Octavius was nearly to the turnoff for Huntinghurst when he spotted two mounts heading in his direction. Slowing Poseidon to a canter, he watched as the two riders made the same turn he would be making in another few hundred yards.
Isabella, he realized, with another woman. He watched as they continued, apparently unaware of his approach. Both rode with practiced ease, their backs straight and the skirts of their riding habits spread in perfect arcs along one side of their mounts.
Poseidon reared his head, apparently unhappy with the slower pace. “Settle down, you beast,” Octavius murmured as they made the turn. The women were already around the next bend, but Poseidon soon had them back in sight just as the two mounts stopped in front of Huntinghurst. He could hear the women chatting as they slowed their mounts.
“Hello!” Octavius called out, Poseidon cantering until he was nearly abreast of the women. Octavius pulled him to a halt.
The older woman seemed surprised at his sudden appearance, and not in a good way. Then Isabella’s face lit up with a brilliant smile. “Your Grace!” she called out, halting her horse.
“Your Grace?” Constance repeated in a hoarse whisper meant only for Isabella to hear as she halted her own horse next to Isabella’s mount. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, not at all prepared to meet the Duke of Huntington.
Octavius was quick to dismount and hurry over to the women. “Allow me,” he said as he placed his hands at Isabella’s waist and lowered her to the ground.
“It’s so good to see you, Your Grace,” she said as she stood on tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. When she stepped back, she dipped a curtsy and said, “Your Grace, Duke of Huntington, I wish to introduce you to my new friend, Miss Fitzwilliam.”
Octavius was sure his face reddened at Isabella’s greeting—he was never kissed on the cheek by anyone but his mother—but he was quick to let go of her and move to the other horse. The duke tipped his top hat, thinking Isabella’s new friend seemed familiar. “Good afternoon,” he said as he reached up to Constance’s waist.
“Your Grace,” she said with a nod as she held her crop in one hand and placed her other hand on his shoulder before he lowered her to the ground.
“Miss Fitzwilliam sees to Fair Downs on behalf of Lord Norwick,” Isabella said. “She is gracious enough to make the trip to Huntinghurst so that we might ride together two times each week,” she added, just then noting that the duke hadn’t been out for a pleasure ride. His boots displayed a layer of dirt, as did his top coat, that suggested a much longer journey.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Your Grace,” Constance said as she dipped a curtsy.
“You must be Norwick’s cousin,” Octavius commented as he offered an arm to her. “Poor thing,” he added with a teasing grin.
A bit tongue-tied, Constance merely nodded and finally placed a hand on his arm, noting how Isabella had already helped herself to his other arm. The three made their way toward the front door.
“From where did you ride, Your Grace?” Isabella wondered, her attention going to the side of the house where George, the stableboy, was racing out to see to the horses. He had parked Constance’s gig at the end of the drive and had unhitched her draft horse earlier that morning.
“London, in fact. Please excuse my appearance. I intended to ride in the coach for part of the trip, but my mount seemed up to making the entire trip at a near gallop.”
“All that way?” Constance remarked in disbelief. She was about to say something about how saddle sore he must be, but thought better of it.
“Indeed. Poseidon has been most restless of late.”
Isabella angled her head in his direction. “’Tis the season, Your Grace,” she murmured with a smirk.
Frowning, Octavius was about to ask what she meant when George let out a shout. The duke turned around and cursed, his body tensed to move quickly.
The two women whirled around, their attention going to Poseidon. The stallion had mounted Constance’s horse, and although the mare didn’t seem particularly bothered, Constance let out a cry of shock.
“Christ!” Octavius said under his breath. “Forgive my curse,” he managed then, his head shaking from side to side.
Although she had paid witness to horses mating in the past, Isabella inhaled sharply at seeing the huge beast atop the Thoroughbred bay Constance had brought from Fair Downs. “Oh, Connie, I do hope you didn’t have breeding plans for Amasia this season,” she murmured as she watched George lead her own mount away from the other two horses.
