The poltroons.
“This is a stolen horse,” Hebe stated, aware her pulse stuttered with both fear and boldness. “And where is Lord Ernest?”
“Stolen? What the hell are you talking about, woman?” He strode towards her, but Redmond cut his path.
“This horse has been tampered with, Sir Henry,” he said low, shoulders back and hands on hips. “Lampblacked and filed till even his sire wouldn’t recognise him. Except for the proud flesh on the left fetlock, and I have records of another horse with that same feature. This is Sir Oswald, so it is. The Rothwells’ missing stallion.”
“Nonsense, O’Conner. I have no need to steal a horse, you know that. My stables are the best.”
“Where did you get this fine animal?”
“Well…” He cleared his throat, eyes shifting. “I admit I took this one on without knowing its line. But I knew its worth, even if its owner didn’t.”
“And who might that owner have been?”
“I… I don’t rightly know. Bought him at…” Sir Henry trailed off to a mumble.
“Where?”
“Witney Fair, damn it,” he groused. “A couple were leading him around, man and wife, I presumed, and I… Well, I knew I could bring the stallion up to scratch. The girl was a pretty, pert thing and did all the talking. Told me the fellow was a cavalry lieutenant just come home from the wars and that they were penniless except for his horse, so I gave them a good price. She told me the proud flesh was a bullet wound at Toulouse.”
“Bloody hell,” declared Redmond. “Ya should know never to buy a–”
“I know that. But look at him.”
The stallion stamped his hooves in acknowledgment of his magnificence.
Yet Hebe frowned, eyes narrowed. “And you never recognised the girl as a Rothwell maid named Mary Merreck or perhaps that the fellow was a Rothwell groom?”
Disbelief smoothed Sir Henry’s face.
“I don’t consort withservants. I’m a baronet.” He sniffed. “And you, Mrs Locke, have lost any chance you might have had with me.”
Eugh.
“So, the question is,” Redmond cut in, “what did this fellow look like?”
But to Hebe’s mind, the more pertinent one, the one that caused fear to crawl her veins, was, once again… Where the devil was Lord Ernest?
“Wore a slouched hat and stared to the ground a lot.” Sir Henry curled his lip. “But perhaps a better question to ask me would be what did he smell of.”
ERNEST GRASPEDthe outstretched hand that aided him.
“My thanks.”
Then heaved on it, bringing the bloody scoundrel into the moat with a splash.
Drenched black hair rose to the surface, followed by confused eyes and spluttering lips.
“You shouldn’t chew all those aniseed comfits, Cripps.”
The footman startled, hand slopping in the water, gaze as guileless as an angel. “My lord?” he spluttered. “I-I don’t understand.”
And for a moment, Ernest thought he’d got it all wrong, never the brightest in class at Eton or the first to solve puzzles. But…
“Maybe jail will help you understand.”
“Jai…” Cripps’s eyes widened. “No, my lord, I haven’t–”
