Quinn laughed. "You've just described my fellow sergeant, Alick, although he is not as elegant in construction."
Another horse nickered, and she walked down the row to where a black head poked over the stall door. Ianthe stopped and rested her cheek against the horse's ebony head, a long forelock almost obscuring one eye. "And this beauty is Constance."
Quinn leaned over the door and appraised the mare. Her coat gleamed in the low light like polished coal, and she looked like something from a fairy tale. "She's a beautiful lass. Is she under saddle yet?"
Ianthe plaited the thick forelock, so the mare could see. "She is only three, and I will start her ridden education soon. But look at her conformation: She's perfectly built, in proportion, and with an excellent upright shoulder for sidesaddle. On top of that, she has the most amazing, placid, and constant temperament. Hence her name."
Here, among the horses, Ianthe came alive. Pure joy danced in her gaze. Her voice held a lightness that was missing when he saw her surrounded by people. The tight set of her shoulders relaxed as she leaned her face against the mare and inhaled the unique scent.
"You sound like you have a plan for Constance." His heart swelled to see her happy with the equines, something they had in common.
Ianthe turned, a faraway smile on her lips. "I do. I want to put her to Galahad and breed outrageously expensive riding horses for the ton."
Quinn nodded his head. She was adhering to an old breeding adage for horses. "Blood over bone. He will lighten her progeny."
The smile widened, and his heart tightened at the sight. "Yes. He will add a gaiety to her movement and gift their foals with his cadence, but I hope they will have her structure and temperament."
Thoughts of producing horses stirred an idea deep in his mind. "Have you thought of breeding Galahad to produce the new thoroughbreds for racing? Quality Arab stallions are much sought after. Imagine him to a light, fast mare."
She laughed and shook her head. "You would produce something incredibly fast and probably also incredibly unreliable. I love Galahad, but he needs to be tempered by a steady mare. How would you find a jockey crazy enough to ride such an explosive animal?"
He smiled as he imagined the possibilities. It would be another way to take gold from the upper levels of society, another way to make his mark in the world. "You might be surprised. And perhaps such a fast mount would simply need the right rider—one with gentle patience, and probably a touch of a wolf's ability to roll if tumbled."
Her gaze widened, and she seemed on the point of replying when a groom appeared.
The short man seemed somewhat bow-legged after a lifetime of riding. He tugged the brim of his cap on seeing Ianthe. "Miss Wynn."
"Davie, do I have anything to ride today, or can I take Galahad out?"
"The baron wants you to display the new bay mare. He's hoping for a quick sale." He gestured down the row to a red bay with a narrow white blaze.
"Oh." Her face fell. "Saddle her up then. And we need a mount for Mr Muir."
"Would you dare entrust Galahad to me?" He had to ask. Perhaps if he and the stallion got along, he might score another point in his favour.
She narrowed her gaze. "Are you sure? He is not an easy ride."
"You think a cavalryman should have a placid mount? I think the two of us could make do with each other, and then you can feel superior that he goes so much better under your hand." He itched to ride the stallion, and longed to give him his head and see just how fleet of foot he was.
"As you wish," she murmured, but he caught a glimpse of mischief deep in her gaze. She probably thought he would end up on the ground as the horse galloped off into the distance.
"Saddle the new mare and Galahad please, Davie. Excuse me a moment, I must see the baron, since it appears he is in." She walked down the wide aisle to the office at the end. Voices rose and fell from beyond the open door. As Ianthe approached, her hand went into a hidden pocket in her skirts, and pulled forth a bundle of notes.
Quinn mulled over events as he stroked Galahad's muzzle. The stallion puffed against his hand, each male taking the measure of the other. He conversed with the horse in Gaelic, a gentle whispering under his breath as he asked for his co-operation in winning his mistress.
"He's for sale, if you're interested," the groom said as he heaved the saddle over the horse's back.
