Page 4

They reached the bottom of the steps and Lady Cargill dropped his arm. She was a small woman, the first thing he’d noticed about her. Small, plainly dressed. Brown hair, brown eyes. He’d put her age at past forty, a neat sparrow of a female who’d likely become tiny in great old age.

“You made up all that nonsense about the baby spiders and the maid packing the dresses for Sophronia’s benefit.” And she’d done it so easily, so credibly.

“Lady Sophronia was terrified. I would have told her that King George was afraid of spiders if that would have restored her confidence. Until tomorrow afternoon, my lord.”

She curtseyed and strode away, rejoining her daughter and George, who appeared to be in rapt conversation in the alcove where busts of Plato and Socrates flanked a tall window.

Lysander returned to the front terrace, relieved to find that no new guests had arrived. He took a seat on the bench half-way down the portico and sorted through his thoughts. Something about the encounter with the spider—and Lady Cargill—wanted pondering.

Sophronia had been terrified. Lysander had seen that much, and refrained from castigating his daughter as a result. He’d behaved appropriately as a father, which was a relief. But that comment about restoring Sophronia’s confidence…

Did Sophronia lack confidence and if so, was that to be celebrated or lamented?

Lysander had no idea, though Maria might have had a useful opinion on the matter.

What he did know was that Sophronia had not grinned at him as joyously as she had been grinning when she’d taken her leave of him since he had hired her first governess several years ago.

“You spoke honestly when you said you love even the scent of the stables.”

If Lord Montmarche loved the stables, Daphne would not have known it from his actions.

He strolled along at her side, his pace never varying.

He neither raised his voice to rebuke a stable lad who’d nearly dumped a muck cart at the sight of the earl, nor had he lowered his voice to offer any confiding asides.

He watched Lady Sophronia as if trying to puzzle out a vexing riddle, not like a father stealing an extra half hour with his only daughter.

“I probably turn the same half-puzzled, half-displeased expression on my son,” Daphne said, when they’d admired the four foals recently arrived in the mare’s barn.

The youngsters, being equines, were nimble and sure-footed though only a few weeks old.

Watching them gambol in their paddock, then dart back to their mothers’ sides, oblivious of the future servitude awaiting them, put Daphne out of sorts.

Or perhaps his lordship’s company had done that.

“I hope I behold my offspring with a father’s watchful eye,” Montmarche replied. “How old is your son.”

“Charles is fifteen. Going on fifty some days, going on five others.”

The earl paused at the door of the barn, while his daughter scratched a sizeable marmalade tomcat about the ears and chin.

“And what, my lady, about the fifty-year-old male do you find so vexatious?”

“Some fifty-year-old males are charming and wise. On a fifteen-year-old boy, those same qualities are seldom genuine. I lost my Charles when my husband died, though, so I cannot blame the boy for his present disposition.”

Sophronia picked up the cat, who bore that indignity tolerantly.

“Lost your son in what sense?”

“To the uncles, who would vex a saint, which I do not pretend to be. Lady Sophronia, who is your new friend?”

“Felix, I think,” she said. “He’s ever so grand. Do you like cats, Lady Cargill?”

“I like them even better than spiders. They are so agreeable when they purr.” Though Daphne refused to acquire a lap cat. Old women made fools of themselves over their house cats, and she was not sufficiently elderly to have earned that privilege.

“How do I get him to purr?” Sophronia asked.

“Give him to me,” Montmarche said. “He’s getting hair all over your pinafore.”

The girl handed over the cat, who had, indeed, left a dusting of orange hair on her clothing.

“A fellow likes to have his shoulders rubbed after a hard day of lolling about in the sun,” Montmarche said. He scratched the cat’s shoulders, which occasioned more shedding.

Also a stentorian purr .

“I believe you two gentlemen are acquainted,” Daphne said.

“I ride nigh daily,” Montmarche replied, putting the cat down. “Of course I’ve crossed paths with the occasional stable cat. Come, I’ll introduce you to my horse. Sindri is in the stable across the yard.”

