Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02]

by His Captive Lady

  Harry thanked him and the man went back to work. Ethan stared at the cottage with narrowed eyes. “Mind if I have a look at it, Harry?”

  “Of course not. Though I don’t see why you’re so interested.”

  Ethan didn’t answer. He was halfway to the cottage. Curious, Harry followed him. There was a wooden gate that groaned as they pushed it open, and weeds in the front garden, knee-deep.

  Ethan prowled around it, peering into the diamond-paned windows, squinting up into the deep eaves, and stripping ivy off the walls to examine the surface beneath. “Do you have a key?” he asked Harry.

  “I’m not sure.” Harry pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and examined the front door lock to see if any of them might fit.

  “No need,” Ethan said suddenly. He’d tried the door and it just opened; it was on a latch. The two men went inside. It was dusty and there were cobwebs, but otherwise the air was sweet, with no smell of mildew or damp. The stairs creaked a little under the two men’s weight, but there was no sign of rot.

  “It’s exactly what I need,” Ethan said, as he inspected the last of the three bedrooms. Like the main house, the cottage was solid and only in need of superficial repairs. “Will you sell it to me?”

  “Of course, if that’s what you want,” said Harry, surprised. “But why do you want to buy a cottage? It’s not as if you need a house of your own.”

  “Ah, but I will,” Ethan said, picking at some flaking whitewash with his thumbnail.

  “I assumed you’d bunk down in the big house, as we did at the Grange. What’s the point of a house with ten bedrooms otherwise?”

  “I don’t mind where I lay me head, as you well know,” Ethan said. “But a wife expects to be mistress of her own home. If I had a snug wee cottage all ready, it might tip the decision in me favor.”

  “A wife? You don’t have a wife.”

  “Aye, but I told you I was doin’ some serious courtin’,” Ethan reminded him. “And since you’re talkin’ about getting a lass of your own, I’ll need me own place. Two wives under the one roof? Not on your life, boyo.”

  “No, I take your point—but who is this mystery woman, Ethan?”

  Ethan winked. “Wait and see. Don’t you worry about my love life—you go off and do some serious courtin’ of your own. What about this Lady Helen of yours?”

  “What about her?” Harry said, instantly defensive. “I told you I only met her for a few hours. It’s nonsense to assume she means anything to me. Why should she? I hardly know her. I merely mention her from time to time because she has left her imprint on this place. From what people have told me, she single-handedly kept half a dozen families from starvation last year when the crops failed so disastrously, so it’s hardly surprising if her name keeps coming up. Anyway she’ll be in London by now, showing some old lady the sights and reading to her, and taking tea.” His vehemence surprised him and he cleared his throat and looked out of the window.

  Ethan gave him a long look. “Aye, I can see you haven’t given the lass any thought at all. Not a bit.”

  “That’s right. Now, I’ll just go and see how those men are doing,” Harry mumbled and marched out of the cottage, leaving Ethan and his annoyingly smug expression behind.

  Ethan just didn’t understand. His frustrating courtship was causing him to imagine everyone else was in the same state.

  Harry had no time to think of women; he had an estate to get back into shape. And when he had time, he would pop up to Bath where Aunt Maude would have found him a suitable bride. No trouble at all.

  For the next two weeks Harry and Ethan raced to get as much outdoor work done as they could before the first snows arrived. They mended fences, repaired outbuildings, and replaced broken slates on the roof. Inside the house a team of local women and men scoured the house from top to bottom, leaving it bare and clean.

  Harry and Ethan worked like demons, snapping out orders as though they were back in the army. The estate workers soon found no one could slip shoddy or slapdash work past them. Harry and Ethan were hard taskmasters but since they worked the hardest of anyone, nobody minded. The failure of the harvests the previous year and the closing down of the big house meant most of them had faced the prospect of a very bleak Christmas. And possible starvation.

  Now, with employment, and solid currency in their pocket at the end of every week, there was a feeling of renewed hope in the air as they settled into a routine of hard, satisfying work.

