As Harrow sloppily attempted to climb into his saddle, Evan pretended to trip. He stumbled sideways, hefting his solid weight into his English lordship, causing the larger man to topple into the mud.
While Evan apologetically helped the drunk up and patted his shoulder, the heavy purse made its way into his pocket. “So sorry old chap, old war wound, y’know,” he said in his best posh accent.
Once Harrow was on his feet again, Evan stiffened his spine with fury and formed a fist. “Damn if I know your excuse for tripping a horse though.” With all the rage he’d bottled up behind his pleasantness, Evan plowed his rock hard fist into Harrow’s soft whiskey-filled belly.
While the Englishman spewed up his accounts, Evan ambled on to his gig. Pulling himself painfully into the seat, he spun a coin to the lad minding Wexford’s most excellent animals, and drove into the village.
Wexford Heath was a small town. Evan had heard of the wealthy English party occupying the absentee duke’s manor. English dukes representing Irishmen in Parliament irritated, but Evan had better things to do than change the world. Friends and family came first.
The earl of Wexford had been more than a father to him. Evan refused to let him go to prison because a privileged sot threw a stone. The earl’s young family had deserved a happy holiday for a change, and Harrow had deprived them of it.
Evan met Dr. Callahan in the manor’s drive. The physician lifted his hat in greeting but hurried inside while Evan dragged his tired limb from the gig and followed at a slower pace.
He admired the holly wreaths one of the servants had hung on the massive doors, but inside, the shabby salon was simply decorated in the gilding of a century ago. He wondered if they would even bother putting a candle in the window for Christmas. The duke didn’t waste coin on his Irish estate—or on his tenants or the local townspeople. Evan had come to terms with the facts of life long ago and didn’t waste resentment now. He preferred action to anger.
Cramming his cap in his coat pocket when the supercilious servant looked upon it in distaste, Evan scanned the chamber for familiar faces. Most of the gentlemen still wore the casual frock coats they’d worn to the races. The few ladies in their winter velvets and woolens perched elegantly around the fire, sipping tea—except for Miss Hoyt, of course.
He’d never quite forgotten the bluntness of the little wallflower that season. She had looked so innocent, while bluntly informing him of the prospects of every available miss in town. Her caustic commentary on the foibles of others had lured him into accepting that no one was perfect, including himself, a blessing at the time. He might have sunk into despair without her pragmatic charm to encourage him in better directions. He’d truly expected her to have married by now.
Wearing a serviceable soft wool in rich brown, her reddish-brown hair neatly coiled at her nape, Miss Hoyt hastened toward him with a smile that warmed his heart. He recognized the determination in her big brown eyes from days of old and grinned at the memory. “You do not intend to tip any ratafia over these ladies, do you?” he asked when she reached him.
“They have insulted no one, my lord,” she said. “And I was very young then. You should not remind me.”
“I saw you toss Harrow’s dashing chapeau into the mud and stomp on it. Do not tell me you have changed so drastically. Most people may believe you innocuous, but I know better. You are quite dangerous to cross.”
“As if you aren’t,” she said scornfully. “Don’t think I haven’t heard about the Irishman who dared lay Harrow flat only a little while ago. The gentlemen are still chortling. And I daresay the only reason you haven’t broken your neck racing is because you broke your leg first.”
“Let’s not put a cozy on it, shall we?” he said dryly. Her honesty was probably why he’d enjoyed talking with her all those years ago. Or complaining—he had probably done a lot of that.
She dismissed his mild protest for what it was—irrelevant. “I’ll take you to Wexford, shall I?” she asked. Gesturing at the supercilious servant who’d scorned him a moment ago, she commanded, “Fetch Lord Meath a hot toddy and serve it in the upstairs parlor. Have a maid stir the fire in there so he may warm himself.”
The woman was uncanny, reading his mind and his character all too well. Not that his racing accident was a secret, but the part about his recklessness was damned near prescient. And while the day wasn’t all that cold, the perennial damp had seeped into his knee. How did she know that?
