“I’ll be fine with a little rain.” Frozen rain, more like.
“I’m sure you will.” She slid from her mount and marched over to him, lips pierced with purpose. “But I won’t, because then I’ll worry about you. So let’s ride back together.”
“Ride together?” And his thoughts plummeted to holding her in his arms again. He shook his head. “I don’t think that would leave the best impression with your sister.”
Grace glanced back to the house, her teeth nibbling at her bottom lip. He could almost see her mind working up a solution. She liked solving things, which could be either an asset…or utterly terrifying. “We’ll take the forest trail all the way to the stables.” She tipped a smile over her shoulder. “Besides, why would she ever be jealous of me?”
The poor girl really didn’t see herself as viable competition at all, but with a kiss between them, her presence took up much more residence in his thoughts than it ought. No, she wasn’t as exquisite as her elder sister, but there was a prettiness about her, an intelligence in her expression—and those eyes? They nearly sparkled with, well, he wasn’t certain, but whatever it was, it drew him toward her.
She moved to assist him onto the horse.
“I can mount on my own, Miss Ferguson.” He growled out the words. The very idea of her pushing on any part of his person in assistance made him want to attempt to hop all the way to the house on one leg in escape. He gentled his voice. “If you’ll bring the horse around.”
Gritting his teeth to keep from moaning, he placed the weight on his good leg and slung the painful one over the horse. He gave his throbbing ankle time to settle by adjusting himself in the saddle, and then he turned to his companion, offering his hand. She grinned up at him with such unfurled joy, his lips responded quite helplessly.
With a firm tug, he brought her up to sit in front of him. Wafts of rosemary and mint hinted from her hair, and he almost leaned into the scent, but that meant he’d squeeze even closer to her, and the intimacy of their situation was already nigh unbearable.
“Would you like to take the reins or”—her light voice flittered on the breeze—“I can take the reins and you can…um…hold on to me.”
The very idea of putting his arms around her small waist had him nearly inching off the backside of the horse. “I’ll take the reins.”
She sighed, keeping hold of them as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Miss Grace?”
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Her body straightened, and she turned just enough for him to see her profile, handing him the reins. “I was quite distracted by your wonderful scent of amber.”
He squeezed his eyes closed. The girl’s directness was positively maddening. With a forced swallow and a deep breath, his arms hemmed her in on either side as she relaxed back against him.
“Ah. Now we’re snug.” Her pitch slid up an octave, hiding nothing.
His throat nearly sealed altogether as the full fragrance of her hair assaulted his senses. All the world conspired against his good intentions.
He pinched his eyes closed, a laugh waiting to explode from the entire ridiculousness of the scene. After playing the social game for so long, Grace’s evident inability to do so offered a comical, and somewhat disconcerting, change.
They followed a trail through the wood, trees filtering morning light across the path ahead as they moved in silence. The tickle of laughter waited, itching for release, until Frederick forced dialogue into the still-ness. “I suppose you were afraid you’d lose the bet, so you compromised with this decision.”
She shook her head sending more mint his way. “I couldn’t lose.”
“You couldn’t lose?” The woman was baffling. “And why is that?”
“I have no pockets, thus no pocket money.” Her laugh lilted, as if at home in this morning wonderland as any fairy’s.
“That isn’t quite fair, Miss Grace.”
Her shoulders slumped from the truth, and his grin teased for release. “You’re right, and I considered what I could give you if you won.” She turned slightly, lips tipped. “Which you wouldn’t have, because I’m a very good rider.”
Watching her glide across the countryside confirmed it. She might even best him. His grin won. What a fun competition it would be to race her!
He shook the vision from his head. “In the instance you’d lost, what would you have offered?”
“Well, I was going to offer a chaste kiss.” Her smile slid wide from her profile. “But that seemed fairly anticlimactic after last night.”
He grunted a response and pulled his attention away from her lips and toward the path ahead. Five years ago, he’d have been her equal in lively sparring and hopeful optimism, but too many losses and betrayals marred his vision.
