Page 27

“Do you enjoy riding, Miss Spencer?”

The young woman at his right blushed and tittered nervously. Jonas pinned a smile to his face and hoped she could not hear his teeth grinding. Her response might have been less irritating had she not already blushed and tittered after every attempt he’d made at conversation. Was she truly as featherheaded as she seemed?

“Why, yes, my lord. I enjoy it very much. My father recently purchased a lovely white mare for me to ride. Young but not too willful, you understand.” She tittered again. “It wouldn’t do to take a tumble.”

“Of course not.” Jonas kept his smile in place. “What of your father? Does he have a favorite mount? I’m sure he’s a fine judge of horseflesh.”

“Indeed. He keeps an excellent stable. His favorite is a brown stallion named Sampson.”

“A fine name.”

Not Lord Spencer, then. Disappointed, Jonas glanced across the table. Miss Spencer’s portly father was talking to Rosalind. He caught his sister’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head. She acknowledged it with a small frown.

“Have you ever ridden with anyone else in this company?” he asked. “I daresay many of the Grangers’s guests are excellent riders.”

Miss Spencer’s cheeks matched the pink powder on her blonde curls. “I have not yet been singled out to ride with any member of this party,” she said, gazing at him hopefully. “Although I believe most of us have ridden together in Mr. Travers’s annual foxhunt.”

The foxhunt. Jonas’s heart skipped a beat. Why had he not thought of it before? His long stints away had precluded him from participating for the last few years, but Mr. Travers had been hosting the event for as long as he could remember. All local gentry and members of the nobility were invited.

“I’m sure you are correct,” Jonas said. “And his wide-open meadows are just the thing for those who enjoy a fast gallop.” He leaned a little closer. “Tell me, as one who has been fortunate enough to participate recently, which of our local riders dominate the chase?”

Miss Spencer scanned those seated at the table. “Not many can keep pace with Mr. Travers on his black stallion,” she said. “Although Lord Suffield and Baron Forwood should never be discounted.” She tittered. “How droll. I had not realized it before. They all three ride black stallions.”

A footman appeared at Jonas’s elbow and deftly replaced his empty plate with a dish containing a pudding oozing with custard. Grateful that he could manage this course one-handed, he allowed his injured arm to rest against his knee as he studied the three men Miss Spencer had identified. Their appearances would alter when they discarded their white wigs, but Jonas knew them all by name and general reputation.

Mr. Travers owned the extensive estate where the foxhunt was held. In his early forties, he had an aquiline nose that matched his tall, lean physique. He traveled extensively on the continent, often returning home with a new racehorse. Baron Forwood was considerably older, perhaps closer to his midsixties, although he seemed as fit and alert as Travers. Widowed several years before, he had remarried a much younger woman—who was currently sitting on the other side of the table, hanging on every word proceeding out of Lord Suffield’s mouth. Suffield was pompous, short, and stout. It was hard to imagine him flying across the fields astride a horse, but he was known to spend almost as much time at the races as he did at home.

Jonas frowned. Could one of these three gentlemen be the Midnight Master? It seemed unlikely, but the villain was so skilled at keeping his identity a secret, Jonas should discount no one. He noticed that Rosalind was now speaking with Baron Forwood, who was seated at her other side. He hoped she might learn something helpful before the ladies withdrew. At that point, he would need to strike up a conversation with the owners of black stallions himself.

“What of you, my lord? Will you dare ride again?”

Startled out of his scrutiny of the three gentlemen, he turned to find Miss Grantly watching him with worried eyes. Her light-brown hair was teased into a fluffy ball so large it almost hid her face, and she’d spoken only a few polite niceties since they’d entered the dining room.

“I heard your sister say you had injured your arm falling from a horse.” She clutched her serviette anxiously. “It would seem to me that to return to the saddle after such a scare would be a very daunting thing.”

“No, indeed,” he said. “I am looking forward to riding again as soon as my arm is well enough.” He did not need to feign his grimace. The dull ache in his arm was not so dull any longer. “I have had it in a sling for the last few days. I fear I may have rather overused it this evening.”

She nodded solemnly. “Your sacrifice does you credit, my lord, for it would surely be impossible to eat in polite society using only one hand.”

Unbidden, the vision of Miss Doyle sitting beside him on a cot, holding a bowl of soup to his lips, entered his mind, and he wondered what Miss Grantly would think of that gross breach of etiquette. At his other side, Miss Spencer tittered again, and Jonas stifled a groan. This was why he was not married and likely never would be. Once his quest to uncover the Midnight Master was behind him, he would refuse to attend another of these functions unless he was seated beside his mother or his sister.

***

Elizabeth was late. She liked to be at the church at least ten minutes prior to the start of the Sunday service, but this morning, her father had insisted that she clean out all the fireplaces before leaving the inn. Tidying herself up after completing the sooty job had put her even more behind. Half a dozen horses and two carriages waited outside the churchyard, but no one else was in sight. She pushed open the church gate and walked briskly to the building’s thick wooden doors. Pausing long enough to smooth her hand down her faded blue gown and straighten her bonnet, she lifted the latch and slipped inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the minimal lighting. Although sunshine streamed through the stained-glass window of the vestry, illuminating the pulpit and wooden crucifix at the front, it did not reach the pews beyond. Light from the smaller windows recessed in the stone walls was augmented by candles positioned in alcoves around the church but was quickly absorbed by the dark-wood pews and black-slate floor.

The congregation was on its feet, singing the opening hymn, and Elizabeth slid into a vacant space on the nearest pew. Across the aisle, Miss Berry gave her a friendly nod. Every Sunday since the kindly seamstress had given her the piece of blue ribbon, Elizabeth had worn it in her hair. It was the one pretty thing she owned, and although no one else likely noticed, she was quite sure Miss Berry did.

The hymn ended, and the congregation took their seats. Mr. Parkin slowly made his way up the dais and took his place at the pulpit. Clearing his throat, he looked out over the worshippers.

“Good morning,” he said. “Some ecclesiastical business before I begin this morning’s reading.” He ran his hand over the thick Bible lying open on the lectern and drew another piece of paper forward. Holding it up to the candelabra, he started to read. “I publish the banns of marriage between Mr. Bartholomew Cummings of this parish and Miss Elizabeth Doyle of this parish. If any of you know cause of just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is for the first time of asking.”

All the air left Elizabeth’s lungs, and for one awful moment, she thought she might faint. She heard the whispers and felt the stares. Then the vicar was reading again, this time something from the Bible about sheep and shepherds. Elizabeth barely heard it. No one had spoken out against the marriage. Did they not understand that she knew nothing about it? That she’d never agreed to the union? Horror clutched her throat as she realized that no one would dare refute a document that carried the magistrate’s signature. Not this week or the next two.

Somehow, she forced her limbs to move in time with the rest of the congregation. She stood for the hymns, knelt for the prayers, and sat for the sermon. But all the time, her hands were shaking and her thoughts were whirling. They were on the last verse of the closing hymn when Elizabeth acknowledged she must leave. Now. Before the vicar pronounced his blessing on the congregation and dismissed them all, before anyone congratulated her, and before Mr. Cummings reached her from his pew at the front of the church.

With trembling knees, she stepped away from the pew and made for the door. She did not look back. Closing the door behind her, she started to run along the narrow path through the churchyard, past the waiting horses, and up the road toward the inn. Her bonnet slid off the back of her head, and strands of hair fell loose from her pins, but she did not stop until she saw the inn’s sign hanging beneath the eaves.