by Jane Feather
But her brothers wouldn't do it again. The promise lifted her spirits somewhat. She would not play the pander in their games with Lord Hawkesmoor. At least, she amended, not again. She'd allowed herself to be used because she'd been so wrapped up in her own concerns that she hadn't given the situation proper attention. From now on, nothing would slip past her, and she'd plan her own escape from the morass as soon as she could put the pieces together.
"That was a mad ride, sister. Just look at the condition of Oliver's horse," Ralph called to her as she rode up. His eyes, half shut against the feeble sunlight, squinted at her. He was very drunk already, unless he hadn't sobered up after the previous night, Ariel reflected acidly.
"The condition of Oliver's horse has nothing to do with me, Ralph. I wasn't riding him." She looked in disgust at Oliver, who was still flailing at his windblown nag. "I would never have been stupid enough to imagine any horse in Oliver's stable could beat Diana."
"Then it would be only neighborly to gift me with one of your precious beasts," Oliver snarled. "Don't you think, Ravenspeare?"
Ranulf smiled. "How about it, sister? Not quite the ride he's accustomed to, but a consolation prize, perhaps?"
There was a burst of knowing laughter from the group of Ravenspeare intimates at this coarse sally. Sly looks were cast in the direction of the earl of Hawkesmoor, but he appeared to be deep in conversation with Lord Stanton, oblivious of the talk around him.
He must have heard, though. Ariel said sweetly, "I trust my horses only to the most accomplished riders. I'm afraid that Oliver has never impressed me with his skill. He lacks a certain finesse, I find." She watched the effect of this measured insult with naked satisfaction. Oliver paled, a white shade around his mouth. Ranulf looked as if he would cheerfully murder his sister, but her remark had been greeted with snorts of appreciative laughter from the audience, and neither man could react with anger without looking even more foolish.
Simon still appeared deaf, but when Ariel dropped back a little to ride at his side, he gave her a look that would have turned cream to whey. She had been smiling with pleasure at her riposte, expecting her husband to appreciate the speed and wit with which she'd crushed her opponents and defended his honor. Instead he was looking at her as if she were a particularly lowly member of the insect family. Even Lord Stanton was looking grave and didn't return her smile.
Ariel couldn't understand why she was suddenly submerged in unspoken reproof, but she set her teeth and raised her chin, studiously ignoring her companions until they reached the shore of the large mere where they were to try for the first sport of the afternoon.
"A thousand guineas for one colt!" Ranulf exclaimed incredulously.
"Aye, m'lord. Thought you might find it interestin'." The man's tone was both wheedling and sly. He stood in the stable-yard, holding the long stilts that he'd worn to stride over the treacherous marshes that separated his tumbledown peat cutter's cottage from the grandeur of Ravenspeare Castle.
Ranulf drove his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. It was evening and a chill wind gusted around the stables. Stan had been waiting for him when the duck shoot had returned at dusk, and the earl had guessed immediately from the man's shifty grin that he had information to sell.
"Mr. Carstairs is powerful anxious to set up 'is own stud," Stan continued, a touch desperate in his eagerness to convince his lordship of the value of his information. The earl was not overly generous at the best of times and had been known to refuse to pay more than a groat for some kernel of local gossip that Stan had valued considerably higher. "'E likes the lines of 'er ladyship's 'osses. For racin' an' such like." He looked anxiously at the earl, who was scowling in the flickering light of a pitch torch set beside him.
Horse racing was becoming increasingly popular among the gentry, ever since the introduction of the Darley Arabian into the English blood lines five years previously. Stan had heard tell that the queen herself was considering establishing a horse race at Ascot, near London. He waited.
Ranulf turned on his heel and strode across the yard to the block where Ariel kept her own hobby horses. Hobby! he thought with a grim smile. All along that artful child had been breeding a highly prized strain right under his eyes. And now she looked to turn a handsome profit.
