The corner of Sir Eugene’s mouth kicked up in wry humor. “Not personally, but I have good reports--excellent action, good clean jumps without a falter.”
“Who schooled him, Michaels or Stoddard?”
“Neither. You’re looking at the one who claims that credit.” Sir Eugene’s grin broadened as he noted the Marquis’s black eyebrows rise in disbelief.
“That squib of a lad? Come, Gene, you're doing it too brown. I didn’t cut my eyeteeth yesterday.”
“On my honor. Done a wonderful job with that horse. He’ll fetch a good price in London.”
The Marquis studied the rider carefully. “Got light hands, a good seat . . .” He frowned a moment, then turned back to Sir Eugene. “Would you take it amiss if I offered the lad a chance as a jockey for me?”
Sir Eugene appeared to consider the matter for a moment.
‘With your reputation,” he said lightly, “her mother would take exception to the idea—it is hardly an occupation for a gently-reared female.”
“Female!” Lord Stefton’s head whipped around and he stared at Sir Eugene. “Are you saying that boy is a woman?”
Sir Eugene nodded. “My niece,” he answered complacently.
“Have you gone daft, man?” The Marquis shed his languid posture to peer intently at the rider. Every idea of propriety was affronted, delightfully so. He found himself possessed of a lively curiosity as to the personality of his friend’s niece. Unexpectedly, the image of himself as a hound keen to the scent flashed in his mind, effectively dousing his initial interest.
He gave Sir Eugene a sideways glance. It was taken for granted no woman could ride a Burke horse. Sir Eugene, he knew, did nothing to disabuse the world of this notion. Most likely, he knew full well this increased the mystique and, therefore, the horses' value.
“Why are you telling me this? I cannot believe you wish me to spread such insight among the ton,” he drawled wryly.
Sir Eugene tore his eyes away from Catherine to look at the Marquis. “Hardly,” he said levelly. “I don’t know why I mention it now, other than some desire to show my pride. She’ll be my heir. She’s like a daughter to me.” He laughed, looking affectionately at Catherine. “Or perhaps I should say, more like a son.”
The sounds of Gwen’s carriage being driven into the stable yard drew his attention, and he glanced away from Catherine toward the source of the sound. “That’s my mother’s carriage. She must be inside. Excuse me, Stefton, I must pay my respects. Are you sure you won’t stay the night?’ ’
“No, though I thank you for the offer. My luggage and valet are ten miles down the road. I only stopped on my return from visiting a friend in Northumbria to see if I might steal a march and acquire one of your horses before the spring sale.”
“Well, stay long enough to share a mug of ale and warm yourself. Dawes will show you the way to the library.”
The Marquis nodded absently as Sir Eugene turned to leave, his attention returning to the rider on the big bay horse.
Gwen and Marysurged past the butler into Deirdre's sitting room, a sunny yellow room with broad windows overlooking thepark, stables, paddocks, and fields beyond that constituted the central part of the farm.
It was Deirdre's favorite place, for there she could sit and sew and look out over Eugene’s world, though her delicacy of constitution precluded her participation. She was a fragile woman with a heart-shaped face and an almost translucent complexion, save for the natural roses in her cheeks. She possessed the merriest blue eyes, always ready to crinkle at the sides when she laughed. Her fine brown hair insisted on slipping out of its confining pins, so she always looked as though she’d been rushing about. This impression was intensified by the rapid, birdlike movements of her hands as she talked, carrying her beyond spoken thoughts.
She was mending Sir Eugene’s shirts when Gwen and Mary entered, and she turned like a startled fawn when the door opened. Her brief expression of surprise turned to warm welcome when she recognized her visitors and urged them to come in by the fire. She carefully folded her husband’s shirts and rang for refreshments.
Gwen chuckled at Deirdre's occupation and leaned back into a deep gold brocade armchair across from her. “Still refusing to let a seamstress touch his shirts? Well, be careful you don’t ruin your eyes.”
Deirdre giggled. “Oh, faith, if I don’t have a care and sew only when the light is best, Eugene scolds me like a child.” Her hands fluttered. “He looks black at me enough for enjoying the mending. I can’t help it, I must be busy, and mending is ingrained in me from childhood.
“But tell me,” she continued, leaning forward, her face intent, “is the rector’s youngest quite recovered now from the measles? I haven’t gone out for nigh on a week now, and I find it disconcerting not to know everything has happened. Isometimes think Eugene is too cautious of my health. Though I catch a cold easily, I am otherwise strong.”
“That may be, but don’t you be getting any ideas, my girl,” Gwen said gruffly, trying to mask her emotion for the slip of a woman seated before her.
Deirdre had been a genuinely energetic woman until her accident ten years ago. Deirdre had come to her mother-in-law’s house to announce the joyful news that she was finally breeding. When Ralph drove her home that afternoon, a sudden storm blew up, with more wind and sound than rain. A stray small branch of leaves, carried by the wind, blew across the eyes of one of the horses. The startled horse reared and bolted. The carriage careened madly after the horse until the entire assemblage tumbled into a ditch not far from Fifefield. Raymond Dawes, the son of Sir Eugene’s estate agent, found them. Ralph was dead, his neck broken when he was thrown from the carriage. Deirdre was alive, but she lost the child she was carrying and contracted pneumonia. The incident took its toll on her health. In her activities, she was a mere shadow of her former self, though outwardly as gregarious as ever.
“Yes, the child is better. Now it looks like the squire’s two boys have it,” Mary answered sadly. “The poor man, he is in such a state. To see his two babes, usually so full of life, still and quiet frets him to flinders.” Mary’s voice broke slightly, caught up in her thoughts of the squire.
Deirdre and Gwen exchanged knowing looks and smiled. Together, they talked about happenings in the village in a pleasant, gossipy manner until Deirdre's butler brought them tea and left, closing the big white double doors softly behind him. It was a signal to the elder Lady Burke, and she leaned forward in her chair.
“Deirdre, love, we must admit this is not a mere social call on our part. We need your assistance,” she said, nodding over in Mary’s direction.
Deirdre's eyes opened wide. “Oh! Anything, need you ask? But whatever for?”
