She shivered…in distaste as his lips brushed the silk. “No matter, Mrs Locke, for you’d be surprised at what I can achieve in a half-hour.”
And the doubly insufferable rake winked.
5
SKELETONS IN THE CASTLE STABLES
“Aren’t you bored?”
Hebe glanced over the top of her book. “No.” Then returned to the page.
From the seat opposite came muttering.
Sighing.
Rustling.
“Are you reading something educational?”
“No.”
More rustling. “I don’t know how you can read in a carriage. All this swaying about. I always travelled on horseback in Persia. Don’t you feel nauseous after a full seven hours of this?”
“No.” As a matter of fact, the duke’s carriage was so well-sprung it was like gliding on your own personal cloud. And when it had arrived at their abode in Conduit Street at dawn, they’d thought it had the wrong address. Four glossy chestnuts had pulled a polished coach of blue with an interior that Hebe could quite contentedly live in for the rest of her days – embossed door handles, Moroccan sleeping cushions, mahogany shutters and brass beading to the leather. The ducal crest had defied turnpikes and secured private dining parlours for breakfast and lunch. “Why don’t you try to sleep, Aunt?”
“That chicken pie at the Oxford inn has given me dyspepsia.” She sniffed. “’Tisn’t good for the mind, you realise? All that reading. Unless it’s something salacious of course–”
The book was snatched from Hebe’s hand. “Aunt, I was–”
“The Wicked Rakehell Deceives the Innocent Debutanteby an improbable Mrs Lily Longleat!Well done, Hebe. I’m proud of you.”
She huffed and seized her Gothic novel back, stuffing it to her carpetbag. “I’m not reading it forthat. But I do wish I’d read such novels when I was younger in order to be forewarned. They would’ve taught me much.” She began to count on her fingers. “One – rakes donotmake the best husbands. Two – donotwander into the dark shrubbery alone. Three – donottrust men with white teeth. Four – donotact upon strange notes from the suspicious groom, and Five, most unfortunately – donotaccept invitations to haunted castles in the middle of a rainstorm.”
On cue, a lash of rain hit the window as the heavens released another English summer deluge, blurring the countryside to a sea of grey.
Chatter and a book had not been required earlier, Oxfordshire’s rolling green landscape occupying their eyes and thoughts. Bundles of luxuriantly fleeced sheep, long necked and square bulked, had huddled against stone walls, the pasture verdant and sweet fragranced, trees dotting the gentle hills like fungus. Occasionally, they had rattled through a village, the church’s spire tall and proud, with nestled square stone houses fringing a village green, and winding lanes leading to hidden manors.
Never before had Hebe ventured beyond London’s outskirts and a strange new mood of…anticipation swelled within – of adventure and the unknown.
“Burford!” the coachman yelled from his perch, and as if the heavens wished them to view the town at its best, the rain lessened to dribbling droplets and a single shaft of sunlight parted the clouds.
Their coach slowed to a halt and Hebe frowned. The Rothwell footman then descended in a flap of wet capes and attached something to the wheels before he nimbly regained his seat. He’d informed them earlier that all outbound coaches usually stopped in Burford for a change of horses and some grub at The Bull, but Wychmere Castle and its village were a mere five miles further, so they were due to continue. Hebe pulled down the window and popped out her head to view this town built upon the trade of wool.
Then wished she had not.
For ahead a hill of precipitous downwards verticality threatened, which explained why the footman had added a drag to the wheels, the rough cobbles of the thoroughfare the only other hindrance to a plunging descent.
Ignoring the fearsome prospect, she focused on the butter-coloured cottages lining the street, half-timbered with modest windows, and as they embarked on the hill, she lost count of the many coaching inns, their wide archways leading to stables behind. In the opposite direction came a stone-laden cart being hauled by additional horses, the slope so steep.
And then, all at once, they were crossing a stone bridge, the misty river bloated and swift beneath.
“Phew,” muttered Aunt. “I was asking forgiveness for my sins on that hill and had only reached number twelve.”
A clank denoted the drag being pulled away by a chain, and then the coach bore right, abandoning the principal road to join a smooth broad track, sodden beech trees lining a never-ending bower of peace, and after a while, Hebe sat back against the luxuriant indigo squabs with a sigh. “It’s so pretty even in this grey cloud. A perfect backdrop for my horses.”
“I’m pleased, dear.” Aunt rose and with an experienced hand to the roof strap, twisted and plonked herself beside Hebe. “By the way, I asked around about Lord Ernest and also consulted Debrett’s. He has nigh seven and twenty years, all his own teeth, and apparently his large hands are indeed indicative of–”
“Aunt! Enough. I have no wish to know.” And Debrett’s had certainly broadened its remit.
