CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The steeplechase yielded a similar result: Excalibur by a faltering nose, half the pack hot on his literal heels. St. George dawdled along with the second half of the field, apparently enjoying himself despite his jockey’s liberally applied heels.
No spurs, though, which was puzzling. Not even short, blunt spurs such as were handed out to less-talented riders mostly for show. A jockey could wear spurs without applying them to the horse’s sides, but a rider without spurs was forgoing an accepted means of cuing a horse to further speed.
Another puzzle, which I tossed on the growing heap along with rigged races, Hyperia’s disappointing behavior, and Healy West’s impending ruin.
I wandered at the back of the stragglers returning to the manor house and took the turn that led to the stable yard. I wanted to compare notes with Atticus and ask him about the morning’s preparation for the races.
The usual early evening bustle was ensuing. Horses brought in from paddocks, still others turned out for the night, some led down to the river for a drink. A few of the owners wandered from stall door to stall door, but the enthusiasm and energy apparent a week ago had fled the scene.
The stone wall at my back held heat instead of blessed coolness. The grooms retrieving water buckets from the parked wagon moved wearily, and not a single good-natured insult was exchanged.
Something was off. They all knew it. The horses seemed to know it, too, but what, how, and who was responsible?
I was staring at nothing and thinking nothing, when a small, dark-haired boy approached me. The lad was on the thin side, his wrists and ankles beginning to outpace the cuffs of his sleeves and trousers. His face was dusty, his hair tousled, and his boots worn at the toes but well heeled.
Young for a stable hand, but probably born to the trade.
“Guv, you ought not be hangin’ about here. I’ll find you after supper. If I’m asleep, you can wake me. Tired as I’m gettin’, I will go right back to sleep sure as Eclipse had a pair of balls.”
What a presuming little fellow. “Pardon me, young sir, but who are you, and what in blazes inspires you to address me so familiarly?”
He blinked at me, rubbed his chin, and looked about us. “You going forgetty on me, guv?”
“Young man, you will address me as…” I reached for my own name, my station in life, a Christian name, anything, and came up blank.
The boy scanned the stable yard again, his gaze alert. “The card’s in your pocket. Don’t make a fuss. Read the card.”
I fished in the pocket of my morning coat and produced a linen stock card on which somebody had penned several tidy lines. My name was Lord Julian Caldicott—a fine-sounding moniker, but it rang no bells—and I was prone to temporary and complete lapses of memory.
How inconvenient. “What exactly does ‘temporary’ mean, and who are you?”
“I’m Atticus, your tiger and dogsbody. ‘Temporary’ means you need a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be fit in the morning. Your memories come back, or they have so far.” He continued to dart glances over his shoulder, as if worried somebody might overhear him.
I was uneasy taking the word of a dusty boy for something as serious as mental infirmity, and yet, I hadn’t known my own name.
We were speaking English—I grasped that much—so I presumed I was in England, but we might as well have been in the wilds of America or the Antipodes, for all I truly knew.
“Can anybody corroborate your tale?” I might well have been drugged and this card slipped into my pocket as a sort of prank. Who would pull such a nasty trick and why?
“I can fetch Miss West, but it might take some time. Don’t move, don’t talk to anybody, and don’t get into any trouble until I come back. You got that?”
For a mere boy, he had a formidable glower. “I am in some sort of trouble, aren’t I?”
“You and trouble march side by side, guv. This lot,”—he jerked his chin toward the stable yard—“don’t think you can be trusted. They’re wrong, but they don’t know that. You’re safe here if you just sit quiet and keep your mouth shut.”
Where was here ? Safe from who or what? I had a thousand questions, but the boy trotted off quick time and left me to watch the end-of-day routine at what had to be the stables of a grand manor.
Or a not-so-grand manor. A gardener, for example, was due for a reprimand. Red, yellow, and white tulips occupied regularly spaced half barrels. On one side of the yard, the flowers were in fairly good trim, but on the other, most of the blooms were long overdue for watering or lifting.
The horses looked well cared for, if a bit lean, but then, how did I know even that much? Except that I did. I knew or recalled what a fit, healthy horse looked like. What else did I remember?
