In the distance that quickly increased between himself and the reckless rider, he could see voluminous skirts billowing around shapely ankles and small, bare feet. Her bonnet flew off and, as if released by a catapult, a cascade of copper-colored curls tumbled down. Glinting in the sun like rubies, they bounced against shapely shoulders.
A woman! The thought filled him with anticipation. And she sits a horse as well as a man! But what in blazes is she running away from? He stepped into the lane and picked up the straw hat with the pink satin ribbons that had fallen, unnoticed by its owner. As if in answer to his unspoken question, a tradesman’s cart wheeled complacently into view and its driver touched his forelock to Drake.
“By yer leave, sir,” the ancient groom spoke respectfully. “I’ll return the miss’s bonnet to her.” He held out a gnarled, callused hand.
Drake tied the bonnet to his saddle horn and mounted his chestnut stallion. “You’ll never catch up to her at that pace, old man,” he said with a grin as he urged his horse forward.
The old man’s voice rang out behind him like a challenge. “All due respects, sir! Ye’ll not be catching up to her, either! Not on that mount, nor any other!”
Drake Stoneham was a man who did not like to be challenged, because once the challenge had been set, it must be won. His pulse quickened as he dug his heels into Prince Talleyrand’s sides and leaned forward, speaking into the horse’s ear, coaxing the stallion onward.
He could scarcely believe his eyes, for his mount was fast and came of pure bloodlines. Drake had been urged more than once to race him but his interests lay elsewhere. Besides, a strong, fast horse was essential to him in his travels. It was much to his chagrin that he could come no closer than two full lengths behind the girl before she pulled away as if propelled by the wind itself. He caught up with her as she rode into the expansive yard of an imposing manor house, reined in her horse and slid gracefully from his back. Taking no heed of the footmen who came to assist her, she ran towards the rear of the house, her bare feet kicking up puffs of dust.
“What a horse,” Drake murmured, smiling with appreciation while the back of his mind whispered, What a woman! Who was so careless, he wondered, to allow such a beauty to gallop over the landscape like that, with no thought to her safety or reputation.
As he came around the side of the house, Drake had to pull Prince Talleyrand up short to keep from riding over the girl. She stood firm, her hands on trim but well-formed hips, and confronted the head groom who had stepped in front of her, blocking her way to the stables. “Tell your master that William Desmond’s granddaughter has come for the mare,” she said in a tone that would indulge no nonsense.
“Aye, Miss Cleome. She’s here,” the groom responded with a jerk of his thumb to indicate the stables behind him. “Lucky for her we got to ’em in time. If Major Domo had mated her again, she would have been done for, she would.”
“Not while there’s breath in my body!” the lovely Cleome declared, and Drake smiled, enjoying the sight of a pretty lass so ready to do battle for her horse. As the side door of the elegant mansion sprang open, she spun around to face a gentleman of at least threescore and five. He stormed across the marble patio and into the yard, heading straight toward the startled girl. Drake could tell by the set of his mouth and crimson blaze of his complexion that he was furious. Cleome’s groom and his pony cart were nowhere to be seen as yet, so Drake quickly dismounted. It appeared the enchanting equestrienne would be in need of assistance, which he would be happy to give.
“It will not be necessary to tell the master anything,” the old gentleman said gruffly. “For he is standing here before you.”
She froze, her face blanched as white as the king’s new linen. But then she took a deep breath and walked over to the gentleman with what Drake considered an admirable display of courage for one so small, and a woman at that.
“I have come for my horse,” she said stoutly.
“I’ve warned William Desmond repeatedly about that mare,” the man informed her in a pompous, nasal voice. “If it happens again, I swear I shall teach her with my own whip to mind her manners.”
“But Lord Easton,” Cleome reasoned. “Your groom has told me no harm was done. And even so, we are quite prepared to care for any result, as we did the last time.”
“My dear young woman,” his lordship snapped. “I would prefer that Major Domo save his—” here he paused a moment in deference to Cleome’s delicate sex. “Ah—save his strength for a thoroughbred.”
