Page 27

A s promised, Stefton appeared before Harth House every day at four o’clock.

Most days, he and Catherine rode in silence, for every time Catherine saw him dressed for riding, a wild tingling surged through her, choking words from her throat.

In retaliation, she’d whip up the anger she thought she should feel and practiced treating him with cool politeness.

When her identity became known among the ton and tongues wagged over the headlong gallop across Hyde Park, there was renewed interest in her among the young bucks.

In the clubs, they claimed her ‘a great go’ and muttered it was a deuced shame that she’d not the fortune, face, nor charm to complement her talent on horseback.

Still, speculation ran rife as to the Marquis’s continued interest in her until it was observed at the balls, soirees and routs both attended, that though he danced with her, it was always a country dance, never a waltz.

He extended the courtesy to all the Shreveton cousins and therefore did not single Catherine out for any more particular attentions than their afternoon rides.

It was also noted that Catherine Shreveton did not use any flirting wiles upon the Marquis.

She seemed to accept his limited regard with studied coolness and never pressed to further his attentions.

This did have Society puzzled. Several young ladies who desired Stefton’s notice began to wonder if perhaps failing to try to capture his regard wouldn’t be more successful than the stratagems they currently employed: bullying their male relatives for an introduction, dropping their handkerchiefs in front of him, or artfully twisting their ankles upon his doorstep.

Accordingly, some did try to pretend he didn’t exist, and his acquaintance was of no account.

Unfortunately, all that was achieved by aping what was seen as Catherine’s stratagem was the reflection on Stefton’s part that the current Season was refreshingly free of feminine devices and schemes.

The Earl of Soothcoor rapidly disabused his friend of this notion by elucidating to the stunned Marquis the nature of the new schemes.

For a long moment, Stefton was nonplussed, a condition in which, the Earl later told friends, he never remembered seeing the Marquis.

A slow smile spread across the face of the intended victim of these devious plans.

He gave a great shout of laughter and collapsed limply in his chair, continuing to laugh until his gray eyes turned into liquid silver.

This also was a condition the dour Earl had never seen grip his friend and so told his enthralled auditors.

Redoubtable Society matrons were determined to solve the mystery and descended upon the Countess of Seaverness like locusts.

That lady was equally redoubtable and held court in the drawing room with arrogant composure, even when she accidentally knocked the cane out from under doddering Lady Quillerton’s hand, spilled tea in the Honorable Mrs. Peckworth’s lap, and knocked Lady Jersey’s bonnet askew.

In hushed and quite scandalized tones, she implied that the Marquis’s interest in her niece was due to some mysterious obligation he owed Catherine’s maternal uncle.

When questioned on her niece's elegant habit and horse, she replied that she often observed that horse-mad people were wont to spend far beyond their means in getting and keeping horses.

The ladies obliged Lady Harth by nodding sagely in agreement and passed on the observation that it was a great deal too bad Miss Shreveton was squandering what tiny portion she had in a profligate manner.

Naturally, it was eventually discovered that Gwyneth was a Burke horse. Some people were awed by Catherine’s ability to ride what was obviously a high-strung creature, but most, fueled by Lady Harth’s sad comments about the spendthrift nature of the horse-mad, merely shook their heads.

Catherine was aware of the furor she was creating in the way one would be aware of bees buzzing--a nuisance, nothing more.

She was expending her energies in shoring up the walls of her masquerade, despite Gwyneth and the habit.

She was quite content to allow her aunt magnanimously to excuse it as an eccentricity of the horse-mad.

Her mind had more critical problems to mull over, like her unaccountable reaction to the Marquis, the insidious pleasure she took in their afternoon rides, and her studious endeavor to remain cool toward him.

In a move that she proudly thought of as a stroke of genius, she insisted they include Susannah and Captain Chilberlain in their afternoon outings.

She informed Stefton that she wanted to further her cousin’s romance with the dashing Captain in a fashion Lady Harth could not object to.

For herself, she saw their company as chaperonage to protect her from the uncomfortable feelings Stefton roused in her breast. Unfortunately, her scheme backfired.

Instead of company for Catherine, Susannah and her Captain always fell behind, leaving her alone again in Stefton’s company.

This circumstance caused no end of amusement for the Marquis, much to Catherine’s chagrin.

