His friend grasped the horse’s bridle. “You could still practice in private with just me, maybe a few of your most loyal men.”
“Do you think I’m going to fail? I’m not.”
“I’m concerned.” Gantry saluted. “But if you fail, you’ll do it better than any man I know. Keep your head up.”
The horse jerked a little, and Busick felt his abdomen tighten, but he kept his seat. Situating his stirrups, he made his mount circle back. “There’s another reason we have an audience. I invited Lady Shrewsbury. She knows everyone in society. She must know your wife. The woman, whom we won’t talk of, can be found by the countess. I know you miss her. I know you want to make things right.”
“How would Lady Shrewsbury know where to find an enigma?”
“It was the countess’s connections that led me to Markham. Unless Lady Gantry has gone back to Demerara, Lady Shrewsbury can find her. She knows how to locate women from the West Indies.”
Gantry folded his arms. “I haven’t mentioned her much.”
“It’s in the not asking, the not saying, the not sleeping. If you were done with the woman, you’d tell me how awful she is. You’d try to use my connections or your father’s to see what can be done to sever things. We have two beautiful widows in our midst, and you haven’t even looked at them.”
“You mean in the manner you gaze at Mrs. LaCroy? How you keep glancing at her even now?”
The way he said it made it sound as if the flirtation was one-sided. It wasn’t. Busick was sure of it. And her not asking—her one-word responses—had to mean something other than stubborn.
They were much better at night.
They didn’t need words.
Just two souls with a common mission. He needed them back to that place, where he felt her support and care. Their situation had to be fixable. One or both of them should be flexible.
He made his horse do another circle, this one tighter and more controlled than the last. “She’s a beautiful woman. She noticed me. And I haven’t been admired in a while.”
“She’s not admiring you. She’s tolerating you. Trust me. I know the difference.” Gantry kicked at a patch of snow. “And if Lady Shrewsbury can find anyone, why can’t she find your cousin’s wife?”
That was a good question.
But the answer was obvious. No good mother would be away from her child. She’d died or she’d gone on with her life. If the answer was the latter, Lionel didn’t need her.
Busick pushed his shako higher on his head. “Perhaps Mrs. Jordan has met a foul end. Markham, or Markham’s and Colin’s creditors have destroyed her. I’ve hired runners, but they’ve found nothing. I’m going to focus everything I have on Lionel. He must be orphaned. I’ll make sure he never falls prey to the Markhams of this world.”
“Especially its prejudices.” Gantry’s head slightly bowed as he spun his wedding band about his finger. “Or the subtle slights your viscountess endured for your sake that you glossed over.”
“Lady Shrewsbury can be useful.” Busick turned his good heel toward his mount and applied a gentle pressure. With taut fingers on the reins, he nudged the horse forward, straight to the balcony. The stone structure looked like a trapezoid with angled stairs on both sides. Balancing to favor his weak leg, he slowed the Percheron and doffed his hat. “Ladies.”
The countess waved a dazzling ostrich print fan. Her serious face changed to lightness.
He’d interrupted another conspiracy.
“Looking very spry this morning,” the countess said.
“Feeling spry, good lady. Morning to you, Mrs. LaCroy.”
Lionel was in the nanny’s lap nestled in a blue blanket against the folds of her rust gown. It was good to see LaCroy in a color, something other than blue or gray. He rode closer, close enough to claim her gaze, every bit of those wide topaz eyes. “How are you and my ward this morning?”
Her cheeks fevered. “Fine.”
The countess chuckled. “Your leg is better, but don’t be reckless and rush your recovery.”
Not her, too. Gantry was enough of a mother hen. He adjusted his hold on the reins. “Reckless is in the eye of the beholder, Lady Shrewsbury. Lionel, you’ll ride someday. I can’t wait to select a pony for you.”
“He’s a baby.” Mrs. LaCroy’s hand tensed on the arm of her chair. “I mean. Good.”
Two sets of three words. Progress. “It won’t be tomorrow. He has to master crawling and walking first.”