Color flooded Cleome’s face and anger flashed in her blue eyes and she replied quietly, “Please believe, milord, that I would prefer the same for my mare!”
It was all the footmen and groom could do to contain their mirth at such effrontery, but stifle it they did. Lord Easton’s eyebrows shot up in surprise that this slip of a girl would address him with such disrespect—and that she would also hurl such an insult upon his horse. He spluttered in vexation, at a complete loss for words.
Drake leaned against his horse, thoroughly enjoying the entertainment. The young beauty didn’t seem to need his aid after all. The door was again thrown open and manly laughter rang out behind Lord Easton and the girl. A handsome youth strode into the yard, grinning broadly. He was dressed in an elaborate riding costume and he cut a fine figure with his thin, wiry frame and his golden curls. He seemed quite as amused by the situation as Drake was.
“I say, Father,” he quipped brightly, smiling and aiming every ounce of his charm at Cleome. “It hardly seems honorable to whip a lady merely for following the dictates of nature—and, there was no rendezvous after all.” Cleome bristled at his words but he stepped up to her and caught her hand. “What? Not even a hello for me, after all these years? Why, Cleome . . . such manners!”
“Hello, Garnett,” she muttered.
“Enchante,” he murmured, bending to brush her hand with his lips. With no apology, she pulled it away from him.
“Get the damned horse!” Lord Easton barked at his groom and as the man led the errant mare into the stable yard, Easton warned Cleome anew. “I promise you, impertinent miss, that if she finds her way here unattended again, it will be the last time.”
Cleome led Molly to the edge of the lawn where the old man Drake had passed on the road was just pulling the Shetland to a halt. She quickly tied the mare to the back of the cart, and then she went to the splendid colt that had conveyed her to the Easton estate. With a slight bow, Drake held her bonnet out to her as she passed him.
“I believe this is yours, mademoiselle,” he said.
**
With a terrible shock, Cleome realized that a stranger had witnessed the entire uproar. If her Grandmamma were still alive, she would have punished Cleome severely for acting “like lowborn Liverpool trash.” A blush crept into her cheeks and heightened them to a warm glow as she looked up into smoky, hazel eyes that were thickly fringed with dark lashes and sparkling with unspent laughter.
“Thank you, sir,” she said as she took the bonnet from the tall stranger. She turned away from him and hastily replaced it, trying to restore her hair to some semblance of order. By the time she had tied the ribbons, this giant of a man was bending in front of her beside Epitome, his hands forming a stirrup; and she realized she had also lost her slippers somewhere along the way. Her blush deepened but she allowed him to help her up onto Epitome’s back; and his warm flesh cupping the naked arch of her foot inspired within her a longing such as she’d never experienced, and that she could not name.
She nodded with as much dignity as possible to the small company of gentlemen and motioned for Old Sam to follow her. He touched his brow to Lord Easton, the younger Easton and the stranger; and then he dutifully followed his mistress down the lane and into the forest.
**
“She has grown into a regular beauty, has she not?” Garnett said, looking after Cleome with undisguised longing.
“That piece of baggage is none of your business, sir,” Lord
Easton informed him curtly. “I will thank you to remember your place and allow her to keep to hers.”
“Daresay, you do not take Desmond’s place into consideration when there’s cribbage or whist going on ever there!” the young man retorted pleasantly.
“Yes . . . well. That’s different. All men are equal on the turf—and under it! Indeed, in any game of chance, if a man’s purse is sufficient to his daring. What you have in mind for that lass is considerably different, I wager.”
“’Pon my word, Father! What a low opinion you have of me. To think I would do such a comely maid any kind of dishonor!”
Lord Easton laughed at his son’s dry wit. “You, sir, are incorrigible!” he said proudly. “You think all it takes is a bit of nonsense to make me forget you were sent down from university in disgrace.”
“Disgrace? To be sent from that damnable, boring place?” Garnett countered. “They have no investigative courses on fine wine or women—and what else is there in life, after all?”
