by Lynn Kerstan
His eyes saw right past her words, she knew as she stood there all but melting under the intensity of his regard. But she could scarcely tell him the truth. Or bear another instant of his company, even if it meant . . . well, what? When she’d had her knife, she had not been able to fend off his brother long enough to draw a breath.
Unexpectedly, he began to gather up the linens. “Have it your way, Miss Holcombe. I cannot squeeze the truth from you. But Hari will tell you I never give up, and however you twist and turn, I intend to help you.” He shoved the pile of towels into her arms. “Fide, sed cui vide.”
And then he was gone, loping toward the villa, and she stood looking after him until he was gone from sight. Robin Hood, a bow curved across his back, his black hair shining in the sunlight.
“Trust,” he had said, “but be careful whom you trust.”
Or something like that. Her Latin had never been better than adequate. And in this instance, accurate translation mattered not at all.
She trusted no one. Not her father, who kept a secret that belonged only to her, and kept it only because she wanted him to. Rather, she suspected that he knew, or had guessed. She could not be sure. Neither of them dared to broach the subject.
Never, not ever, would she trust a Keynes.
Most times, she could not even trust herself.
Michael stormed into the villa, wondering how the devil he was to find out what had happened to Miranda Holcombe without mentioning her or suggesting an interest he wasn’t supposed to have. If the gossips ever linked her name with his, scandal would be the least of her problems.
He’d got used to being stared at, and since he was dressed like a peasant and carrying a yew bow, the attention he drew wasn’t surprising. But it made things more difficult, and he spoke to no one as he went from room to room, hoping to spot something out of the ordinary.
He saw nothing.
What had he expected? A trail of blood?
In the end, there was little he could do that would not compromise Miss Holcombe or worse, put her in danger. And she hadn’t appeared to be injured, which was the most important thing. But she’d been hiding something, lying through her pretty teeth, and he hadn’t stayed alive this long without being alert to trouble.
To be sure, a female, especially a beautiful female, had troubles of a different sort than he encountered. Had some drunken lout foisted himself on her?
Probably something of the kind. He’d been often enough drunk and a lout to know where that could lead, not that he at any time imposed himself on a female. But if ever there existed a woman who made him fear his worse impulses and where they might direct him, Miranda Holcombe was the one.
Out of temper, he left the villa and set off for Beata’s stable, located two streets away because the owners of the land in between wouldn’t sell to her. She repaid them, some said, by secretly depositing manure where it would be most offensive.
Three-quarters of the people in London, he would guess, were lodged in poorer dwellings than the inhabitants of her whitewashed stable. Even the bales of straw and hay, the bags of oats, and the vehicles were better housed. The three men who widowed her must have been reincarnations of Croesus.
He was about to enter the stable when he saw David Fairfax pacing the courtyard, kitted out in a fur-caped driving coat the color of rust and carrying in his leather-gloved hand what looked to be a carriage whip. He seemed more than usually agitated.
Striding directly up to him, Michael wrenched the whip from his hand. “What’s this?”
“Only an accessory,” said David. “I wouldn’t use it. Are you looking for your brother? It’s too late, I’m afraid. When I got here, he was driving off.”
Michael froze, hand clenched around the whip handle. “Jermyn was here? What for?”
“How would I know? I was arriving, he was leaving. I didn’t see him, actually. Only the crest on the panels, and the liveried outriders, and the luggage atop the coach.”
“Which way did he go?”
David made a vague gesture. “But I didn’t see which way he turned.”
“Bloody hell.” Jermyn still in London, in spite of what he’d said at Tattersall’s. He must have been delayed. Michael swore again, this time in Arabic. An opportunity missed, and no telling how long before his brother would return. He wondered . . . Another oath. Miranda. Was Jermyn responsible for whatever had happened to her?
The thought sent him racing into the stable for his horse. It was stupid, he knew it, but he had to try. Saddle up and take one of the roads out of London on the off chance it was the same road Jermyn was traveling. He’d meant to ride anyway, to release some of the pressure building inside him.
Inside the cavernous stable, two ostlers and several young boys were attempting to secure a pair of wild-eyed grays to a vehicle that must have been designed by a madman. The lines of the—whatever it was—were sleek and pleasing, even to his critical gaze, so long as no one was expected to ride in the contraption. For one thing, the small front wheels and the enormous rear wheels were an invitation to disaster on anything but a straight paved road with no traffic. And the driver’s bench, thrust up like a mushroom cap, would be a challenge to the best of drivers.
A white-whiskered ostler, one Michael had not seen before, jumped out of the way of the grays’ flailing hooves and landed close to where he was standing. “Better move yourself, laddie,” he said, the Scots unmistakable in his pronunciation. “These beasties be a mite restless.”
They looked positively murderous. “Can you tell me how long the Duke of Tallant’s coach was here?”
“An hour, maybe less. At first look, I thought you be him come back again.”
“We’re related.” No point denying the obvious. “I’ve a message for him. Do you know where he was heading?”