“Ever since our book discussion last evening, I’ve been curious about what you enjoy reading, Lord Astley.”
His gaze dropped to her hair as it spilled over his arms in an unruly and fascinating way. He cleared his throat and attempted to distract his wayward musings.
“Oh wait. Let me guess.” She sat a little taller, quite proud of herself. He could almost envision the pixie glint in those eyes.
“Biographies?”
His brow twitched. “I do enjoy a good biography.”
“And histories, I should think.”
His smile faded. “Occasionally.”
“Occasionally?” She snorted her laugh and then covered her mouth with one hand. “Come now, what else? Landscaping? Geography?”
Yes and yes. His grimace deepened. He was much too predictable, but then he knew how to tempt her. “Actually, I’ve discovered a particular interest in adventure stories of late, and mysteries.”
Her gasp of delight hit him square in the chest. He’d surprised her. Why did that feel so pleasant? “Fiction?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo and King Solomon’s Mines, anything by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
She nearly turned all the way around in the saddle, eyes dancing. “The Count of Monte Cristo was fabulous but horribly sad, and I’ve never read King Solomon’s Mines, but I’ve heard it’s positively delightful. And Sherlock?” She turned back around and giggled. “Oh, I’m so glad you read fiction too. That makes you even more interesting.”
And unfortunately, with every conversation she too became more so. Lord, help him! Gracelynn Ferguson didn’t come with the dowry to save Havensbrooke. Lillias Ferguson did—and she was his future bride.
He needed to confirm his mental assessment with a strong enough kiss to wipe the memory of Grace’s from his mind…before he lost all sense and kissed the wrong sister again.
“Lord Astley!”
The call came from ahead on the trail. A boy, one of the stable hands, dashed toward them with Elliott at the lad’s heels. Frederick straightened to alert. He’d never seen his valet move so quickly in all the years he’d known him.
“You…you”—Elliott paused to bend at the waist, panting—“are all right, sir?”
“He has a hurt ankle,” Grace replied before he could respond.
“The horse came back without you, sir.” The boy rushed forward, barely getting the words out between breaths. “And your saddle. I didn’t know, sir. You have to believe me. I didn’t know about what happened to your saddle.”
“Know?” Frederick looked from the boy back to Elliott. “My saddle?”
“Sir, it seems your saddle was not in the best condition for riding.” Elliott tipped his head toward Grace, brow raised in question.
Heat seeped from Frederick’s face. “Ah, I see.” He shifted his hold on Grace’s waist. “Elliott, would you mind escorting Miss Grace to the house while I return her horse to the stables? I’m certain she’d like to get out of the chill.”
“Escort me to the—” She turned on him, ginger hair flying around her shoulders as she did. “I think I’d like to know what is going on.” Those intelligent eyes examined each face before landing on the weakest link. “Cam, what were you saying ab
out the saddle?”
“That’s right, Miss Grace. The saddle. If I’d knowed it was—”
“Come now, Miss Grace.” Frederick held Elliott’s gaze, and his valet took the hint, stepping to the side of the horse just as Frederick lifted her from the seat. With Elliot’s help, she was on the ground before she could protest. “The house will be awake soon enough, and Miss Grace will be missed.”
She turned back toward him, rebel brow raised in challenge, pink lips set. “You’re the guest of honor, my lord. Perhaps you should go on to the house, have your ankle tended, and I can see to this mess about your saddle.”
“Very thoughtful of you.” How could he possibly be fighting a smile? “But I believe this situation requires my immediate attention, and I’d prefer you find your way safely back to the house. I feel certain your sister would agree.”
“My sister? Of course.” She shot Frederick an impressive, though powerless, glare before slipping her arm through Elliott’s and pushing on a smile that resembled nothing like the genuine ones he’d seen before. “Lead the way, dear Elliott. What would a young woman know of saddles and mysteries after all?”
