“Undoubtedly true, Mr. Drake, but the Gypsies haven’t stolen me yet though he swore they would one day.”
Bess looked glad to hear her foot strike once again on her native cobbles. She twitched an ear toward the younger grooms exclaiming over the sweat that had frothed and dried on her coat. Yet she still had attention to spare when Clarice smoothed her velvet nose and whispered, “You saved my life or perhaps it was only my soul. Thank you.”
As she walked from the stableyard, she said briskly. “Give her extra treats tonight, Mr. Drake. She deserves spoiling.”
“But what’s she done?” the put-upon groom called after her. “An’ where’s yer hat?”
Camber, her youthful butler, appeared no less astonished by her appearance than had Drake. But since Camber’s great ambition was to be the complete butler at all times, he said a good deal less than the free-spoken groom. Remembering when Camber had been no more than gawky William the Footman, Clarice took pity on his unspoken curiosity. “I had a little trouble with Bess today. I’m unhurt, even if I must look a fright.”
Catching sight of herself in the gilded mirror in the center of the hall, she caught her breath. Her hair, charmingly casual when she’d left that morning, could be rented out at a noble figure to any homeless bird. As for her habit, no two points of it hung straight. The carefully tied cravat hung like a bandage around her neck while a shoulder seam gaped where the strain had been too much. Add to this a thick coating of road dust to dull her hair and redden her eyes.
“Where’s Pringle?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper,
“Doing the mending,” Camber answered, “in your room.”
“Oh, lor’. Well, might as well face her now. She’ll see the habit later anyway.”
Camber cleared his throat when she would have hastened away. “What it is?”
“A gentleman to see you, my lady. He has been waiting some little time for your return.”
“He’s fortunate that he didn’t miss me altogether. He might very well have . . .” For an instant the feeling of terror engendered by the shadowy rider enveloped her again, suffocating her attempt to appear as she usually did. Clarice swallowed hard and tried to speak naturally.
“What’s the gentleman’s name?”
“A Mr. Knight, my lady. He brings a message from Mr. and Mrs. Gardner.”
“Oh, then, it’s for Morgain. Is he moving about yet?”
“Not yet, my lady. Mrs. Pringle has given him some oil of walnuts in the hope of easing him.”
“Poor boy. As if green apples weren’t bad enough.” She began to move toward the stairs. “Pray tell Mr.... Mr....”
“Knight, my lady.”
“Yes, tell Mr. Knight that I shall be with him as soon as I repair myself.”
She did not find it easy to escape from her former nurse’s duckings and questions. “I had a little trouble with Bess. No, I’m not hurt. No, she didn’t come down with me. Yes, very dusty. No, Mr. Yeo’s not angry with him. I’ll wear the blue one and wash my hair tonight. Yes, it may rain but I will still wash it. I have to hurry, Pringle, there’s a man waiting for me.”
“A man? Who?”
“I haven’t any idea. A Mr. Knight.”
“Oh! I saw him arrive. Such a fine-looking ... horse.”
“You noticed his horse? What’s he like?”
All of a sudden, Pringle became flustered. “You must wear your black lace scarf. It looks so pretty with that deep blue gown. Let me.. .” She draped the Spanish lace from her mistress’s elbows, smoothing the fringe so that it made a neat swag from side to side.
“You always have such a cunning way with scarves and such, Pringle. I never manage it half so well when you’re busy elsewhere.”
Pringle colored to the eyes. “It’s just a knack.”
Realizing how much she’d pleased her former nurse, Clarice promised herself that she’d take the other woman much less for granted in the future. She’d made such promises before. It was fatally easy to forget how sensitive Pringle really was. She didn’t look much like someone with an excess of sensibility—appearing much more solid than that—yet she would cry at the first hard word and weep sentimentally over every kind one.
Sometimes Clarice thought how pleasant it must be to have a stern nurse who would scold and slap rather than sigh and cry over her charge’s misadventures. But Pringle had never been stern or no-nonsense. Quite the contrary.