  At the end of the third week Harry received his first visitors. He had no idea they were coming; one minute he and Ethan and the head groom, Jackson, were at the front of the house discussing whether an impending bank of clouds betokened snow, and the next minute two sporting curricles hurtled through the front gate, not slowing for a second as they negotiated the narrow entrance, one hot on the heels of the other.

  Once inside, the second vehicle, a black and yellow curricle pulled by a pair of matched bays, swung out and tried to pass the other. They traveled at breakneck speed, jostling for first place, sending the freshly raked gravel of the drive flying.

  “God a’mighty,” Ethan declared. “He’s never going to pass him. He’ll overturn—”

  “Lay you a pony he wins,” Harry said.

  “Done,” said Ethan, staring as the bays strained and the curricle pulled forward, grazing the wheels of its rival. The light, high-sprung vehicle bounced and swayed perilously. The driver laughed and urged his team faster. “He’s mad.”

  “It’s Luke,” Harry said. “You know he doesn’t care if he lives or dies. And Rafe knows all his tricks. They’ve been racing each other for years.”

  Rafe Ramsey and Luke Ripton were his two closest friends after his brother, Gabe. They’d all gone to school together, they’d joined the army together, and together, somehow, they’d survived eight years at war.

  “They’re both mad,” Ethan declared.

  “Magnificent, just magnificent,” Jackson murmured in a reverential tone. “Such beautiful movers. I ain’t seen such high-blooded lovelies bowling up the drive of Firmin Court since Miss Nell’s mam were alive. It does my old heart good to see them, it does.”

  “Those bays are particularly fine, aren’t they?” Harry agreed. “Though I think the blacks might have the edge in stamina.”

  “Aye, very powerful shoulders,” Jackson agreed.

  “They’re still stark, starin’ mad,” Ethan repeated. “They’ll break both their fool necks.”

  Harry squinted. “Is that a new curricle Rafe’s driving, Ethan? Very nice, don’t you think?”

  Ethan glanced at him. “You’re still mad, as well.”

  Harry grinned. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called mad; they all had. He, Gabe, Luke, Rafe, and their friend Michael had been called the Duke’s Angels, for their names and because they rode dispatches for Wellington.

  After Michael’s death, their nickname had changed to the Devil Riders, possibly because of Wellington’s habit of exhorting them to “ride like the devil” or because after they’d lost Michael there was a new edge to their willingness to take risks. At that time none of them particularly cared whether they lived or died.

  The two curricles sped along, neck and neck, heading toward the front of the house.

  “Holy Mother of God, that lunatic’s going to put them up the front steps,” Ethan gasped and leapt to the side. Jackson muttered an oath and hurried after him. Harry folded his arms and waited. He’d seen this particular maneuver of Luke’s before.

  As expected, at the very last moment, Luke hauled his horses back and they snorted and plunged to a stop, steam coming from them in clouds, a bare six inches from the steps. The second curricle pulled up beside it three seconds later.

  There was a sudden silence, broken only by the horses stamping and blowing for air. Several grooms who’d come to watch the race hurried forward to take the reins. The two drivers, both in elegantly cut, many-caped driving coats and high, curly-brimmed beavers descended their veh
icles in a leisurely fashion.

  Luke affected a start when he saw the second. “Rafe, my dear boy—you’ve arrived, at last!” He yawned. “I thought you’d never get here.”

  Rafe, six foot tall, whipcord lean and elegant to the fingertips, pulled off his driving gloves and unknotted his white silk scarf with leisurely movements. “Dreary timing, I know. I was held up on the road by a most tedious fellow in a black and yellow curricle, a positive slug—as slow as a wet week he was, I promise you.” He pulled out a quizzing glass and leveled it in ostentatious surprise at Luke’s black and yellow curricle. “By Jove, I do believe the slug was you, Luke. What sort of cattle are you driving these days?”

  Chuckling, Harry went to greet them. Ethan, too, came forward with a wide grin, saying, “As hey-go-mad as ever, I see. Peacetime life too tame for you, then?”

  Rafe Ramsey raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Hey-go-mad? I? You are mistaken, my dear Ethan. It is my friend who is mad; I merely indulge him. My only problem is that I’m near faint with thirst.” He gave Harry a meaning look.