"Is he?" Quinn passed the girth under the stallion's stomach and waved a warning hand at the horse's muzzle when it looked like he would nip the groom.
The short man nodded his head as he tightened the saddle. "The baron wants his money back. This bugger's a bit of a handful. Miss Wynn is ever so upset. She's been hoping to buy him herself but hasn't come up with the cash yet."
Well, that was interesting news. Quinn asked the price, swallowed his surprise at the outrageous number, and then filed the information away. A plan swirled in the deep mist of his mind. He just needed a way to bring it to fruition.
10
Ianthe
* * *
The next morning, Ianthe trailed one hand on the banister as she took each step with a measured pace. She hated rising early, and would much rather take a leisurely breakfast in bed while she made her plans for the day. Quinn was an inconvenience that was reorganising her life, rather like a shivering puppy one finds by the roadside and takes in. Then it pees over the carpets and chews on the furniture, all the while giving soulful brown-eyed stares that pierce your heart. Ianthe tried to be vexed with him for barging into her life and putting his feet up on her bed, but one look at his chocolate gaze and warm smile, and the anger dissolved from her body.
Then she remembered that a wolf lurked under his skin. Did the Highland Wolves retain any of the man when they changed? If Quinn could shift, would she recognise his eyes and hair in the wild creature? A voice deep in her soul replied yes, she would recognise him regardless of his form. Perhaps she needed to remember he was no puppy but a fierce predator. Just one trapped in his skin, much like she was trapped by her life.
Ianthe had wanted to stretch under the blankets and take her time to wake, as was her usual ritual, but she didn't want the wolf pup shedding all over her bed. Perhaps he had learned his lesson by now? Tomorrow, she would stay in bed and see what happened. A slow tingle ran down her body as she wondered whether he would come find her again. Foolish woman. Not only was he at least five years younger than she, he had neither fortune nor title.
Quinn was a distraction she couldn't afford. Time ticked by, and each pass of the clock's hand over its face brought her closer to surrendering to Septimus. She needed to secure a rich and powerful patron who could keep her from the viscount's grasp, but who? She was woefully short of options.
The traitorous tingle down her spine seemed to write on her skin with the words she'd uttered that night at the theatre. He might have no title or fortune, but he had talent. Quinn was a man of ability. He might lack wealth now, but she suspected it was a situation he would remedy in the future. Things stirred within her—dangerous things that made her think of other possibilities and other paths that life could take. Roads Ianthe wouldn't tread alone, but with a handsome and boisterous man at her side.
The trace of mage power in her blood remained silent. No vision showed her the way or warned her from a disastrous path. Would she be more in tune with the visions if she allowed them to flow freely instead of shutting them out by drinking the tonic? If only she could be sure if he were worth risking everything for. Instead she would rely on what she knew.
She survived in her world by burying her hopes and dreams deep in the cold earth, where no one could touch them. Now, they worked their way to the surface, as though Quinn were a snake charmer calling them forth, writhing through her skin to be free.
"Young men are heartache," she whispered as she pushed open the dining room door. If she let him in, he would destroy her. Better to double-latch the gates around her heart before he stole it away.
Ianthe was holding a piece
of buttered toast in her hand when the door was flung open and rebounded off the wall. Quinn appeared as dishevelled as ever, his hair a riotous mess and his shirt open. With the linen tugged to one side, he revealed more chest than a woman should see over toast, unless they were still abed and completely naked.
"You're up," he said.
"As you see." She swapped the end of toast for her teacup and took a sip. Her glee at outwitting him in their little game dropped cold through her torso at the disappointment visible on his face. Served him right for handling Galahad so expertly the day before. The fractious stallion only reared on him twice, and Quinn didn't shift an inch in the saddle. She had thought the horse was on her side and would dump the new rider in the sand, but it turned out Quinn was an expert rider. It made her wonder what other skills he possessed.
He plastered a smile on his face and filled his plate. He sat across from her, rubbed his hands, and picked up his cutlery. His hunger staggered her, as did his enjoyment in satisfying it.
