The Stable Master’s Daughter

by Cardon, Sara

  “Is recovering. Her aunt, Mrs. Harriet Jones, is with her now.”

  Lady Du’Breven put her hand to her chest. “We must call . . . for the doctor,” she said to her companion.

  “I have already done so,” Miles said. “Her aunt said Miss Fairchild has an occasional attack of the lungs. She will recover, though she will be exhausted afterwards.”

  Lady Du’Breven turned her full attention on him, her beady eyes narrowing in her plump face. “Lord Beauchamp, you have been . . . in my home under two hours . . . and already you are ordering people about.”

  He smiled. “I try to be of service, my lady.”

  “Bah!” She cracked a smile. “But do not go on acting as if you are lord of the manor and sending my servants to and fro once things calm.” Her eyes held mischief. “Not without consulting me.”

  She turned to the quiet woman beside her. “Miss Greystock, please find someone competent to assist Miss Fairchild to her room.”

  Miss Greystock blended in with the shadows with her pallid dress and drawn face. “Yes, your ladyship,” she whispered before slipping away.

  Lady Du’Breven turned her steel-grey eyes on him. “Let me manage the rest of this, Lord Beauchamp. Dinner begins in a quarter of an hour.”

  Miles opened his mouth to reply, but then glanced at the chapel. He would rather check on Marjorie.

  Lady Du’Breven’s lips quirked, and she nodded her approval. “Off you go.”

  He nodded and stepped into the chapel to reassure himself Marjorie was indeed well. Marjorie’s aunt, Mrs. Jones, had her arms wrapped protectively around the young woman, singing softly. The blanket was still tucked around her. He was satisfied he had thought to send a servant for the blanket so Marjorie would not catch a chill. Watching her breathe calmed him. His muscles relaxed, and he ran his fingers through his hair.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “The acute attack is over. Her breathing is coming easy now. She is just worn out.” Mrs. Jones stroked Marjorie’s riot of auburn hair. Asleep and disheveled, she looked like a barnyard kitten.

  “How may I help?” he asked quietly.

  Footsteps sounded and Lady Du’Breven led Miss Greystock and a footman into the room. “It is quite a distance to your rooms. My footman Damen can carry Miss Fairchild whenever you are ready.”

  Miles folded his arms and widened his stance. Damen was tall and dark; he looked less like a footman and more like a sleek London social climber. Miles could not help but think of a wolf and his prey.

  Miles stepped in front of Damen to block Marjorie. “That will not be necessary. I can assist Miss Fairchild to her room,” he said, heat creeping up his neck.

  Damen smirked and glanced at Lady Du’Breven for his instructions. Tension thickened the air. Reginald chose that moment to walk in.

  “What has happened? I heard some gossip but . . . Miss Fairchild.” Reginald’s face blanched. He strode across the room and kneeled beside her. “Are you well?”

  Must he wake her? Confound the man.

  Marjorie lifted her head at Reginald’s voice. She blinked slowly, her face drawn, her lips still parted to breathe. “You came.”

  An itch formed in Miles’ chest, one he could not reach. “I believe it is time to move you to your room. May I be of assistance?” Miles asked.

  Marjorie kept her focus on Reginald.

  “I will take you.” Reginald gathered Marjorie and lifted her slight frame easily. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “What a merry party this will be,” the countess crooned. The glint in her eye and mischievous smile hinted at more to her meaning. “Mrs. Jones, I will send the doctor to your niece as soon as he arrives. Miss Greystock, please show them the way through the servants’ stairs. I will send for Miss Fairchild’s abigail.” Miss Greystock obeyed at once. “Damen, we will no longer need your services here.” He nodded and left.

  Miles and the countess stood a moment in the chapel.

  Lady Du’Breven cleared her throat. “Lord Beauchamp, it has not escaped my notice that you and Miss Fairchild were alone when this happened.”

  Miles hid his alarm at her astute observation. He did not reply.

  “Well then, please chase after Miss Fairchild and her dashing rescuer. See that she and her aunt get to their rooms.”

  “Of course, your ladyship.” He bowed.

  “Keep a close eye on that one,” Lady Du’Breven said cryptically.

