“Is Papa courting the lady?” Rem asked, holding his sketch at arm’s length. “You have noticed the irregularity of her situation, haven’t you?”
“You’ve drawn Belmont House all the while you’ve stared at that pile of nonsense,” Christopher observed. “You want to go home for Christmas.”
So did Christopher, and in fact, he wanted to become his father’s steward. Belmont House wasn’t entailed, and while Richard had a head for figures, Christopher longed to once again ride Belmont’s metes and bounds with Papa and count lambs as an excuse for a morning hack.
All three of them were Papa’s son in some regard, a comfort and an irony.
Rem flipped over a new sheet and once again propped his feet on a corner of the table. Big feet, and sporting a pair of Christopher’s clean stockings.
“Now I know why men have their every handkerchief and cravat monogrammed,” Christopher said. “It’s so their thieving younger brothers can’t steal them permanently.”
“You stole mine first,” Rem said. “Miss Jennings isn’t married, and she has a daughter. Do you suppose Papa’s intentions are honorable, or will he follow Uncle Emmanuel’s dubious example?”
The question was not as casual as Rem wanted Christopher to think it was.
“Papa could never be like Uncle Emmanuel, not in that sense. Richard would kill him for one thing. Baby Brother is at that serious age, when honor is another term for having a poker up one’s arse. Richard reads too much and doesn’t sing enough.”
“Maybe the lady isn’t interested in marriage. Thank the gracious Deity, such women exist.”
And all of them, from the friendlier tavern maids, to the laundresses, to the mamas who came to visit their sons at school, were drawn to Rem’s dark-eyed good looks. Richard had been appalled when he’d seen Rem’s appeal to the ladies, while Christopher was envious. All three brothers were brown-haired and brown-eyed, for pity’s sake, but Rem had something, a diffident charm, and the ladies adored him.
“Every woman is supposed to be interested in marriage,” Christopher said. “I can’t say it made Mama very happy, though.”
As the oldest, he’d known their mother the best, though he suspected his brothers missed her more. Mama had occasionally been difficult, something Richard refused to recall, and Rem never mentioned.
“Mama and Papa both muddled on as best they could,” Rem said, “which suggests Miss Jennings might not be in contention for step-mama honors. Richard will not be best pleased to find Papa preoccupied with the lady at Yuletide. Between Papa’s new love affair, Aunt Agatha’s tippling, and Uncle Emmanuel’s dirty jokes, we should have interesting holidays.”
Christopher had no wise, elder-brother rejoinder to make to that lowering observation, so he grabbed the nearest pillow and brought it down on Rem’s handsome head.
* * *
The gunshot didn’t bother Matthew half so much as Spiker’s cursing. At Matthew’s order, guns were fired regularly in the vicinity of the stable and the kennels, so neither horses nor hounds would be afraid of gunfire.
But Spiker’s language, hurling invective in both English and a language Matthew couldn’t name, wasn’t appropriate for the ears of a lady or a child.
“Go to Priscilla,” Matthew said, stealing a quick kiss on the lips from Theresa. “Spiker’s apparently had a mishap.”
Theresa kissed him back and strode off. Her idea of a difference of opinion was, without doubt, the most agreeable form of argument Matthew had encountered. He appreciated her retreating form for the space of a breath, then jogged around to the back of the stable, from whence came Spiker’s diatribe.
“What happened?” Matthew asked, though the evidence was plain enough. The fingers of Spiker’s right hand were a bloody mess, and Matthew’s hunting pistol lay in the dirt, the mechanism mangled and covered in black powder.
“Rubbishing, bedamned worthless piece of shite misfired on me,” Spiker said, shaking his hand. “By the Virgin’s balls, I just cleaned it last week too.”
“Let your hand bleed for a moment,” Matthew said, taking Spiker by the wrist and examining the injury. Thank God, it was more mess than anything else. “You still have all your fingers, though why would you have the gun out now when you know my guests include a child?”
Spiker snatched his hand back and shook his bloody fingers, scattering drops of blood about the stable yard. He was a former jockey, short and wiry, with large hands.