The earl’s equestrian facilities were laid out in a U shape, with quarters for the grooms and coachmen above the stalls.

The base of the U served as the carriage house, while the mare’s side was also home to saddle rooms, a harness room, a work room with a snug parlor stove, and space devoted to storing grains and medicinals.

The other leg of the U was for the stallions and geldings, who formed the great bulk of the earl’s riding stock.

As Daphne admired shoulder angles and praised intelligent eyes—on the horses—Sophronia skipped along at her papa’s side.

She chattered about how Papa had let her start riding lessons, and she did not have her very own pony yet, but perhaps soon, if she was very, very good , which she would try very, very hard to be…

The underlying note of anxiety in the girl’s recitation clouded the joy Daphne felt to be out of doors, as did a niggling worry regarding Charles’s whereabouts.

The earl, by contrast, seemed to become less formal the longer he bided among the equines.

“This is Sindri,” he said, pausing outside the stall of an enormous black horse. “From his dam side, he inherited size and muscle. From the blood stock on the sire’s side, he acquired speed and arrogance.”

Another cat had captured Sophronia’s attention, a half-grown tortoiseshell who demanded to sniff her visitor thoroughly before allowing any petting.

“Arrogance or confidence?” Daphne asked, reaching a hand to the horse.

He ambled over, as most horses would when not consuming fodder.

“Arrogance, and for good reasons. He’ll jump anything I put him to, negotiate any footing, and leave horses half his age in the dust. He’s wily and strong, and he was my greatest consolation when my wife went to her reward.”

Sindri had the eye of an older horse, in the sense that the contour of his brow had been deepened by time. His gaze, though, was magisterial and his form magnificent.

“He’s a gentleman,” Daphne said, as warm horsy breath wafted over her fingers.

“The only affection I could tolerate when my husband died was from my mare. She’d wrap me in a neck hug, which I’ve never seen another horse do to another human.

I admit I hugged her back, which occasioned tears on my part.

She’s getting on now, but we still canter about the park on fine mornings. ”

What odd confidences could be exchanged in a stable.

“I have many lady’s mounts who would suit you, should you wish to ride out.”

“If you attempt to put me on a pony, my lord, I will not forgive the slight.” Many women rode smaller mounts, though Daphne had never been among them.

“Are you worried for your son?” Now Montmarche lowered his voice.

Daphne wasn’t tall enough to reach Sindri’s ears, but the horse lowered his head so she could attend to them properly.

“He is fifteen, which is reason enough to worry. He leaves for university in the autumn, and though the uncles allowed as how I could bring him along for this gathering, I truly do feel as if I’ve long since lost him.

He’s the titleholder, and he tries to order me about as his uncles do, but it won’t wash. ”

Montmache produced a length of carrot from his pocket and slipped it to the horse. “You refuse to be ordered about?”

“I’m his mother. I brought him into this world wet and squalling.

I knew him when he was in dresses, and I would die to keep him safe, but a view of women as servants and handmaids would have appalled his father.

It certainly appalls me. The issue is money, of course.

I control his funds until he turns twenty-five, but if the uncles can control Charles, then they can also coerce me into surrendering sums at their bidding. ”

The horse craned his neck to sniff at the earl’s pocket.

“Shameless nag.” Another lump of carrot met its fate. “I suppose the uncles prevail on the boy to plead their cases to you, and you are loath to put your son in the middle of adult arguments. How many uncles are there?”

“Three. One is kind but spineless, one is merely greedy, the third wishes to be the viscount, but will settle for being the viscount’s guardian at large for life, provided the key to the family mint goes with that office.”

Daphne did not discuss her situation with near-strangers, but something about Montmarche’s demeanor—not quite dull, but certainly self-possessed—made the topic bearable.

“And you control the wealth for another ten years?”

“My brother does in theory, but he supports my decisions in fact. Even when Charles turns twenty-five, my settlements will result in my having more wealth than Charles inherits. That horse would purr for you if he could.”

Sindri was now wiggling his lips as the earl scratched his chin.