She was plump and dark-haired, with slender hands and feet. She could not have been called attractive by her dearest friend, except when she smiled. Thanks to a rather melancholy disposition, she rarely smiled wholeheartedly. Every day, it seemed, reminded her of the essential sorrow of life. No more than forty, she should have been married off long since were it not for her tireless desire to do good for others. Once she had confided to Clarice that she’d been on the point of being engaged once but her snoring drove her suitor off.
“How did he know you snored?” Clarice had asked, agog.
Pringle had blushed sallowly. “He stayed the night at our house once when my brother was visiting. I—I woke him up with my snoring and he never proposed after all.”
She no longer snored, having gone in one night from making more noise than a piston-driven loom to making no more noise than any other sleeper. It had been like a miracle, engineered by Blaic while still enchanted, but no other suitor had presented himself.
Clarice came downstairs, her mind still given to the problem of Pringle. Somewhere there had to be a man. . ..
Then she looked around and there was a man, standing in the middle of the entry hall, staring up at her. But he’d never do for Pringle. He seemed too stern, too ramrod straight, his feet firmly planted on the black and white tiles of the hall. His dark brows angled downward and Clarice felt strongly that he disapproved of her at first sight.
“I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, sir, but I had an accident with my horse.”
“Are you unhurt, my lady?”
“Yes, thankfully,” she said, trotting lightly down the last few stairs as if to prove it. “I am, as you have guessed. Lady Stavely.”
“It was presumptuous of me,” he said, his brows lowering further, if such a thing were possible.
“Not at all, Mr. Knight. Won’t you join me in the library? I’m sure Camber will bring the tea tray at any moment.”
He followed her silently, his steps hardly making a sound over the tiles, though he probably rode fourteen stone. Once they trod on carpet, Clarice had to glance back to be sure he was there. He caught her eye and she smiled, forcing it a trifle. ‘These busts are of my ancestors,” she said for the sake of saying something.
“Most impressive. And this?”
He stopped before a painting of a small gazebo or temple on a mist-shrouded hill. Tiny figures in Renaissance dress danced and cavorted on the lawn, while a ribbon-decked pleasure-barge waited to take them across to the temple.
“My sister painted that before her marriage.”
“To Blaic Gardner.”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“He is why I have come.”
She wailed for him to say more but he simply stood there, gazing into the painting as though he were memorizing it.
No woman would say he was handsome, yet no woman would have denied he was attractive. That is, Clarice fumed silently, if one could be attracted to an irritatingly taciturn block.
His dark hair was brushed straight back, short at the nape and clipped close by the ears. The men she knew clung to the styles of their youths, with queues of their own hair or tie-wigs. His short hair accented the smooth planes of his face, emphasizing his strong cheekbones and those flaring eyebrows. She realized she was staring at him, and dropped her eyes one split-second before he glanced at her.
“Shall we go on?” she said, leading the way.
She doubted there was a spare ounce of fat on his frame. His riding breeches fit his muscular legs closely while his dark blue coat
lay smoothly over the width of his arms and the breadth of his back. Everything about him, from his boots to his stickpin, spoke of quiet good taste.
Yet it was not his sartorial gifts that kept Clarice aware of just how closely he walked beside her. For one thing, he stood some four or five inches taller than she, no mean consideration to a girl who could look just about any man in the eye. Furthermore, there was no softening or blurring of any line of his face or body— no roll at his waist, no loose flesh on jaw or throat.
Clarice decided she’d been spending entirely too much time with old men and boys if the sight of one man at the peak of health and maturity could set her cataloging his body like a connoisseur. A blush still heated her cheeks as she ushered him into the library. Sure enough. Camber was already there, placing the heavy silver tray just so on the low table. She seated herself on one side, indicating gracefully that Mr. Knight should sit across from her on the green damask upholstered settee.