“I didn’t have a stud in mind for her at all,” the older woman replied, her breaths coming in short gasps. She seemed on the verge of tears.
Octavius turned to regard her, his brows furrowing. “Poseidon has an exceptional lineage,” he stated, his words suggesting he was offended by her manner.
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Constance replied with a shake of her head. “He’s a magnificent beast, Your Grace. Perfect composition. Excellent head shape and wide-spaced eyes. Long legs, high withers, deep chest. Seventeen hands tall. Maybe more,” she said as she continued to watch the horses.
Rather stunned to hear her recitation of his horse’s perfect features, Octavius turned to regard her. “So, what, pray tell, is at issue, my lady?”
Constance lifted her gaze to him and gave a slight shrug. “I’m quite sure I cannot begin to afford the stud fee,” she said with a sigh.
At first rather surprised by her comment, Octavius finally allowed a grin. And then he chuckled, which had Isabella turning to regard him with a tentative grin. “Let us agree this one time is gratis,” he announced with a nod. He allowed a sigh before he realized the two young women were watching horses mate. “Why don’t we go inside for some refreshment?” he suggested, rather embarrassed to have two women flanking him as they watched his horse have its way with the smaller Thoroughbred.
“Peters said he would see to tea and cakes in the parlor,” Isabella replied.
After a quick glance in George’s direction, and seeing that the head groom had joined the young stableboy to help with the horses, Octavius once again offered his arms to the young ladies. “Let’s try this again,” he said as they made their way into the house.
About to excuse herself and claim she needed to get back to Fair Downs, Constance realized it might be some time before Amasia would be available to leave.
Settling herself into her usual chair in the parlor, Constance watched as both the duke and Isabella seemed rather tentative with one another. She had paid witness to Isabella kissing the duke’s cheek, but as his ward, she supposed it was a proper greeting. That he didn’t return the greeting the same way had her wondering, though.
“I do hope you get to stay a few days,” Isabella said as she poured tea. She added milk and sugar before offering the cup and saucer to Constance.
Octavius angled his head to one side. “Just a day or so,” he replied. “Parliament is still in session. But I’ve news from... from the Earl of Heath,” he hedged, wondering if she had shared her reason for being at Huntinghurst with Constance.
If she suspected the news was truly news about her mother, Isabella didn’t show it in how she responded. She handed him a cup of tea and was about to ask, “And how is my uncle...?” when she realized the query would tie her in a familial way to the earl. “How is Lord Heath these days?” she asked instead.
Taking a sip of the tea, his eyes widening at how sweet she had made it, Octavius dared a glance at their guest. “Heath is rather happy his daughter is finally going to marry.” His news was far more serious, but he didn’t dare bring up the matter of Craythorne’s letter to Isabella’s uncle in front of Constance Fitzwilliam.
Isabella allowed a brilliant grin. “I rather imagine Lady Clarinda is of the same mind.” She turned her attention to Constance. “Your cousin will be most fortunate to marry her,” she said, sotto voce, her face lighting up in delight as she said the comment.
Octavius blinked, and not because of
what she said but rather how she said it. How her face lit up. How genuine she seemed with her enthusiasm.
Had Jane ever shown such delight when relating happy news? Perhaps she had never had such happy news to share, he considered.
“I am glad for them both, but I must admit to a bit of surprise that Lady Clarinda was still agreeable to the match given Norwick missed his deadline,” Constance replied.
“Me as well,” Octavius agreed, rather surprised the woman knew about that particular clause of the betrothal contract. “They plan to wed in a couple of weeks, but they won’t go on their wedding trip until after Parliament ends in July.”
“I hear tell Lady Clarinda wishes to see Italy,” Constance said, not about to mention Simmons had read that particular item in the latest issue of The Tattler. “Will you attend the wedding?” Constance asked, her query directed to Isabella.
The younger woman shook her head. “Oh, no. There was a death in her family recently, so I’m quite sure Clare would prefer they be married in a small, private ceremony.”