“Nay. He don’t so much as look at stable hands, nor we at him.” With the help of two men, the ostler went back to harnessing the horses.
Michael watched them for a time before proceeding to the stall where Loki nickered a welcome. Both of them could use a long run in the countryside, with nothing more to do than stretch their muscles and feel the wind. Or he could chase after Jermyn—a waste of time, to be sure, but doing nothing was eating him up. Most of all, he wanted to find out what had happened to Miranda, and what she was hiding. Not much chance of that.
He stroked Loki’s neck, glanced over his shoulder, saw the carriage and restless grays being led to the stable yard. Fairfax was preparing to climb onto that idiotically high bench. Well, that settled it.
He went to the vehicle, angled his borrowed bow inside it, and swung up onto the bench. Fairfax, wide-eyed and perspiring, had a death grip on the reins. The grays, ears pricked forward, were practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Have you ever driven before?” Michael asked.
“Of course,” said David, affronted. “The phaeton is new, though. And the nags. Bought ’em at auction yesterday. The coat as well, but I bought that at Weston’s.”
“That’s good to know. Where are we going?”
“Hyde Park. I thought I’d practice while there’s not too many people there.”
“Better let’s go where there are no people at all. Or animals, or building, or trees. Or we could stay here, with the ostler holding on to the horses.”
Biting his lip, David nodded to the ostler, who gave a resigned shrug and stepped away. Immediately the carriage lurched forward and the grays set out across the brick-fenced stable yard, aiming for the gate.
“Draw them in a little,” Michael said.
“I didn’t even tell them to go.” David jerked on the reins. The grays slowed. One large head swung around to see what the fuss was about. Then they picked up speed again and pounded through the open gate.
“Left,” Michael ordered. “Go left.”
“But I want to—”
Michael reached across him and tugged gently on what he hoped were the proper reins. Without breaking stride, the horses swung to the left. “We need to get away from this traffic. See those buildings ahead? Just before we come to them, turn right.”
Fairfax managed to negotiate the tight corner, although he barely missed sideswiping a curricle in the process. The oaths of the driver followed them for a considerable distance.
They were soon past the outskirts of Chelsea and passing between fields stubbled with the remnants of barley and wheat harvests. In smaller fields, a few workers were bent double over patches of winter vegetables. The horses settled into an easy stride, choosing their own pace, ignoring their driver. They had, Michael suspected, taken his measure and figured out who was in charge.
Another turn loomed ahead, this one onto a narrow road where a sprinkle of buildings, the start of a new residential area, meant pedestrians and vehicles. He was calculating which direction to take when the carriage swerved to the left. He heard barking. A woman calling, “Willy! Willikins!”
He saw a dog the size of a rabbit streaking toward them from the field to their right. “Willikins!” It hesitated. Looked back at the woman. Still yapping, it pronked up and down in place until the woman got there and scooped the dog into her arms.
But it was too late. The horses, spooked or just in a bad mood, took off at an angle across the field to their left. When its wheels left the road, the phaeton bounced over weeds and clumps of compacted soil, rocking dangerously from side to side.
They reached the road ahead just as a pony cart piled with cabbages arrived at the same spot. Fairfax pulled on the leather to no effect. The pony had the good sense to begin a fast turn. Cabbages rolled off the cart. The grays stampeded over them, sending a flurry of pale green leaves into the air.
Then they were bolting across another wide field, thick with crows that launched themselves skyward, cawing raucously. Michael looked ahead, saw the grassy expanse of Chelsea Common, and beyond it a narrow road. More traffic, more people, and on the other side a cricket field and a tavern. He made up his mind.
The ride would be smoother when they reached the grass. About ten seconds now. “Fairfax, keep hold of the reins. But whatever happens, don’t pull on them. Don’t do anything.”
He was on his feet, calculating. One foot up on the rail. The horses went from field to grass, adjusted their stride. He caught the rhythm of it, pushed off, was airborne for a moment. It seemed longer. He landed on withers and croup, the breath thumped out of him. Startled, the horse broke stride. Regained it.
Grasping the collar, he slithered forward, dropped his legs to grip the horse’s sides with his knees, and reached his arms around the long, heaving neck. Snagged the reins on each side, just behind the bit, and began to draw them in. Nothing. He glanced up, saw the road too close, saw people looking over at the runaway horses.
He pulled again, evenly, firmly, and felt the motion under his body change. The beat of the hooves slowed. The horse to his left quickly adjusted to the changing pace. No time to stop, though, not before disaster. He brought his left hand to the horse’s neck, used his legs, his entire body to indicate the direction, and pulled on the right rein.
The grays responded with a sweeping arc to the right, its apex coming within inches of the road, then on around until they were headed back the direction they’d come. They slowed as well, to a fast trot that bounced him around for a time, and finally, as if aware the fun was over, to a walk. He slid off, got hold of the bridle, and drew them to a halt.
Silence. He took a few moments to recover his breath, stroked the damp gray neck beside him, began speaking softly to the horse in Arabic. From behind him, he heard the creak of wood and leather as David jumped down and came around from the back, maintaining a cautious distance from the horses.
