by Lee Rowan
He wanted to look, but he did not dare.
CHAPTER 8
The sun was blazing through his bedroom window when Brendan finally opened his eyes. Nearly noon, he guessed. He wondered whether Major Carlisle was up and about, and found himself embarrassed once more at the memory of the night before.
He’d made the mistake of glancing over when Carlisle had stepped out of the tub, his body wet and glistening in the candlelight. He was a handsome, well-built man, and despite the fact that he must be close to forty he was as sleek and lean as a thoroughbred, the most gorgeous thing Brendan had ever laid eyes on. He’d had to engage in some quick work with the towel and dressing-gown to disguise his own body’s reaction.
It was time to get back to town, immediately, before he did anything stupid. Not that he was likely to have the chance. Even if he were foolish enough to consider trying to seduce the Major, he had no notion of how one went about such a thing. Probably just as well, too.
He had only had time to pull on his stockings and trousers when he heard a discreet tap at the door. “Yes, come in,” he called.
“I am sorry, sir.” It was Peters, condescending to a duty below his station, delivering a tray that held a silver pot and a china cup and saucer. “Major Carlisle has gone to attend the inquest, and has instructed me to offer you breakfast in the small dining room. Will you require any assistance?”
“No, thank you. If I may have hot water I can shave myself. I shall be down as quickly as possible.”
“Very good, sir.”
Brendan poured himself a cup of what proved to be hot chocolate, and carried it over to the windowsill, which was low and deep enough to serve as a seat. He gazed out through the mullioned panes at the garden below. Twin Oaks was not the largest estate he’d ever seen, but the groundskeeper did his job well. The lawn just below his window was bordered along the drive by a low formal hedge, and a couple of low flowering trees—cherries, he guessed—were just breaking into bloom.
He called “Come!” to another tap on the door, and this time it was a young chambermaid carrying in a can of hot water. He thanked her as well, musing as he shaved that Carlisle’s little whim of requiring the servants to knock was actually a very good idea. It was no wonder, when one thought about it, that servants’ carrying tales was always a concern. They had admirable opportunity to gather gossip-fodder, when their duties required them to burst in on their employers without any warning.
While shaving, Brendan realized that he had not asked Carlisle to inquire whether Presgrave, the coroner, would be willing to allow him to ride back to London in his carriage. Perhaps he would do that anyway. If not—well, he’d simply have to ask the Major when he returned. He could not stay at Twin Oaks any longer, much as he liked the place, and much as he would like to stay around and see how Queenie and her foal were doing.
If he hurried, perhaps he could spend a few minutes at the stable after he’d had something to eat.
After a meal that he swallowed too quickly to pay much attention to what was on his plate, Brendan was unsurprised to find his host already returned from the village and leaning on the fence beside the gate, watching Queenie and her new filly. “Good morning, sir!” he called. “Or is it afternoon?”
Carlisle glanced over his shoulder. “Nearly one. Did you sleep well?”
“Far too well, to lose the morning that way. I cannot believe that I was such a slugabed.”
“It was only lacking an hour or so to dawn when we retired,” Carlisle said, his attention back on the horses. “She’ll be a quick one, I think. See how she stands—legs well under her, and only half a day on her feet!”
Brendan nodded. The mare and her baby made a beautiful picture, the coppery-gold dam with her cornsilk mane and tail contrasting with the inky-black filly—a true jet black, without a trace of the brownish baby fur that most black foals were born with—tagging close at her side. “It amazes me that horses can carry their young ones to such size. Compared to cats or dogs…even a large litter still comes out one pup at a time.”
“Indeed. I must thank you for your assistance last night, Mr. Townsend. We could have distracted Queenie with a twitch, I suppose, but I wished to keep her as free from distress as possible.”
“She seems well enough now.” The foal had decided it was time for a drink, and Queenie was nudging her little one into place at her udder. “In fact, one would never guess this was her first.”
