“Not in any detail.”
“Well, I…I supposed myself in love with a man named Redmond O’Conner.”
“A fine Irish name.”
“Hmm.” She knotted fingers in her elegant pelisse, forehead wrinkled. “It… He was… Well, the point is, Hebe… He was my father’s…groom.”
“Ah.”
“Hmm. And…well, you see… That was him.”
“The butler?”
“No, dear. The man who helped us from the carriage.”
“Oh.”
“Quite.”
“What a coincidence.”
“I should say so. A substantial one.”
“And is this good…or bad?”
Her aunt sighed. “Neither. More…sombre.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Never did I imagine I’d even recognise him after all these years but the eyes do not change with age, especially Redmond’s coal-black gaze.” She shook her head. “One always considers, of course, what one would do upon meeting a past love by chance, and… Well, let us just say, I always thought I would be nonchalant and carefree, laugh at my girlish folly… But to see Redmond… Well, I feel all of seventeen again. Not a pleasant feeling in the least.”
A grim-faced woman clad head-to-toe in black glided forth from the castle door – the housekeeper, Hebe supposed, who only needed a monk’s robe to complete the spectral disguise, and trailing her was a gaunt young footman, shoulders stooped and face pale.
Tapping a foot, Hebe frowned. “As my Gothic novel foretold, Aunt, we will all have to be on our guard. For debauched rakes, coal-eyed grooms and invitations to the darkened shrubbery.”
“I WOULD NOT BE A QUEEN FOR ALL THE WORLD”
(SHAKESPEARE. HENRY VIII)
Aladen brandy glass trembled in the gentleman’s fingers, a fine gold signet ring encircling the smallest. His smile was supercilious, cravat badly tied, and whenever he shifted, body odour wafted, not at all concealed by the sickly scent of vanilla cologne.
No wonder this Witney magistrate had discovered no trace of Ernest’s horse. Too busy with the liquor and…perhaps his search for a new valet.
A local baronet, he’d been appointed magistrate due to good fortune and circumstance – being the sole nobleman of the town who’d wished for the job, but Ernest thought to speak to his brother about a replacement.
Someone with more…sobriety.
“I am coming to believe it theft, Sir Laurence,” stated Ernest, having done with the small talk. “No one from Wychmere has seen my stallion roaming loose and the stable lads have searched high and low. Posters have been placed in every tavern and a reward offered. Yet naught.”
“Nonsense.” The magistrate swiped the back of a hand across his lips. “You are new to horse breeding, are you not? What happens is they scent some prime filly and off they gallop. He’ll be back after a week or so…with a satisfied gleam to his eye.” A sly glance was cast. “You surely know what I mean, my lord.”
Ernest nigh growled. “I know my horses well enough, Sir Laurence, and someone would have seen him by now.”
The man damn well hiccupped. “Could be lost over the border. Or trampling in the forests. Or–”
“At Dartmouth Fair, sold for fifty guineas.”
The magistrate plonked his glass down and leaned across the desk, papers creasing. “Now, my young lord…” Ernest gritted his teeth. “There’s no need for such a hullabaloo. No other horses have been reported missing…other than the usual, and I won’t have you spreading gossip of thieves within my jurisdiction. You’ve no proof.” He folded his arms. “A flattened fence and a wild horse add up to five in my view.”
What was the man jabbering about?
This was pointless and Ernest would much rather be greeting his guests, who must surely have arrived by now. The man’s obstinacy was preventing him from trading fiery words and scorching looks with Mrs Locke – scorching on his part, of course, and chilling on hers, but two sides of the same fever.
