Chapter 2
London
1861
At First Blush
“Send for the slaughterer.”
Her father’s words had sent a bone-numbing chill through Lavinia, and now she stood near the stall with her forehead pressed to her mare’s, the hand of her uninjured arm brushing over Sophie’s gorgeous white coat. She’d pleaded with her father not to send for the horrid man who would take Sophie away.
“I’ll not keep a horse that throws a lady off its back,” he’d said sternly before marching toward the residence.
She’d known it would be fruitless to argue, but still she’d raced after him, trying to explain the truth of what had happened—but he wasn’t having it. The horse was a danger, and he’d not risk his only daughter’s safety. He would be rid of this one and purchase her another, his tone brooking no further arguments.
It wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair at all. It hadn’t been Sophie’s fault. If anyone was to blame it was the Duke of Thornley—known as Thorne to his intimates—for inviting Lavinia to go riding with him along Rotten Row, then inviting her brother as well, paying far more attention to Neville, who was nine years her senior, than to her. At birth, she’d been promised to Thorne, but that didn’t mean she didn’t require some level of wooing, didn’t yearn to be his sole focus. But no, in spite of her presence, the two men had been discussing some new gaming hell that was rumored to be “just the thing” and how they might go in search of it, because in spite of being “just the thing” it was apparently hidden away somewhere.
As always, they were treating her like a child, to be humored, not a girl on the cusp of womanhood, whose body had been changing for some time now in preparation for marriage and childbirth and who had recently acquired a lady’s maid. Feeling jealous and petulant, she’d given the usually docile Sophie a stinging slap on the rump with her riding crop, intending to send the horse into a frenzied gallop in order to pretend to have lost control of the beast so her future fiancé would dash after them and rescue her. However, instead of bolting, Sophie had reared up at the abuse and unseated Lavinia, who had then landed hard on her arm, which had landed even harder on a rock. She’d screamed at the pain that had torn through her and then stared stupidly at the shard of white just above her wrist that protruded through her sleeve and the red that was soaking into the lime-colored fabric of her riding habit.
She couldn’t remember exactly—being in shock, she supposed—how her brother had lifted her and she had ended up in Thorne’s lap as he sat astride his gelding. Holding her close, while urging his horse to canter at a fast clip, he’d escorted her home, leaving Neville to retrieve her mare. In spite of it being the most excruciating journey of her life, she’d welcomed Thorne’s arms about her, his nearness. He’d even carried her into the residence, up to her bedchamber, as though her leg and not her arm was broken.
He’d make an exceptional husband, even if he was eleven years her senior, and presently in no rush to marry, apparently. He hadn’t officially asked for her hand, but their fathers had signed a contract upon her birth giving Wood’s End, a small estate that bordered up against Thorne’s much larger one, to the duke upon their marriage. So her future was settled and done, without poetry, flowers, or grand gestures. The entire arrangement was all so dashed boring, lacking in passion, desire, and mad yearning.
Once he’d deposited her on the bed, Thorne had respectfully taken his leave, turning her care over to the servants who scurried about with words of worry as though she were not long for this world. Although she knew full well a gentleman did not remain in a lady’s bedchamber if he was not married to her, she was still so deuced disappointed that he hadn’t hovered over her himself. The physician had been sent for, the bone reset—a process that had pained her immensely—and a splint secured about her forearm to prevent the bone from moving again until it was properly healed.
Slightly woozy from the laudanum she’d been given to dilute the pain, she’d made her way to the stable in order to check on Sophie and ensure she was unharmed. She’d arrived just as her father made his proclamation. And now there was no hope for it. Her beautiful Sophie would be led to slaughter.
“I’m sorry, so sorry, sweet girl,” she whispered, over and over, with tears welling in her eyes. “I was incredibly stupid, and now you’ll pay the price.”
If she weren’t hampered with a broken arm, she’d saddle Sophie, mount her, and ride away, a fantasy that overlooked the fact she’d never saddled a horse in her life and had no idea how to go about it. The advantage to having servants was that tasks were done, and she didn’t have to bother with learning the intricacies regarding how they were done. Except for the slaughtering of horses. Neville, intrigued by the ways in which London rid itself of its numerous aging and ill equines, had visited a slaughter depot. He’d then returned to regale her with the horrors of the slaughter and aftermath. She’d been all of seven, he sixteen, and she’d awoken with nightmares for an entire month. And now a horrible, ugly, hunchbacked man was coming to do the unthinkable to Sophie, and she hadn’t the ability to save her.
“M’lady?” Johnny, one of the grooms, said quietly at her back. “The slaughterer’s here. We need to retrieve Sophie from her stall.”
With anger, frustration, and grief all warring for dominance, she swung around, and her gaze fell on a stranger, no doubt the slaughterer. Only he wasn’t hideous and old and looking to have a heart made of stone. He was young. Perhaps half a dozen years older than she, if that. Beneath his brown flat-cap, his dark blond hair curled about the collar of his plain brown jacket. His white shirt and brown waistcoat were clean, but wrinkled, and she suspected his labors prevented them from remaining pristine all day. But it was his brown eyes that drew her, eyes that didn’t look to be those of a killer. “How can you do it?” she asked, her voice rough, her throat raw from all the tears that had made their way down it and clogged it. “How can you murder her? She’s not old. She’s not wicked. She didn’t intend to throw me.”
“We do what we’re paid to do.” His voice echoed resignation, as though it wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to address the accusations.
“Surely, you can spare her.”
He nodded toward her arm. “Did she do that?”
“No, the ground did, when I fell.”
“So she tossed you.”
“But it wasn’t her fault. I goaded her into it. Normally she’s a very docile creature.”
“She is that,” Johnny concurred.
“My father is stubborn. He won’t listen.” She took a step nearer. “But surely you will see the truth of things. Spare her.”
“We risk losing our license if we cheat the customer.”
“But you’re not cheating my father if he never learns of it. You’re cheating death. How marvelous that would be.”
“Sorry, m’lady. Now if you’ll be so good as to move aside.” He made to edge past her.
She balled up her good hand and smacked his shoulder, certain she’d injured herself more than she’d hurt him. He was solid rock, but at least he stopped and looked down on her, lording over her by several inches. Were he to hold her in his strong arms—which she most certainly would not allow—the top of her head would come to rest just beneath his collarbone. “She won’t suffer. I’ve a way with horses, so I can see to that. The end comes quick. She won’t even know.”
