“Indeed. Although there are not many places to conceal a nervy thoroughbred chestnut stallion with white stockings and a star on its forehead. So, with your agreement, I’ll return to the castle and search for him instead of coming to the Chilterns with you and Evelyn.”
“Of course, as you wish, but tread with care. Those horse thieves can be damn dangerous. And Sir Oswald could be at Dartmouth Fair by now.”
“Perhaps.” Ernest took a sip of his brother’s best brandy. “But I have a…an inkling he’s still close to Wychmere. The stable master and I have also changed the rotas so that no horse is left alone in the paddocks.”
“A good idea.” Casper tapped the glass to his lip. “But as I thought you were to accompany us to the Chilterns, I’m afraid you will have summer guests to complicate matters. Perhaps I should have informed you but…”
“You’re a duke and therefore indomitable?”
A faint flush marked his brother’s cheeks. “Anyhow, the lady will not be interested in you. She will be there for the horses.”
Lady?
Ernest’s ears pricked up like Stanley’s faced with his bag of oats.
“’Tis one of the artists I sponsor. If you remember, you met Mrs Locke–”
“In Hyde Park, brother. She was the passenger in that curricle debacle. Not that I’d forgotten her from the Plymtrees’ ball.”
How could any red-blooded male?
To say she had blond hair would be an insult to the countless strands of honey, tawny and buttermilk. Eyes, which managed to convey her utter disgust in him with one look, shone like cornflowers in a meadow. Soft skin and an obstinate chin. She’d a willow frame that appeared both fragile and strong, like a racehorse at the post, and then there were those shadows beneath her eyes which heeded a vulnerability and stirred this rake to feel rather protective…
Of course, she’d no doubt hoof him in the ballocks if he ever divulged that thought.
“I’ve commissioned a painting from her of my hunter, so she and her aunt are leaving London for the Cotswolds forthwith. Mrs Locke is to sketch him and any other horses she desires.”
Ernest tipped his glass in salutation.
“Leave her be,” Casper muttered, clonking his brandy down and folding his arms in an elderly authoritarian manner, even though a mere five years separated them. “As I told you, she’s only recently discarded her widow’s weeds and has no interest in affairs of the heart.”
“But did we not have a wager at the Plymtrees’ ball?” Ernest polished his glasses on his jacket. “If she divulged me her given name, you vowed to parade in those striped stockings of mine that you so detest. That’ll be a snap whilst beneath the same roof for August.”
Casper looked smug. “Herfullname. Middle ones and all. And when you fail, I’ll burn those stockings on the Michaelmas Feast bonfire.”
Ernest raised his glass once more. “Done.”
3
I AM WHAT I PACK
“Debauched, libidinous, depraved.” Hebe drew breath. “Immoral, debased…er…”
“Sinful?” suggested Aunt Beatrice.
“Too flattering.” She folded the broadsheet page to a manageable size whilst seated upon the bed.
“Dissolute?”
“An excellent word.” She crinkled her nose at the column of gossip. “Dissolute libertine.” And tutted for good measure. “Although how tiresome it must be for a rake to have all one’s scandalous exploits tattled over in the gossip sheets.”
Aunt tossed an exotic rainbow of frocks upon the bed to be packed and Hebe frowned. Surely sturdy leather walking boots would be morede rigueurfor a few weeks in the countryside than jonquil-yellow silk dancing slippers with gold trim?
“Hebe, who are you wittering on about anyhow? Byron?”
“Worse. Lord Ernest Brook. If this is to be believed, he did attend the theatre with no fewer than eight ladies. That’s two more than were in the park.”
With a shrug, Aunt Beatrice perused her array of chemises. “I once met a pasha who had twenty-nine wives. Delightful fellow with a coal gaze that could melt silk.” She sighed with relish. “I had to refuse his offer of being number thirty. He might have only visited my bed once a month…and not at all in February.”