So, she hasn’t shared too much, Octavius realized, although he winced at her use of Lady Clarinda’s nickname. “I’ve a mind to go just to be sure Norwick actually says his vows,” he teased. He regarded Constance for a moment, wondering at her age and her circumstances. Surely if she wanted to marry, there would be an eligible bachelor somewhere around Chichester willing to have her. She was a handsome woman, her dark hair wound into a top knot from which a riot of curls erupted. Her fitted riding habit promised a pleasing figure beneath. And if she was as accomplished a horsewoman as Norwick suggested, then surely a man could appreciate her skills with a horse.
Well, some would. Not all men had an appreciation for horseflesh.
“I really should be taking my leave,” Constance said suddenly, her attention on the Rococo clock on the mantle. “I had no idea it was so late.”
The duke stood up, affording a bow to her deep curtsy. “Do you have an escort, Miss Fitzwilliam?” he asked with some concern.
“My lady’s maid, of course,” she replied with a nod.
“Very good. I look forward to your next visit,” Octavius said as he took her gloved hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles.
A bit surprised by the gesture, Constance gave a nod. “It’s kind of you to host me, Your Grace.” She decided it best not to say anything about Amasia.
Isabella joined her, giving the duke a curtsy. “I’ll see Miss Fitzwilliam to her gig and return in a moment,” she said to the duke. At Octavius’ nod of acknowledgement, Isabella escorted Constance, arm-in-arm, to the front door. “I do hope you’re not too terribly vexed about what happened with Poseidon,” she said in a quiet voice, just before she directed a footman to see to summoning Simmons from the servants’ dining room. “If she should carry his foal, it will be magnificent.”
Constance leaned in and gave a wink. “I’m counting on it.”
And with that, Constance Fitzwilliam took her leave of Huntinghurst.
Isabella turned to head back to the parlor, hoping the duke was still there. She knew he intended to tell her something about her uncle, but he obviously couldn’t given her visitor. About to make her way up the stairs, she stopped when she realized he was descending them. “Your Grace,” she said as she dipped a curtsy.
“In my study,” he stated, his manner most severe.
Stunned by his curt words, Isabella hurried to keep up, pausing on the threshold of the dark paneled room. “What is it?” she asked in a whisper.
He gestured to the chair in front of a massive oak desk. “Shut the door.”
Isabella did as she was told, gingerly taking a seat in front of the desk as if she expected an inquisition to take place. “What’s wrong, Your Grace?”
“What does Miss Fitzwilliam know? About you? About your circumstance?”
Relaxing a bit, Isabella realized he was only worried about how much Constance knew. “Lord Norwick asked that she befriend me. She knows he’s to marry Lady Clarinda, of course, but she doesn’t know I am related to Clare. She thinks me an orphan.”
Octavius regarded her for a long time before he finally allowed a sigh. “You’re quite sure she doesn’t know more than that?”
Furrowing her brows, Isabella gave her head a shake. “If she does, it’s because Lord Norwick told her. We only speak of horses.”
He arched a brow at the claim. “You spend hours in her company, riding horses, and you only speak of horses?” he asked in disbelief.
Isabella wondered at the disbelief in his voice. “Yes. Well, we did talk a bit about the latest issue of The Tattler. But I’m not familiar with the subjects of the articles, so it’s really of no interest to me.”
Octavius blinked. Even the men at White’s and Brooks’s took an interest in The Tattler, London’s premiere gossip rag. Perhaps Isabella was still too young to involve herself in gossip. “I’ve come because your uncle received a letter from Craythorne.”
Isabella stiffened and held her head up. “And?”
The duke sighed. “He described a scene in which Lady Craythorne fell and hit her head on some furniture. Claims she was dead before she hit the floor.” He watched Isabella carefully, gauging her reaction and not a bit surprised at how she jerked in response to his callous words.