He strolled down the line of stalls, aware of Edgar dogging his heels. His previous visits had always been made out of mild curiosity, but this evening he looked with different eyes. There was only one weaned colt, and even a cursory glance was sufficient to tell that he was a beautiful animal. Just when had Ariel managed to make the contacts that had brought her such a lucrative sale? Whom did she know who could facilitate such a business? John Carstairs and his young family had but recently joined the neighborhood, inheriting the estate of a distant cousin. The reclusive and suspicious Fen folk were still suspending judgment on the newcomers. But Ariel seemed to have no such reticence. His little sister's daily activities obviously would bear greater scrutiny than he'd accorded them hitherto.
He moved casually along the stalls, deciding that he would not let on to anyone-not even his brothers-that he knew about the sale of the colt, or, indeed, that he knew anything about his devious little sister's business on the side. There had to be some profit to be made for himself out of Ariel's activities.
With a careless nod at the watchful groom, he left the long, narrow building. Horse thieves abounded in the Fens. What would be more natural than that Ariel's stud should be raided on occasion? He could send the stolen animals downriver to the family shipyard at Harwich. They could be shipped to the Hook of Holland and sold profitably on the continent, and if the stolen stock didn't appear in English stables, no one, least of all Ariel, would be able to trace the thefts to the castle itself.
He was smiling as he emerged into the cold evening and Stan stepped anxiously toward him. "I trust the information's of use, m'lord."
"It might be," Ranulf said distantly, withdrawing his purse from his pocket. "But if anyone else gets to hear of it, I'll have your ears sliced for vagrancy, you understand?"
As the local magistrate, the earl of Ravenspeare could do that and more. Stan nodded his head vigorously. "Mum's the word, m'lord. You know ol' Stan. Silent as the grave." He held out his hand, his eyes glittering, for the silver coin that the earl dropped into his outstretched palm. Then he hoisted himself onto his stilts and strode off like a circus acrobat to be swallowed up in the Fen night.
Ranulf returned to the castle. The musicians were already playing for the evening's festivities, the long tables set for the banquet. Servants hurried around the Great Hall with trays of wine, mead, and brandy for the guests already gathered there. Most had changed from their outdoor garb into the rich brocades and velvets of evening. It was a wedding after all, although there was as yet no sign of the bride and groom.
Ranulf, having been delayed by Stan, was still mud bespattered. He made his way to his own chamber, his smile fading. His little sister was becoming a damnable nuisance!
Ranulf scrubbed his face dry and took the clean shirt from his attentive servant. Why, in direct defiance of her brother's instructions and family loyalties, had she succumbed to the Hawkesmoor in the bridal bed? And not only that, but her tongue was becoming cursed sharp. To make public game of Oliver in that fashion, and in front of the poxed Hawkesmoor and his cadre! It wasn't to be tolerated.
He sat down on a stool, sticking out his foot so that his servant could pull off his filthy boots. His expression was dark and the manservant cringed, expecting from long experience that the sudden storm would break over his head at the slightest provocation.
Ranulf was thinking that the sooner Ariel was widowed, the better. He had intended with the gift of the charm bracelet and the precious silver rose to buy her passive cooperation, but it seemed he had miscalculated. And now that he knew about the stud, he had even more reason to keep his sister tied to Ravenspeare. It was unthinkable that she, her loathsome husband, her dowry of the disputed land, an
d all the riches of an Arabian stud should decamp to Hawkesmoor, there to live in wealth and harmony…
It was unthinkable! And until this moment, the thought had indeed never entered Ranulf's head-any more than had the thought that he might not have his sister firmly under his control.
But Ariel had proved herself a devious, cunning creature. What if she had already conceived? He went cold at the thought. If Ariel carried a Hawkesmoor child, then the Ravenspeare land that made up her dowry was forfeit under the marriage settlements to her husband's family. The child of a damned Hawkesmoor would inherit land that belonged to Ravenspeare-no matter that the child bore Ravenspeare blood. It was impossible, without Ariel's cooperation, to keep her from her bridegroom's bed. Such a scandal would reach the queen's ears and all would be lost.