“No one said anything about mysteries, miss,” Elliott replied with a gentle smile.
She sent a look over her shoulder at Lord Astley, their gazes meeting in an unspoken battle. “Of course not, Elliott,” she said, her voice hiding nothing as Frederick rode the horse past her. “No mysteries at all.”
Chapter Six
Dismissed? Grace pinched her arm more tightly around the perfectly pos-tured valet as they finished their walk up the trail. If she hadn’t liked Lord Astley so much, she’d have been tempted to think very bad thoughts about him. Thoughts of Gothic horror proportions. But he really was much too nice for Gothic horror. Perhaps murder mystery? Her grin tipped. Yes. He could be the handsome inspector who was always proven wrong by the lady detective.
She sighed in resignation. Oh well, not always proven wrong. She did want the inspector to have some wits about him. It made for a much more balanced story.
But in all honesty, why did everyone think she couldn’t manage distressing news? With the amount of fiction she consumed, she would likely be the least shocked of anyone.
Something was amiss. Something about the saddle and Lord Astley’s fall.
The tingling of a mystery pricked at her scalp, even as she was relegated to safety in the house. Ridiculous men! She had to learn the truth.
“I do hope Lord Astley’s ankle is quickly mended.” She glanced in her periphery at the valet, who seemed much too young and handsome for his job. Why had she supposed English valets were old and disgruntled as a rule?
“It was fortunate you were out early enough to find him so quickly.”
Best create friendly dialogue to throw the good valet off her sleuthing scent. “Well, it’s the only time I can ride astride without offending half of the women at the house party and unnerving half the men. You know, it really doesn’t make sense to get ourselves nearly killed for some ill-placed sense of propriety. I feel certain you wouldn’t want to ride sidesaddle if you were a woman, would you, Elliott?”
He kept his gaze appropriately diverted, but his lips pinched in the strangest way. “I really can’t give an informed opinion on the matter, miss.”
“No, I suppose you can’t.” Grace’s laugh bubbled out. “But what a valiant attempt you’re making at not being horrified by my question. I can already tell you are the excellent sort.”
“I should like to think so, miss.”
A little chink in his well-honed demeanor teased her curiosity. “You know I’m to escort my sister to England after the wedding, don’t you?”
“Indeed, miss.”
“As you can imagine, I have little to no idea of how to behave in an English country house with a sister who will be lady of the manor.”
He dipped his head again, looking unsure how to respond. “It is a change, miss.”
“I’d be ever so grateful for your guidance in any way you see I might unwittingly embarrass Lord Astley or his mother, or…well, the entire household. Because to be perfectly candid, Elliott, I’m well aware enough of my defects to know that my good intentions rarely show how good they are in public.”
Both his brows rose to his hairline.
“In all honesty”—she lowered her voice, as if anyone were near enough to hear—“they’re no good in private either, but fewer people witness the horrid effects.”
He pinched his lips into almost a smile. “I shall endeavor to do what I can, miss.
“Thank you. I’ll feel such relief knowing I have a friend on the inside of Havensbrooke.”
The man cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Miss Grace, but Lord Astley will be there for you and your sister. He isn’t one of the usual sorts to go off clubbing and on hunting parties, as is want of most of the gentry. He means to take good care of his estate and tenants, as his grandfather before him.”
Oh! Did Elliott believe she and Lord Astley might become friends? Her finger trailed to her smile, reliving a rather decadent moment of mistaken identity. She blinked away from the thought. Good heavens! “I’m glad to hear it, Elliott, for I should like to be friends with Lord Astley, for my sister’s sake if nothing else.”
The sound of voices up ahead as they approached the stables turned her mind back to the mystery at hand. Her thoughts spun through what she knew. She slid another glance to the good valet at her side—now more relaxed than before—and dared a little sleuthing. “It is such a shame that Lord Astley fell from his horse only days before the wedding. I was under the impression he rode regularly and quite well.”
“He’s been an excellent horseman since childhood, miss. This is certainly uncharacteristic.”
