Hebe grinned at the abrupt change of subject. “I am inde–”
A foot kicked into the table, nigh tumbling it. “Oh, I be right sorry, madam,” a maid in white cap and black dress gushed. “It be mortal dingy in here after the bright sunshine.”
“Ach, ya clumsy lass.”
“Forgive me, Mr O’Conner. I have the lemonade as thee requested.”
“I’ll leave ya to it, Mrs Locke.” After righting the table, the stable master departed.
“I do appreciate this…”
“The name’s Mary. Mary Merreck.” The maid placed the tray down with a tentative smile. “And tha be a mighty fine drawing of Lady Lucy.”
Pretty, the maid had serious brown eyes and fair hair.
“Thank you, and is that her name? Mr O’Conner never said.”
“Aye. I only know tha cos I be stepping out with Daniel, the fourth groom,” she confided. “He told I that all the mares were named after…” She peered to the open door and fastened her lips.
“Named after?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t…”
“Oh, you should…”
“Well…” Mary Merreck nibbled a finger. “Daniel heard tell from Thos, the third groom, tha his lordship names the mares after all his…” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Fancy women in London.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded gravely.
Hebe gulped. There were…so many. “And the…stallions?”
The maid leaned close, lyre soap wafting. “Named after all the husbands he’s cuckolded.” She grimaced. “Have thee ever heard of such wickedness?”
No, Hebe had not.
Even having lived with Aunt for four years.
“Oy, lass. I hope thee ain’t tattling. Unless Daniel’s here, away with thee.”
Eyes wide, she scuttled off and Mr Grampy Tom winked from the doorway. “Mary be the kitchen maid and can’t keep away from tha dizzard Daniel. Dunno why, he be as surly as a butcher’s dog. Always the same wi’ these town grooms tha come here from afar.”
“London?”
“No. Burford, lass.”
Oh. And she drained her lemonade.
ERNEST WHISTLEDas he strolled the garden path to the stables, cheery as a cat in a tripe shop despite his tiredness after the night’s exertions – and to visit Lydia again after a mere four hours’ rest had quite frankly done him in.
Not only that, but a chat with the Wychmere blacksmith had produced the smidgeon of gossip that Will Skelton’s prized mare had likewise vanished yester-noon, a fence smashed and grass churned.
In spite of the magistrate’s denial, this was too much of a coincidence for Ernest. A thief lurked in their midst, which made him less cheery, and he must formulate a plan, starting with a call on Will. They’d roamed the countryside together as cubs but school had seen them go their separate ways.
Backgrounds on all the permanent grooms and stable lads would also be beneficial but Redmond was recently arrived and unlikely to know much. This afternoon, Ernest would send a missive to the previous stable master, who’d taken work in Sussex in order to be nearer his son.
The other visit to make was to Sir Henry Drinkwater, who owned fine training stables in the nearby village of Upper Slayer to the east. It wouldn’t do to aggravate him, however, as the baronet was a good customer and had acquired a few colts and fillies from the Rothwells’ studs in the past, training them up for the most famous of races – St Legers, Ascot and Newmarket.
Sir Henry was to host one of his famed masquerade balls at his manor in a sennight, so perhaps it could wait till then as liquor might loosen his lips.
Ernest hastened his step. For now, scrubbed and polished, he was in search of his pretty houseguest, to convey his profuse apologies for not welcoming them yesterday. According to Mrs Pettifer, who’d spoken with Garvey, who’d jabbered with Redmond, the beguiling Mrs Locke had thus far spent three hours sketching the new foal. The presence of a lady in the stables had caused quite a stir amongst the stable lads, the agog swains drawing lots for who’d change the mare’s water.