But the worst consequence of the Marquis’s attention was the interest it generated in one gentleman in particular: Sir Philip Kirkson.

He began to pay assiduous suit to Catherine, amused that good breeding prevented her from refusing to converse, if somewhat stiltedly, or refusing to dance.

To irritate Catherine further, he began to make it a habit to approach her for a dance when he knew a waltz to be next on the program.

For her part, Catherine quickly learned to be gone repairing a torn flounce at just that time.

So the game continued. Until the day the Marquis of Stefton met Raymond Dawes in the street and accompanied him back to the Burke offices.

“Relieved I am to run into you, my lord,” Dawes said heavily as he escorted his guest to the chair by the hearth. He fidgeted a moment, poking the fire and adding more lumps of coal. “Considered calling on you.”

The Marquis of Stefton drew his thick brows together and leaned forward in the chair.

He knew Raymond Dawes well enough to know it would not do to push the man for information.

He was the type to tell his story in a taciturn manner in his own good time.

Knowing that, however, did not curb Stefton’s growing sense of unease.

“Recall that day you were at Fifefield?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“And that big bay horse?”

“The one Miss Shreveton was riding? Yes, very well. I understand she schooled him.” Stefton forced himself to relax. He crossed his legs and steepled his fingertips as he listened.

“Aye,” Dawes said glumly, sitting down across from the Marquis.

“Has anything happened to the animal?”

“Sold ’m.”

“I always supposed that was your purpose,” Stefton said drily. “Don’t tell me she wanted him for herself? He is a magnificent horse, but surely no match for her black."

"No, my lord.” Dawes scratched the back of his neck and grimaced. “That’s not what has me perturbed like."

"Then what is it?” Stefton finally asked, frustrated with Dawes’s slow manner.

“Sir Philip Kirkson bought’m, my lord,” he said baldly. “Miss Catherine will not like that.”

“But surely, if he paid a good price, she should have no prejudice. Business is business.”

“Not to Miss Catherine, my lord,” Dawes said glumly.

“Ah, you’re afraid she’ll cut you up for selling one of her darlings to that wastrel,” Stefton said with a laugh.

“That’s not all, my lord.” The man looked pained. “He’s been askin’ questions.”

“Questions about what?” Stefton asked quietly, though he thought he could guess.

“Miss Catherine. Questions about how come she has a Burke horse first, then more details on her and her family. Didn’t think to hush the men. Couple known her forever. Proud of her.”

Stefton let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. “So they informed Kirkson of her being Sir Eugene’s niece and heir,” he said flatly.

“Yes, my lord. And ’bout her riding horses like a man.”

The Marquis rubbed his chin in thought. “I don’t see how he could use that information to his advantage. He couldn’t persuade her to fly to the border with him. And telling Society would serve no other purpose than to draw every gadfly in town to her door with a bunch of posies and a proposal.”

“Nother thing. Been questioning your man, too.”

The Marquis glanced sharply at Dawes, his thick black brows pulled down creating deep furrows between them. “Friarly?”

Dawes nodded. “I sent Ol’ Jack, bandy-legged man you met here, to tip his elbow with him at the tavern. Seems Kirkson’s payin’ your man. Handsomely.”

The Marquis’s eyes narrowed, his visage darkening until Dawes was moved to continue hastily.

“Tain’t what he’s said. Seems he’s to do something what ain’t done yet.”

“Really? Interesting,” the Marquis drawled dangerously. “I hope Kirkson has paid him well. He’ll need every penny when I’m through with him.”

Dawes nodded, satisfied. “Knew you’d keep our Miss Catherine safe. Told the missus. She wouldn’t listen. Wrote home tellin’ about Miss Catherine’s odd behavior."

"Damn.”

Dawes nodded again, then stared down at his large hands, absently wringing them. He grimaced. “Don’t know what will happen. Sir Eugene’s demanding an explanation. Says as how he’ll come to London himself if need be.”

“Egad, no! That’s the last thing we want. Thankfully he’s as far away as he is,” Stefton said caustically.

“Thing is, he ain’t. In Nottingham for a horse fair. Says coming here afterward.”

“He could be a worse threat than Kirkson. I like and admire Sir Eugene a great deal. Still, if he comes to town bellowing like a stuck pig and demanding explanations, the resulting scandal will severely cripple Miss Shreveton’s standing in Society!”