I was tempted to leave the bench, to wander among those horses and hope that a familiar equine face might jog my memories. The boy Atticus had been insistent that I not leave my post, and for some reason, disobeying that child was beyond me. He’d worry if I went absent without leave, and I did not want him worrying about me.
I bided on the bench and received a few curious stares, also some hostile glances.
“Julian.” A pretty, curvy, little, brown-haired young lady carrying a straw hat approached my bench, the boy at her side. “Atticus says your memory has deserted you.”
I rose. “Miss, you have me at a disadvantage. Might somebody provide introductions?”
“Certainly not, unless you want to attract the notice of every guest at this misbegotten gathering. Come along, I’ll see that you get to your rooms and make your excuses at supper.” She waved a hand at me in a preemptory, get-moving manner.
“Am I putting you in danger, miss? Your demeanor suggests that haste is imperative, not merely convenient.” And who was she, to order me about so summarily?
“Julian, let’s go , and yes, there is danger of a sort. We’re at a race meeting. Talk abounds that you have rigged the races, and ill will is building against you. Today’s matches achieved credible results, but only just. Please do hurry.”
She slipped an arm through mine—bold little thing—and hustled me down a shady path, the boy trotting at our heels.
Atticus. His name was Atticus. My ability to recall what I’d recently heard was in working order, a slight reassurance. “Miss, I still don’t know your name.”
“Hyperia West. We’ve known each other for ages, and you are not to worry. Your memories always return, complete and accounted for, and you will remember everything about this hiatus, so don’t do or say anything you’ll regret.”
Interesting. “Am I prone to misbehavior?” I was attired as a country gentleman, my clothing all fitting me well enough, if a bit loosely. My boots matched, my heels were newish, and my seams all tidy. Perhaps I had a wife looking after my wardrobe?
The thought felt alien and sweet, but heaven help that lady if I’d forgotten her so easily.
“You are not at all, on your most vexed day, prone to misbehavior. Just the opposite.”
“I’m a high stickler?” That didn’t feel right either.
She paused as we approached a half-sunken walled garden. “You are a perfect gentleman who served honorably under Wellington. We are guests at a private race meeting in Berkshire, and the heat has tempers flaring. Somebody is rigging the races, and you are determined to figure who and how.”
How… bold of me. “Truly? Am I some sort of horse-racing expert?”
“No, but you were asked to help, and you felt sorry for Mr. Tenneby. You learned that I was to be among the guests and thus attended against your better judgment.”
“I fancy you.” I knew that much, because even in our ten-minute acquaintance, I had taken a powerful liking to her. Miss West was confident, sensible, kind, and worried about me. A lovely combination, if not exactly what a gentleman hoped to inspire in the distaff.
“You fancy me, and I—heaven help you—fancy you. We are engaged to be married, my lord, hence our strolling together unchaperoned will not be remarked. Your quarters are on the first floor, and Atticus can see you safely to them. I’ll have a tray sent up and come see you in the morning.”
“Are you confining me to quarters?”
A military term, as was absent without leave. I’d served under Wellington, though I had no memory of that honor.
“I am suggesting a respite, until your mind rights itself, which it always does. I’ll have a tray sent up to you in the morning, too, lest you have to brave a gauntlet of questions over the breakfast buffet. I’ll tell any who ask that your eyes aren’t equal to all the bright sunshine.”
I became abruptly aware that I was sporting spectacles.
“Keep ’em on, guv,” said the boy. “They’re tinted to protect your eyes. Take ’em off and you’ll regret it.”
“My head does ache slightly.” More than slightly, in fact. “And I’m thirsty.”
“Ain’t we all.”
Miss West took her leave of us on the back terrace of the large, handsome manor house. Watching her bustle off, I experienced a sadness that made no sense. She’d said I was safe, but I would have felt safer had she not abandoned me. Not safer… happier, more at peace.
“C’mon, your forgetful-ship. Best get you outta sight while everybody’s changing for supper.” Atticus explained to me how to find my quarters and decamped for the steps that would lead to the kitchen and servants’ hall. I made my way to my room, aware that the boy would soon reappear with a tray.
