Elisabeth Fairchild (11 page)

“Your husband is an excellent judge of horseflesh, Mrs. Dunn. Do you think I might convince you to part with one of the two, madame? It is the gray that interests me.”

“Oh!” Ursula’s eyes took on an inordinately startled look.

“Such a thought had never occurred to me.”

“I would appreciate your giving the matter serious consideration,” Charley pressed. “A friend of mine drives only grays, you see, and he is most particularly desirous of obtaining one more animal to complete a set of four that might be considered mirror images of your own creature. Should the animal satisfy his tastes, he will reward you well for the trouble caused in searching for a mate to your bay.”

“Oh my!” Ursula faltered, her hand flying to her throat. She cast a drowning look at her niece. “What do you think, Fanella? You know far more about horses than I.”

“I think we should write a letter to Uncle Harold explaining that there has been a generous offer for the gray that he was clever enough to find for you, that entails the finding of a perfect match for the bay . . .” she looked thoughtfully at Charley. “Perhaps we might tell him that two very knowledgeable gentlemen have offered to search out a match for you.”

Her statement would appear to contain a question.

Charley nodded acquiescence.

Nell allowed herself a small, pleased nod in return. “We shall thus see if Uncle Harold’s feelings will be offended by such a transaction. His reply should return to us before the end of the week.”

Ursula’s head bobbed. “Wouldn’t that be lovely? I would like to have a matched pair.”

Charley’s lips twitched. “That’s settled then.” He stood up to take his leave. “You have been most kind in receiving us.”

Miss Quinby stood as well. “It is goodbye then, until we have further word on the gray or the bay. Unless of course, we manage to convince Mr. Ferd to stay on as our “real” coachman.”

She directed another challenging glance at Beau.

“Small chance of that.” Charley chuckled. “Mr. –ah--Ferd has a full plate awaiting his attention in London, have you not, Mr. Ferd?”

Miss Quinby’s knowing eyes spoke of disappointment. Not surprise. She did not seem at all surprised to discover he was on the verge of departing, but there was undeniably disappointment in her demeanor.

Beau realized as he looked at her, that he could not return to his duties as Duke, until he had an answer to the great  “what if ?” with regard to Nell Quinby. “How long would you require a coachman?” he found himself asking.

“How long?” Charley gawked at him in amazement.

“Yes, how long? You see, if you are willing to a-a-accept temporary help, I should be happy to serve a-a-as coachman for the few weeks remaining before the Season starts.”

“Would you?” Nell and Charley asked simultaneously. In the same instant they did so, the front door knocker thundered insistently.

“What in heaven’s name?” Ursula started up from her chair. Outside, Bandit began to bark.

Nell ran to the window. “Oh my! It is the hired coachman, who would appear to dislike dogs.”

“However can you know such a thing, Fanella?” Ursula asked.

Nell laughed. “There is no mistaking his opinion in the mattee is scaling the wall to the back garden in order to avoid Bandit.”

“Oh dear,” Ursula exclaimed. “He will damage the espaliered pear trees.”

Charley managed to keep a straight face. “Come Beau, we must rescue the pears.”

“Oh yes, please do,” Ursula agreed, “And if you are entirely serious about this offer of being our temporary coachman, Mr. Ferd, you may tell the gentleman on the wall, that his services are no longer required.”

As Beau closed the door to the sitting room behind them, Charley sank against the wall, shaken by irrepressible amusement. Between stifled snorts, he demanded, “What the devil are you about? You cannot be serious about becoming private coachman to this woman.”

“Oh, but I am.”

Charley’s humor subsided. “Is this a lark? Or are you smitten with the girl, that you have become so foolish?”

“Completely and irrevocably smitten,” Beau hooked an arm through Charley’s that they might proceed to the garden. “Can you blame me? For the first time in my life, I have e-e-encountered a young woman who is drawn to me, Charley, despite my stammering, without reference to money, or title. Is it not wonderful?”

Charley shook him off. “She is drawn to you out of curiosity. She knows you are more than a mere coachman, and must solve the puzzle.”

Beau frowned. “Think you so?”

“Women love a mystery. Why not simply trot on up to the gel and tell her she has solved it? It can only work to your advantage that you are a wealthy and titled nobleman, rather than a penniless coachman.”

“What shall I tell her? That I a-a-am a lying scamp masquerading a-a-as a coachman, who now wishes to call on her?”

Charley waved his hands airily. “Tell her that she is very clever, to have found you out. Women understand a young man’s larks. Just see if she don’t.”

