The baron studied his drink, from which he’d yet to sip.
Ten years behind schedule, adolescence had apparently decided to plague Loris, for she could not stop gawking at the breadth of his shoulders or the angle of his jaw.
Sensations stole up from memory, of the baron steadying her face between his hands, his breath across her brow. She took a sip of brandy, for her nerves, indeed.
“Anybody who would hurt an animal on the sly,” the baron growled, “would hurt a woman, a child, another animal were the opportunity to present itself. What precautions can you suggest?”
“We can make sure the barn is not left untended,” Nick said, “and because the draft mare is due to foal, we’ll have a rotation of people in the barn at night. Miss Tanner has asked me to make up a schedule.”
The very Miss Tanner not six feet distant from either of the men in the room.
The baron swirled his drink and brought it to his nose. “Did Miss Tanner tell you to include her in that rotation?”
“She did,” Nick replied. “She is the steward, and unless you want the stable run under your immediate direction, I take my orders from her.”
Oh, Nicholas. He was really very dear, but his gallantry was misplaced, for Thomas—his lordship—was the last man to disrespect Loris’s station.
“Then you are accepting the post of stable master?”
“You need the help,” Nick said, “and you have no alternatives to hand whom I would trust to take proper care of the horses, save Miss Tanner, and she is far, far too busy. For now, I’ll see to the stable.”
Nick should have been an earl, at least. In one sentence, he’d tossed out a half-dozen implied criticisms, hints, innuendos, and other concealed barbs. The baron was helpless, working Loris too hard, untrustworthy, a poor manager, and on probation with his stable master, for starters.
“Mr. Haddonfield,” Sutcliffe said, “you are a treasure, and I am blessed indeed that you’ll condescend to take my stable in hand.”
Loris watched more of that predatory smiling and took a swallow of fine drink, only to find the glass had somehow become empty.
“We should ask some questions,” she said, lest somebody start snorting and pawing. “Ask the help if they noticed anything, send someone to make a few inquiries at the Cock and Bull to see what Chesterton has been up to. We might rig an alarm for the mare’s stall. Nick, whom shall we send into town?”
“Yes, Nick,” the baron said, “who can hang about at the tavern without drawing attention to themselves while Miss Tanner and I question the staff here?”
Nick set his unfinished drink on the sideboard. “I am known to enjoy the occasional pint or three, and I never draw much notice because I keep to myself. If it doesn’t storm this evening, I’ll stop at the Cock and Bull and see what I can find out.”
“We’ll need a list,” Loris said. “Anybody who was in the stable between when the horses came in, and when you found the sprung shoe.”
“Just how did you find the sprung shoe?” the baron drawled.
Gracious, sweltering days. If Sutcliffe had dashed his drink in Nick’s face, the accusation couldn’t have been clearer.
“I toss more hay to the horses in the stalls at midday and in the late afternoon,” Nick said, “to keep them from getting bored and out of sorts. When I opened Rupert’s door, he gave me an odd look, and was standing with one knee bent. I noticed the shoe then and found Miss Tanner shortly thereafter. We came immediately here after discussing the matter between ourselves.”
“Which I appreciate,” the baron replied. He took Loris’s empty glass and returned it to the sideboard. “Who is in the stable now?”
“Old Jamie,” Nick said, “and I’ve told him there’s trouble afoot.”
“I wouldn’t tell anybody else,” his lordship said. “Let’s ask our questions first and compare answers.”
“As you wish,” Nick replied. “Until tomorrow, and thank you for the excellent brandy.”
No “my lord,” no “your lordship,” not even a begrudging, “Baron.”
“You’re welcome.” The smile was back, ferociously gracious, faintly amused, and entirely too handsome.
Then that smile was turned on Loris. “Miss Tanner, if I might have a moment?”
“Of course. I’ll see you at the stable, Nick.”
Nick took his leave without waiting for the baron to excuse him, though he tossed a bow in Loris’s direction, something he’d never done before.
The heat was making them all daft.
“You don’t trust Nick?” Loris asked when that good fellow had departed.
“I trust that Nick isn’t responsible for tampering with Rupert’s shoe. But you saw him, Miss Tanner, and you must know he’s not being entirely honest.”
Loris knew no such thing. “I saw him sip your good brandy and accurately report his suspicions. I saw him take a civil leave of me and willingly accept my authority when many others would not.”
“Loris, my dear, settle your feathers.”
Loris. Why must he call her Loris now—and Loris my dear? Because she’d given him permission to, that’s why.
“Explain yourself,” she said, opening one of the French doors in hopes a breeze might come along, bearing her common sense back to her.
“Think, madam. What stable hand has an ability to tell excellent brandy from the merely good? What stable hand speaks with that much sophistication? What stable hand takes on a titled lord in conversation, and more than holds his own?”
“I haven’t your experience of the world, my lord, to know a stable hand from an earl’s son. Nick is good with the horses and comfortable in the stable.”
The brandy sent lassitude through Loris’s limbs, adding weight to the fatigue resulting from a hot, sleepless night. She appropriated a pillow from the couch and lowered herself to the cool stones of the raised hearth—unmannerly of her, of course, but she’d smack the baron with the pillow if he lectured her on etiquette now.
