“My father told me about the carrots.” Her attention remained on Thunder.
Alfred nodded. “I told his lordship earlier the horse’ll be a right fine animal when we put some food in his belly.”
“Too bad Daddy’s grown a crab apple for a heart.”
“Now miss, Lord Brigham is a good man.”
Francesca raised her eyebrows. “Really? He just ordered me to have Thunder gone by the time he returns for dinner.”
“I thought something was bothering you when you came in.”
Francesca’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to do.” She put a hand to her forehead to stave off the headache pricking behind her eyes.
“Maybe if you tried telling him—”
Francesca shook her head, miserable. “I tried. He wouldn’t let me say a word. He really means it this time.”
The old coachman squared his shoulders. “Well then, we’ll simply have to figure out something until his lordship changes his mind.” He winked. “And if I know you, miss, he’ll change it in no time.”
Francesca wished she could be so optimistic. They coaxed Thunder outside and walked him around the smaller of the paddocks. He was still skittish, but they had plenty of sugar to tempt him into obedience. It seemed the more sugar they chipped from the cone, the more they chipped away at Thunder’s distrust.
“Well, it’s obvious I can’t give him back to Skerrit, and Daddy will never agree to pay the livery stable in Selborne.” Thunder pulled at his halter, and Francesca automatically extended a palm with sugar.
Alfred rubbed his beard, the wrinkles at his eyes creasing deeply. “I know it’s none of my business, miss, but how did you come to acquire the horse?”
Francesca bit her lip, not wanting to mention Winterbourne. She had a feeling even the servants knew his bad reputation. “A—a friend purchased him for me.”
“I see.” Alfred narrowed his eyes. “Then might I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Why not appeal to the”—he gave her a sideways glance—“friend who gave you Thunder to house him? Temporarily, of course.”
“That’s a horrible idea, even if Winter—the friend agrees. I wouldn’t be able to visit Thunder. How will I know if he’s being treated well?” She gestured to the colt, who was still nibbling at the grass of the paddock.
“Surely you don’t think your friend would mistreat the horse?”
Francesca bit back her next argument. She remembered the easy familiarity Winterbourne had shared with his animal. The horse and rider clearly trusted each other. But this wasn’t a matter of trust. Now that she had Thunder, she wanted to keep him, and if she brought him to Grayson Park, she might never see him again. What if the marquess decided to sell him?
And if she was truly honest with herself, Francesca had to admit that none of these issues was her real concern. Her real concern was her own response to Ethan Caxton. It was bad enough that he’d humiliated her at the Harcourts’ ball. Even worse, yesterday he’d given every indication that he had absolutely no memory of the incident.
But she remembered it all too well, and her reaction last night was further evidence she couldn’t trust herself around the man. She should hate him for what he’d done. What was wrong with her? She was a fool for harboring this ridiculous infatuation for a man who obviously cared nothing for her.
“What are you planning to do, miss?” Alfred asked, motioning for her to precede him through the paddock gate.
She sighed, and with another offer of sugar, coaxed Thunder back to the stable. “I don’t know yet.” She glanced up. Despite her bad mood, the sky was once again blue and clear as a freshwater lake. The few white clouds moved lazily as boats, their sails rising puffy and high. The breeze tickled the trees and the warm sun flashed off the quartz rocks and pebbles on the path.
At the stable door, she handed Thunder’s halter to Alfred. “I need a walk. Maybe the fresh air will help me figure this out.”
A walk would clear her head, would distract her from the realization that, in all likelihood, she would have to approach Winterbourne about Thunder. An awkward situation, at best. Then why, she scolded herself, was she beginning to look forward to it?
He was one of the most notorious rakes in England, she reminded herself, turning her back on Tanglewilde and heading for the green fields of Hampshire. His exploits and transgressions were the stuff of legends. Being in his arms yesterday, even for a moment, she’d felt like a schoolgirl discovered with her hands full of sweets. She felt guilty just being near him. He’d held her, whispered in her ear. She was practically a fallen woman now.
Yes, he was that bad.
And worse! The rumors about him curled her toes, they were so scandalous. Rumors of liaisons with courtesans, widows, even unmarried young ladies. Francesca frowned, stepping over a boulder. She wasn’t sure she believed him that debauched, but it would certainly fit his reputation.
Francesca had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she’d paid little attention to her destination, but now she realized she’d reached the charming clearing where she often came to be alone, think, or reflect.
Reflect on the fact that the Marquess of Winterbourne was not a nice man. Nor one to be trifled with. She should pray she’d never have to see him again, release the sliver of hope lodged stubbornly in the back of her mind that one day he’d come to her, declare his love, and sweep her into his arms.
Oh, she was such a fool! She plopped down under the shade of a large oak tree. The morning dew lingered on the shadowed grass, wetting her skirt through the thick folds of her mantle.
She felt a part of this place, had always felt a connection to the natural world. The air here had a mystical, spiritual feeling, and it seemed to her that angels whispered in the rustle of trees. But today she felt uneasy, as though something or someone watched her. She glanced behind her, saw nothing but the swaying tree branches and rustling leaves. With a small shudder, she clasped her hands.
Five
Ethan galloped across the rolling fields, heading for Skerrit’s farm. Rain didn’t pound down on him for the first time in several days, but that was the only bright spot in his dreary day. After speaking with the magistrate the night before, it was clear the man knew nothing of Skerrit’s involvement with the smugglers. But Ethan was increasingly convinced the farmer’s murder was linked to his role in the smuggling ring—a role Ethan would now have even more difficulty verifying.
Ethan flicked the reins with frustration. He was tired and annoyed, a lethal combination, and Skerrit’s murder was another in a long list of annoyances. What should have been a simple investigation was turning into a maze of complications.
First the girl. Now the murder.
What next?
He passed the fork in the road that signaled the turn-off and noticed fresh wagon tracks in the ground. Easing Destrehan to a stop, Ethan dismounted.
The wheel ruts hadn’t been there yesterday. The grooves disappeared through a clump of trees a few yards away, but beyond that, foliage obscured his vision.
Probably nothing. Local farmers taking their crops to town.
Then why did the tracks come from Skerrit’s farm?