She could tell by the way that he didn’t cast so much as an eye in Mr. Knight’s direction that Camber had already judged the man to be worthy of breaking bread with Lady Stavely.
She drank her piping hot tea with a due sense of thankfulness. Had it really been less than an hour since she was riding like a madwoman in fear of... she knew not what? After all, what had there been to frighten her in the sight of a rider, however eccentrically dressed? True it had been hot enough to make her wish for lighter clothing but not everyone must feel that way just because she did so.
She smiled more warmly at Mr. Knight. “How may I be of service to you, sir?”
For an answer, he handed her the letter he kept in an inner pocket of his coat. It was from Blaic, introducing Mr. Knight to her notice. With all the signs of being written in haste—blotches, crossed out words, and insertions—it was still as though Blaic himself were speaking to her, recommending his acquaintance. He also said that if he had been at home, he would not have hesitated to offer Mr. Knight a room for the duration of his visit to the west country, though he realized that a scandal would result from the same offer being made by his spinster sister-in-law.
“So you are also an author, Mr. Knight?”
“I have had two books accepted by Mssrs. Tompkins and Hurlock, the first of which is presently enjoying ready sales. Viking Relics of York has been praised by Mr. Charles James Fox himself.”
“Indeed,” she said, knowing from Blaic’s experiences that the praise of a notable figure could do much to elevate even the dullest book to public notice. “Have you known my brother-in-law very long?”
“No, ours was a chance meeting in our publishers’ office the last time he was in London. When I saw him again on Tuesday and told him that I hope to write my next book on the relics to be found in this country, he insisted that I visit Hamdry. As I was to be passing this way, he gave me that letter of introduction.”
She never would have guessed him to be one to make a living with a pen. Not with those shoulders ... though Blaic was no puny fellow either. She promised herself not to be so prejudiced by appearances in future. Authors must come in all shapes and sizes like any other men.
“Do you mean to make a long stay in Devon, Mr. Knight?”
“Some weeks, I fancy.”
“So long?”
“I intend to be very thorough in my research, Lady Stavely.”
“You must let me help you. I know the moors very well.”
“So I have heard.”
“Blaic told you?”
He glanced at her with laughter in eyes that were suddenly quite clearly an unusual shade of brown. “He said you are the best guide anyone could hope for and that if you agreed to come with me, I should count myself fortunate.”
“I should be happy to help you. Although several of my servants are as familiar with the moor as I am,”
“In that case, I shall plead for the company for such a one. I’m interested in finding out any old legends or tales connected with the relics. A native—especially someone who cannot read—will have a better tale to tell than you might, Lady Stavely.”
Clarice realized what was troubling her about Mr. Knight. He was not admiring her. This was very remarkable.
Though she was not vain, she did possess an unspotted looking glass. Impossible to look into a mirror and not be confronted with a visage that had been lavishly praised since her birth. Much bad poetry had been written to pay tribute to her even white teeth between a pair of sweetly curving pink lips, a straight nose rising flawlessly between rose-flushed cheeks, eyes as blue as Mr. Wedgewood’s pottery, and hair variously described as “wheat,” “honey,” or “gold.”
As for her figure, once she’d outgrown a rapacious appetite for sweets, it had remained in all respects the same as when she was eighteen. If her dresses from that period had not been grievously out of the present mode, she could have still worn them without lacing her waist even one inch.
Clarice asked herself if she’d suddenly developed vanity. Perhaps it was just that Mr. Knight didn’t find blondes appealing. Yet it piqued her interest when she saw that he didn’t try to flirt. She could hardly recall the last man she met who didn’t at least make an attempt to compliment her at their first meeting. Certainly none that so obviously would prefer the company of a servant to her own self.
“I shall ask Collie Camber if he is free to accompany you. He is my butler’s brother and a most reliable man.”
“Your butler’s brother?”
“We at Hamdry hire from among our own when we can.”
She glanced at the nearly transparent porcelain cup in front of him, resting untouched on its saucer. “You don’t care for China tea, Mr. Knight? A glass of sherry, perhaps, instead?”
