The countess smiled. “Ah—but to a woman in love, anything is possible.”
“Still. . ." Maria left her thought unfinished, a worried expression clouding her pale blue eyes.
Leona encountered Lucy as she descended the stairs. A slight pout pulled at the corners of Lucy’s lips.
“You would not countenance it, Leona. When I told Miss Benedict what we intended to do this morning, she insisted she join us. Said she didn’t trust Chrissy out of her sight. Even with me!”
Leona sighed. What Miss Benedict didn’t trust was allowing Chrissy to be with Leona Leonard. That meant the stories were already circulating out of the realm of the lower servants.
“Listen, Lucy, maybe it would be best if only Miss Benedict go with the two of you. I am feeling a bit fagged. I trust I am not coming down with anything. Perhaps it would be better if I just stayed in today and coddled my health.”
“But I was so looking forward to showing you around the village. We haven’t had a chance to go there yet.”
“I-I know, but, perhaps it’s for the best.”
“Well, all right, but only because I do not want you to be sick for my ball!”
Leona smiled. “I promise I won’t be.”
Leona saw the shopping party off, then retreated to the library for some quiet reading. Unfortunately, it became more a useless exercise in imagining the high flights of fancy that now had her as a villainess. What the time did achieve, however, was a quieting of her nerves. She had not realized how edgy thesituation with the servants had made her. Maria was right. She was not acting herself. Disgusted with herself, she returned the book of Latin she’d been trying to read and instead drew out a slim volume of poetry. She sat down on the sofa, her legs curled up under her as she sought to lose herself in the poem.
“Dev, rather than taking the horses to the village to be shod, why don’t you have a blacksmith at Castle Marin? With all your horses and the estate’s needs, surely you’d have enough work to keep one well occupied,” David Fitzhugh said that morning as he and Deveraux rode ahead of the groom leading three mares to the village smithy.
“True enough.” Deveraux shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking. “But what would the fellow do when Nevin returns and I take my horses elsewhere? I’d be burdening the estate with the cost of another wage, for you know Nevin’s too kind-hearted to lay the chap off.”
Fitzhugh was silent, his lips compressed into a frown. He doubted any of them would ever see Brandon again, but Deveraux wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept that. Not that he blamed him. If it were his brother who was ill with consumption, most likely he’d feel the same. Still, Dev’s refusal to make any decision that might have permanent ramifications went against the trust his brother placed in him. Not that he saw it that way, of course. Damn pity. He was wracking himself in a manner that would torment his brother if he but knew. “I don’t think Nevin would wish you to leave,” he said slowly. “Leastwise, not in the near term.”
Deveraux glared at him. “Damn it, David. Don’t talk like that. He will be back!” Then suddenly, as if he could read Fitzhugh’s mind, see all the doubts there: “He must!” He did not want to be Earl. Not at the expense of his brother. He glanced at Fitzhugh, but the man glumly shook his head. “No!” Deveraux ground out through clenched teeth. He kicked his horse into a gallop,passing the groom and Fitzhugh, leaving them to make their way on to the village as best they might, anger and a terrible nibbling fear driving him on.
He drew rein before the blacksmith’s and went in to tell the man three of his horses were on the way.
Harold Rawson, the blacksmith, glanced up from the red glowing iron rod he held against the anvil, nodded once, then swung the hammer with a fluid, powerful grace against the metal to pound it into shape. He raised it then brought it forward again, the sound of metal clanging against metal ringing throughout the village. “Ye still got that mustard-haired female up at ta Castle?” he asked, pausing to turn the shoe over.
“Yes. Why?”
Rawson stuck the shoe back in the fire then sniffed, and rubbed the side of his nose with a grimy finger. “There’s talk.” He pumped the bellows to fan the coals.
Deveraux leaned back against a wooden support post. Rawson was a taciturn man by nature. He seldom commented on what he heard around him and never initiated conversation unless it was about some job he’d been asked to do. For him to comment was cause for attention.
“What kind of talk?” he asked carefully, crossing one leg in front of the other and his arms across his chest.
He squinted up at him. “That she ain’t no innocent.”
“In what way?” Deveraux casually studied the fingernails of his right hand, but his body thrummed with tension.
“Being said she planned t’ whole.” He removed the shoe from the fire and set it on the anvil again. “Takin’ the family fer a pack o’ fools.” He swung the hammer against the shoe.
“To what purpose?”
Rawson looked up and shrugged, swinging the hammer again. “No one arsked that question. Talk of takin’ matters into their own hands.”
“What?!” Deveraux straightened, his feet planted firmly apart, his arms rigid at his sides.
Rawson shrugged once more. “Thought ye should know.”
“Damnation!” Deveraux swung around and rammed the post with his fist, scraping and cutting his knuckles. Blood beaded on his skin, but he didn’t notice. The pain in his hand warred with the rage in his head. “Who’s saying this?”
Rawson poured water over the shoe, steam rising and hissing before him. “Everyone at the tavern,” he said, bobbing his head in that direction. “But the idea were put there by a stranger.”