  “Oh indeed,” Harry chuckled. “You poor feeble creature, come inside and I’ll pour you a reviving draught.”

  “In that case, I feel a faint coming on, too,” Ethan declared.

  “And me, for I won,” Luke reminded them.

  “I know, I just won twenty-five pounds on you,” Harry told him.

  Luke’s jaw dropped. “A pony? You only bet a pony on me?” He gave a disgusted snort. “At least Rafe wagered a monkey.”

  “Ethan, you’re a man of fine judgment.” Rafe stared down his long nose at Harry. “And you bet against me, Harry, my old friend? I’m wounded, deeply wounded.”

  Harry grinned, unaffected by his friend’s nonsense. “As soon as I saw you had a new curricle, I knew it would take the edge off. You might risk your fool neck but a new curricle? Not likely!” Chuckling, the friends entered the house while Jackson supervised the grooms ushering the magnificent beasts into his tender care.

  They were just inside when Rafe turned to Luke. “Did you forget the basket from Mrs. Barrow?”

  Luke cursed and ran lightly back down the steps to fetch a large wicker basket from the curricle.

  “From Mrs. Barrow?” Harry asked, puzzled. “My Mrs. Barrow?”

  “Yes, that good lady has sent you an enormous basket of foodstuffs. Apparently you’re living in the direst conditions in some foreign county and like to fade away to a shadow.”

  Harry grinned. That was Mrs. Barrow, all right. “But how—where did you see her?”

  “At the Grange, of course, where else?” Luke said, dumping the basket on a nearby table.

  “What were you doing there?”

  Rafe rolled his eyes. “I know your penmanship is atrocious, dear boy, but if you’d written to inform us you’d moved, it would have saved us the trip.”

  “Not that we minded,” Luke interjected. “She cooks like a dream—none of this French nonsense everyone’s so mad about, but real food for real men. Frankly, Harry, I was all for staying on there. I’ll wager you won’t feed us nearly as well.”

  “I won’t,” Harry confirmed as he poured the drinks. “And I’ll make you work.”

  “Work? Heavens, quel horreur,” declared Rafe. “I remember work. I don’t like it. It makes you dirty.” He flicked at his immaculate buckskins with fastidious fingers and tried to keep the twinkle out of his eye.

  “Doing it too brown, Rafe,” Harry said with a grin. “There’s not one of us who’ve forgotten the way you jumped into the rubble of that bombed Spanish church. You dug for twelve hours straight and were yellow mud from head to toe.”

  Rafe shrugged. “That was different—there were children trapped there. And I never did get the wretched mud out of my clothes. Ethan, you’re a man of fashion, you’ll appreciate my position.”

  Ethan nodded earnestly. “Oh I do, sir, I do. In fact I well remember a time when there weren’t any children trapped in the ruins of a certain monastery, nor any monks neither but—” He frowned thoughtfully. “That wasn’t you, was it, sir, heavin’ a pick with the best of them under the hot Spanish sun?” He winked.

  Rafe grinned. “Ah, but I’m sure I knew we were going to find that wine.” He sighed. “Superb stuff it was, too, remember? Wish we had some now. I’m going to need it if you’re going to turn me into a slave—oh!” He felt in his pocket and drew out two letters. “I almost forgot. Mrs. Barrow gave me these to give to you.” He passed them to Harry.

  Harry broke the seal and read the first one. “It’s from my brother, Gabe,” he told them. “He’s coming to England next month. Apparently Callie insists on it—I can’t imagine why.”

  “Wives do that,” Rafe said gloomily. “Insist.” He shuddered and drank deeply.

  Harry poured his friend another glass of wine. Rafe’s older brother, Lord Axebridge, was hounding him to make a marriage with an heiress. Rafe’s brother was happily married, but his wife had been unable to bear children, so it was Rafe’s duty, as his brother’s heir, to provide the heirs of the next generation. And replenish the family coffers.

  Poor Rafe had been trying to avoid the inevitable ever since he’d emerged from the war relatively unscathed. He didn’t relish the role of sacrificial lamb—not when it involved marriage.

  “Is anyone else comin’ with them?” Ethan asked diffidently. “The boys, mebbe?”