In those few minutes of solitude, I used a basin and towel to limited good effect and changed into silk pajama trousers and silk dressing gown. I apparently liked my creature comforts. I was weary to my bones, hungry, thirsty, and missing half my mind.
For some reason, the image of the tulips insisted on intruding on my musings. Drooping tulips along one side and the barrels across the yard full of cheerier specimens.
An odd detail to fixate on, but perhaps that was my habit, to fixate on details, forget my entire history, and worse yet, fail to recognize the lovely woman to whom I was engaged to be married.
What a muddle. What a complete, spectacular muddle, and apparently, a frequent state of affairs for me.
* * *
I slept long and hard, all the windows to my suite open, the bed curtains drawn back. Soft gray light illuminated my quarters as Atticus emerged from the dressing closet and made for the door.
“Wait a bit,” I said, sitting up in bed and scrubbing at my eyes. They ached, all of me ached, but it was the ache of a body that had finally found much-needed slumber. “Are you going onto the Downs today?”
“Thought I would. You’re yourself again?”
“If you mean, have my memories returned, they most assuredly have. Thank you for your quick thinking last evening. Might you find Miss West’s maid and convey the message that all’s well? I’d like to accompany you for the morning gallops.”
The Atticus whom I’d taken into service at the Hall months ago would have protested vocally. This slightly older, more self-possessed fellow looked me up and down. “Nobody wants you up there, guv, and it might not be safe.”
“I’ll be safe enough. I’ll remain attached to some group or other. The morning gallops are an aspect of the meeting I’ve neglected to study.”
“Won’t do you no good, but it’s too early in the day to start arguin’ with you.” He slipped out the door, a sentry going about his rounds.
By the time he returned bearing a laden tray, I was dressed for riding and mentally reviewing the previous day’s races. Rigged, but unsuccessfully. Yesterday had also seen St. George make a second undistinguished showing in the steeplechase. Hyperia, when last I’d seen her, had been notably brisk with me, and Healy’s impending doom had doubtless been on her mind.
If Pierpont was to be believed, the vultures were already circling over Tenneby’s stable, anticipating his ruin and prepared to all but steal his horses under the guise of pity offers.
Atticus set the tray on the sideboard.
Two racks of buttered toast. A mound of fluffy omelet, thick slices of ham. The boy was wise beyond his years. “You found Miss West’s maid?” I asked, whipping my cravat into an ever-serviceable trone d’amour .
“Aye, she said Miss didn’t sleep well. The heat and all. Tempers belowstairs gettin’ ragged. Hard to do the washin’ when the cistern’s empty.”
I wasn’t accustomed to the heat either, but I was well rested and pressed by a sense of time running out. Tenneby’s meeting had only two more racing days, plus some match races on the final day. Those two days were run for the highest stakes, and still, I had no idea how anybody was tampering with the runners.
I ate heartily, though I left enough on the tray for Atticus.
When we arrived at the stable, I cadged a seat beside Sir Albertus’s sister in her pony trap. Atticus took Atlas out under saddle, and we were soon joining the procession up to the Downs. Polite greetings were offered to the lady, while I merited the barest nod or muttered word.
“They’re all tiring,” Miss Reardon said, handling the ribbons with casual expertise. “The horses, the grooms, the owners. The big money is starting to change hands, and the whole business grows serious. Albertus won’t admit it, but Dasher’s performance yesterday, while victorious, was disappointing. He should have romped to victory, my lord. Romped. Pretty morning, though. A pity about the weather.”
She kept up the predictable patter, nattering on about to whom Juliet should be bred now that her racing peak was behind her and how Wickley’s colts weren’t half bad, considering their owner never listened to his jockey. Somewhere in Miss Reardon’s narrative, I gleaned that it was her money supporting Sir Albertus’s racing ambitions, though she enjoyed the whole business too.
I thanked her for the ride and parted from her when we arrived at the prescribed patch for morning gallops. The horses, who had been walked and then trotted along the lanes and bridle paths on the way from the stable, knew the routine. The jockeys lined up by twos and fours on a level patch at the foot of a gentle hill.