“His hands were around her neck,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Did you see... did you see any blood? From a gash? A wound to her head? Any evidence at all of her having hit her head?”
Isabella shook her head back and forth and continued to do so as she said, “No. No. No. He was strangling her. He had his hands around the base of her neck, and he was yelling at her and shaking her.”
Octavius held up a staying hand. “Lord Norwick will be paying another visit to Craythorne Castle. He intends to discover the truth for himself, even if he has to interview those that saw to your mother’s body. At some point, the truth of the matter will revealed,” he assured her.
He didn’t tell her Norwick had already attempted to speak with Craythorne. The letter in Heath’s possession and news from the man he had sent to investigate only confirmed what Norwick had reported—the bereft Craythorne had left the castle. What neither knew was that Craythorne was sequestered in a cottage near the coast, and Octavius only knew that because of what he had overheard a driver say whilst he ate his luncheon at The Angel. No one had seen the man since the day of Arabella’s funeral.
A single tear made its way down Isabella’s cheek. “Thank you, Your Grace. I do appreciate you having made the trip to tell me in person,” she managed to say without a sob interrupting her.
“How are you getting on otherwise?”
Straightening in the chair, Isabella allowed a nod. “Very fine, I think. It helps to spend time in your stables. I simply adore your horses.”
Octavius gave a start as to how she said the last words. He had never wondered what it might be like to be adored by someone. To be held in such esteem as to have someone speaking in glowing terms and displaying an expression of obvious appreciation as Isabella was doing this instant.
Had Jane adored him? Octavius furrowed his brows, thinking her affection far more than simple adoration.
At least, he hoped it had been.
“As long as you don’t spoil them rotten,” he finally replied.
Isabella blinked. “Oh, besides an apple now and then, they shall only have my attention,” she claimed with a shake of her head.
They’ll be spoiled for certain, the duke thought with a sigh.
Chapter 17
A Wedding Breakfast
Late June, 1813
For an affair that was to have been on the intimate end of the social spectrum, David Fitzwilliam was rather surprised at the number of guests that assembled in Stockton House for the breakfast following his wedding to Lady Clarinda.
“How does it feel to be leg-shackled?” Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, asked as he helped himself to a glass of champagne from a foot
man’s tray.
David regarded his fellow earl for a moment and nearly rolled his eyes. The older earl had managed to avoid marriage, opting instead to escort a different widow every Season to the various events. A quick glance around the parlor didn’t reveal a woman that fit the bill, though. “How does it feel to be the last of us to be a bachelor?” David countered with an arched eyebrow.
Milton straightened and seemed to give the question some thought before saying, “Like I’ve won some kind of contest, and I’m just waiting for my prize.”
Giving the Earl of Torrington a quelling glance, David downed the rest of his champagne. “A larger bank account is your prize,” he murmured. “I fear mine is about to be drained when I begin receiving the bill’s for my wife’s modiste.”
Frowning, Milton leaned in closer. “Now see here, Norwick. You’re speaking of my very first goddaughter, and I’ll have you know she’s not a typical spoiled chit,” he admonished the younger earl. “Heath wouldn’t have allowed it. Besides, she came with a rather large dowry that should see you quite flush, probably for the rest of your life. That is, unless you’re planning to take up gambling.”
David shook his head. “I am not. But I am rather glad O’Leary took over the gaming hell, even if I let him have it at a steep discount. An agent has seen to the sale of the property that housed The Elegant Courtesan—”
“Which will be sorely missed,” Milton interrupted.
“And Lord Pettigrew has taken one of the girls as his mistress. He needed a townhouse for her, and I just happened to have one to let,” he said with an arched brow. “So the sting of losing my cash flow is not so great.”
Lord Torrington rolled his eyes. “You’ll appreciate having more time to spend at your club. Time at home with Clare. She adores you.”
David swallowed, thinking of how many times he wished his brother had objected during the reading of the banns, or had simply stepped in and taken his place at the altar. Despite his need to be married, he still wasn’t sure he wanted to be married.
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