He hesitated before reaching for his cup, looking at it as if he’d never seen one before and needed a moment to study it discreetly before approaching. Clarice lifted her own cup and took a quick sip. The tea was hot and wonderfully refreshing, the warm smoky scent calming her overwrought nerves.
Watching her carefully, Mr. Knight also drank. His mobile mouth twisted wryly at the taste. “This tea is new to me,” he confessed.
“Lapsang Souchong,” she said musically. “I acquired a taste for it during my Season.”
“Ah, yes, your Season. You must have enjoyed that.”
Clarice began to answer lightly but paused. Was there something faintly patronizing in Mr. Knight’s tone?.
“London is most interesting,” she said. “Yet there is nowhere in the world I would rather be than here at Hamdry.”
“The world is very large. Don’t you think you should see more of it before deciding?”
She could be in no doubt of it now. He smiled at her with the arrogant loftiness of the man-of-the-world listening to some insipid virgin lisping out her trivial dreams.
“I have seen more of it, I fancy, than most women. I was fortunate enough to accompany my sister and Mr. Gardner on their wedding trip. We traveled to Italy and Greece, and even penetrated into Egypt. My friend, the present Mrs. Melissa Henry, and I had many fascinating experiences.”
“No doubt you have recorded all your impressions. A sketchbook, perhaps. Or a diary? When are we to see your work in print?”
“I have no such talents,” she said. “Nor have I the arrogance to think any such work of mine would have enough merit to trouble the public. I leave that to the real artists . .. and authors.”
Changing the subject, she asked, “Where are you stopping, Mr. Knight? The Ram’s Head? You’ll find Brewster sets a good table.”
“The Ram’s Head is apparently full, Lady Stavely.”
“Full? Why on earth ... ?”
“The landlord said that several of his relations were expected and he doubted he’d have houseroom for anyone else.”
“Odd,” Clarice said. “He never mentioned it to me.”
“Perhaps he thought it not worth troubling you, being a purely personal and minor matter.”
“If so, it’s the first t
ime someone hasn’t troubled me for something minor.” She laughed a little, self-deprecating laugh, still determined that he should realize with whom he was dealing. “I am not only Lady Stavely, you see, I am also Lady of the Manor. I settle most of the disputes, hear all the gossip, and am usually their first recourse in times of trouble. The Ram’s Head too full to lodge a guest? I should have heard something about that by now.”
“Don’t you find all that responsibility a great burden? After all, you are very young.”
She did not, as a rule, encourage personal comments from strangers. There’d been too much of that in her life, and London had given her a lasting dislike of staring, whispering, and pointing. Between her looks and the rumors of her mother’s unpleasant decease—presumed drowned in a sinkhole on the moor—she’d soon found it necessary to purchase a series of hats with veils in order to maintain some illusion of privacy.
“Oh, I’m older than I look,” she said with her hands folded primly in her lap.
“So am I,” Mr. Knight muttered. If Clarice had not exceptionally quick ears she would have missed it.
She couldn’t help glancing at his face. He still looked to be about thirty years of age, though the fine lines at the outer corners of his eyes might more than just be a consequence of the same sun that had left his face slightly brown. After all, a writer who studied ruins and relics must be forced to spend considerable time out of doors. His hands too showed brown against a border of white emerging from the sleeves of his coat.
Clarice studied his hands secretly under cover of pouring another cup of tea. His fingers were blunt with well-trimmed but not buffed nails. Well-defined veins ran over the backs of his hands, giving them a look of strength, while she recognized the pattern of his calluses as being the same as those she herself had begun to develop before Pringle had become so strict on the subject of wearing gloves for riding.
With a look at his boots, Clarice confirmed her suspicion that he also had been riding today. She was about to ask him a question about his horse when another, darker suspicion occurred to her. Something she’d observed but not considered drew her attention again.
Magic by Daylight Page 3