Drake cleared his throat and the two Eastons turned to face him. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I hesitate to interrupt your levity on such a lovely day but I seem to have lost my way in search of an inn.”
“How very Biblical!” Garnett exclaimed. “I say! I thought you were with Cleome and Old Sam. ‘Pears the joke is on me.” He held out his hand to Drake, who shook it heartily. “The country can become a frightful bore sometimes. You look a dashing gent who might enjoy an evening of dice or cards.”
“I’m simply looking for a clean place to lay my weary head,” was Drake’s easy response. “I’ve endured these past two nights on the hard ground.”
“You’ll want the Eagle’s Head,” Garnett replied, not the least discouraged. “It’s close by and I’d wager my best cravat that Desmond will put his birds in the arena if the bank is substantial enough.”
They introduced themselves all around and Drake noted how Lord Easton’s eyes traveled critically over his finely tailored clothes, his thoroughbred mount, his expensive leather saddle with its exquisite carvings, and finally to his hands. Though large, they were well cared for—a gentleman’s hands. The younger Easton was tall, but Drake towered over both Garnett and his father. From long experience in meeting and bettering such men, Drake knew that the uppermost thought in Lord Easton’s mind was whether or not he was to be treated with the minimum courtesy extended to any traveler who had lost his way, or as one whose company was acceptable in polite society. He realized that the laird of Easton Place was allowing him the opportunity to establish himself, but he waited for the polite inquiry he knew would come.
“What brings you to our countryside?” Lord Easton asked at last. “I do not recognize you as a neighbor, sir.”
“I hope I soon shall be,” Drake replied graciously. He explained that he was on the last leg of his journey and was hoping to find a house or lodge to let for the summer and perhaps part of the winter. As he was in the shipping business, he said at last to put Lord Easton’s doubts to rest, it was important he be situated somewhere between London and Newcastle. He would, he informed them, have dealings in both of those towns, as well as in Liverpool, at least until the gaming club he was building in London was ready.
“Oh, I say,” Garnett observed with the appropriate awe. “You’re that Mr. Stoneham.”
“You don’t mean Stoneham House?” Lord Easton was also impressed. “Why, the ton is wild with anticipation. When do you open it, sir?”
“Early in the new year, if all goes well,” Drake replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find lodging.”
“No rush, Mr. Stoneham,” Sir Laurence insisted. “Do take tea with us first. My wife would be quite put out if I let you get away before she’s met you.”
Garnett ordered the groom to see to Drake’s horse and then he and his father ushered their guest into the dining room. “After you’ve had your tea around a civilized table, I’ll take you to the Eagle’s Head myself,” the younger Easton offered. “I say! To think you have spent the night alone in the wilds with neither groom nor valet to see to your needs. I say!”
“That is precisely why I’ll accept your kind invitation, with my thanks, sir.”
Lady Elizabeth Easton joined the gentlemen at table then, and it was evident where Garnett got his blond good looks and high spirits. Much younger than her husband, Lady Easton was almost as tall, with a small waist, a voluptuous bosom and lovely features that reminded Drake of an eternally smiling china doll. She welcomed him warmly and took her place opposite Sir Laurence so that the gentlemen could be seated again.
As she poured out the tea and passed around flaky chicken pasties, fruit and cakes, she engaged in light conversation with Lord Easton. Garnett teased her by interjecting double entendres and scandalous bits of gossip at every opportunity, and she glanced lovingly at her husband whenever their son said something funny or bright. It was obvious that Lord Easton quite doted on her. While Drake was not especially flattered by the bold looks she cast at him from beneath lowering lids, he appreciated her discretion for not once did her husband or her son catch her at it. If he found lodgings nearby, he mused, he might try to see where her surreptitious flirtation would lead.
The subject of Cleome and her delinquent mare was not discussed straightaway, and Drake was content to let his hosts direct the conversation in spite of his curiosity. It was not until Garnett paid him a compliment on his own horse that Drake was inclined to bring it up.
“He is a handsome beast,” Garnett said. “Is he as fast as he looks?”
“I thought, until today, that his speed could not be equaled.”
