Four

 

The rest of Miss Deeping’s brothers were in the stable when they returned from their ride, clustered around a loose box. Laurence found himself the object of a battery of dark eyes when he rode in next to her, dismounted, and handed his horse over to a groom. The Deepings seemed riveted by their arrival. Laurence felt like an actor without a play to perform. Henry Deeping and his friend arrived without attracting the same sort of attention.

“Has the new stallion come?” Miss Deeping asked.

This was an effective diversion. In the babble of response, Laurence gathered that the Deepings had purchased a scion of Eclipse’s line and expected great things from this descendent of one of the ancestors of almost all Thoroughbred horses.

A resounding kick hit the wall of the loose box.

“He’s settling in,” said Stanley.

Laurence walked over to look at a magnificent chestnut stallion. He moved a little closer. The horse’s neck snaked out. Its teeth snapped together inches from his arm.

“Dexter’s not feeling at home just yet,” said Bertram.

“So I see.”

This brought the brothers’ attention back to him. “Horses don’t take to you?” asked Cecil.

“They know a man’s character,” said Bertram.

The stallion lunged and managed to bite off a scrap of Bertram’s coat sleeve. The youngest Deeping swore mildly as he jumped back.

“Dexter does seem to be a keen judge,” observed Miss Deeping.

“The Duke of Tereford may want a hunter,” said Laurence.

This got their attention and, more important, diverted it from him.

“He has no stable though, over at Lorne. It burnt down.”

“The whole place nearly went,” replied Stanley. “He’s come up to see about it?”

Laurence merely nodded. He somehow felt that the less he said the better at this moment.

“It’s about time something was done. Lorne is falling to pieces.”

“The duchess will lick it into shape,” said Miss Deeping.

“The duke, you mean,” said Bertram.

“No, Cecelia is the better manager. The duke always says so.”

Having met her, Laurence didn’t doubt it. He turned away from the ensuing discussion and went to change out of his riding gear.

And that would have been that, except the rest of the day was rather different from any in his visit so far.

First Henry, with whom he’d had very little conversation even on their ride to Lorne, invited Laurence to play billiards in the afternoon. And then Henry used the game as an opportunity to discuss various philosophical issues and how they influenced one’s outlook on life, which put Laurence off his shots. By the end of the game, which Laurence lost decisively, he felt he had been very smoothly interrogated. About what, precisely, he had no idea.

Stanley, catching up to him as they went down to dinner, said, “So Charlotte invited you on a ride?”

“Er, yes.”

“I hope she didn’t play twenty questions the whole time?”

“What?”

“She’s…inquisitive.”

“She told me about a crow. And some buried treasure.”

“It wasn’t buried,” said Stanley, as if this response was automatic.

“There actually was a treasure? I thought she must’ve been exaggerating.”

“No. Charlotte doesn’t exaggerate. She is extremely…tenacious though.”

“Like a bulldog?” Laurence said, trying for a joke.

Stanley’s startled stare told him he’d failed. Fortunately, they reached the others at this point, and Laurence was able to fade into the background.

He was not seated beside Miss Deeping for the meal, which was a relief and a disappointment. Watching her calmly cut her meat into symmetrical pieces while a heated debate about the best type of shotgun raged over her head, he found he missed her acerbic comments. He might have joined her in the drawing room after dinner, but Cecil the dandy drifted into his sights, saying, “Didn’t see you in London last season.”

“No, I didn’t go up to town.”

“Were there the year before though.”

“Yes.” Laurence had met Cecil in London, but the third Deeping brother had been very involved with his own set and had shown no interest in him.

“There wasn’t much gossip about you.”

“Me?” Laurence was startled to learn there was any. As far as he could tell, he’d made no impression at all on the haut ton.

“Beyond the old story, of course.”

“Old…”

“Your parents,” said Cecil Deeping almost apologetically. “I hear everything.”

“Do you indeed?” This day was beginning to feel very long. And less enjoyable as the hours passed.

“No need to chatter about it, of course,” the dandy added.

That was a relief. Though Laurence was also aware of a niggling desire to know exactly what had been said about their deaths. Not enough to ask, however.

“Gossip never dies entirely,” the dandy added. “I suppose it’s rather like ghosts in that.”