"Do all wolves have such appetites?" she asked from behind the newspaper.
"Yes, and even more so if they are changing forms on a regular basis. It seems to burn quite a bit of energy. I swear Alick eats for two, sometimes three." A sausage disappeared down his gullet.
Ianthe turned her attention back to the newspaper. No good would come of watching him and wondering if all his appetites were equally large and tackled with such gusto.
After breakfast, they crossed the hall to her parlour-turned-office-and-library. Ianthe took her seat at the desk under the window. She stared at her ledgers, hoping the numbers had changed from one day to the next. Quinn roamed the short distance of bookshelves, his long fingers caressing volumes, before he pulled out a particular tome.
A rap on the door heralded Perkins with the morning mail. As he crossed the room, he eyeballed Quinn and squinted at his new charge's hair. Quinn raised a hand, patted the mess and then dropped his gaze, looking sheepish. Ianthe suspected he had escaped his room before Perkins could make him presentable. She schooled her features to indifference at their interplay, as the butler handed over the pile of letters.
"Thank you, Perkins." She took the envelopes, slit the seal on the first with her thumbnail, and unfolded the sheet. She scanned the shaky handwriting and then dropped the letter, hoping the second contained better news.
A deep sigh left her throat as she read the next letter. Both were in response to her queries about Alice Sheppard. Neither had news. She screwed them up and tossed them to the desk. How could the woman simply disappear? Someone must know where she had gone. Even assuming the worst—that she had sickened and died—one would presume her relatives would know. Surely someone would have buried her?
Even more worrisome, no one had any news of any of Hoth's prior mistresses. Over the previous decade, half a dozen young women had simply vanished without a trace. While men and women disappeared from the streets of London all the time, these circumstances nagged at Ianthe. Six women all supposedly retired to the countryside. Why did they not write their former friends, visit, or come to town to spend Hoth's coin?
"Bad news?" Quinn asked.
"Of sorts." It worried her that no one had word of Alice, and vision of the stacked bones spooked her. Unable to trace any former mistress, Ianthe would have to go to Septimus with no advance knowledge of his proclivities. With no prior warning, it would be harder to school her responses.
"Anything I can help with?" He discarded the book and came to rest a hip on the corner of her desk.
She smiled. Sweet of him to offer, but what could a soldier, even an Unnatural one, do? A denial rose to her lips, and then she considered whom he numbered amongst his friends. Ewan Shaw was an interesting character, well known to the demi-monde. There were numerous curious rumours about the darkly handsome lieutenant. Some whispered that he might be a spy, just the sort of person who might have more luck in tracking down Alice.
But how much to disclose? Desperation drove her actions; she needed to find Alice, or any former mistress, before she had to turn her body over to Septimus. She would be sparse with the full account, mainly because her lack of care for the woman pained her. A true friend would have known what part Alice played as Hoth's mistress. A true friend would know if a sick friend had regained her health, or shuffled off this world.
Ianthe shuffled the papers on her desk and gathered her thoughts. "I'm trying to find a friend. She left her patron eight months ago and has not been seen since. There were rumours she was ill and I would know if she recovered, but I cannot find her."
He crossed his arms and seemed lost in thought, but all the while that warm gaze stayed focused on her. It amazed her how one look from him could wash comfort over her. At times she thought an infinitely ancient soul peered out through a younger lens. Did that placate her concerns about his youth? And why did it matter if he were five years younger or thirty years older?
He scratched his chin, newly shaven and without any trace of the shadow that would appear by evening. That at least would satisfy Perkins. "You have tried her family?"
"What few I know of. She has an aunt in Somerset who believes she still entertains in London. Yet those in London of our mutual acquaintance believe she returned to Somerset." And therein lay the conundrum that sent a chill down her spine. If Septimus had truly settled her in the country, why did no one know where, not even her family?