Simon Hawkesmoor must be removed without delay. And if Ariel carried a child, then that too must be eliminated.
It was high time to bring Ariel to heel again, but first he'd have to get rid of those damned dogs. He didn't know why he hadn't taken care of them months before. He would teach his defiant sister where her loyalties and her obedience lay.
His small mouth was a thin line, but the satisfaction of purpose gleamed in his narrow gray eyes as he adjusted his wig, arranging the ringlets to fall on his shoulders, giving a certain fullness to his sharp-featured, angular countenance.
It was with great relief that the manservant saw his master out of the chamber five minutes later without the expected explosion.
Chapter Eight
"For God's sake, man, be sensible!" Jack Chauncey allowed his exasperation free rein. "You're in agony. You can hardly move your leg. What possible good will it do you to go belowstairs for another evening of fruitless and debauched junketing?"
"It'll do me more good than cowering up here," Simon declared through clenched teeth. He was lying back on a chaise longue, trying to flex his lame leg. An afternoon in the damp miasma of a Fenland mere had played merry hell with his shattered limb. "I'll not be beaten by the Ravenspeares, Jack. I'll not have false pity and behind-the-hand laughter directed at me. 'A fine virile husband he makes, the Hawkesmoor,'" he mimicked. '"Hobbling on his stick, can't stand upright most of the time, a pathetic-'"
"Oh, hold your tongue, Simon!" Jack interrupted, giving up the attempt to make the man see reason. He seized Simon's foot, flexing it against his shoulder. "Push."
Simon gritted his teeth and pushed. The wasted calf muscles tightened agonizingly but he continued, fighting through the pain. Sometimes it was worse than others and this evening was about as bad as it had ever been. His mouth took a wry turn as it occurred to him that on top of the afternoon's damp he was probably suffering the aftereffects of his gallant dash to his bride's rescue the previous night. The muscles were clenched into a tight knot so that he could hardly bear to straighten the calf without crying out, and his knee felt as if scalding pincers were at work beneath the skin. But he knew from bitter experience that if he gave in to the pain, he would be bedridden for several days.
A knock at the door brought a snarling denial to his lips. "Leave me!"
Jack raised his eyes heavenward. "It's probably Stanton to see if you need help getting downstairs."
Simon grimaced. "Open it then, but don't let anyone else in."
Ariel stepped swiftly into the chamber as Jack opened the door, not giving him time to deny her entrance. She had a basket over her arm. "You seemed to be in pain when you dismounted, my lord. I can ease your leg, if you would have me do so."
"I have no need of anything." Simon glowered as he tried to pull a rug up over his exposed leg. "Leave me, please."
Ariel set her basket down on the floor beside the chaise. She had changed out of her riding habit and now wore a gown of pale blue silk opened over a white lace underskirt, over which she had wrapped a white holland apron. Her hair was drawn up into a knot on top of her head with a fringe of curls clustering on her brow and around her ears.
Even in his pain and irritated dismay, Simon could appreciate the daintiness and elegance of her attire. She had clearly taken to heart the morning's discussion over her scruffy riding habit.
"I have some skill in these matters," she said with a briskness designed to hide her own hesitation in offering the intimate attention necessary to give him ease.
"My needs go far beyond a housewife's stillroom skills, girl," he said with a sardonic laugh. "Your husband, my dear, is a sad cripple, not to be eased with simples."
"I understand," she replied, reaching to twitch aside the rug. "And my skills go much further than the stillroom."
He pushed her hand away roughly as she took hold of the covering. "I said, leave me be."
Ariel sucked in her lower lip, regarding him in frowning silence for a minute. She held her hands loosely clasped and Simon was momentarily distracted by the bracelet encircling one slender wrist. He'd seen it somewhere before, he'd swear to it.
"Are you embarrassed by your wound?"
His harsh laugh grated again. "How should I be? A man in his prime reduced to a helpless cripple with a wasted leg! Some kind of a bridegroom I make!" He knew his bitterness was fueled by pain, but as always, this was the one thing he couldn't control.