“What are you saying to them?”
“That you’re a ham-handed idiot.” Michael looked over at David’s white face and unhappy eyes. “But they already knew that.”
“Yes.” David’s gaze dropped to the ground. “Will you drive back?”
“I can’t drive any better than you can. Probably not as well, which is saying something. We’ll walk. And on the way, you’ll agree to get rid of that accident trap and sell these animals to someone who can manage them.”
They set out side by side across the grass, David silent until they came to a road. “But I need them,” he said plaintively. “Or something like them. Devil take it, Michael, I’m four-and-thirty, not married, not even got a mistress, something of a fashion plate, and I’m a musician. A fellow like me requires a manly accomplishment.”
“And running down a cabbage wagon qualifies? Or should you have been let to run down something of more consequence, like a pedestrian?”
“I didn’t know I was so bad at it. Some of m’friends taught me, and they let me drive their gigs and curricles. I never had an accident before.”
“You astonish me.” Michael shook his head. “If you must put all London at risk, you’ll first lease a well-constructed curricle and a pair of peaceable horses and take lessons from an expert.”
“But that won’t do. I need something daring and dashing. Something that causes people to see me in a new way. It’s different for you. No one ever thinks . . . That is, they look at you and know what you are.”
Michael very much doubted that. “So what do they think when they look at you?”
“I’m not sure. But I have some friends, good chaps on the whole, except that they prefer the company of, well, other chaps. Not in the petticoat line, I mean.”
“And which line are you in?”
“The female one. But people might think otherwise. It’s a crime, y’know, to be otherwise.”
“Not everywhere. But yes, in England your friends are at some risk. I am sorry for it. What I can’t see is how you prove anything by swaggering around with a driving whip in your hand. People are going to think what they want to think, and nothing you do is going to prove a damn thing to them. Or is it yourself you’re trying to persuade?”
They walked a little distance in silence before David replied. “It used to be m’father, I suppose. But I’ve tried and tried, and still there’s no pleasing him. He’s got five sons that suit him, and I never will, and that’s an end to it. What I want, more than anything, is a wife and children of my own. The trouble is, the ladies all like me, but it’s the way they’d like a brother. I thought it would be different when I lost three stone and learned to control my stammering. Mostly control it. Turned out that more ladies liked me than before, but still in the same way. Sweet David. Dear David. Nice, nice David. I might as well be a lapdog.”
As a man sought out by the ladies for an altogether different reason, probably the one Fairfax longed to be sought for, Michael had never looked at things from his perspective. But it seemed to him they both ended up in the same place—alone, no prospect of marriage, and in his own case, no possibility whatever of a home and family.
It needn’t be that way for Fairfax, though. Shouldn’t be.
“Is there one of them you want, then? One whose attention you’re trying to get?”
Another silence. “Now that you ask, I have to say no, there isn’t. But if there were, she wouldn’t look twice at me. I’m a middle son in a large family that has repudiated me. I haven’t a title or a fortune or the sort of . . . of attraction you have, that makes every female turn to look at you when you pass by.”
This conversation was so unlike any he’d ever had in his life that Michael was at a loss how to proceed. He knew bloody well why women wanted him. On fewer occasions than Fairfax would suspect, he gave it to them. But beyond the excitement of a romp with a dangerous, unpredictable male, they had no use for him. Which was, of course, exactly as he wanted it to be.
“That’s not good enough. It hasn’t been, anyway.”
Michael took his wrist and lifted it. “Would you lose this hand? Risk your music? You had a lucky escape today, but disaster requires only one moment of carelessness, one mistake, one act of stupidity.” He let go of Fairfax. Remembered a dark Calcutta night, opening the door to his house. Light from a streetlamp catching a white neckcloth, gleaming off the barrel of a gun—
“Like Mira,” David said.
Michael came to full attention. “Mir . . . Miss Holcombe?”
“She had an accident with a horse. I was studying in Italy when it happened, and by the time I saw her she was well again. But she had changed a lot.”
“In what way?” Michael felt suddenly cold. “Tell me.”
“She was always horse mad. It was the first thing I knew about her. Didn’t pay her much mind back then, she being, um, five or six when I first started spending holidays at Seacrest. She was always trying to talk one of the guests into riding out with her, because Mr. Holcombe wouldn’t let her go alone. The rest is what I was told by a friend who was staying with them at the time of the accident. I did ask her about it once, but she closed up like a clam.”
David released a sigh. “On her fifteenth birthday, Mr. Holcombe gave her a prime goer for a present because she’d goaded him into buying it. The weather was bad, and I guess no one wanted to ride with her. So she sneaked out after lunch and wasn’t missed until that evening. There were lots of guests, and everybody assumed she was with somebody else. It was dark before the search was called, and morning when she was found in a ditch about twelve miles from the house. Nearly dead, she was. They said she’d been hit by a carriage. Probably the driver never saw her in the rain. The horse disappeared, and nobody ever reported finding it.”