“Shoals of spirits lurking about human society trying to whisper their scandal into new ears,” said Laurence before he thought.

Cecil Deeping raised his quizzing glass to gaze at Laurence in apparent astonishment. “That’s a rather dreadful picture.”

Laurence could only agree and wish he’d said nothing.

The other man continued to stare at him. “Charlotte didn’t really take,” he said after a while, and seemingly out of nowhere.

“Well, I don’t suppose I did either,” replied Laurence.

This seemed to strike Cecil Deeping as a very interesting point. “You’re a bit prickly, too, are you?”

“No, I am not.” Witness the fact that he did not snatch the silly magnifier from Cecil’s fingers and break it in half. “I am the best of good fellows.”

“Are you?” The other man’s dark gaze was not foppish, however he dressed.

“I try to be.”

Cecil surveyed him, nodded, dropped the quizzing glass to dangle on its chain, and turned away. Laurence wasn’t sure whether to be offended or laugh. Neither, he decided in the end. Bland impenetrability was almost always the better choice.

Bertram Deeping simply threatened him as they headed upstairs to retire. “If you trifle with Charlotte, I will thrash you,” he declared.

This time the laugh was uppermost for Laurence. This was becoming ridiculous. Also, he couldn’t imagine anyone “trifling with” Miss Charlotte Deeping. She would cut them off at the knees. “It was simply a friendly ride,” he pointed out.

“We protect our sister.”

“You put vinegar in her tea.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

Bertram seemed to take this as both a betrayal and a portent. “If she likes you, well, that’s all there is to it. But if she does not…” He glowered.

Wondering what Bertram thought he meant by “all there is to it,” Laurence went to bed feeling almost as hunted as the neighborhood foxes.

***

As often happened when they were at home, Charlotte found Bertram in the breakfast room when she came down the next morning. The two of them tended to rise after Papa but before the other members of the household. She lifted the teapot and gave him a look. He waved a hand to indicate all was well, and she poured a cup. “You needn’t worry about Glendarvon either,” he said. “We set him straight.”

Charlotte froze in the act of reaching for a muffin. “What?”

“Turns out we all spoke to him.” Bertram seemed amused by this.

“All?”

“Henry, Stanley, Cecil. We compared notes.”

Charlotte was speechless with outraged mortification or mortified outrage. The exact percentage of the two emotions was unclear.

“You can be sure he’ll be on his best behavior after that.” Bertram looked disgustingly pleased with himself.

“You…you… You’re worse than Mama!”

“Eh? Does Mama dislike him?” He scowled. “If we’d known that…”

“No, she does not dislike him! On the contrary. She is always throwing men at me.”

“Throwing?”

“You will stay out of my affairs. All of you. Do you understand me?”

“You’re our sister. It’s our job to protect you.”

“From what? And no, it is not!”

“Yes, it is. You’re a girl.”

Charlotte grasped a muffin and launched it at Bertram. It hit him square on the nose.

“Hey!” He flailed at the missile, which had already fallen to the floor.

The Marquess of Glendarvon chose that moment to appear in the doorway. He hesitated when they turned to look at him, but then came in. Charlotte snatched another muffin from the plate and left the gentlemen to their repast.

Rushing back to her bedchamber, she fetched her cloak, bonnet, and gloves and slipped out a side door for a walk—more of a furious stomp through the garden, really—tearing at the muffin with her teeth as she moved. She contemplated the unconscionable interference of brothers, and the impossibility of investigation under these circumstances, and the unfairness of the universe, until her fuming was interrupted by the sound of hooves. If Glendarvon came charging out of the shrubbery again, he was going to get an earful.

But the horse was riderless. It was Aspen, a mare from their herd who should not be out here alone. Charlotte moved toward her. Aspen whinnied and raced back the way she’d come. Concerned, Charlotte followed.

***

Rather than join the shooting party, Laurence had taken a shotgun and headed off on his own—ostensibly to bag some rabbits but actually to avoid Deepings for a while. Miss Deeping had looked furious when she walked out of the breakfast room. Not at him, he thought. Bertram’s glower had suggested a quarrel. But some of it might have been aimed at him, left over from their last conversation. Breakfast had been a trial.

