Twelve
Zach stormed out of the library. He needed to know about Alexander Barrington, and there was one person who might tell him. However, getting the man to talk would be another matter.
Long strides took him past the great hall where Jerrold Barrington entertained his guests. His gaze narrowed on Charles Barrington, the younger son in that portrait.
The room was brilliantly lit with dozens of candles. People, costumed like himself, were attempting to play out some make-believe charade. He turned and practically collided with the bewildered butler, a decanter of amber liquid almost tipping from the silver tray the servant held.
He grabbed the decanter from the tray. Then disappeared down the hallway to the doors that opened onto the gardens, and, like a phantom, he slipped out into the night.
Unless he missed his guess, the stable master was Irish, with a good appreciation of fine whiskey, or brandy. His boots crunched on the gravel that lined the driveway. A single light gleamed from one end of the stables.
The stable master was bent over a saddle, rubbing the leather to a sheen. A pipe hung from his lips, fragrant tobacco smoke encircling his head. He looked up.
"Evenin', sir." He stood, wiping his hands on worn pants. "Is there somethin' you'd be needin', sir?"
Zach nodded. "Some conversation." He held the decanter aloft and saw the gleam that leaped into the man's eyes.
"Aye, 'tis a fine summer night."
"Then you'll join me?" Zach entered the stables, placing the decanter on the small table with the brushes and rags the stable master used. The man's gaze lingered on the amber liquid in the decanter.
The old man wet his lips as if he could almost taste the amber liquid. "The master doesn't approve... "
Zach nodded. "But the master isn't here, and we wouldn't want to waste this fine drink." He sat on the bench beside the stable master. "I'd like to hear more about that fine black stallion you were telling me about."
The man's gaze lifted momentarily from the bottle. "Ah yes, Domino. That was a long time ago."
"But I'm sure there must be a fine story to tell about him." He appealed to an Irishman's storytelling.
"That there is." The stable master wet his lips as if he could almost taste the silken fire of the brandy. "It might take a long while."
"It might take a long while to enjoy this brandy," Zach countered.
"It would be a pity to waste it." The old man passed a gnarled hand over the stubble of beard on his chin.
"A pity," Zach agreed. "And perhaps something of the family. I understand there were two sons."
"Aye, I remember the time when that black devil first came here to Fair View. He was almost two years old, but only partly saddle broke."
For the next two hours, he'd listened to the man's ramblings, plying him with more brandy and questions.
"You've spoken of Lord Charles," Zach commented. "Did he ride the black?"
"Lord Charles? No! He was afraid of the beast almost from the moment the old master brought him to Fair View. Could've been because he a bit younger."
Zach sat up, trying to keep the tone of his voice casual. "What of the older son?"
"Ah, yes, master Alex. The boy was a fine rider, could sit any horse. He had a way about him with the animals, including the black."
"What can you tell me about him?" Zach prodded.
The old man shook his head. "He was Master Clayton's first born, Master Alexander Barrington. And a finer young man there never was."
Zach nodded. "There's a portrait in the house of two young boys."
"As I said, there was never a finer lad."
Zach leaned forward and poured the man more drink. "I've heard little said about him," he casually mentioned. "You'd think a father would be proud of such a young man."
