A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (29 page)

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if he had, perhaps, behaved badly – at least as badly as Ellie had behaved toward him. The thought made him cringe.

What if … what if Ellie hadn’t called herself Toby to seduce him? What if all she wanted was to stay with Manifesto?

“By gad, she does love you,” he said to the horse. The gray head bobbed, yanking a tuft of hay.

• • •

At three in the morning Jimmy James announced that the last clump of grass had been cut. The haying was finished. After that, Ellie couldn’t remember anything. From what she gathered at dinner the next day, no one stirred for hours. Like her, they lay in dirt-smeared heaps on top of the bedclothes, unable to rise until late afternoon.

We did it, didn’t we, miss?” Alonso said, pouring Ellie an after-dinner cordial.

“Aye, and I’m grateful,” she said, taking the decanter from him and pouring him a glass. “When Cook has the strength, there’ll be beef for everyone. A feast.”

Alonso raised his goblet. “Thank you, Miss Ellie.”

“I apologize for my behavior. Everyone worked so hard, and I was awful.”

Alonso cleared his throat. “We of the household staff appreciated the gravity of the situation.”

He drank his ratafia in quick sips.

It took effort to raise her own glass. She let the fruity sweetness of the cordial swash across her tongue.

“And if I may be so bold,” Alonso said, “with Mr. Lank gone, the tenant houses are likely to fill quickly. Word is already spreading.”

“It’s the downstairs grapevine in full voice, then?”

The butler smiled. “We are content.” He bowed and left.

Ellie closed her eyes. A cat made itself comfortable on her lap. She listened to her mother’s sweet voice as she read a story to Snap, her father turned the page of a book, Peggity sighed, Chase rustled the sheets of a bed they’d made for him, and Claire plunked out a tune on the pianoforte with one un-blistered finger.

A hound in the midst of a pile of dogs sleeping near the hearth lifted its head. Deciding whatever it heard was not worth the trouble, the creature went back to sleep.

A moment later, Alonso opened the parlor door a crack. All hound heads rose as one. “Excuse me, my lord, but Baron Herbert Wadsworth is in the hall. I did not admit him to the drawing room.”

A knot ricocheted between Ellie’s heart and stomach. Her father rose from an armchair, massaging his sore back until he stood erect, then exited into the front hall.

Snap raced to the door and put her ear to the keyhole.

“That’s impolite,” Lady Albright scolded, but in the mildest tone so that Snap stayed by the door.

“Papa says he’s not happy to see Baron Wadsworth,” the little girl said. “And Baron Wadsworth says, ‘That makes little difference to me.’”

Every trace of exhaustion vanished from Ellie’s body. Just the thought of Baron Wadsworth in her home, threatening her father, made her so angry she could spit. “Your uncle will be leaving shortly,” she told Chase. The man acknowledged her with hollow, pain-filled eyes. She stood and waded through the dogs amassed at the parlor door, managing to keep all at bay except one determined beast.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked, bursting into the front hall and deliberately failing to curtsey.

The dog sniffed Wadsworth and circled him before Lord Albright grabbed its collar. “Rather late for a social visit, so I’m assuming this is official business.”

“How perceptive,” Wadsworth replied, nervously glancing at the dog, whose hackles were up.

“I’ve come for my nephew, Captain Hart. He was injured in a fire on your property. Careless of you, wouldn’t you say?”

“Careless of him to set it while I was bound, gagged, and locked in a stall,” snapped Ellie.

“How do you know he wasn’t trying to rescue you?”

“I know because I heard him cursing you — because I smelled smoke and saw the flames he lit.”

A twitch twisted Wadsworth’s face. Ellie’s stomach lurched.

He grinned, his eyes gleaming with malice. “It’s sad you were alone. Who can support your testimony? Who can say my nephew wasn’t valiantly trying to save your life?”

“No one, except your nephew.”

“And I’ve come to take him from the harm you might cause him out of a misconceived notion that he set the fire.”

Lord Albright stepped between them, the hound strained against her collar, eyes fixed on Wadsworth. “Hear now, Baron, you’re not to use that threatening tone with my daughter. Captain Hart is in no condition to go anywhere. He’s receiving the best of care from us, despite his misdeeds. He’ll certainly die if he’s moved now.”

“With all due respect to your rank, are you aware that you haven’t paid the three thousand pounds you owe me?”