She steadied her expression, even studied some of the ornate carvings on the stable walls as they passed. “Then perhaps a turn in the trail. He’s unfamiliar with the paths here, I’d say.”
Elliott shook his head. “He took the usual route he’d taken the past three mornings.”
Ah, then there was certainly something unusual going on.
The clip-clop of a horse coming into the stables ahead alerted her to Lord Astley’s arrival. Mr. Whitlock rushed through the archway of the courtyard, the stately man arriving in an abnormal dash.
“Is he injured?” Mr. Whitlock asked as he passed Elliott. “I’ve tele-phoned the doctor.”
“Thank you, sir,” Elliott responded. “It appears to be a sprain.”
“Thank heavens.” The master of the house rushed past, and Grace turned to Elliott with her sweetest smile, or at least she hoped it was her sweetest. Her mind was too busy to really focus on the perfect tilt.
“Well, Mr. Elliott, thank you for escorting me.” She released her hold on his arm. “But I can make it the rest of the way on my own. I feel certain Lord Astley will require your immediate assistance.”
He tucked his head. “Yes, miss.”
As soon as Elliott turned the corner into the stables, Grace scanned the courtyard and then dashed through the arched doorway of the servants’ entry. An advantage of visiting this house every summer for ten years meant she knew all the secret hiding places.
With silent steps, she rounded the back of the stables, nearing the male voices.
“The saddle strap, sir. It was tampered with.” Cam’s voice quaked. Poor boy. He likely feared losing his job, and his widowed mother counted on his income.
“And you didn’t notice when you saddled the horse.” This from Mr. Whitlock.
“N–no, sir. It was one of the new saddles, and it went on for Lord Astley as it had every morning for his ride.”
A ladder to the nearest loft caught her attention. Certainly it would afford her a better view of the scene. She quietly shimmied up and crawled closer to the voices, peering through the cracks in the old wooden loft. Down below, Cam stood, a saddle at his feet, his head bent and hat in hand. Lord Astley leaned against Elliott on one side while Lord Ast
ley’s friend Mr. Blake, Mr. Whitlock, and the stable manager, Cooks, formed a half circle on the other side of the saddle.
“How could you not have known, boy?” Mr. Whitlock offered an uncustomary growl. The man rarely raised his voice, even for tea. “The strap is cut clean through. How it stayed on the animal as long as it did is a miracle.”
“Were there any strangers in the vicinity? Unfamiliar faces?” This from Mr. Blake, who had knelt to examine the saddle.
“None other than the guests and their servants, sir,” Cooks answered. “And we keep a sharp eye out where the animals are concerned. Had a couple stolen not four months ago.”
“And I inspected the saddle before setting it in place, Mr. Whitlock, just as Mr. Cooks taught me,” Cam offered.
“So whoever tampered with the saddle must have done so just this morning, between the time you inspected it and I rode off.” Lord Astley replied, his low voice a rumble of consonants and wonderfully English vowels.
Her neck tingled from the memory of his riding behind her up the trail. Heaven and earth, what a glorious feeling to have a massive, strong man who smelled of amber so close. Romance definitely had become more relatable over the last twenty-four hours.
Grace flipped her mind back to the present with a little shake of her head. Whoever tampered with the saddle must have been familiar with the stables enough to know which saddle would have been chosen for Lord Astley. The servants wouldn’t have any reason to sabotage Lord Astley’s saddle, but would a guest?
She slid closer to the edge of the loft, the wood bending beneath her weight. She’d read in one mystery book or another about something similar happening when the strap wasn’t cut through, only partially. As the rider took on more speed and added more stress to the straps, the saddle would break, making an apparent accident take place long after the actual crime had been committed. So very clever. She squinted to try and make out the saddle strap.
“After the incident at the train depot, now this?” Mr. Whitlock shook his frosty head. “It sounds rather suspicious, Frederick.”
The Mistletoe Countess Page 6