Laurence strode through the countryside, not bothering to look for rabbits, and gradually felt calm descend. The outdoors was soothing. Trees and grass and bushes rarely did anything unexpected, and they never shouted. He was about to turn back when he heard a female voice calling, “Hello? Is anyone there?” It sounded as if she’d been asking for a while.

He hurried toward the sound and found Miss Deeping lying flat on the ground slathered with mud. Her cloak lay over a bush. He ran toward her. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

A horse rushed between them. Laurence jumped back as it threatened to knock him over.

“Aspen, don’t,” cried Miss Deeping.

The horse shook her head and moved away.

“Rigel is caught in this fen,” Miss Deeping said.

Coming closer, Laurence saw that she had her arms around a foal’s neck, holding his head above a patch of mire. The rest of the little animal had sunk into it. They both looked weary. He put aside his gun and went to her.

“He can’t climb out,” she added. “And I can’t lift him from here. I have tried. I daren’t let him go to strip off so I can get into the mud.”

“Strip off?” Surely she couldn’t mean to undress?

“My skirts would drag me down,” she said, as if explaining the matter to an idiot.

“You wouldn’t really do that.”

“Of course I would.” The mare rushed up again, pounding very close. “Aspen is frantic,” said Miss Deeping.

“Can you hold her? I will pull out the foal.”

Miss Deeping nodded. Laurence shed his coat and knelt to take her place, getting a good grip on the small neck. “The mare has no halter,” he pointed out.

“She knows me.” Miss Deeping staggered to her feet; her skirts were already heavy with mud. “Aspen!”

The horse responded to her call, trotting over. Miss Deeping gripped a handful of her mane and leaned close to murmur in the animal’s ear.

Laurence bent down, put his arms around the foal’s torso, and heaved. The small animal struggled to pull his legs from the mud, almost slipping out of Laurence’s grasp. The foal’s frightened bleats made the mare neigh and dance.

The angle was no good. Laurence realized he was going to have to go in and push from below. He wondered about the depth. If he stayed right at the edge of this mud pit, he could get himself out again.

Keeping one arm around the foal’s neck, Laurence struggled to toe off his boots. Miss Deeping came over to tug at them, and together they managed. She removed his stockings as well, not seeming the least self-conscious. Laurence clawed off his neckcloth and pulled his shirt over his head. Wearing only breeches, he slipped into the cold sticky mud, sinking at once to his waist. Unfortunately, his feet found no bottom.

He wrapped both arms around the foal and lifted. The little animal kicked and wriggled. One small hoof caught Laurence’s ribs smartly. But he exerted all his considerable strength and managed to slowly raise the foal from the muck. His back emerged. Hocks, knees. Laurence heaved, feeling something pull in his back, and jerked the animal free, pivoting the little thing to lay him on his side in the long grass of the bank. This pushed Laurence deeper into the mire. Mud oozed up his chest to his neck.

The mare rushed over to nose her offspring. Laurence braced his forearms on solid ground and rested a moment.

“Give me your hand,” said Miss Deeping. She had come back to kneel above him. She reached out.

“No! That might pull you in. Keep back.”

Her arm dropped, and she retreated. Laurence took a deep breath, braced his palms on solid ground, and pushed. The mud resisted. He fought it, but not by thrashing. He knew better than that. Gripping sturdy tufts of grass, he pulled, easing his way along, bringing his legs gradually horizontal. When he was lying along the surface of the pit, he flexed his arms, slithering forward, inching his way out.

It took all his strength, but at last he was lying beside the foal, equally slathered with odiferous mud and almost equally exhausted. Or perhaps more. The foal twitched and made it to his feet, which was more than Laurence wished to do just now. The mare nuzzled her offspring protectively. The foal nosed in for a restorative meal.

Miss Deeping ripped up twists of grass and began to rub the foal down, paying no attention to her filthy gown. Laurence lay and panted.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course.” Did she imagine he could have walked away?

“I don’t understand how they got out of the paddock.”

Laurence had no answer to that.

“We’ll give him some time to rest and then walk them back.”

The foal’s whole being was concentrated on warm milk. He seemed to have no trouble standing, however. Laurence was glad to see he wouldn’t need to carry the little animal home.