Had she died? Was Alice among the bones she saw in her vision? How many piles of bones had she seen—four, five, or six? Ianthe wished she could summon the vision on her command and take an accounting of the ribbon-wrapped parcels. She blinked and stared at her hands until she regained her mask.
"Curious. Sounds as though someone wishes to hide, rather than be found." His hand dropped from his chin to scratch his throat as he considered her words.
The action drew her gaze to his neck and the dusting of dark hairs visible under his open shirt. He really should wear a cravat; it wasn't proper to wander around in such a state of undress.
"I cannot understand it either. Unless she either recovered and wants to distance herself from her previous occupation, or perhaps did not survive the illness." Could it be that simple? For who would remark on the death of a former courtesan? Even now Alice's body could be returning to the earth in an unmarked grave.
Like her, Alice was nobody. Their slipping from this earth would not be commemorated in any newspaper. But Septimus would know. If he settled property on Alice as he claimed, it would most likely revert to his ownership on her death. He would also know where Ianthe could find Alice. But asking would alert him to the fact she wanted to find his discarded mistress.
Part of her wanted to take Quinn into her confidence. To tell him of her concerns about Hoth, what he was, and what he might have done to his mistresses. Then she remembered the young man was not her partner in life; why would he want to be burdened with the fates, or possible deaths, of a few courtesans?
Except… In her vision, the wolf fought the shadow demon. What if the sight was telling her to seek Quinn's help to uncover the truth about Hoth?
As Ianthe pondered what to do, Quinn exhibited his usual inability to sit still. He uncrossed his arms to drive his hands through his hair, ruffling it further. "One would expect the woman's family to know if she passed, for who would have buried her?"
"Do you think you could make some enquiries for me?" She had risen from her desk to pace, and stopped beside him, her gaze hopeful. She hoped he could solve the puzzle, or at least this tiny part of it. One step could lead to another. Trusting another was new to Ianthe and she needed time to become comfortable with the idea.
That broad smile lit up his face. "I know people to ask. Ewan seems to know everybody's business and he's discreet about it. I'll try him first."
She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you. Finding Alice would be a great weight off my mind."
Quinn raised her hand to his lips, and at the last moment rubbed his cheek against h
er knuckles. "It is my pleasure to be of service to you."
Ianthe drew a deep breath into her lungs and reminded herself that their time together was limited. This was day four, and there were only three days left to them. Which meant three more days after that and Perkins would show Septimus to the upstairs bedroom. Lord, she hoped Quinn found Alice first.
His thumb made lazy circles over the inside of her wrist. "I can go see Ewan now and meet you at the stables this afternoon."
"Yes. That would be lovely. I long for a gallop on Galahad. Although I am surprised, you handled him quite admirably yesterday." She watched his thumb. The gentle movement stirred heat within her, and she parted her lips. Not for the first time that week, she found herself contemplating a different world, one where Quinn was in her home every day. A world where his quiet reassurance calmed her turbulent mind, and he touched far more than her wrist.
"You do need to finish dressing first though, before you venture outdoors." Ianthe pulled away from his grasp and caught the ends of the cravat looped around his neck like a scarf.
"Horrid things," he muttered. They stood so close, his breath whispered over her hair as she tied a serviceable knot in the silk.
"Women do appreciate the sight of a man with a well-tied cravat," she murmured as she surveyed her handiwork.
"Because you like seeing us trussed up like game birds?" His smile widened.
"No. There are two reasons. One is that a sharply-dressed man is always more attractive. The other is that it makes us think of you taking it off at the end of the day. As you unwrap the cravat, our gaze stays on your throat, hands, and face. Watching strong fingers work the silken knot loose, we wonder at other uses for the length of fabric." For some reason, she had trouble breathing. Her lungs wouldn't draw in a full breath, as now all she could imagine was Quinn removing the cravat. She saw him in her mind, dragging the silk from around his neck and holding it out to her—but to bind or to be bound?
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