The heats were organized such that a horse having an easy day was run beside another with the same agenda. The runners due for a harder workout paced one another and so forth. Atticus on Atlas formed a third for a pair that included Golden Sovereign.
As they awaited the signal to start, Lord Pierpont joined me.
“That boy is a natural,” Pierpont said, swigging from his flask. “Has the hands. Plenty of fellows can stick in the saddle, but that lad has the hands. He listens.”
“He has to listen,” I replied, “because he lacks the strength to impose his will on the horse. He’s also on a beast who’d plant him for a serious lapse in manners.”
“A very fine beast.” Pierpont put away his flask and took up the field glasses he’d slung about his neck. “Denton’s gone fractious on us. Watch, he’ll not keep the pace with Golden Sovereign. He’ll let himself be taunted into a flat-out run. He’s getting too ornery for this business.”
Pierpont scanned the other parties knotted along the ridge, his focus settling on Wickley and friends.
The signal was given, and Denton did not let himself be goaded into overexerting his horse. He kept the horse to a rapid pace, rather than an all-out effort against his galloping partner.
“Heaven preserve my sanity,” Pierpont muttered, looking away from his field glasses briefly. “Here comes poor Mr. West’s wonder horse. Such a pity the creature hasn’t any heart for the win.”
George, easily distinguished by his gray coat, streaked into view. If he’d been assigned a partner, that horse was far behind as George pounded up the hill, no slackening in his speed. His gait was poetically efficient, every muscle and sinew moving in synchrony to produce the most speed with the least effort.
He’d not looked like that on the steeplechase courses.
“He is fast,” I said. Very, very fast and superbly fit. No wonder Healy had been enchanted.
“He needs to put that speed to use in competition,” Pierpont said, once again studying Lord Wickley’s group. “West ought not to allow him to sprint like that, not on this hard ground and not with the biggest races still to go.”
The horse blazed past us, his jockey not even trying to check him.
“Handsome devil,” Pierpont muttered. “Wrong temperament for a runner, though. Excellent form over a jump too. A pity.”
The gallops were boring. Horses running this way, horses cantering that way. Pierpont was clearly absorbed studying his human rival, while I was increasingly aware of the owners glaring daggers at me. Sir Albertus was consulting his flask regularly, while Wickley was lifting his chin in my direction while haranguing Tenneby.
“One gathers your presence is unwelcome,” Pierpont said. “Take my horse back to the manor. I’ll jaunt along with Denton on foot. Anything to annoy Wickley, especially now that the betting is becoming lively.”
I wasn’t intimidated by the dirty looks, but neither was my presence productive. I’d seen what I wanted to see, found nothing enlightening save for the degree of speed George could produce, and was growing uncomfortably warm standing around in the morning sun.
“Obliging of you,” I said. “Which horse is yours?”
“The chestnut with the black saddle. Hercules insists my personal mount be allowed to loiter in the shade. No nurserymaid was more protective of her charges, I vow.”
Pierpont had his field glasses pressed to his eyes again—Wickley was still holding forth, though the breeze snatched his words away—so I thanked Pierpont, climbed aboard my borrowed mount, and returned to the manor. I had hoped to find Hyperia in her quarters, but had no luck. Her maid was not to be located either, and no helpful note awaited me in my own chambers.
“I will just pay the call on my own,” I muttered to my reflection as I dragged a brush through my hair. My locks were still too pale about my face—I was not meant to be blond—and too long, but not the snow-white tresses I’d acquired in France.
I did not look like myself, and I did not feel like myself. Surrounded by ill will, unable to quit the investigatory field, romantically frustrated, and craving some cold, sweet meadow tea.
That last, I could do something about. I troubled a passing footman with my request and took myself to the earl’s suite at the far end of the family wing.
“Is Temmington receiving?” I asked the Welsh footman.
“On the balcony, my lord. He’s grown quiet in the past few days. A visitor will cheer him up.”
“I’ve asked for a tray from the kitchen. Might you send it out when it arrives?”
“Of course, sir.”
