“I’m wishing Hebe could stay here for the winter months too. We could pick chestnuts in November and skate on this moat in January. Do you find that curious?”
All he received was a snort. Perhaps more a comment on the state of himself than a considered reply, for sludge smothered him from his bare toes to his battered silver work spectacles.
The sluice gates to the river had jammed again, thick wands of green weed choking the mechanism, and although he could have sent a kitchen boy to unblock it, Ernest had been swimming this moat since he was a cub and so knew every nook and cranny. Mercifully the third Duke of Rothwell had installed wooden pipes in 1712 to direct sewage out beyond the moat as he’d written in the castle records that the summer stench from heaving all and sundry into it had quite put him off his roast boar.
Ernest clasped hands behind his head, attempting to make sense of his thoughts as mud from the moat dried to his skin.
“I don’t have too much intellect…” He glared at the nod from his companion. “But I can grasp well enough that Hebe stirs more than just my desire.”
Talented, sharp-witted and beautiful. Strong and shrewd. She appealed to his every sense and mood.
And when in Hebe’s presence lately, he’d felt as though he were teetering upon the edge of a tumbling waterfall, a vast pool of the unknown below.
One slight nudge and he’d be toppling face-first into that mysterious abyss.
In the past he had certainly desired, lusted, even cared. But more?
Never.
This stables venture had given him new purpose, a desire for a different life that had swept away the need to wander London’s amusements.
He had responsibility: the stable lads depended on him now, the horses required his care, and with luck, the owners of training stable would buy his young thoroughbreds for inordinate amounts.
Further stable premises could be purchased and he could hire more local men that had been forced to London for work, buy abandoned fields for hay production and perchance acquire the unentailed estate that sat on the edge of the Rothwell lands.
And Hebe…
Well, all he knew was that he adored watching her laugh; yearned to be responsible for that laughter; longed to remove those haunted shadows beneath her eyes and banish her nightmares forever.
Over kippers this morning, he’d attempted to question Mrs Cassell as to Hebe’s late husband, but she’d blown upon her tea, gazed at him coolly and declared it was Hebe’s tale to tell.
And didn’t that say it all.
Despite his own rakish past, he’d always known that marriage for himself would be sacrosanct, to a wife who would be friend, lover and confidante. He would be loyal till his last breath, never wishing for a leg-shackling like his parents – bitter and ignored and faithless – but he was aware not all men thought the same.
What of Mr Locke?
He exhaled gustily, the dried mud cracking on his cheeks.
And those shadowed eyes of Hebe’s likewise brought his thoughts back to that poor bird, still none the wiser as to who or why anyone would carry out such a vile act.
Anger burned low whenever he recalled the scene – the damage done to both Hebe and bird.
“Did you see anyone enter the maze?” he asked the indolent so-and-so next to him.
A grunt.
“No, of course not. You were snoozing no doubt.”
With surreptitiousness, Ernest had approached the servants but no one had seen or heard anything – or admitted to it.
With sternness, Redmond had interrogated the stable lads but they’d all shaken their heads, feet quaking in their leather boots.
For most of yesterday, Ernest had reviewed the letter that the previous stable master had posted over concerning the current crop of workers, but aside from a few complaints of shoddiness and the incorrect way to pick a hoof, there was naught to link anyone to theft.
Rising, Ernest grimaced at his sticky shirt and crisping breeches, put hand to hips and surveyed his companion who raised his head enquiringly from the grass bank.
“You realise that at the masquerade, Redmond discovered another two horses have disappeared over the last couple of months? Likewise with broken fences or stall doors left agape. The owners all seem to think it unconnected – blaming slack grooms, strangers, tinkers or passing soldiers. But I’m sure this has to be planned.”
