“Thank you. I suppose I was more nervous than I had thought,” she said, leaning into her horse’s neck and nuzzling him. “I think we are better. Aren’t we, Winterborne?”
The horse whinnied, as if reassuring her.
Once the footman had retreated, William said, “I know you want to look, but we don’t need to do that. I checked Winterborne myself, and there were several small, healed puncture wounds beneath where his saddle sat. His hair covers the healed scars, and that’s probably why you hadn’t seen them when grooming him. There were only a few, and they were puncture wounds. I can only speculate on how they may have missed them—but since your father had a head injury, they must have decided that his fall had killed him. They didn’t look any further.”
After a long moment of silence, he looked at her. “What do you say we keep riding?” William asked. “I’m sorry I chose to tell you when I did. But you should know your father’s horse did everything he could to keep from yielding to the pain. I’m certain of it. The nicks on his back were probably painful, but I think something else caused him to react. I’m not sure what, yet, but I’m going to keep looking.”
Bella leaned over Winterborne and kissed his head, then patted his neck. “So, what do we do to find this person who did this terrible thing?” She swiped at her eyes. “It’s been over a year. Is it too late?”
“I am looking into it. I’ll need a little more time,” he said. “I have contacts that will help me.”
“I can’t thank you enough, William. I truly appreciate your taking the time to investigate,” Bella said, exhaling a deep breath. Then, with a sudden spark of energy, she added, “Do you feel like picking up the pace? I think Winterborne could use the exercise—and so could I.”
Without waiting for a reply, she gave Winterborne his head and took off, the wind whipping through her hair.
William’s heart pounded—not from the ride, but from the impish look Bella cast over her shoulder as they raced down the main road. He was once again reminded of how strong she was. Despite her sorrow over the loss of her father and the pain that Winterborne had suffered, she retained her spirit and warmth. Bella was not only beautiful, but she was the kind of woman who would make a wonderful wife for a lucky man. But couldhebe that man?
~*~
Chapter Thirteen
Early the next morning
Dover Beach, beneath a pier
Stephen had hoped last night would have ended differently. Attending Darkmoor’s ball had been a dreaded obligation, yet, against all odds, he had enjoyed himself. And it was entirely because of the former Elizabeth Harrogate—the woman he had once wanted to marry.
Seeing her at the ball had caught him off guard. He had nearly forgotten that her home was in Kent. But the evening had unfolded like a dream from the moment they crossed paths. They danced, they talked, they laughed. And when the supper dance ended, fate had seated them across the table from each other, allowing the night to stretch just a little longer.
Something had happened after the ball—something important—but the details had slipped through his mind like water through his fingers. He should remember. Heneededto remember. Yet here he was, waking beneath a short pier, the shattered remains of a gin bottle clutched in his hand, his head pounding with more than just drink.
Seeingheragain had made him believe, if only for a fleeting moment, that his life could be different. That there might still be something worth salvaging. But now, the cold grip of reality pressed in—damp sand caked his face, his evening clothes hung in tattered ruin, and the tide lapped dangerously close. A dead crab clung absurdly to his trouser leg, a grotesque companion to his disgrace.
The baron. His niece. The future he was supposed to protect.
Guilt twisted in his gut, more suffocating than the weight of his sodden coat. He had drunk to forget—but what, exactly, had he done? And why couldn’t he remember?
When Stephen first caught sight of the red-haired beauty across the ballroom, his pulse had faltered, his mind instinctively reaching for a hope he had long since learned to silence. It was never her.Not since she had married and left London.
And that night, he’d had no intention of approaching her.
He had watched from a careful distance, unwilling to invite old wounds to the surface. But then she had approached him.
At the refreshment table, she had been so lovely, so effortlessly charming,and in an instant, all his memories of her had come rushing back. He had been utterly unprepared. His heart had flipped in his chest, and before he could stop himself, his mind had conjured every long-buried dream he once held for them.
The soirees, the stolen kisses in moonlit gardens, the carriage rides and promenades in Hyde Park—every moment had led to the day he had asked to court her.
But her father had had other plans.
The abrupt announcement of her engagement to Earl Rivers had shattered everything. The rejection had taken its toll—not that it had been her fault. The fault had lain squarely with him and the way he handled disappointment.
Drinking. Gaming. Losing himself in vices that never truly numbed the ache.
And now, after all these years, she had sought him out.She had danced with him and dined with him. And he—fool that he was—had spent the rest of the evening watching her, imagining what might have been.
But what had happened after that?
Because now, he was here—beneath a pier, soaked to the bone, a broken bottle of gin in his grasp.And he couldn’t remember.
