Her driver, a man employed by her brother-in-law, lacked the grace to look even a little ashamed. “Can’t do much tonight… Not by myself, that is.” Mr. Daniels made an attempt to get himself into a standing position, albeit not a very steady one.
Mr. Beckman’s mouth twisted for a moment, but then he merely nodded—like a man who had fulfilled his daily quota of gallantry—and then with wide eyes, grinned innocently.
“I would assist him myself, princesse, truly I would—but alas, Monsieur Neskers warned against lingering. And I should hate to lose the last available room to someone less… deserving.”
He glanced over at her swaying driver, and then back at her with mock regret.
“Priorities, you understand.” He shrugged, his shoulders moving in a way that was decidedly French.
She took a deep breath and reminded herself that assaulting a man with a reticule—even a tastefully embroidered one—was not the way to begin one’s new life.
Especially not over a smug comment. Or an absurdly symmetrical face.
Regardless, he was traveling on horseback and would cover ground far more quickly than she could, even if her driver was able to miraculously rouse himself and make the necessary repairs.
Ambrosia glanced to the open door and shivered. The sunlight, so deceptively cheerful all afternoon, had cooled to amber, casting long shadows across the yard. It was early April—England’s most fickle month—and though the day had been bright, the evening chill had already begun to creep in.
Handsome strangers aside, she faced a daunting dilemma.
What did one do in such circumstances?
She had known, when she chose to leave for London, that there would be challenges. She had welcomed the idea of them. Craved them, even. But it was difficult to recall that sense of courage now, when she felt perilously close to tears.
Mr. Beckman brushed past her, strolling deeper into the stable with an insufferably relaxed gait. No doubt he intended to saddle his magnificent horse and ride off to claim the last room—her room, truthfully, because she had arrived first.
She had actually reserved a room.
But she barely had time to stew in the injustice of it before he reappeared—this time, not smug, but storming.
Like a thunderclap, he rounded on Mr. Daniels.
“Where the hell is she?” he demanded, his accent heavier than before. “The mare I stabled not half an hour ago—where is she?”
Mr. Daniels blinked, clearly startled. “Some fellow rode off on her. I just assumed?—”
“Which way?”
Daniels threw up both hands, helpless and bleary.
Mr. Beckman stared at him for a moment, silent—then muttered, low and scathing, “Bon à rien.” Good for nothing.
He then turned on his heel and bolted from the stable, his coat whipping behind him.
Ambrosia stood frozen, watching the space where he’d been, stunned by the sudden shift in him. The man who had, mere minutes ago, grinned at her with annoying confidence now looked as though the earth had tilted beneath him.
When he returned a few minutes later, jaw clenched, he was accompanied by a young groom—the same one who had earlier taken his saddle.
“I put her in this stall, mister. Swear it,” the boy said, pale and wide-eyed. “She was right here. I don’t know what could’ve happened.”
“You didn’t see anyone unusual?”
The boy shook his head. “I was in the back, helping with a delivery. I just assumed the barn was safe, like it always is… Usually.”
“Usually,” Mr. Beckman clenched out.
He turned in a frustrated circle, his boots scraping against the packed earth. “Do you have any horses to rent?”
The groom glanced helplessly toward the paddock. “These belong to the guests, sir. We’ve not a one to send out.”