The wind cut at his bare skin and soaked breeches, turning a brisk autumn day into misery. Laurence sat up. Then after a moment, he stood. Following Miss Deeping’s example, he ripped up tufts of grass and used them to wipe off the mud as best he could. Miss Deeping made a sound. He looked up at her. “Did you say something?”

“No.”

He scraped at the clumps of mud, not wanting to pull his clothes on over mud-slathered skin. He got a good deal of it. But he remained streaked with dirt from his neck to his bare feet. Starting to shiver, he sat to put on his stockings.

Pulling on his boots was unpleasantly gritty, but warmer. He stood again and donned his shirt, which clung to his damp torso. Miss Deeping came toward him, holding out her cloak. “You will need that,” Laurence said. Her gown was wet and muddy all along its front.

“Less than you do,” she replied.

Laurence shook his head, reaching for his hunting jacket. His valet was going to have a fit of despair. He pulled on the coat. Mud shifted wetly between garments. “Shall we go?”

Miss Deeping put on her cloak, pulled gloves over her muddy and no doubt icy hands, and grasped the mare’s mane again. Aspen needed little urging to turn toward home. “Rigel must have gotten out somehow.”

Rigel. Ah, that was the foal. He seemed well able to keep up with his mother. Laurence picked up his discarded gun and started off. His feet rubbed squishily in his boots.

They crossed a stretch of grass, a narrow band of trees, and a tiny stream. There was a lane on the other side. Aspen turned left of her own accord, the foal on her heels, and before too long, a gate appeared in the hedge. Miss Deeping went to open it. The Deeping place was closer than Laurence had feared.

The field on the other side was dotted with horses—older animals past their prime, Laurence observed. Miss Deeping led them across the paddock to another gate on the opposite side. There, another lane led them to a field holding mares and foals. They were spotted almost immediately. What seemed like a horde of people came running.

In the resulting babble, Laurence gathered that a new groom had left a gate half latched. Not the one they’d come through. Another. The foal had pushed through it, and his mother had gone after him. That was the predominant theory, at least. He was too cold to care much.

“Rigel needs a bath,” declared Miss Deeping, cutting through the talk. “Warm water. And Aspen could use a rubdown. Blankets.”

The group grew organized. The horses were led off. Laurence followed Miss Deeping toward the house.

“We’re very grateful,” said a voice at his side.

It was Stanley. Where had he come from? Laurence waved a dismissive hand, noting that the tips of his fingers were rather blue.

“It was lucky you were out walking together,” Stanley said in a somewhat different tone.

“We weren’t,” said Laurence. “I heard her calling for help.”

“Oh, did you?”

Was that skepticism in his tone? Laurence stopped to gaze at his friend.

Stanley blinked. “Right. You must be freezing.”

“I am, rather.”

“Your coat…”

“I hope my valet can clean it. The shirt’s a dead loss, I think.”

“You should go along and change.”

“That is my intention, Stanley.” Laurence walked on, not sorry that his voice had been rather sharp.

***

In her bedchamber, stripping off her gown, the skirts heavy with soil, Charlotte thanked the maid who brought hot water. Her mind was full of admiration for the way the marquess had behaved this morning. He’d been quick and resolute. And strong, of course. She didn’t think she could have rescued Rigel even if she had gone into the mud pit. Let alone gotten herself out. It had taken a set of powerful muscles to free the foal. And she’d gotten a full appreciation of those. The memory of him standing there in only his breeches like the statue of a Greek god, calmly stepping into the fen and then scraping at the mud afterward, warmed her far more than the steaming water.

And yet his bare feet had looked so vulnerable in the grass. The sight of them had touched her in the oddest way. She’d wanted to… She didn’t know what. But she was aware the emotion wasn’t gratitude for little Rigel’s life.

She felt that, too, of course. And Glendarvon hadn’t made a single complaint about the mud or the cold. Even when it was all over and a lamentation or two might have been understandable. He really was…something special.

“Tell the laundress I’m sorry about the mud,” she told the maid who carried away her soiled clothes.

“Yes, miss. I’m glad the little fellow is all right.”

Word had spread already. The Deeping servants took a strong interest in the breeding stock as all of them shared in the profits from the sales. “So am I,” said Charlotte.

She put on a warm wrapper and sat in front of the fire. Perhaps her mother had been right, she admitted. It was far easier to get to know a man here at home than it had been at any event of the London season.