Lottie looked at his hand for a long moment, until she placed her muddied fingers in his. “Come,” she said, rising without grace. “We had better go back before His Grace decides to arrest the entire county.”
Jasper stood with her. “A wise precaution.”
They had taken only three steps back towards the clearing when she stopped.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Our wager.”
Jasper only stared at her.
“The foot race,” she said, sniffing with as much dignity as any woman could manage while covered in mud beside a stream after witnessing a death. “You won.”
“Charlotte.”
“Oh, damnation.” She wiped her cheek again, leaving another streak of mud behind. “And you won the wrestle, as well.”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“No. The game is over. No more wagers, Charlotte. No more forfeits or clever little bargains by which we pretend not to want what we want or feel what we feel.” His voice roughened. “Not after this.”
For once, she had no answer, and he took her muddied hand in his.
“If I ask anything of you again, Miss Charlotte Tolliver, it shall not be because I have won the right. And if I give you anything, it shall not be because I have lost.”
She tightened her hand around his. “Very well. But in that case, I shall maintain that I am the superior runner.”
Jasper looked at her, mud-streaked, tearful, stubborn beyond all reason, and felt something in him break so cleanly it might have been relief. “My dear Lottie,” he said, “I would not dream of disputing it.”
Chapter 39
Death, when it occurs at a fashionable gathering, is terribly inconvenient and tiresome. Horses must be called, hounds recalled, gentlemen and constables consulted, ladies removed and servants dispatched, carriages and physicians summoned, and someone of consequence must decide what, precisely, is to be done with the body.
In the matter of Lord Marchmont, the someone of consequence was, naturally, the Duke of Morleigh. His Grace gave his account of the events with such grave authority that even those inclined towards speculation found themselves abruptly deprived of courage. Lord Marchmont, it was said, had ridden hard upon treacherous ground, had lost control of a heated horse near the old chalk pit, and had fallen, which was not altogether far from the truth. Mr Deverell had arrived moments later. Miss Tolliver, who had been thrown when her own mare bolted, was much shaken by the event. The Duke of Morleigh had witnessed enough to confirm the whole affair as a tragic accident.
By late afternoon, Lottie sat in the bedchamber allotted to her, still in her muddied riding habit. The garment was ruined, with one sleeve torn near the wrist, and her maid, Millie, had attempted three times to coax her from it.
After a little while, the maid made another brave attempt. “Shall I fetch hot water, miss?”
“Yes. And tea, please.”
Millie withdrew, and Jasper Deverell slipped inside the room moments later.
“Good heavens,” whispered Lottie. “What are you doing here?”
“Coming to see you.”
Lottie made to scold him, but she did not quite have the energy for it.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
How foolishly simple the question was. How dreadful. How entirely impossible.
Lottie stood and closed the door, before turning the key in the lock. She sighed heavily. “I am doing as well as may be expected of a young lady who has been blackmailed, thrown from a horse, witnessed a death, and lied to several relations and constables in the span of four hours.”
Jasper frowned. “You were not thrown from your horse, were you?”