He limped after her up the stairs. “Has Bell regained consciousness yet?”
“Not yet,” she said worriedly, lifting her long skirts enough for him to catch a glimpse of neat ankles. “But she is so very thin, she could have just passed out from hunger.”
“She feeds her younger sisters first. Wexford is a victim of a string of bad luck and bad decisions. Only the fact that his land is entailed to his title keeps them from the poor house. Winning that race would have paid his debts and given them breathing room. I don’t know what they’ll do now.”
She stopped outside a set of double doors and turned those too-perceptive brown eyes on him. “You are married then?”
Evan thought his eyebrows might meet his hairline at her directness and implication. “Have you finally located a woman of wealth and intelligence willing to marry a lame Irish viscount who possesses little more than rocky pastures, a crumbling castle, and promises? And if you’re hinting that I should marry the lass, you’re all about in your head. Bell is like a baby sister to me, and she would go into convulsions at the notion.”
“But she’s not a sister, and you don’t appear to be starving. You need an heir. It’s time to give it some thought.” Curtly, she opened one of the doors without waiting for him to do so.
Why the devil had he enjoyed her candor so much in his youth?
Miss Hoyt strutted into a parlor adorned with a marquess, an earl, and a viscount as if she were the queen herself and immediately arranged the scene to her satisfaction. “Lord Meath, perhaps you should arbitrate the discussion of how my uncle’s party may recompense Lady Isabell and her family for their losses today. I must attend the patient. If you need me to act as witness to Harrow’s stone-throwing, I stand ready.”
The devious wench had obviously planned that battle cry to stun her uncle into silence. The marquess spluttered into his whiskey while his defiant niece crossed to another set of doors and shut them behind her, leaving Evan stranded with a thunderstruck Lord Belden and a drunken Wexford.
With a shrug, Evan tossed the pouch of gold to the earl and lied. “I wagered on the stallion to drive the odds up. This was not how I was prepared to win. It’s little in comparison to your loss, I fear. What will you do if you must sell your stable?”
Wexford tried to hand the purse back. Ignoring the offer, Evan limped to the fireplace, where a maid was adding more coal and a footman handed him heated whiskey. Miss Hoyt knew how to manage a household.
She also knew how to manage men. Recovering from the lady’s direct blow, her powerful uncle now looked thoughtful. And Wexford appeared ready to slide under the table. Miss Hoyt was leaving him to bring the two together. Damn the interfering woman, but he mentally girded his loins and prepared for battle.
“Well, gentlemen,” Evan said genially, pulling up a chair near the fire to warm his leg. “Why don’t we start with horses while we wait to hear if Lady Isabell dies from a carelessly flung stone?”
Chapter 2
The physician packed his bag as he gave instructions. “Lady Isabell will need rest for at least the next twenty-four hours. The blow to her head could be a concussion. The longer she is unconscious, the worse it could be, so she must remain under observation. The wrist appears to be a simple fracture and should heal well. The bandage should not be disturbed for two weeks, at which time I’ll need to see it again.”
“Will she be able to travel to her own home if she regains consciousness?” Honora asked, more disturbed than she let on at the pale silence of the girl in the bed. Ther
e but for the Grace of God. . .
“I would wait a few days to see if infection sets in or the head swells. I’ve left something for the pain. And knowing the lady, I’d tie her up and make certain she cannot find a horse and saddle. Riding is definitely out of the question until the wrist is healed.”
Honora thought the patient scowled, but she ushered the physician out to the men and let them discuss the cost of services it was apparent that the earl could ill afford to pay.
When the door closed, she said to the young, presumably unconscious, lady, “We have plenty of beds. You may stay in this one for as long as you like. But there are gentlemen in the next room concerned about your well-being. What shall I say to them?”
The patient grimaced, then tried to push into an upright position. Sally, Honora’s maid and companion, helped her to sit against the pillows. When she was settled, Lady Isabell opened her enormous, long-lashed green eyes and regarded Honora with hostility. “Who are you?”