Lord Albright’s face darkened. “You have already received two thousand pounds from me. We will have the rest to you the moment I can raise it.”

“Your ‘moment’ may not be soon enough,” Wadsworth replied.

A reckless rage turned Ellie’s blood to ice. “I know you’re familiar with our former estate steward, Mr. Lank. I saw you with him at the auction to sell Manifesto.”

“I might know the man,” Wadsworth replied. “What of it?”

“He made off with all but two thousand pounds from the horse’s sale. If you want to collect your debt, go after him.”

Wadsworth stepped close to her, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “My dear, I don’t
have
to do anything.” He took her hand and convulsed violently.

The shock of his spasm passed though Ellie like contagion. She stepped back in horror, yanking her hand from his.

“Baron, refrain from molesting my daughter!” her father demanded. The hound barked.

Wadsworth shrank from the animal. Out of range, his lips tipped up and he chuckled. “Fetch Captain Hart for me, there’s a good girl. You have thirty days to repay the debt.”

“Thirty days!” Ellie cried.

“That is, if I leave tonight with my nephew. If not, I receive the full three thousand pounds before the week is out.”

She stepped toward him. “The Albrights will not be leaving Fairland in thirty days, in thirty weeks, or in thirty years for that matter!”

A frantic pawing of dogs behind the parlor door distracted her. The knob squeaked, and Chase came out slowly. He was bent double, his face white with pain. Veins bulged on the back of his hand as he pressed his palm against the wall to keep from falling. “Come, Uncle,” he breathed. “Let’s not trouble these good people.”

“Good people, you say Chase?” Wadsworth sneered. “Future inmates of the Comptor, is more like it.”

“Enough,” Chase said. Staggering toward the front door, he held his middle in agony. The heavy oak swung open, allowing damp night air to rush into the hall. On the draft rode hundreds of flying insects attracted to the guttering candles. Chase disappeared into the ebony interior of Wadsworth’s coach.

“You’ve made a fine muddle of things, haven’t you Albright?” the baron said. “Six months into your inheritance and your estate lies in ruins, debtor’s prison awaits, and your brother’s enemy will possess your lands.” A ripple went through the baron, shaking him ’til the buckles on his shoes rattled.

Fury stripped Ellie of her last ounce of control. “Release the hounds.”

“What’s that?” Wadsworth said.

“Release the bloody hounds!” she screamed.

A thunderous response came from the parlor as dogs hurled themselves against the door, scratching, clawing, and howling in one ravenous voice.

Wadsworth scuttled, crab like, for the front door. A rush of dogs burst from the parlor, hurling themselves in a pack toward the disappearing stranger. The baron darted through the opening and slammed it in the faces of the baying throng.

Claire came into the hall. “I was given a message by Captain Hart. He told me you must find Lank. If he’s frightened, he’ll testify against Baron Wadsworth — if the baron doesn’t kill Lank first.”

• • •

Dusk hung heavy at the windows, saturated with unspent moisture. A small fire warmed the bottoms of knick-knacks posted on the mantle in the blue parlor at Cowick Hill. Its flames battled valiantly against the oppressive damp.

“Well, then what would you like to do?” said Poultney, legs draped over the arm of a couch, a pillow under his head, and another pillow propped on his chest.

“Oh, who knows,” Hugh replied. Restlessness chewed at him. For the umpteenth time he crossed from the window overlooking the front yard to the one viewing a side garden.

Algie considered his brandy. “I would like to gad about London in my undergarments.”

“A capital plan,” said Poultney. “Would you wear a buttonhole or no floral arrangement at all?”

“None — only bright white linens and a smile.”

“As for me, I would be stripped naked with the most damnably expensive fig leaf Savile Row ever stitched.” Poultney eyed Hugh. “What would you be caught gadding about in?”

Hugh shrugged and paced back to the window on the front yard. Poultney’s pillow bounced off Hugh’s head. The victim whirled around. “What the devil are you doing?”

Poultney launched a second pillow. The projectile bounded off Hugh’s shoulder and crashed into a pie plate table bearing a lit lamp and a Dresden figurine. The contents rocked dangerously but remained upright. “You’re a menace,” Hugh said.

“And you’re a bore. Do you know what you would gad about London in? A monk’s cowl.”

“Why should I be interested in pulling ridiculous pranks?”

“Because that’s why you like us,” answered Algie.