“As long as I can hold a pint or a pair of reins, I’ll manage, Squire. I saw that vixen who’s dug the covert by the stream. Saucy little thing was peeking out at me from the bushes past the gate. I meant to warn her off, just in case she was thinking of snacking on a stray puppy. She’ll spend half the winter laughing at me, doubtless.”
Spiker’s hand had to hurt like blazes. “She has a litter of kits, and I don’t blame her for scouting the possibilities. I can’t see that you need any stitches, but the wound should be cleaned and bound.”
In Matthew’s household, Cook tended to minor injuries, but Spiker’s hand was still bleeding, and the injury was more than minor. Then too, Cook was in Brighton, where one of her countless nieces, cousins, nieces-in-law, passing friends, or possibly even a nephew, was having yet another baby.
“Come along, and I’ll tend to you,” Matthew said, picking up the gun by the barrel. “Don’t touch the wound and come up to the—Miss Jennings, greetings. No cause for alarm, merely a mishap.”
Some people fainted at the sight of blood. Theresa was apparently not among them.
“I can help,” she said. “At Sutcliffe, we’re seven miles from the nearest market town or surgeon, and one learns to make do. Where are your medicinals, Mr. Belmont? We’ll need clean linen too, for in no case should Mr. Spiker’s fingers be wrapped together. As the flesh heals—”
“I’ll thank you kindly for your assistance, missus,” Spiker said, swiping off his cap with his uninjured hand. “Squire, if you’d lead the way, my hand is paining me something awful.”
Theresa merely looked amused, bless her.
“Stop trying to flirt with Miss Jennings, or loss of your position will pain you more.” Matthew offered Theresa his arm and led the way to the Belmont House herbal.
While he lounged in the doorway, and Spiker trotted out his best Sunday manners, Theresa made a thorough and skilled job of cleaning the wound.
“Do not be pigheaded about this,” she said, tying the last of the linen strips around Spiker’s palm. “The wound must be kept clean to heal properly, or you could lose your hand, your arm, or your life. Use the sling, have the binding changed every day, and be patient. It’s a nasty injury, and you’ll want some laudanum to help you sleep for the next night or two. If you suspect infection, send for me immediately.”
“Now you’ll have him shooting at his own toes,” Matthew said. “Spiker, you’re not to lift a hand for the next three days, except at the tavern before your favorite pint. Obey Miss Jennings’s instructions or answer to me.”
“I like it better when she scolds me, Squire,” Spiker said, snatching his cap off the table and strutting away.
“Spiker, a moment please,” Matthew said.
His stable master paused, cap in hand, doubtless prepared to memorize every word Matthew exchanged with Theresa.
“Miss Jennings,” Matthew said, “I’ll have the horses saddled and see you and Priscilla home now, if you like.” Matthew did not like. Visions of a lazy afternoon flirting with Theresa and sipping lemonade while Priscilla visited ponies had exploded along with Matthew’s pistol.
“I’ll be down to the stable in a moment,” Theresa said. “Let me tidy up here.”
“Then I’ll see to collecting Priscilla and let her name a few more puppies.”
Theresa had kissed him in the stable yard, or kissed him back, and if she wanted to kiss him now, right in front of Spiker, Matthew would bear up under the indignity with excellent good cheer.
“You’ll not offer her a
puppy, Matthew, promise me.”
“No puppies. They really are too young to leave their mother.” Priscilla was too.
“Be off with you, then.”
Spiker smirked at his cap, while Matthew dutifully accompanied him across the back terrace.
“The first formal meet is next week,” Matthew said, “and I always carry that pistol with me in the hunt field.”
“If you’d asked me, I would have said that was a trusty little gun and a handsome piece too. All guns get old, though, no matter how carefully you clean and store them.”
Matthew’s steps slowed, though Spiker kept up easily. “That gun was less than five years old, Spiker, and you are conscientious about the maintenance of the sporting pieces. I’m the only person who uses it, typically.”
Spiker scrubbed his chin with his bandaged hand, then winced. “You might well have used it next week, checking the sight, doing some target shooting, or signaling the start of the hunt breakfast. I don’t like this, Squire.”