“The Earl of Greymoor is the best stable hand you will ever meet,” Sutcliffe said, “simply because he eats, sleeps, and breathes his horses. That’s why I believe Haddonfield had nothing to do with this sprung horseshoe—he would never hurt a horse, not intentionally.”
So what was all the posturing and pawing about? “Nick noticed the Vermeer that used to hang in the stairway is gone,” Loris said.
The baron opened the second French door, and a lavender-scented zephyr riffled the lace of his cravat.
Must he be so attractive?
“Greymoor gave the Vermeer to Fairly, before he sold the place to me,” the baron said. “Fairly passed it along to his wife. I didn’t care for it.”
While Loris had adored the image of a mother and toddler in a prosaic moment of a sunny day.
“That image was peaceful,” she said. Comforting. “The very scene to draw the eye as one ascended or descended the stairs.”
“The painting was sweet. Better suited to Fairly’s tastes.” His lordship studied the view from the French doors, a view he’d had hours and hours to appreciate. “Does Haddonfield harbor feelings for you?”
Loris left off fiddling with one of the pillow’s gold tassels.
Men and their queer starts. “If he did, which he does not, that would be none of your business, Baron. Nick is a good man and protective by nature, but he has never given me the slightest hint he seeks anything more than cordial relations between us.”
“Would you know, Miss Tanner, if a man sought more than that from you?” The lavender or the oaks or something must be fascinating to his lordship, for he didn’t turn to ask even that question.
“You mean, would I know if Nick had the kind of prurient interest Greymoor’s guests did?” Loris scoffed. “Those intentions can be spotted miles away.” Though alas for her, she hadn’t always been so alert to them.
The baron turned, propping his shoulders against the door jamb. The sunlight gilded red highlights in his hair, the breeze teased
the dark curls fringing his brow.
He and Loris were private now. Why was he no longer calling her Loris? Or my dear?
“I mean, Miss Tanner, does Haddonfield hold honorable intentions toward you, or at least respectful intentions?”
What did any of this have to do with a sprung shoe on the baron’s gelding?
“Nick is willing to take direction from me, shows me the requisite courtesies, and does a good job. What difference does it make if his intentions are honorable or respectful?”
His lordship scooted one shoulder, as if scratching an itch, then crossed the room to join Loris on the hearth stones.
“A man and woman may deal with one another respectfully, to the mutual pleasure of both, though neither seeks a liaison ending in marriage,” he said, his tone maddeningly pedagogic.
She should whack him for his little tutorial in wickedness, though his lordship also had a well hidden streak of protectiveness.
“You think Nick seeks those sorts of dealings with me?”
“Could he?”
Loris felt the baron’s heat, felt the slightest rustle of his breath against the side of her neck. He smelled good, of meadows and grass, of soap and flowers.
Not of the stable, as she must.
“I’ve seen on more occasions than I wanted to, what mischief grown men can get up to,” Loris said. “The male mind is beyond my fathoming. I deal with your kind only because my work necessitates it.”
“Your safety will as well,” the baron said, tucking a strand of her hair over her ear.
“I beg your pardon?” Loris made no effort to hide her disgruntlement. The heat and humidity undid her coiffure, but the baron scrambled her wits without even trying.
“If you think I’ll allow you to spend hours alone in that barn in the dead of night, madam, you are very much mistaken.”
“I am, for the present, your steward,” Loris began patiently, “and we have little knowledgeable help, and it only makes sense—”
The baron held up a hand, and his smile became again that feral, happily predatory grin.
“You may take your shift at night, Miss Tanner, only if you have my company for your protection.”
Bother . Bother him, bother his smile, bother his reasonableness, even.
“I don’t like it,” she said, wishing she hadn’t let him teach her all about cutlery and small talk. This condition of his was both gentlemanly and not quite proper. Prior to spending time with Sutcliffe, Loris would not have allowed either problem to come to her notice, much less bother her.
“You are concerned for my safety,” Loris said, and she’d long since given up being concerned for her standing beyond the Linden estate itself, so what mattered the appearance of impropriety now? “You may accompany me if you insist, but foal watch is boring, and it’s hard to stay awake.”
“In your company, Miss Tanner, remaining awake will be no problem. Now, allow me to escort you to your cottage, where we will see what can be done to ensure you’ll also be safe when asleep in your own bed.”
Sutcliffe wouldn’t back down, compromise, or give up, no matter how pleasantly he beamed at her.
“Very well, Baron. If you insist, I will permit this, though I like it not.” Nor would Loris venture to call him Thomas.
“The alternative, madam,” he said, taking her elbow and leading her to the door, “would be to move you up here to the manor house until we get to the bottom of the situation in the stable. Neither your reputation nor your slumber would benefit from that.”
What slumber? “I wouldn’t do it. One sprung shoe cannot cause us to panic, my lord. That is very likely the goal of Chesterton’s actions anyway.” Though he’d probably delegated the actual mischief to Anderson or Hammersmith. Only Nick, Jamie, and Beckman remained in the stable, and they’d have their hands full.
“I do not panic, Miss Tanner, but your safety must come before any other concern.”