The footman produced the understated good cheer of the seasoned retainer, but I saw worry in his eyes and heard a hint of forced jollity in his voice. The race meeting was not going according to plan, and the whole staff knew it.
“Temmington, good day.” I bowed formally to my host of record. “A pretty morning.”
“Too damned hot,” he said, gesturing to a wicker chair beside his own. “Too dry, but we’re to have rain. My bursitis declares it so, and so it must be. Tenneby’s in the doldrums. His stallion won yesterday, but only by a nose. Wickley’s seething. Pierpont had some luck, but word among the grooms is, that was not luck at all, but rather, somebody meddling with Albertus’s mare. So much intrigue reminds me of the French court back in the day.”
“You spent time in France?” I disliked even saying the word.
“One made the grand tour ages ago. I was among the last to enjoy that outing, I’m sure, and yes, I made my bow to Louis. His court was rife with intrigue, each noble maneuvering to do the other out of this or that royal favor. Say what you will about our royals, but they are church wardens compared to that lot. One almost pities the French now. Their nobility is like weeds, growing back more greedy and spoiled for having been scythed.”
A change of subject was in order. “Tenneby’s finances are likely to be pruned by this meeting. His stallion isn’t performing well enough, and the rumors of rigging abound.”
“All your fault?” the earl asked, his rheumy eyes twinkling.
“According to some, yes. I’ve been in the wrong places at the wrong times, and I am not of the turf brotherhood. I daren’t leave, or I’d be proving my guilt.”
“Unless you leave and the last few races are also thrown, eh? That’s where the real coin changes hands, my boy. The early days are for assessing the competition and learning the terrain. The later matches are serious business, and I do mean ‘business’ in the financial sense.”
He paused while a tray bearing tall glasses of meadow tea and two plates of biscuits was brought out.
I sipped and saluted. “To Excalibur’s upcoming victories.”
“To his upcoming crop of foals. Early indications are he’s passing on both speed and strength.” The earl sampled his tea. “Oh, marvelous. Was this your idea, my boy? Well done. The mint revives the spirits as nothing else.”
The tea was good. Not as ambrosial as Mrs. Gwinnett’s recipe at Caldicott Hall, but refreshing.
“We can’t really blame Tenneby for what’s gone amiss, can we?” the earl mused. “He meant well, but he lacks the strut to carry off a meeting like this. Evelyn would have managed matters more effectively, but the failing is on the sire side. Haven’t much strut or prance myself, come to that. Neither did my brother. Our side throws a pleasant nature and common sense. Not bad traits, generally, but an impecunious aristocrat needs some arrogance to carry off his poverty.”
“Does everything come down to bloodlines and athletic propensities?”
“In racehorses, yes. All vices are forgiven if the speed be sufficient. Eclipse had terrible form and a considerable temper, you know. Humans are more complicated, alas for us. Much is overlooked if one has breeding, but coin of the realm increasingly defines a man’s standing, doesn’t it? We call them beer barons and encroaching mushrooms, then rejoice when they marry our daughters.”
I could have downed a gallon of the meadow tea. The biscuits were fast disappearing too. “Do you foresee Evelyn in such a match?”
The earl considered his tea. “Evelyn is too loyal to her brother. She keeps all the records for the stable and maintains the ledgers for the whole estate. She chooses the mares Excalibur services, too, and her judgment has been vindicated by the results. If ruin is Tenneby’s lot, Evelyn will endure it with him and make it as bearable as she can. That girl should have been the earl, but here we are. Not enough strut on the sire side. A common failing among many an old respected family. This tea is wonderful. Tell Jones I’d like a supply of it while this heat torments us. Much cheaper than that stuff from Cathay.”
I sensed that I’d both tired and saddened the old fellow, which had not been my aim. I’d saddened myself as well. To be referred to as my boy by an elder entitled to treat me so familiarly was a comfort I might seldom know again.
After a few more pleasantries, I took my leave, relaying the message to Jones as requested.
When I returned to my quarters, I sat out on my own balcony, watching lady guests play battledore on the lawn beside the walled garden. Competition was desultory, until Evelyn Tenneby took up a racket and put some strategy into the volleys. Laughter and shouts soon ensued, and the whole undertaking became livelier.