“Her foster-mother taught her well.” Carlisle straightened, turning himself away from the fence as though pulling away from a strong magnet. “And now I must repay your courtesy with consideration, and return you to your home.” He cast a longing look back over his shoulder. “I would prefer to stay here, of course, but when I spoke to Ezra Jenkins at the inquest, he told me he had received a message from a friend of his in London. It seems that the elusive Mr. Bowker has gone to London Town, and appears to be stopping there for a few days.”
“I should not have stayed here so long,” Brendan admitted, “but I cannot be sorry. Do you mean to pursue Bowker in the city?”
Carlisle shook his head. “No. Taking the chase out of this district and into London would mean hiring a Bow Street Runner, and even if I were to do that, there are no grounds for an arrest. He’ll have disposed of the cargo by now—brandy, Jenkins told me. No, he must be caught in the act. Jenkins has decided that he will bide his time and watch his back until his enemy returns. In the meantime, we may as well drive back to London ourselves and see what we may do to resolve your friend’s problem with the offensively insistent innkeeper.”
“That sounds almost like the title for one of the novels to which my mother is addicted,” Brendan said. “Though if it were, the innkeeper would be a revenant spirit, and would be routed by a virtuous curate.”
Carlisle winced. “Ye gods.” He added tactfully, “I have met your mother, a most charming lady. I should never have guessed she had a taste for that sort of … entertainment.”
“I think ghost-stories are her only vice, besides hats,” Brendan said. “And she hasn’t much time to indulge in reading at the moment, with my sister’s campaign underway. Speaking of which, do you mean to leave today?”
“Yes, as soon as we may. I had one of the grooms take Romulus and Remus out to the Knight’s Inn yesterday evening, and stay with them; I thought you’d need to go home today, even if Queenie hadn’t foaled. That was why we were shorthanded last night. We can change horses there, and be in town before dark. Might you be ready in half an hour?”
“I am ready at any time convenient to you, Major. You are too kind to offer your assistance; the more I consider what I have asked of you, the more I wonder at my own presumption!”
“Not at all,” Carlisle said quickly. “I have enjoyed your company, and truth be told, I have seen too many good men ruined by blackmailers. If I am able to help foil one, it will be a genuine pleasure.”
“Still…” Brendan knew he should stop babbling. “I do thank you.”
Carlisle made a dismissive gesture, and changed the subject by directing Brendan’s attention to a row of handsome oak saplings he had recently caused to be set along the drive, and their conversation turned to the more pleasant topic of landscape design.
In a very short time they were on the road once more, this time riding inside the carriage with Edward up in the driver’s box. Carlisle, despite his preference for driving, had turned in late and risen early, so he made himself comfortable on one of the well-padded seats and was soon sound asleep.
Brendan did his best to distract himself with a borrowed book that concerned itself with the health and diseases of horses. It was interesting enough, but he could not keep his mind fixed on the pages. He had discovered in himself a considerable reluctance to return to London, and Tony, and Tony’s tiresome problem. He did not want to introduce Carlisle to the indiscreet Mr. Hillyard, or take him to that disgusting club. He wanted to keep Philip Carlisle as far from any of that as he possibly co
uld, keep him from being contaminated by it.
He had been so desperate to find help with the problem that he had not thought things through as he should have. What if Tony were to let something slip that revealed their relationship? What would Carlisle think of him then?
A fine time to worry about it—too late now. And he was probably deceiving himself if he thought Major Carlisle had not already guessed why he was so concerned for Tony. Carlisle was tolerating him for some reason—perhaps out of respect for James—but what did it matter? A man was known by the company he kept, and a man of Carlisle’s position would hardly find any basis for friendship with a younger man of such poor judgment.
Just as well, too, because what Brendan wanted was far more than friendship. It was difficult to sit here and not stare at the strong, lithe figure curled on the seat opposite, the clean line of jaw, the eyebrows two strokes of darker brown beneath the honey-gold hair. Brendan’s fingers itched to reach out and brush an errant lock away from Carlisle’s sleeping face….