“Don’t be fooled by a few dandified airs. He’s as sure-footed by moonlight as most horses are at high noon, and he’s never missed a distance to a fence.”

Wild rides by moonlight? But then, Montmarche would not wish for half the shire to catch him galloping neck-or-nothing as he tried to outrace grief. Moonlight for madness, daytime for being the earl.

“Charles rides well,” Daphne said. “I hope he gets that from me.”

“Papa rides well,” Sophronia called as the tortoiseshell cat skittered straight up a beam into the rafters.

Sindri spooked to the back of his stall, expression indignant.

“My brave steed is unnerved by a little feline,” Montmarche said, taking up a hay fork and serving the horse a snack. “Somebody is overdue for an outing.”

Daphne had formed the thought, I’d enjoy a good gallop , when Emma Cavanaugh came around the corner of the stable, her riding habit skirt looped about her wrist. She wore a fetching green ensemble today, and a ridiculous little top hat cocked at a ridiculous angle.

For a woman who’d borne four children, she still had a ridiculously narrow waist, too.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh, good day,” Montmarche said, bowing over her gloved hand.

“My lord, my lady, and who is this fine fellow?”

Flirtation ensued, though to his credit Sindri was having none of it. He inhaled his hay, while Mrs. Cavanaugh admired his muscular quarters, his broad shoulders, and all but asked to see his letters patent.

Montmarche made the polite replies, which was, of course, what a proper host should do.

“I’ll take Lady Sophronia back to the house with me,” Daphne said. “His lordship was just remarking that Sindri could use some exercise and the afternoon is fine, after all.”

Emma smiled graciously. “My mare is in exactly the same woeful state, my lord. Do let’s have a run together.”

The poor mare had likely been either ridden or led a significant distance daily for the past several days, but then, Emma wasn’t taking to the saddle to chase a fox.

“A short hack only,” Montmarche said. “Lady Cargill, my thanks for your time. I’ll see you at dinner.” He bowed over Daphne’s bare hand, for she’d removed her gloves, the better to pet various beasts. His grip was warm, while her fingers doubtless smelled of horse.

“Until dinner, my lord. Mrs. Cavanaugh. Have a pleasant gallop.”

His expression remained unreadable, neither genial nor forbidding. “Perhaps you’d take Sophronia back to the house by way of the small kitchen garden. The herbaceous borders show to good advantage this time of year, and the scents are pleasant.”

“I’ll show you,” Sophronia said. “The walls around the kitchen garden are six feet high, though Papa is two inches taller than that. How do the mice and bunnies get in, if the walls are so high?”

Daphne let herself be led away, while Montmarche called for his gelding to be saddled. Sophronia prattled on about the Great Fire and what if cats smoked cigars—truly, she had a prodigious imagination and an even more impressive vocabulary—until high brick walls appeared around a bend in the path.

“That’s the little kitchen garden,” Sophronia said.

“When I was small, I was allowed to play there, because the walls kept me safe. Everybody was afraid I’d wander into the maze and be lost forever .

I am my papa’s only daughter, and George is his only son.

Getting lost in the maze was not allowed, even for George. ”

And a bereaved earl with one son would of course, look to re-marry a woman young enough to bear him another, if he looked to re-marry at all.

That thought did not signify, and yet, it hurt.

Daphne had borne all the children she cared to have—bearing children was dangerous and painful beyond imagining—but did that mean she was no longer female in the eyes of even a man who was himself no longer young?

Pointless question.

“You would not have been lost forever,” Daphne said, as an acrid odor assailed her. “Your mama and papa would have come to find you. Depend upon that.”

“Something stinks,” Sophronia replied, taking Daphne by the hand, and towing her toward an arched door in the high brick wall. The child pushed the door open just as a burst of male laughter sounded from within the garden.

Daphne’s mind had just connected the stink and the laughter and the earl’s suggestion that she return home by this path when Sophronia darted through the door.

“Cigars,” the girl said. “I knew it. Did you fellows steal those from my papa, and may I try one?”