“I don’t like that you nearly got your hand blown off.” Even more than Matthew didn’t like giving up his afternoon with Theresa.
“The hand will heal,” Spiker said, “slowly, I hope. For that gun to misfire isn’t right, though. Has a stink about it, like somebody leaving a damned harrow smack in the middle of your bridle path.”
Matthew stopped in the garden, beside a bed of roses already trimmed down to stubby canes of thorns.
“What damned harrow left smack in the middle of which bridle path, Spiker?”
By the time the stable master’s explanation was complete, Matthew was cursing too, in English, French, and, because his sons were not on the property, Latin as well.
Chapter Twelve
“Might I say, Miss Jennings, that you make a very fetching addition to the gathering? Very fetching, indeed. That shade of blue becomes your charms most agreeably.”
The weather was too crisp for flies to be a bother, but Emmanuel Capshaw annoyed Theresa more than any winged pest could have. She’d let Matthew talk her into joining the hunt party, and for the first two runs, she’d enjoyed herself tremendously. Then Mr. Capshaw had appeared at her side, and the day had deteriorated apace.
“Thank you, Mr. Capshaw, but I’ve borrowed this ensemble from the baroness. I’ll pass along your compliments to her.”
Would that Loris was on hand to deflect Mr. Capshaw’s attention.
He offered Theresa an exaggerated wink and a wiggle of his eyebrows. “I daresay, she would not do the habit half as much credit.”
Matthew was serving as master of fox hounds and had thus remained ahead of the first flight, managing the pack and directing the hunt staff. Theresa had enjoyed the company of the other ladies and the older squires in the second flight, where socializing often took precedence over sport.
“Miss Jennings, may I ride in with you and Mr. Capshaw?” Beckman Haddonfield asked from the back of a lovely bay gelding.
“Of course,” Theresa said, and thank the angels, Beckman’s presence put a stop to Mr. Capshaw’s most effusive overtures.
Emmanuel Capshaw was at that point in life where he’d not accepted that his youthful good looks—along with a quantity of his graying brown hair—had departed. The flesh beneath his eyes tended to pouches. The last button of his hunt coat strained against a slight belly, his equestrian skills were somewhat wanting, and despite having undergone no significant exertion in the last fifteen minutes, his complexion was ruddy.
Perhaps the frequency with which he drank from his hunting flask had something to do with his heightened color.
“Haddonfield, good day,” Mr. Capshaw said. “A pity the sport wasn’t more exciting this morning, wouldn’t you agree?”
“If you rode with us more often,” Beckman replied, “you’d find not a member of this hunt is truly interested in ending Reynard’s existence, Mr. Capshaw. We’ve gone multiple seasons without a kill, and yet, half the shire shows up to the meets when the weather’s fair. A good gallop after a pack in full cry, a good gossip over the hunt breakfast, and we’re happy.”
“Damned odd, if you ask me,” Capshaw retorted. “If I were master here, the chickens would be much safer, I can tell you that.”
“We build sturdy coops,” Beckman said, “and stout fences. That seems to work quite well. Miss Jennings, did you enjoy yourself?”
“Very much.” At least until Mr. Capshaw had attached himself to her side. “I’d forgotten what tearing across the fields and leaping the ditches can do for one’s spirits, particularly with a solid fellow like Evan under saddle.”
The gelding enjoyed hunting, as some horses did. On the lanes, he plodded. Aim him across an open field or show him an obstacle, and he became a different fellow altogether.
“Mr. Belmont is a first-rate master,” Beckman said. “He knows the terrain in every corner of the fixture, and can read signs like you read your Bible. I never enjoyed riding to hounds until I rode with him.”
This panegyric was offered with a straight face, and from Beckman, who never seemed to speak unless words were necessary.
Oh dear. Matthew’s courtship campaign had acquired foot soldiers.
“Hardly worth getting in the saddle,” Capshaw countered, gesturing with his flask, “if you’re not riding for blood sport. What’s the point? I was in on my first kill practically before I was breeched. Wore the blood proudly for the rest of the day too.”