“Honora Hoyt, interfering nuisance, managing hen, and general factotum for my uncle, the marquess of Belden. And Lord Meath informs me you are Lady Isabell Boyle, daughter of the earl of Wexford and owner of that lovely mare.”
“How is Little Dream?” the girl asked anxiously, storm clouds rising over the unfocused brilliance of her eyes. “She’s never shied from mud before. Is she hurt?”
Feeling it unnecessary to stir the lady’s anger just yet, Honora did not correct her assumption. “We’ve not had word yet. Our main concern was for you. Your father is outside. I’m sure he’ll know whom to consult about the horse. Would you like some of the pain medication?”
She shook her head, then winced. “No, I must go to Dream. Where are my clothes?” She looked down at the long billowing night shift she wore with dismay. Since Lady Isabell was considerably taller and more slender than Honora, there had been nothing suitable for her to wear. Sally had offered her shift.
“Your. . . breeches. . . were torn, and your jacket quite filthy. We’ve sent them for cleaning and mending. Do you have a maid we can send for?” Honora suspected not, but the polite thing to do was ask.
Lady Isabell shook her head, then put her fingers to her temple, apparently to hold back the pain. “I rode here this morning. I need to go back this evening to see the girls are fed. A little dirt won’t hurt.” She closed her eyes as if in pain and whispered sadly, “I promised them plum cakes.”
Her anguish and the children’s plight tore at Honora’s heart. “You will not be riding anywhere for weeks, I fear. Your father will have to arrange for the care of the children. Would you like water or tea?” Honora didn’t know how to be soft and soothing. Brusque and efficient was the best she could manage.
“I can’t leave them alone with Dolly. She’s likely to give them chicken feed for dinner. Please, may I talk to my father? How is he faring?”
Here was someone who understood about caring for others, and suffered for the knowledge. Honora was glad she hadn’t been burdened with such emotions, or she might have curled up and died long ago. She worked hard for her security now, so that she could offer aid to others when she was able. Lady Isabell was a larger task than she’d ever tackled before, but it was Christmas, and a child with the courage of this one deserved help—or meddling, which was all she could truly offer.
Honora turned to the maid pouring water for the patient. “Sally, would you tell Lord Wexford that his daughter is awake? Then if you would, consult with the housekeeper about a seamstress who might have a bodice and skirt made up for the lady to wear for now.”
Sally dipped a curtsy, left the water on the bedside table, and departed. The earl’s daughter, on the other hand, looked mulish. “I want my riding clothes.”
“And they will be returned to you, clean and repaired, at our expense.” Honora definitely would not mention the thrown stone to this stubborn miss. Harrow barely had a feather to fly on and could scarcely recompense the family for their losses. Somehow, she would have to persuade her uncle to part with some of his dragon’s hoard for the benefit of those harmed by his execrable choice in friends.
And then she would do a little matchmaking. Lord Meath might be a trifle reckless and uncouth, but unless he had changed, she thought he was a good, brave man who needed a wife. And it was obvious Lady Isabell was young and beautiful and needed a good home. Problem solved.
Honora was rather pleased with herself, even though it stung just a little that the one eligible gentleman who had ever paid her any attention would soon belong to another. But even back when they’d met, she’d accepted that the handsome viscount was only conversing with her because his leg was hurting, and he couldn’t dance. When he’d left without a word of farewell, she’d packed away the last of her childhood fancies and faced her future like an adult. She had no illusions about love and romance now.
* * *
Comfortable by the fire where he could put up his bad leg and sip whiskey to ward off the chill of the damp manor, Evan was pleased when Lord Belden declined the offer of the supper buffet downstairs and ordered a meal brought up to the parlor. The company below might be preferable to the ugly negotiations between the marquess and the earl, but Evan was done with pretentious London society. He’d be at home now, drinking his own whiskey, if it were not for Wexford.