"I think you should leave, ma'am." Jack spoke gently, taking her arm. "Simon is a bad patient and always has been." He tried to soften the rejection with a conspiratorial chuckle. "I swear he's more ill-tempered than a wounded bear."
Ariel resisted the pressure to move her back to the door. "It's a wife's duty to tend to her husband."
"When you take up your place under my roof, madam, then shall you play a wife's part," Simon declared with another raw excuse for a laugh. "For the moment, I bid you leave me to my friends. They know well what to do for me."
Ariel silently picked up her basket again and returned to her own room. Of all the stubborn, prideful men! He was in obvious agony, she knew precisely how to soothe his hurts, and he wouldn't take her help because he was afraid she'd be disgusted by the sight of his wound.
Or was it because he couldn't bear to accept her help? She was a Ravenspeare, and she must not be a witness to his mortifying weakness.
He wouldn't give her brothers the satisfaction of seeing that their taunts needled him, and he had foiled the nastiest of their schemes so far. She knew that he wasn't sure yet what part she had played in last evening's attempt to humiliate him. It was only natural that he should keep her and her offers of help at arm's length.
"If your wife has skill with medicines, man, you could do worse than let her minister to you," Jack scolded, returning to Simon's side. "I know little of how to ease you, and I'm damn sure all this pushing and prodding you insist on doing isn't particularly helpful. It just causes you more pain, as I can see."
"Oh, cease your railing." Simon sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the chaise with a grimace of pain. "Help me get dressed. I'll not have it said that the bridegroom is too weak to attend his own wedding feasts."
"Sometimes I think you have no more sense than a child." Jack gave him his arm, supporting the man as he stood up.
Simon gritted his teeth as he put his bad leg to the floor. "Give me my cane."
Jack handed it to him and watched with long-suffering resignation as Simon tottered around the chamber, trying to avoid putting weight on his lame leg.
"All right, I think I can pull this off without looking too pathetic," Simon muttered. "Help me with my stockings and britches, if you please." He sat down on the edge of the bed. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his skin had a gray cast.
Jack drew the woolen stockings over Simon's legs. He was so used to the serpentine scar, a scarlet cicatrix against the pale, wasted flesh, that he barely noticed it anymore. He tried to be gentle but he knew how much pain he was causing his friend as he manipulated the stocking over the twisted knee.
"God's grace, man, but you've missed your calling as a nursemaid." Simon offered a twisted grin as Jack efficiently drew on
his britches, fastening the buttons at his waist. "You'll be washing behind my ears next."
"Oh, do stop your complaining, Simon! You're damn lucky to have any friends, such a grouse you are." Jack handed him his coat, his smile doing nothing to hide his concern. "Are you sure you can manage to sit through the evening?"
"Of course." Simon clasped his friend's arm briefly. "Take no notice of my grouches, Jack."
"I don't," the other said. "If I did, you'd see neither hide nor hair of me… of any one of us." He put his shoulder beneath Simon's hand. "You can lean on me until you get to the stairs. No one will remark it."
But Ariel, the dogs sitting at her heels, was waiting outside her chamber when Simon's door opened and the two men emerged. "We should go down together, my lord," she said with a cool smile. "Since we're presenting a united front to the world." She stepped up beside him, saying to Jack, "I will give my husband my arm. No one will consider it in the least strange."
Jack looked doubtful, but Ariel pushed aside his hand and took Simon's arm beneath the elbow. "Shall we go, sir?"
Simon was immediately aware of the strength not only in her grip but in the slim frame beside him. It was more that she seemed to know how to use her strength to best purpose than a question of brute power, he thought, intrigued despite his reluctance to accept her help.
"I believe Simon is too heavy for you to support, ma'am," Jack demurred.
"It seems not," Simon said with a slight quirk of his lips. "Ariel is not the airborne sprite her appearance and her name might lead one to believe."