If only Tenneby could have married into some banker’s family, and Evelyn could have…
A wisp of an idea floated by on the humid breeze. I closed my eyes and let the idea drift closer. Strut on the sire side. Excalibur, Dasher, Sovereign Remedy, Golden Sovereign, and Juliet… Four colts and a filly. Five colts, rather, if I included Blinken.
And Juliet had lost to Minerva, whose owner, Pierpont, raced only fillies.
The wisp of an idea lighted on my imagination and sprouted into a theory. While I sat, eyes closed, mind racing, the theory became a hypothesis that explained a great deal of the meeting’s racing results. A great deal.
“It all goes back to Eclipse,” I murmured as the ladies gathered up their effects and daundered toward the manor.
If I was right, then I knew who was rigging the races, and I knew why. I was not yet certain about the how, and without that, my theories would earn me only more ridicule. I needed to solve the central conundrum— how were the races rigged?—with convincing evidence, or watch Tenneby, his household, and his horses suffer social, financial, and practical disaster.
* * *
I was growing concerned that Hyperia was avoiding me at a time when my welfare might have been of heightened concern to her. True, I’d sent her word of my recovered memories, but still… Hyperia’s efforts had often proven integral to the success of my investigations, so much so that I would not undertake one if the subject matter could not be shared with her.
I wanted to let her know of George’s magnificent speed, wanted to air my who-and-why theory before her keen analytical eye.
I wanted to know that she was well, if not exactly having a grand time.
An under-chambermaid admitted to seeing Miss West exit the manor from the library, cross the terrace, and descend into the park. Hyperia had carried a small parcel and a parasol, but hadn’t bothered to open the parasol. Upon questioning, the maid opined that the young lady had been wearing boots.
The parcel might well have been a book, possibly carried for show when the lady wanted a quiet hour to herself. Another quiet hour to herself.
I found my intended in the gazebo by the river. I approached quietly, quiet being second nature to a reconnaissance officer, and studied her. A book did indeed lay open on her lap. The closed parasol sat on the bench to her right. To her left, a straw hat was upside down, a pair of gloves folded into the crown.
Hyperia stared at the water, a handkerchief clutched in her hand.
I tossed a pebble into the sluggish stream. “Good morning.”
“Julian.” She closed the book and set it aside. “How long have you been spying on me?” Her tone was unwelcoming, not quite acerbic.
The tension between us had been building as steadily as the heat. Granted, Hyperia was fretting over her funds, and her concern was real. I was fretting, too, because whatever our current difference, I loved this woman and longed to marry her.
“Spying, Perry? Do I deserve that?” Rather than approach the gazebo, I stood several yards off on the path along the river.
“No. I do apologize. I’m out of sorts. I take it you’re feeling better?”
Still no invitation to join her. “My memories are back in order, and I joined the outing to the morning gallops. I watched George go, and he’s exceedingly, wondrously fast, Perry. Goes like lightning even without another horse to challenge him.”
She rose and perched a hip on the gazebo’s railing. The picture was lovely—young lady by the river in spring—but her mood was prickly.
“Then Healy fell for a true morning glory. Miss Tenneby says there’s not much that can be done with a horse of that temperament. They don’t understand the need to exert themselves later in the day.”
“At least George is capable of speed. He might do well in the hunt field.” Though riding to hounds was more a matter of stamina and a good clean jump than speed.
“Can George chase a fox well enough to replenish my settlements?”
Now, we came to the heart of the matter. “Might I join you?”
She gestured to the steps, and I took that for an invitation.
“I have a theory,” I said, ascending into the gazebo, “regarding who is rigging the races and why, but I’m still at a loss to know how the mischief is being perpetrated. The matter wants more thought.”
“Is it Wickley? He hasn’t been at the game long enough to know how to properly train any given horse, but he boasts about knowing the dirty tricks.”
“He also won’t listen to Denton, who has been at the game forever. What motive would Wickley have, though, when Pierpont’s Minerva was one of the less likely victors?”