  Miles paused. Did she mean his brother? Surely, Lady Du’Breven did not believe he himself was interested in Marjorie. The idea was preposterous. He pressed his lips together to keep from saying something he might regret. He strode out of the room to catch up with his brother. Reginald needed looking after, but Miles had things in hand.

  Miles trailed behind the group as they followed Miss Greystock down an endless hallway. Miss Greystock was scattering something along the carpet. Rose petals. She was leaving a trail like bread crumbs to find the right room. He pressed a hand over his eyes. The romanticism was ridiculous. Numbering the rooms would make more sense.

  At Marjorie’s room, Reginald gently set her on her feet. Miles smiled at the sheen of sweat on Reginald’s forehead and knew his brother’s muscles burned after the hike. Marjorie turned her face upwards and looked at Reginald as if he rivaled the sun. Miles shifted his weight, willing Marjorie to shut the door on his brother.

  “Meet me tomorrow in the garden,” Reginald whispered, along with a few other words Miles could not hear.

  Miles suppressed a groan and clenched his fists. He had tried the direct approach with Reginald. His next intervention would need to be circumspect. As soon as Mrs. Jones shut the door, Miles strode down the hall, mashing the blasted rose petals on his march to the dining room. “Deuce take it.”

  He was sick of playing nursemaid to Reginald, always following him about and cleaning up his messes. Reginald wooed women, gambled more than his income, and worried their parents with his growing reputation for hard living. Miles would never be free to live his own life until Reginald’s life was straightened out. Prodigal or not, Miles would devote these two weeks to helping him. And if his plan failed, he would allow Reginald to face the consequences on his own.

  Miles took the winding stairs down at a quick pace, the wood banister smooth and smelling of polish. Reginald needed a wife. But Marjorie would not do. Reginald had a strong personality and needed a woman who could balance him out and bring a fortune to the marriage. Reginald could not go about planning secret meetings with Marjorie.

  An ostentatious statue was situated over the main double stairway. Miles narrowed his eyes at the figure of a man appearing as the god of Somerstone Manor, just like his brother.

  “Reginald is a scoundrel,” he spit out as if the statue were listening. Miss Winters knew that. She possessed money, willpower, and a terrifying sense of purpose when it came to Reginald. Whatever she saw of worth in his brother, he hoped she did not change her mind.

  Miles’ heart rate picked up. He needed to find out when the tryst in the garden would be. He would make sure Reginald did not show up if he was to save his brother—and his own freedom.

  5

  Clandestine Meeting

  The morning sun streaming through the window could not shed enough light on the two letters Marjorie discovered in her room after breakfast. Both letters were addressed to her and both were signed by Reginald. She traced the contrasts on the sheets of foolscap. One note stated, I will no longer be at liberty to meet you in the garden. Her heart sank upon reading it. The second said, I can scarce wait until we meet again, and, linger at the pond in the woodlands just out of doors. I am looking for a wood sprite near eleven o’clock. Her heart beat rapidly with the playful suggestion.

  But neither note referenced the other or indicated which plan was new. The differences between the two were utterly perplexing.

  “What are you puzzling over, dearest?” Aunt Harriet asked.

  Marjorie’s eyes widene
d, and she crushed the letters in an effort to hide them behind her back. “Me? I am only reading.”

  Aunt Harriet raised an eyebrow. “My, my, you look guilty.”

  Marjorie’s conscience burned hot enough she wanted to toss the letters away. Receiving a letter from a gentleman was scandalous. She knew herself incapable of covering her emotions—her feelings were as transparent as a windowpane. Marjorie preferred to savor the hope of meeting Reginald, to store it up untainted. She turned her back to her aunt and tucked the messages into her reticule. The wisest route was to confess all, but she did not want to be wise. Still, her aunt deserved the truth.

  “Reginald sent a note.”

  “I see.” Disapproval tinged the words.

  The censure Aunt Harriet wore like jewels, cut into Marjorie. She could not bring herself to say he had also sent a second note. The effort of withholding the truth seared.

  “May I see the note?”

  Marjorie froze. She wrestled with herself. She could not further condemn herself or Reginald. With jerky movements she passed the first note to her aunt. The formally worded cancellation.

