’Twas almost as if he had sensed the upcoming twists of her cunning plan.
Where is he?
Esme resisted the urge to pull off her glove and nibble on her fingernail. She bade herself to stand still and upright, her shoulders back and her lips curving into a smile. She might be the youngest of the five de Neville siblings, but she was every inch her parents’ daughter; tall, golden-haired, and resolute.
True, her resolve may, outwardly at least, be oriented around fun and frivolity. She certainly wasn’t wise, like Frida her eldest sister. Or strikingly beautiful, like Isabella, who was closest to her in age. But Esme had no intention of allowing her life to drift without purpose.
Purpose pumped through her veins like heady wine. She twirled a loose pearl at the cuffs of her sleeve as her mind raced to put together a new plan. Most certainly she could not stand here idly until the end of the ball. If Crispin would not come to her, she must go and find him.
Esme curtsied to her mother. “May I be excused for a moment?”
The countess gave her a searching look. “Will you return?”
“Of course.” Esme affected surprise.
“Please be sure of it.” Her mother tightened her lips. “This ball is, after all, for your benefit.” She reached out a hand and laid it, hesitantly, on her daughter’s arm. “I would have you know the meaning and joy of true love, Esme.”
Esme smiled.
If my mother only knew the truth!
With a final curtsy, she lifted her skirts and did her best to pass through the busy dance floor without attracting more unwanted attention. She had discovered at an early age that the best way to do this was to keep her eyes fixed firmly ahead and to walk without hesitation. In this fashion, she reached the marbled entrance hall of the keep and passed through the high arched doors into the cool night air. Here she paused. The last of the harvest had been brought in more than a sennight since, and the breeze whispering through her hair carried the first bite of winter, but she did not have the patience to go all the way up to her bedchamber to fetch a cloak. Instead, she gave her arms a brisk rub and tripped down the stone steps, giving the splashing fountain a wide birth as she took the path to the stables.
Darkness had fallen some hours since and the quiet outside was a marked contrast to the brightness and bustle of the great hall. Esme found her way by the light of the stars but was still grateful to reach the wattle-and-daub outbuildings which housed the many knights and men-at-arms in her father’s service. Most of them were inside the keep, dancing, feasting and making merry. Esme stepped into the glow of the wall-torch and lifted her hand to rap on the door.
But some inner instinct held her hand. She was out here all alone and knew not who might answer her summons. Suddenly unsure, she stepped back into the darkness and gave a sharp intake of breath when she came up against a warm, solid surface.
“Lady Esme.” The voice was gruff and deep. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
She put a hand to her fluttering heart and spun around, exhaling with relief when the man held up a lantern and identified himself as Gerrault, the longtime stablemaster of Wolvesley and a firm favorite of her mother’s.
“Gerrault,” she said weakly. “I am glad it is you.”
The stablemaster smiled, but it failed to reach his grey eyes. “What are you doing out here at such a time, Lady Esme?”
The question was boldly put, but Gerrault had known her all her life; he had taught her to ride and bathed her knees when she fell.
Esme bit her lip as she tried—and failed—to think of a reason why she might have left the gaiety of the ball to pick her way through the darkness and stand outside the knights’ barn.
“I am looking for Crispin,” she said bravely, opting for the truth. “Sir Crispin de Gough.”
Gerrault’s face remained carefully neutral, but Esme imagined a glow of disapproval in his steady gaze.
“I have business to discuss with him.” She lifted her chin defiantly.
An owl hooted overhead, as if calling out her untruth, but Gerrault only heaved a sigh. “If that is the case, I must tell you where he is. You’ll find him in his horse’s stable, getting him ready.”
“Ready for what?” Esme frowned.
“That I cannot say.” Gerrault fixed his gaze on the soft earth beneath their feet. “If you’ll take my advice, milady, you’ll return to the ball. Where you belong.”
Esme folded her arms protectively. “I shall return to the ball forthwith, Gerrault, have no doubt.” She smiled at him but knew by the set of his shoulders that he was not reassured.
“As soon as I have delivered my message to Sir Crispin.”
Gerrault held his lantern out towards her. “You will be needing this then.”
His kindness affected her more than his caution. Esme put her hand over his for a moment. “Thank you.”