  Harry consulted the letter. “Yes, the boys and several of the Royal Zindarian Guard—oh and Callie’s friend, Miss Tibby. She and Callie are going shopping.”

  “That explains it,” Luke said. “Ladies always like to shop. No shops in Zindaria—not like London. When’re they coming?”

  “December,” Harry told him. “They’re staying for Christmas.”

  He broke open the second letter, read it, and swallowed. He took a large drink of wine.

  “Who’s it from?” Ethan asked curiously.

  “My aunt Gosforth,” Harry said. “She says she’s found me several very eligible bridal possibilities. I’m to come to Bath next week and meet them.”

  Five

  “Come now, Harry,” Aunt Maude said, “don’t make a fuss—I just need a strong arm to lean on if I’m to negotiate that dreadfully steep hill.”

  “It’s downhill, but I’ll fetch you a sedan chair, shall I?” Harry knew perfectly well what his aunt wanted of him, and a strong arm was the least of it. She wanted his company in the Pump Room.

  Harry loathed the Pump Room, with its rituals, its gossip, the vile tasting waters, and worst of all, the community of genteel spinsters who eyed the arrival of a young man in their midst with all the excitement of a fox come into the henhouse. Only Harry didn’t feel like a fox; he felt, under their avid gaze, like a tasty ear of wheat.

  And Aunt Maude knew it, too, curse her. She found the whole thing enormously entertaining.

  “You wouldn’t begrudge a frail old woman your help, would you?” she said in a plaintive voice.

  “Frail, is it, Aunt Maudie? And who was it danced every dance at the ball last night?” Harry arched his brows. “Must have been some other frail old woman.”

  “It was because I danced every dance that I am feeling so delicate this morning,” his aunt responded with dignity.

  “Oh, it was the dancing, was it? I thought it was the champagne. How many glasses was it?” her unrepentant nephew responded.

  Maude, Lady Gosforth, clutched her head and said with asperity, “A gentleman would not count.”

  “I didn’t,” Harry said. “I lost count.”

  “Well, if you must be so vulgar as to refer to it,” his aunt declared, “you will understand why I am in need of the restorative powers of the waters at the pump room. And since the only reason I went to the ball last night was to assist you in this search for a wife, the least you can do is escort me.”

  It was a barefaced lie. Wild horses couldn’t keep Aunt Maude from a party, but Harry was aware she’d gone to a lot of trouble for him. He sighed a
nd presented his arm. “All right, but only to the door.”

  “Nonsense.” His triumphant aunt tried not to smirk. “You are clearly liverish and out of sorts. You need to take the waters.”

  “I don’t,” he snapped. “It’s filthy stuff and I can’t bear those rooms, full of old tabbies and—” He broke off and said in a firm voice, “I’ll escort you there, but that’s my limit.”

  He was in a foul mood. For the past three days he’d done everything Aunt Maude had asked him to do: dressed up like a tailor’s dummy, sat and walked and made painstaking conversation with daughters and their fathers and mothers. He’d been as agreeable as he could possibly be to a bunch of people he never wanted to see again.

  It had all been a complete waste of time. He was no closer to finding a suitable wife than he had been the last time he’d come to Bath. Worse, in fact, because then he wasn’t comparing every blasted girl he met with her.

  Nell, Lady Helen Freymore, with her creamy, pure complexion and her honey-dark voice. No girl he’d met had such a clear direct gaze, such quiet self-possession. And none could create such . . . fire in him.

  But Nell hadn’t wanted him. She preferred to be off in London pouring tea for some rich, no doubt indulgent old lady. Nell preferred to run errands rather than be married to Harry. And Harry was miles away in Bath looking for a substitute who wouldn’t stir him up as she did.

  So why was he all stirred up?

  Aunt Maude wasn’t in the sweetest of tempers, herself. She continued, “But you must. I’ve put myself out searching high and low for eligible middle-class girls, but you’re so liverish you won’t even give them a chance!”

  “I did give them a chance,” he told her. “It’s not my fault if they weren’t what I asked for.”

  She smacked him lightly on the hand. “Pish, tush! I find you three of the most ravishing girls and you say they’re stupid—”