Well, and possibly because of Miss Hoyt, he admitted as she swept into the parlor in a flurry of ribbons and ruffles. Good sensible ribbons and ruffles, perhaps, but soft, feminine ones that enhanced those lovely curves he’d admired years ago. He’d been a fool to reject all of London when this gem enhanced every room she entered.
Bell limped in behind her, looking decidedly worn about the edges in a dowdy gown obviously not cut to fit her, with her arm bound and carried in a sling made of a silken shawl. But someone had taken the time to dress her glossy hair as he’d never seen it before. Accustomed to the little girl in braids and breeches, Evan took the time to observe the young lady his neighbor had become. Bell was a stunner, no doubt, but he wasn’t interested in gangly youth. Or in a girl who stabbed him with her eyes.
He shrugged at her distress. “I warned you about riding that mare in the race,” he said to her wordless glare. “Women have no business in a man’s world.”
Lord Belden and Wexford had politely stood at the ladies’ arrival, so Evan forced himself to do the same. He’d been too long from society and had forgotten the manners his mother had once beaten into him.
“Sit, gentlemen. Lady Isabell has been ordered to rest for the next few days, but she will not until she knows what has become of her mare. Lord Meath, perhaps you would pull up a table and chair by the fire so she may dine with us.” Miss Hoyt gestured for everyone to take the seating arrangement that existed in her head alone.
Not one to obey commands, no matter how politely made, Meath pulled a chair up next to the table Wexford was using and practically shoved Bell into it before she toppled. “Don’t be any more of a lack-wit than you’ve proved to be, Bell. Take it from one who knows.”
The earl leaned over to pat his daughter’s hand. “Jim has Little Dream. He sent word that she’s bruised her foreleg, but he thinks the ligament is sound. She’ll be fine to race in a few weeks.”
Bell wilted into the chair looking fragile and vulnerable, Evan noted. The devil child had never been fragile in her life. But the stately marquess was studying her with masculine interest, and Evan’s own inner devil emerged. The marquess had the blunt to settle Wexford’s debts with a flick of his fingers and could keep Bell and her sisters in luxury for the rest of their lives. As much as Evan hated to admit it, the man who had been the only father he knew had dug his own hole. There was no reason his daughters should be dragged down into it, not with the holidays and visions of Christmas cakes just around the corner.
“Miss Hoyt, will you join me?” Evan carried over a chair to the fire and moved another table between them—as she’d suggested he do for Bell.
She bestowed a frosty look upon him fo
r his disobedience but took the chair offered. Once he sat down, she leaned over to whisper for his ears alone. “I am quite capable of looking after myself, my lord. I had thought you might lend a hand to the young lady who has been so sorely misused this day.”
As Lord Belden solicitously asked after Bell’s well-being and offered her dishes from the tray that had been carried up, Evan leaned toward the managing Miss Hoyt. “You’re speaking of the same ill-tempered, stubborn termagant I tried to prevent from racing? Young ladies do not gear themselves as men and anger a mob of drunks by robbing them of their expectations. She brought this on herself, just as Wexford has.”
“By robbing, do you mean she was winning despite all odds?” She poured herself tea from the pot left on his table.
“In a fair and reasonable world, any race would set her up for a tumble and a loss. And this is far from a fair and reasonable world. She was playing with fire.”
“Says the man who gambled to pay his tailor.” She daintily picked up one of the sandwiches the kitchen had served.
“Blame it on the stars, if you will, but I have the gods’ own luck, and Wexford does not and never has. But he keeps on gambling and has taught Bell to do the same. The cycle must end before she breaks her neck.” He rubbed his own sore limb in sympathy for what was in store for a young girl who knew no better.
“Has Belden made an offer for the earl’s stable?” she asked demurely, apparently choosing not to argue with him on the dangers of gaming—probably because she’d already lectured him on the evil path he’d once set on.
Incomparable Lord Meath: A Rebellious Sons NOVELLA Page 2