“Don’t be absurd.” Hugh turned and resumed staring at the darkening sky.

“Something horrible has happened, Algie,” Poultney said, slipping from the couch. “Our friend has matured into a prospective husband. It’s that Albright chit, isn’t it?”

Hugh gripped the windowsill. “Lock your gob or I’ll have at it with you!”

A pleased smile spread across Poutney’s round face. “Ah ha! A direct hit. You may be in full huff, my friend, but that girl has dodged your composure. And a fond bravo to her, I say. It’s about time you got leg shackled. What a stroke of luck that she’s clever, pretty, and pedigreed.”

“Hush,” said Hugh, stalking away from his friend. “She put on a masquerade to ensnare me, and I’ll have none of it.”

“Oh, you won’t, eh?” said Poultney, following his prey. “Listen to that, Algie — he’ll not have her because she’s had him.”

“Then I’ll take her,” Algie said.

“And what would you do with her?” said Hugh, a rush of — gad, was it jealousy? — heating his words.

“I’d marry her, of course,” his friend said solemnly. “I may not be a gentleman in title, but I’ve all the good intentions of the ton.”

“A conniving wench like Ellie Albright would eat you with a fork, my fair innocent.”

“I rather think I’d like being her supper.”

“Oh, stop.” Hugh flopped on the couch.

Poultney put his hands on his hips. “Now, here we have a perfectly reasonable offer by one friend to rid the other of an unwanted, unloved, unappreciated chit. Yet the aforesaid friend brushes off the offer as if it were so much fur on a greatcoat.” He hoisted Hugh’s legs and slid under them, making himself comfortable on the couch. “Fess all.”

It would do no good to avoid Poultney’s line of questioning. The man could wring a confession from granite. Besides, Hugh was tired of the endless loop of rage and loss that consumed his every thought. “I couldn’t be more angry with her,” he said.

Algie plunked into a nearby chair. “That goes without saying.”

“And I couldn’t feel more betrayed.”

“Yet … ” prompted Poultney.

“Yet every time I think I won’t see her again, I ache.”

“Because … ” said Poultney.

“Because she’s got spirit. And she can ride like the dickens.”

Algie poked Hugh’s shoulder. “And … ”

“And those are rare qualities in a lady of society.”

“They’re impossible qualities to find in any woman.” Poultney shoved Hugh’s legs to the floor. “The girl’s a star, yet you moon about checking the windows for fly specks. Stand up, friend! If a mind like Algie’s can grasp what a treasure Miss Ellie is, then some young buck is going to leap from the forest and bed her before you can stake your claim.” He jumped to his feet. “And admit it, friend, you put on a great show of cold-blooded rogue for her, when you’re nothing like that.

“Grab his other arm, Algie. We’re abducting the blasted fellow and taking him to the King’s Tavern. We shall force drink upon him ’til we’ve plotted to put him in a petticoat hold.”

• • •

The next morning, hung over and still a bit foxed, Hugh and company wrote to any and all who might know the whereabouts of Bergdorf Lank. Bringing the estate manager to justice, it had been decided by the sixth drink, was the best avenue to reacquainting Hugh with Ellie.

Of the many feelers dispatched, the first positive response Hugh got back was from Dixon Boyce, a man considered one of the best racehorse trainers in the country.

My good friend
, Dixon wrote.
This Lank fellow fits the description of a bully cock parading himself at Doncaster. He’s got a jumble of bones allegedly entered in the St. Leger. A friend tried to squeeze the fellow’s name out of him, but the man sidestepped the issue. Fishy, eh? Could be your quarry
. The letter continued.

My advice is to bring your “little horse” north to Doncaster as quickly as possible. Put him in the St. Leger against Lank’s mount. That ought to make the villain wonder where he’ll find his breakfast.

Judging by your letter, you’ll want to keep your entry in the St. Leger close to the vest. Well, fear not, my friend, I’ll write no “manifestos” on the subject. I’ve a discrete chum, Mr. Roan Midgeon, who runs a dairy on the outskirts of Doncaster. He’s an undiscovered gem with a flat pasture that’s served my training efforts quite well in the past. I’ll write him and tell him to expect you. We can enter your horse under my name to avoid alerting Lank.

Funny, I dropped my plans to be in Doncaster this year. Now, I just may make the trip to satisfy my curiosity about your “little horse.”

Best of luck to you,