The party turned up the lane to Belmont House on that unappetizing note, and not a moment too soon for Theresa’s patience. No wonder Matthew dreaded Sunday dinners at the Capshaws’.
“Miss Jennings, may I assist you to dismount?” Mr. Capshaw asked, heaving himself off his horse.
“No need, thank you. I’m quite capable of reaching the ground on my own.”
Beckman hovered, though Theresa knew he was expected to help deal with the guest horses lent from the Belmont stable.
She unhooked her knee from the horn, gathered her skirts, and slipped off the horse before Capshaw could interfere. Nonetheless, for the next half hour, he persisted in trailing her about the buffet, then to the punchbowl, and then to a bench a few yards from the larger tables.
Best get it over with. “Mr. Capshaw, won’t you join me?”
“My pleasure, Miss Jennings.” Predictably, he sat too close for propriety. “Your quarry will soon learn of your past,” he murmured, breathing fumes in her ear. He’d yet to eat anything, and Theresa was fairly certain he’d started on a second flask.
She took a nibble of a succulent pear. “I beg your pardon?”
Capshaw’s gaze swept over her in a manner not remotely gentlemanly.
“I refer to Matthew. He buries himself here in the provinces, so the reputation of the Sutcliffe Strumpet wouldn’t be known to him. I, on the other hand, have circulated in the wider world and recall well the tales I heard even ten years ago. You’d best leave the field before your past catches up with you.”
The pear was perfect—juicy, sweet, crisp, and flavored with a hint of spice. All around Theresa, people were laughing and talking, just another social gathering among the good, decent folk of a good, decent parish on a beautiful autumn day.
She’d been part of the gathering too, albeit a quiet, somewhat self-conscious part.
And that had felt… like one of the most precious gifts Matthew could have given her. Not simply a pleasant outing among friendly people, but the hope that someday she might fit in with such a group.
Emmanuel Capshaw was trying to tear that hope to bits, much as the pack descended on the fox after chasing it to exhaustion by virtue of forty-to-one odds, predator against prey.
Theresa wasn’t stealing any chickens that she deserved such treatment. “Mr. Capshaw, if all you have to offer by way of conversation is ten-year-old gossip, then I will ask you to inflict your company on somebody else.”
He leaned closer, his breath reeking of gin. “You needn’t put on airs, missy. I’ll happily compensate you f
or lost custom if you’ll simply take yourself off. My nephews should be protected from influences such as yours, and the boys will be home in a few weeks. If your animal spirits are in want of a good, hard swiving, I daresay I’m more than—”
Theresa rose and brushed out her skirts. Capshaw had ambushed her. She’d mistaken him for a garden-variety lecher, when he was instead a noxious, thorny vine, the kind that stank when it bloomed.
Matthew was several yards away, so Theresa kept her voice down.
“I daresay, Mr. Capshaw, that if I inquired into your youthful indiscretions, I’d find enough tattle to mortify both you and your lady wife, who is entirely undeserving of such embarrassment. Keep your money, keep your filthy overtures, and keep your mouth shut. Relevant particulars of my past will be shared with Mr. Belmont as I see fit.”
She wanted to stomp away, but Matthew was watching her over his cup of punch. He was surrounded by neighbors, whom hunt protocol required to wish him good night before they departed. With his windblown hair and mud-spattered boots, he was entirely in his element and painfully attractive.
“You’d best not be hasty,” Mr. Capshaw said, remaining seated and picking up Theresa’s plate. “I mean you no harm, Miss Jennings. I’m trying to prevent trouble, not cause it. Matthew is family, and you’ll not get your hooks into him while I have breath in my body.”
Theresa might have resumed her place beside Capshaw and explained to him that she fully expected to return to Sutcliffe after the holidays. She might have bowed her head and let his damned innuendos and propositions slide past her unacknowledged, as she had on many similar occasions with similar obnoxious men.
Now, as then, she was angry, which did not for a moment disguise the fact that she was also embarrassed. Capshaw was her worst fear, the upstanding citizen who could pillory her with a word, and thus pillory Priscilla’s future as well.
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