Loris panicked often, but from a young age she’d learned not to show it. “Weren’t you planning to call me Loris?” she asked, wrapping her fingers more snugly around the baron’s arm.
“I was, Loris.”
Sutcliffe placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm, and escorted her to her cottage at a ridiculously sedate pace.
Doubtless, in deference to the heat.
Chapter Seven
“I am without a personal mount for the nonce, so where does one acquire horseflesh around here?” Thomas put the question to his steward as she led him through the woods.
He was the escort, true, but Loris Tanner knew every path.
“Claudia Pettigrew has some good horses,” Miss Tanner replied, “and her lads aren’t too bad about backing them. Mr. Dale has comparable stock, but you’ll have to deal with the widow if you want to breed Penny back to her stud. Mrs. Pettigrew might bargain more generously if you’re also buying from her.”
“So you and the widow are cordial?” Thomas asked, relishing the cool of the shade.
“We are civil.” That single sentence brought the temperature in the wood down yet further. “She is never outright rude to me, nor I to her, but in her conversation, she always manages some deprecating innuendo, and I lack the sophistication or desire to adequately parry her barbs.”
“Give me a good, honest fistfight any day,” Thomas said, “and spare me from the weapons of women.”
Thomas had forgotten how lovely an old wood was in summer. He and Miss Tanner had ridden for a short way through the wood, but at the time, he’d been steering the horse and the conversation, and trying not to take too much notice of the lady.
Now, he liked the look of her here, sunlight slanting down, the scent of greenery around them, no sound but for a bird chirruping overhead.
“You deride the weapons of women,” Miss Tanner said, gesturing Thomas down a fern-bordered path. “Were you and Nick employing the weapons of men? With that ‘excellent brandy’ and ‘you are a treasure’ nonsense? You were rearing and squealing like a pair of stud colts.”
Stud colts. An impressive and decidedly un-genteel image.
“We were squaring off over the right to protect you.”
“The right to protect me?” Loris sputtered, coming to a halt. “The right… you neither have the right to protect me. I am a woman grown, and I’ve been without the protection of a man of any sort for the past two years, and before that….”
Thomas held back an oak branch for her. “Before that, Miss Tanner?”
“Before that, I was more often the one protecting my father than the other way around,” she said, resuming her march on her own.
“Protecting how?”
They were approaching her cottage, an architectural confection sitting snug and flowery in the clearing in the woods. Here, the surrounding trees kept the worst of the heat away, and quiet pervaded the air.
“It doesn’t signify.” She stopped as they broke from the trees, but remained in the shade, a bright smile slapped on her mouth, while wariness lingered in her eyes. “Would you like some cider or lemonade?”
“You’re dodging, sweetheart,” Thomas said, brushing a wisp of hair from her temple with a single finger.
She batted his hand away. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t be so… forward, so familiar.” She turned away, crossing her arms. “So kind.”
Thomas had seen that posture from her before, when a stable full of men had been ready to hurt her and destroy what she held dear. He stepped closer so she could feel him right behind her.
The next words would also hurt her, but her solitariness did her a far worse injury, and had been paining her for far too long.
“You want me to desist,” Thomas said, “because if I am kind, and you come to trust me, then you might admit to me what a relief it is to be away from your dear papa. To not have to worry over when he’ll disappear again, leaving you to once more cope with his lapses, his absences, his worthless apologies and pr
otestations of reform. You won’t have to acknowledge the pity and contempt you bore from your neighbors, and you won’t have to admit the man who should have protected and cherished you broke your heart, again, and again, and again.”
Thomas could recite that litany because his sister had taught him a version of the same sorrow.
Miss Tanner hunched in on herself, as if gale force winds buffeted her from behind. Then her shoulders hitched and a sound escaped, one expressing no dignity and much grief.
Thomas turned her gently and took her into his arms. Nobody would see her here, momentarily discommoded by a bumbling baron. He tucked a handkerchief into her hand and wished he were back in London, where no one expected subtlety from him, and he was simply Fairly’s man of business.
Loris Tanner had built a fortress of self-reliance and privacy, and Thomas had tunneled beneath her defenses with honesty, when she was prepared to outlast sieges of contempt or withstand the mortar fire of indifference. The citadel of her composure did not crumble slowly, but rather, collapsed in a heap.
Another woman, a London lady, might have sniffled, waved her handkerchief about, and dabbed at her eyes.
Loris Tanner carried on like a tired child, like a woman should carry on only when safe in the confines of her own home, in guaranteed and protracted solitude. She wasn’t merely whimpering or tearing up, she was crying.
Thomas kept an arm around her shaking shoulders and walked her to the front porch, where he lowered her to the bottom step. He took the higher step, sat with a leg on either side of her, and anchored her to his chest.
Tears meant to manipulate were familiar to him, and he was adept at cajoling, teasing, and placating the women who used them. He was equally comfortable cutting the tears off with a swift, unsympathetic word, or a mocking glance.
These tears did not want placating, they wanted comforting.
So Thomas held Loris, stroked her hair, and rubbed her back in slow, caressing circles, while she locked her arms around him as if she might drown were she to let him go.
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