Ah. That explained why Margaret looked like a trapped fox, huddled against the arm of the settee, fingers digging into the arm. She had probably arranged for the tea and assumed it to be a social visit before the truth emerged at a point when leaving would appear rude if she suddenly bolted. Edmund gave his wife a quick glance, then sniffed and focused on Judith. “Ahem, um, Lady Sculthorpe, may I present Henry Tatlock, Marquess of Whitlow.”
The marquess dipped a quick bow, the emerald-green skirt of his immaculate silk frock coat brushing with a soft whisper against his gold-embroidered waistcoat. A diamond-and-pearl pin anchored his cravat, matching his cufflinks, and his cheeks bore the telltale blush of a light touch of rouge. Kohl rimmedhis eyes, winging outward from each corner. His trousers carried the look of silk, and his leather shoes shone with a high polish. He looked dressed more for a royal appointment with the Prince Regent than afternoon tea with an earl, and completely out of place. “Lady Sculthorpe, it is an honor.”
Judith gave a sharp nod, trying to get a flash of irritation under control. “The honor is mine, Lord Whitlow, as I know well who you are.” She glanced back at Edmund, then eased down into the wingback next to the one Whitlow had occupied, noticing that the early tea had been served and mostly consumed. Empty teacups and small, crumb-dusted plates of their finest set of china littered the table between the settee and the wingbacks. The silver urn and trays were from their most elaborate collection. The three-tiered tray had been divested of most of its scones, biscuits, and small sandwiches.
Margaret’s grip on the arm of the settee tightened, her knuckles white. The mood in the room remained tense, and Judith was not convinced it was only because of her sudden—and apparently unexpected—arrival.
The gentlemen sat as well, and Whitlow gave a straightening tug on his starched white cravat. “The oversight is mine, I’m afraid, Lady Sculthorpe. I requested a visit sometime after noon today. Although Lord Sculthorpe graciously agreed, it did not leave much time for preparation.” He waved a hand at the cluster of dishes. “Although the countess has provided a most luxurious respite.” He patted his stomach. “My own supper will have to come much later.”
“And you were already out at the stables.” Margaret leaned toward Judith, her wordssotto voce. “We thought you would be gone all afternoon.”
Both Edmund and Judith shot her a silencing look. To her credit, Margaret pressed her lips together but commented no further.
“Which mounts did your sons ride today?” Whitlow did not meet her gaze. He instead focused on his forefinger, which tapped the arm of his chair with a relentless pattern.
The irritation in Judith’s gut spread. She knew what Whitlow was about, including his reputation for swooping in to “rescue” respected and noble families who struggled with a changing financial situation. Now, thanks to an offhand comment from her four-year-old son, she understood exactly the reason for his visit—and his seemingly innocent question. She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, then noticed the warning scold in Edmund’s eyes.
So it was true. Edmund planned to sell some of their cattle. How many? Which kinds? More importantly,why?
Judith looked down a moment, gathering her thoughts, then flashed a reassuring smile to Whitlow. “We have a blessedly gentle, older gray pony who has been ridden by all the boys as they were learning, even Edmund here. William is four but is already developing a fine seat. He will probably need the pony only a few more months. Robert is ten, and our groom has moved him to a delightful bay Highland Pony who is only fourteen hands.”
Whitlow’s eyebrows arched, but he still stared at his own fingers. “You still have Highland Ponies?”
Judith glanced at Edmund, who gave her no sign. “We do. Four. Two here and two on our country estate. My husband, the late earl, found them to be reliable and stolid, perfect for young children or work on the farms. We had sev—” Judith stumbled over the word, a sudden realization sweeping over her.Still?He asked if theystillhad Highland Ponies?How would he know?
They had had more than sixteen of the sure-footed beasts on the estate—breeding stock—until this past spring. Edmund had sold them, assuring Judith it had been because of their ages, and that he would exchange them for more powerful workhorses,perhaps a new breed that had been growing in reputation in Scotland the last few years, strong animals bred from Flemish stallions.
He had not. The ponies had gone, not to be replaced.
She snapped a look at Edmund, who barely met it.What have you done with all our money?
As if he could read her thoughts, he shook his head.
Judith forced a weak smile to her face. “Are you greatly interested in horses, Lord Whitlow?”
“Not greatly.” A smile flicked across his face, and he glanced at Edmund, then back to his finger. “More for investment purposes, I’m afraid. I am not much of a rider.”
“But surely you appreciate the magnificence of a well-formed stallion?”
“I leave such to my head groom. He advises me when to buy and when to sell. One does not have to be an expert on such. Just to know when to hire an expert.”
“Ah. You should mention to him then a new breed I have been hearing about. It is a workhorse being bred from Flemish stallions that is growing in popularity in Scotland. Near the River Clyde. Heftier and much larger than a Highland pony. Of course, they would not be worth the same as a racing thoroughbred, but they are helping a great deal with estates that have been lagging in production from their tenancies. They can pull larger payloads and plows and work longer hours. They are bringing a goodly price in the markets and are helping some estates turn a profit for the first time in years. It is the primary reason for their spread. Landowners who have invested in them have found a remarkable return on their investment.”
Judith ended by glaring at Edmund, who had the decency to blush.
The finger stopped tapping. “Indeed?”
Judith smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt and sniffed. “Oh, yes. If I were looking to invest in horse flesh, sir, I might look there instead of at an aging herd of geldings fit mostly for children and old women.”
“Mother.” The word held a low growl, a sign that Edmund struggled to hold his temper. He cleared his throat. “Lady Sculthorpe. Perhaps you should leave such a discussion to the men.”
Judith snapped to her feet, forcing both men to do likewise. “Perhaps I should.” She turned to Whitlow. “Forgive me, Lord Whitlow, but I have developed quite the headache. My apologies. It has been very enlightening to meet you.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Judith strode from the room and up the stairs. In her bedchamber, she rang for Epworth and began stripping out of the riding kit, fighting the urge to rip it from her body and fling it into the fire. She truly wanted to spend her rage on some inanimate object, understanding for the first time why some women threw pottery at their husbands—and why men battered each other... or equally hard objects like walls.
Following a soft tap on her door, Epworth entered, stumbling to a halt when she spotted the crumpled kit, the fury on Judith’s face.