He caught himself, shocked at the very thought. He was a fine one to criticize Tony, and all the while sit here harboring thoughts that, if he were to act on them, could only give monstrous offense to a gentleman who had offered him nothing but kindness.
Brendan forced his eyes away from Carlisle and back to the book, but it was hopeless. A pity he had not asked to be awakened earlier; sleep was the last thing on his mind now, and the thought of riding like this for hours, with no conversation or any other sort of distraction—
A happy thought sent him rummaging through the pockets of his riding coat, tossed on the seat beside him. Although the weather had been too fair for him to need to wear it, he had put his sketch-book in one pocket and a small box of pencils in another. He might not be able to concentrate on a printed page, but his mind’s eye was full of the happy tableau in the paddock, and he could draw at least some of it from memory.
He did a few preliminary sketches first: a study of La Reine’s elegant head, her large, luminous eyes and the delicate white blaze between them. Princess’ head was next, the proportions so different in a foal, the color … well, of course he could not make her dark enough with only a bit of lead, but the blaze so similar to her mother’s was easier to remember. He could see, in the shape of the baby head, how like her dam she would be when she began to grow up.
When he had completed the likenesses to his own satisfaction, he began to consider the design of a more complex picture. His mind was full of images from the night before: the great curve of the mare’s side as she lay in the straw, the uncertainty in her eyes, the moment of birth… Philip Carlisle’s face, tense and focused, as he watched the new foal arrive in the world, anxiety and anticipation blended equally.
No, he could not draw that. But when Brendan looked at the formerly blank page of his sketch-pad, he saw that not only could he draw Carlisle that way, he had.
He would have rubbed out the crude sketch, except that he had, in a very rudimentary way, captured a pretty good likeness. He was seldom able to do that with drawings of human beings. Horses were easy; humans were not, and he had never seen anything so beautiful as that blend of strength and gentleness as Carlisle had shown the night before. He would cherish that memory, and never show the picture to anyone else.
Perhaps, though, as a sort of thank-you, he might do Major Carlisle a drawing of himself and his new arrival as he had seen them earlier: Carlisle with one foot on the bottom rail of the gate, one arm on the top rail … yes. Head up, face keen…
The page was too small for much detail, but the line of his body showed how the animals within the paddock had all his attention. And a bit beyond the rail, Queenie—not challenging or oblivious to observation, but aware of Carlisle’s presence, even though the lion’s share of her attention was on her foal. Princess was easiest to draw, though Brendan had to find his rubber eraser and re-draw her legs a few times. There was a fine line between an accurate representation of a newborn horse’s legs and a caricature.
He sat back at last, pleased with the sketch, if not delighted. It would do as the basis for a more finished pen and ink drawing, when he had time to sit down and indulge himself in his hobby. Drawing horses was never as pleasing as riding, or even watching them graze and frolic together, but it was more fulfilling than drawing pictures of stone cherubs above an altar.
It was really too bad that the education of a young gentleman did not include the instruction in watercolors that was part of a young lady’s training. Princess could be depicted well enough in black ink on white paper, but Queenie was a golden thing, and ink could never capture her full beauty. A pity James Seymour was no longer alive; there was a painter who might have done her justice.
Philip Carlisle shifted in his sleep, and Brendan considered him once again. Surely there could be no harm in doing a quick study of his face, if he did it with the intention of making a reference for the finished portrait of a man and his horses? It was the likeness that mattered, after all, not the pleasure the act of creation gave the artist. That was a private matter, and would never be anything else.
But he finally wearied even of drawing. Putting the sketch pad away, he leaned back against the well-padded cushions and closed his eyes; sleep came almost immediately.
Philip Carlisle awoke slowly, wondering what was wrong until he had enough wit to realize that nothing was wrong at all; it was simply that the carriage had slowed down, and the peaceful country road outside his window had been replaced by the bustle of a coaching inn’s yard. He sat up and stretched, smiling at the sight of Brendan Townsend slumped awkwardly against the squabs in the opposite seat.