  Aunt Harriet read the missive, and her posture relaxed by degrees. “It is for the best, Marjorie. I meant what I said last night. I am not comfortable with him seeking you out.” She handed the letter back and sighed. “I am not pleased he is here. He has a bad reputation, and your father works for his family. Perhaps I should write your father."

  “No,” Marjorie blurted. Her insides folded, first at the thought of disappointing her father, and then again at the possibility of being removed from Reginald. She wanted to spend time with Reginald for the simple thrill of seeing him, but she sealed her lips and delivered the lines her aunt needed to hear. Lines Marjorie had told herself only last evening. “No, that will not be necessary. I will act with caution and observe him with new eyes.”

  Aunt Harriet’s lips puckered like she tasted something sour. “You have built him up so very much.”

  Please, please do not take me away from him. Not now that he has finally noticed me. She could not plead for herself, besides shaking her head. How could she discover his intentions if her aunt kept them apart? How could she determine his character, unless she was free from her aunt’s foregone conclusions? Marjorie was more determined than ever to meet with Reginald.

  Aunt Harriet tilted her head. “Lady Du’Breven could not have known your connection to the Beauchamps. I cannot imagine she would have thrown you together if she did.” She paused, squinting in thought.

  “Well, either way, there is good news,” Marjorie said breathlessly. “Now you are no longer needed to chaperone this morning, you can tour the house.”

  Her aunt’s face brightened and she checked her timepiece. “It is a quarter to eleven. I could still join the tour. But are you sure you will be alright, dearest?”

  “I will follow Dr. Hill’s orders to rest. Young can accompany me outdoors for fresh air when the maids come to air out the room.”

  Dear Miss Young, her paid companion, was not young, but a grandmotherly woman. Young did not look up from her mending, but nodded her gray head in agreement.

  “Very well.” Aunt Harriet dropped her voice. “Just between us, I was afraid Lady Du’Breven would have Dr. Hill flogged for suggesting her home had dust.”

  Marjorie laughed. “For her sake, as well as yours, I hope the housekeeper oversees this. Lady Du’Breven is a little frightening.”

  “Nonsense. She is all bark and no bite, as they say. Well then, I am off to tour this monstrosity of a mansion.”

  After Aunt Harriet left, Marjorie retrieved the crinkled letters and paced. She feared the cancellation note was Reginald’s most recent. She wanted to go to the woodland garden, but she wavered between caution and chance, loyalty to her aunt and her own desires. A glance at the mantle clock showed she did not have much time to decide.

  Marjorie dropped her hands. There was nothing for it. She needed to be away from the stuffy interior while the maids cleaned anyway, whether Reginald came or not. And she could not bear the thought that Reginald should seek and not find her. Some decisions had to be made with the heart.

  Her pulse beat rapidly as she slipped her sketchbook inside her reticule and made her way outdoors with Young. Sunshine warmed her, and bees buzzed in the hedges as she surveyed the enormous grounds.

  Movement and shouts echoed from a peak near the open grazing land. A young woman, Miss Tabitha Easton, she remembered from their introduction yesterday, was being ushered towards the house by her brothers. They were loud and frenzied. Had there been an accident?

  “Oh,” Marjorie gasped. “Young?”

  “I see her, miss.”

  Tabitha’s riding habit was wet, but she looked unharmed. Marjorie hitched up her skirts to run back to the house. “Let me find blankets for Miss Easton and ask someone for help—”

  “Now, none of that. Let me go. I’ll be quick,” Young said as she set off for the house.

  Marjorie tugged on the ribbons of her bonnet and watched the scene. One of Tabitha’s brothers kept his arm protectively around her. Another man with them was wet and shivering as well. Tabitha’s brothers surrounded her in a safe haven of protection. Tears stung Marjorie’s eyes with a yearning to be protected and loved like Tabitha. A young maid rushed out with blankets, and the brothers wrapped Tabitha. Even with the mud, Tabitha looked as regal as a queen—her face glowed, the sun glittered off her blonde hair, and the water droplets covered her skin like gems—not to mention her entourage.

