
She shifted uncomfortably in her sidesaddle. "I'm just good with horses," she told him, as she'd told Anthony that first night they'd met. "I understand them, and seem able to get them to understand me. I . . . I wish I could explain it better."
Carter nodded sagely. "I've heard tell of such a thing. My grandpa told me about a lady could do summat like that, ride horses no one else could. Back in Ireland, that was."