He cleared his throat. “Mr. Townsend? We have arrived.”
There was no response. He tried again, but Townsend’s utterly blank expression was that of a young man who had not gotten enough sleep and was determined to rectify the error. Finally Carlisle chuckled and reached across to shake his guest’s shoulder.
Brendan righted himself, apologizing profusely, as the carriage came to a stop.
“No harm done,” Carlisle said. “I only just awoke, myself. We’re at the Knight’s Inn and should have time for a quick dinner while the horses are changed. Shall we?”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Edward opened the carriage door and let down the steps. Dutifully stifling a yawn, Brendan followed him out of the carriage and into the inn.
They had some cold beef and bread and ale. When they returned to the yard, Edward was just climbing back into the box. Carlisle made certain his coachman had been able to find nourishment, then climbed back inside. He knew his own strength well enough, and was not the sort of man who was too proud to admit that at twoscore years of age he was at less than his best from a late night and two mugs of ale.
“Well, Mr. Townsend,” he said, as the carriage jolted into motion, “I must apologize for my lack of scintillating conversation on the first half of our journey. I trust you were able to amuse yourself?”
Brendan nodded, but he looked slightly embarrassed. “Sir, I am not certain whether I should ask your permission or your pardon,” he said. “I had a notion…. “
He looked so abashed that Carlisle finally grew impatient. “Speak up, please! Unless you mean to ask something completely outside of reason, I am hardly likely to object.”
The boy actually blushed. “I merely wondered, sir… would you mind if I were to make a drawing of La Reine and her filly?”
Carlisle did not know what he had expected to hear, but it was certainly not that. “Of course not! Are you an artist?”
“I… I would never claim that, sir! I draw a bit, for my own amusement, only. And I have a book on drawing with ink… Most often, I only sketch with pencil. But Queenie is such a beautiful creature, I could not resist.” He fumbled with his coat, and drew out a sketch-book, proffering it like a spaniel with a gnawed pheasant. “There, you see?”
Before him, on the flat white surface, Queenie’s coquettish persona
lity was as apparent as though she were there before him. A little to one side was Princess, big-eyed with wonder at the new world she had just entered. Carlisle turned a page, and saw himself, leaning with one foot on the gate, marveling at the astonishing gift he’d just been granted. The open emotion on his face, somehow conveyed with just a few deceptively simple strokes of the pencil, was almost embarrassing.
He was about to turn another page, but Brendan held out his hand, and Carlisle felt obliged to surrender the book.
“I thought I might do a pen-and-ink drawing of them,” he said diffidently, “and then it occurred to me that, as they are your horses, I really ought to ask your permission.”
“My permission?” Carlisle reached for the book again; reluctantly, Brendan opened it to the page with the two head-studies. Once again, the likeness drew a smile from him. “Did you draw all this from memory?”
“Yes, sir. They are but rough sketches—preliminary studies. The final work would be more finished.”
“My permission.” Carlisle repeated, gazing at the stray bit of forelock that never would lie straight on Queenie’s face. “My dear boy—you are no businessman. You should by rights be asking me how much I would pay to have you draw them.”
Brendan cast him a look of doubt. “I had thought to do it as a token of gratitude, sir.”
“Gratitude? For what?”
“Your help, of course. This problem with my friend…”
“Well, I think you might wait until I have actually accomplished something, before thanking me. But I am quite serious about your talent.”
Brendan shrugged self-consciously. “I have no training, Major. This is nothing more than a hobby.”
“It could be more than that, if you chose. I have seen plenty of paintings of horses, Mr. Townsend. There’s one in my study—I must show it to you one day—of a horse that my father owned, a big bay hunter. It’s a splendid painting, quite a handsome animal. But it looks nothing at all like Pharamond. An artist who is able to draw a horse that resembles a proper horse is to be commended. An artist who can draw a horse that looks so much like one particular horse that a stranger could pick her out of a crowd...” Carlisle shook his head and gave back the sketches. “You said you were seeking a useful occupation. I think you have found it.”