  Marjorie found a new sheet and began drawing.

  Young returned at her leisure, a hand clutching her side.

  “Thank you, Young.”

  With Young needing to recover, Marjorie did not walk far. She entered the woodland garden and wondered if she would see Reginald. Following a rock-strewn path, she could not help but search for him around every corner. Elm trees stood majestic with vines trailing down, cedars lent a crispness to the air, and oaks cast a canopy of leaves overhead. Still he did not appear. She longed for him as she always had—as a hope and as daydream.

  The garden was enchanting. She found the small pool of water Reginald had mentioned. Young took a seat on one of the two benches and began knitting as Marjorie explored. In the dappled sunlight, a blackbird perched on honeysuckle twined around a stonework wall. She chose the bench on the farther side, nearer an assortment of flowers. There was so much to absorb—pincushions of cowslips, hardy corn cockle, a drift of delicate violets, and powder-blue forget-me-nots. It was peaceful, like a Garden of Eden. If Reginald would appear, she could stay forever.

  Marjorie bent over her sketchbook, humming to herself, as she added touches to the cherished water fairy with untamed hair.

  Footsteps chaffed the gravel walkway, and a shadow fell over her, accompanied by the alluring scent of sandalwood and leather. Her fingers stilled and her heart raced. A smile broke free as she tipped her head to greet Reginald at last.

  “Oh. Lord Beauchamp.” The book fell from her lap, landing with a thwack. She scrambled to retrieve it. Wellington, the countess’ pug, scurried about and licked Marjorie. She laughed, forgetting the sketchbook for a moment, and rubbed the dog’s wriggling form.

  Lord Beauchamp dropped to one knee. “I believe Wellington is happy to have someone at his level.” He reached for the sketchbook just as she did, and their hands tangled together over its cover. He glanced up and their gazes locked and held.

  Up close, Lord Beauchamp’s eyes were a clear blue with flecks of gray. His hair was the color of dark chocolate. He and Reginald had a similar defined jaw, but his was more deeply shadowed.

  His hand tightened on hers, and he seemed to draw her closer. Wellington pressed himself onto her lap and barked. She blinked and welcomed the distraction.

  “Allow me help you to your feet.”

  Heat burned her cheeks, and her pulse throbbed as she regained her footing. “Thank you.” She took a step back and glanced down.
/>
  “Here are your letters.”

  She grasped them, startled they had fallen, and studied him from beneath her bonnet. Did he know what the letters contained? Her musings were cut short when Lord Beauchamp opened her sketchbook.

  Her mouth parted. “Give me my book,” she demanded. She winced at having addressed the heir to an earldom in such a way. “Please, my lord,” she tacked on.

  He glanced up, biting back a grin. “My apologies.”

  The weight of her book in her hands comforted her.

  “I did not mean to interrupt your repose. Please, sit.”

  Marjorie wanted to flee, but she also needed to make amends. She was grateful for his assistance during her contraction of the lungs. She could spend a few minutes with Lord Beauchamp to smooth over their disagreement. Besides, he would not stay long, since she knew he disliked her. She could outlast him through a few pleasantries.

  She glanced at Young, whose chin rested on her chest, asleep. “Is this entirely proper?”

  “We could wake her.” He glanced around. “But the name of Wellington is known far and wide. He would make an excellent chaperone.”

  Marjorie smiled at the pug in constant motion.

  Lord Beauchamp shifted his weight. She had seen him in many different lights—gracious, pleased, angry, but never . . . what? uncomfortable? ill at ease? She was intrigued by the change in his countenance. He would make a bewitching study, sketched in charcoal, with his high cheekbones, stern eyebrows, and strong jaw.

  She seated herself. If she began drawing, then maybe she would not need to help the conversation along. Lord Beauchamp sat at the end of the bench. Angling herself, she began drawing his likeness. He would likely think she was ignoring him. He need not know she was studying this new side to him and what hid beneath his severe exterior.

  6

  Devil’s Snare

  Most people enjoyed his company. He frowned. He at least thought they did. Miles tried to clear his head of this inconvenient feeling of inadequacy. “Are you quite recovered from yesterday?”