“You found someone in the forest to race?” Lady Easton asked, beaming at Drake. “How exciting!”
“It was not intended to be a race,” Drake replied with a smile. “A young woman on horseback dropped her bonnet at my feet. I was simply trying to return it. That’s what brought me to your hospitable door, milady.”
“Upon my word!” Garnett exclaimed. “Cleome’s horse beat your own. Indeed!”
Lord Easton’s complexion took on a purple hue. “But of course, sir,” he said. “She must have had a good start over your horse. ’Tis unthinkable that the colt of a plow mare can better a thoroughbred.”
Drake shook his head. “My Prince Talleyrand closed the distance between us to only a length or so at least twice, but the colt pulled away as if chased by the devil himself. He is the fastest beast I have ever seen. Have you an idea of his age?”
“He should be . . . oh, almost two years old by now, eh, Father?” Garnett asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I’ll not have it!” the old laird spluttered, and Garnett exploded in laughter as did his mother. Lord Easton was then compelled by good manners to explain the joke to their guest by relating the history of Molly’s scandalous behavior. “But it is impossible, sir,” he finished. “Cleome’s colt could not be a racing champion.”
“Do you suppose her grandfather would consider selling him?” Drake asked as Lady Elizabeth poured him another cup of tea, leaning toward him a little more than necessary to better display her enticing bosom.
“As I understand it, Mr. Stoneham,” Sir Laurence answered, “Desmond has given the colt to his granddaughter. He’s the owner of the Eagle’s Head Inn, and it brings him a good living. Though all this talk about connecting railroads from coast to coast could change that in the next few years.” He sniffed scornfully, as if William Desmond’s affluence was a personal affront. “There’s certainly no economic necessity for him to sell the colt, and I doubt the girl would want to part with it for any sum.”
“She did seem determined to ensure the safety of the mare,” Drake replied. He warmed at the mention of Cleome, the memory of her pretty mouth, and the way her color heightened when he spoke to her.
“The best way for you to procure the colt would be a game of cribbage with old Desmond,” Garnett advised Drake. “He cannot resist the game.”
“But if the
colt belongs to the lass,” Drake began, only to be cut off by Lord Easton.
“In name only. Not by law, of course. And my son is correct. Desmond is hard put to resist a wager—of any kind.”
“I’ve often wondered how Cleome has fared since the death of her genteel Grandmamma,” mused Lady Easton, skillfully drawing their attention again.
“My dear, you should see her,” said Garnett. “She has such natural beauty. She makes those two shameless maidens at Fox Hall look ridiculous with their powders and paints.”
“I advise you to watch your tongue, Garnett,” Lord Easton spoke severely, his perturbation at his son’s continued interest in Cleome evidenced by the warning tone in his voice as well as his eloquence. “Those two shameless maidens, as you so blithely put it, are not only ladies of breeding and manners, they are the daughters of my closest friend. Sir Rudgely Foxworth has achieved the noble estate of knighthood, and he lives a decent Christian life. The mysterious man who so carelessly sired this person you praise to the heavens has never seen fit to recognize her birth. I have not forgotten why we are enjoying the unexpected pleasure of your company, sir; and I advise you to tread lightly until I come to a decision about the outcome of that disgraceful episode. Do not add to your sins by besmirching the reputation of ladies by comparing them in the same breath with that creature. I advise you further not to dwell on your somewhat less than honorable thoughts in regard to that common piece of baggage.” He paused and turned in an aside to his wife. “Her grandmother’s lineage notwithstanding,” he said and returned his attention to his errant son. “If you persist in this, you will further disgrace us, although you would have to go at it night and day to outdo yourself.”
A spark flared within Drake’s chest. He wanted to defend the girl and that surprised him. He knew nothing about her, except that she was fetching, had spirit and cared deeply for her animals—all qualities he admired. He’d never been one to condone society’s practice of condemning children for the sins of their parents. He was about to convey this thought to his host when Garnett spoke again, with a feigned air of pique.
The Lodestone Page 2