Hyperia pushed away from the railing and resumed her place on the bench. “Arrogance. Minerva might have been gifted with a win to set her up for greater failure this week. Anything to prove to the world that the Earl of Wickley is a true blueblood and Lord Pierpont a mere presuming courtesy lord.”
“Anything except sticking it out at Newmarket where the real fanatics congregate? Anything except listening to Denton or promoting Denton to a training role? Wickley has all the motive in the world to win, but I have a harder time seeing him as a cheater. He’s too mindful of his standing, too… fastidious about his reputation.”
Though Hyperia was making me consider Wickley more seriously than I had, and that was all to the good.
She folded her wrinkled handkerchief and tucked it into her sleeve. “Wickley is very mindful of his standing, isn’t he? And a reputation is an impossible thing to rehabilitate. What of Sir Albertus?”
I was abruptly weary of the subject of race rigging. My intended, the woman I hoped to spend the rest of my life with, wasn’t even inviting me to sit beside her.
“Perry, what’s wrong? You have been avoiding me, which is your right, but you’ve also been crying. Now when we ought to be fortifying ourselves with a moment of affection, you can’t even meet my gaze. I know Healy’s situation is vexing and that you refuse to come to the altar without your settlements, but that doesn’t justify an estrangement.”
“We’re having a private discussion in a secluded gazebo, my lord. What variety of estrangement is that?”
Her tone was evidence of estrangement, as was her fascination with the slow-moving water.
“Hyperia West, we have been through much together, and you have shown me great patience and loyalty. You have also honored me with your trust, and I have done my best to reciprocate those gifts in every regard. I admit my efforts have been halting and inadequate on occasion, but I defy you to doubt my devotion. I don’t give a ruddy damn for your settlements, and if need be, we can enjoy an eternal engagement. I am mortally concerned, though, that if you cannot confide in me—you, who demand to know my worst memories and greatest fears—then we are at an impasse that has little to do with your bumbling brother.”
I stopped myself from delivering an ultimatum, but the temptation to invite her to cry off was great.
I gathered up the frayed ends of my patience and marched onward. “I understand, Perry, that you do not want to be wed out of pity. Neither do I, and the fear that your sentiments toward me tend toward pity rather than esteem haunts me. Perhaps you do pity me. Perhaps I no longer have your trust. You are shutting me out. You did not think to tell me you were coming to this meeting. You did not share Healy’s latest folly until the need was beyond pressing. You kept the situation with your settlements from me until I had puzzled it out for myself. This will not do.”
She was on her feet, hands fisted at her sides. “Marry you out of pity? You are a ducal heir, comely, in your prime, and lavishly solvent.”
Utterly beside the point. “ I forget my own name , and you don’t turn a hair. Society shuns me, and I return the favor. Some label me a traitor. Others consider me daft. My eyes, even my hair… I am no prize, and I can admit that honestly. You, by contrast, are a pearl of great price.”
She sniffled. “I am plain, I am old, and now I’m poor.”
That was momentary defeat talking and more balderdash. “You are younger than I and gorgeous in your purposely understated way. You are formidably intelligent, kind, forbearing, and honorable. Perry…” I moved closer and bedamned to anybody who saw us. “I love you. I cannot offer you perfection in myself. Why on earth would you think I deserve it or even want it in return? I could not bear a perfect companion in this life. Harry was nearly perfect, and it drove me daft.”
“ Him .”
“And Arthur is a perfect duke, and Atlas is a perfect horse, but you… you are perfect for me in a world where I don’t fit in. You break my heart when you push me away.”
Plainer than that, I could not be, and if Hyperia was determined to chart a course away from me, nothing that I, Wellington with all his forces, or the heavenly intercessors could do would stop her.
The nightingale was serenading the morning, his song lovely, lonely, and poignant. The fellow sang his heart out in hopes of winning a mate, and he sang for us both.
Hyperia stood very tall, and all my dreams sank into an abyss of despair. I knew her, and I knew she was searching for the kind, honest words that would part me from her.
“Perry, please.” I love you . To say those words now would be to beg. “Please talk to me.”
She sighed, then, by slow degrees, listed into me.
I waited, and the bird caroled on.