Beau frowned in the garden’s sudden sunlight. “’Twould change things.”

“Change! For the better I’ll be bound.”

Beau’s frown deepened. He headed for the garden wall at the base of which Bandit sat chewing on a shoe. “I am not so sure, Chaz. You forget Miss Quinby’s sister, Au-Au-Au. . .”

“Aurora. The snubbed beauty! I do not forget.” Charley chuckled, as the implications hit him. Beau could not tell if it was his predicament or the pair of feet dangling over the wall, one shoe on, one shoe off,  that so amused his friend until he said wryly. “Sisters fighting over you. Tsk, tsk. Your own included. You have set foot in a mare’s nest.”

After Charley’s departure, with Beau’s instruction to enlist Gates’s services, in the search for a bay to replace the gray, Nell was asked by her Aunt, “Do you mind showing Mr. Ferd the way back to the mews, my dear? Where the horses are kept, and the curricle housed?”

Nell did so readily enough, but as she led Beau through the house and into the garden, her eyes settled on him time and again. Was there something crucial she missed in regarding him? She had been certain this man was merely played a part. It unsettled her confidence in her own judgment to discover herself off the mark.

“Have I smut on my forehead, Miss Quinby?”

“What?” She started. He scrutinized her with those compelling blue eyes as intently as she scrutinized him. Most disconcerting. “Was I staring?”

He nodded. “While I have no objection to your looking at me a-a-as often a-a-as you should care to, you disturme a little at this moment, for you seem to regard me with suspicion.”

She stopped at the gate to the mews, and turning her back against it, allowed her feelings to vent themselves. “I do regard you with suspicion, Mr. Ferd.”

Fine golden-brown eyebrows rose. “How so?”

She frowned. “Because sir, no sooner do I think that I have figured out the source of your eccentricities, than you go and upset my reasoning.”

“However have I managed to do so much, a-a-all unknowing?” She had a sudden desire to avoid answering him. Opening the gate, she suggested he follow her.

The silence between them thick, he awaited an answer as Nell introduced him to the groom, who sauntered by, grain bucket in hand.

Toby said he would be thrilled to lead Beau about and explain the arrangement of things, as Miss Quinby requested. “I’ll be no more’n an
oiyblink
,” he assured them, ruffling the thick hair on Bandit’s chest. “Just as soon as I gets Highjinx water bucket filled, I’ll show you about.” When he left them alone again, Bandit followed at his heels.

Before Nell could saunter off as well, as she was very much inclined to do, Beau reminded her, “You were in the midst of explaining to me my way of  “upsetting your reasoning,” Miss Quinby.”

She sighed. She would not get away without telling him. “I must admit, I am quite amazed that you have agreed to drive my aunt and myself about town, Mr. Ferd, if only for a fortnight. You see, I had decided that you were not a coachman at all, but rather one of these joy-riding noblemen who pays for the pleasure of the instruction one might receive from a professional boxman.”

Pale blue eyes regarded her with interest. “I see. And the eccentricities you mentioned?” he asked softly, “What might those  entail?”

Nell smiled ruefully. He would think her a snob. “Nothing obvious or offensive, I assure you, but first, there is your speech. . .”

He frowned.

She recognized his frown for what it was. He thought she meant to criticize his stutter. How had she gotten herself into this tangle? She rushed on. "”Your vernacular and vocabulary do not ring true to what I am accustomed to hearing out of the stables.”

He smiled one of his slow, captivating smiles. “What else?” Encouraged, she ticked the items off on her fingers. “Your friendship with Mr. Tyrrwhit is unexpected, the quality of your gloves and posy holder would seem to be beyond the means of a coachman, as would your knowledge of the peerage and your appreciation for Beethoven.”

One of his eyebrows twitched. “But, it would seem I have somehow m-m-managed to convince you that I am not a gentleman after a-all, despite so much compelling evidence to the contrary?”

Nell dimpled. She was glad he would not seem to have taken offense. “Yes, you have Mr. Ferd, for while a gentleman might disguise himself to ride the mail, I cannot think of any reason why he would continue such a deception in accepting the position of private coachman to my Aunt Ursula.”

The enchanting curve of his lips increased. The blue eyes held as much amusement as his smile. “Not even one?” he pressed.

Nell’s eyes widened under the appreciative onslaught of his gaze, and then doubt as swiftly narrowed them. The young man was teasing her, Duke or dustman, coachman or king, and she must put an end to the liberty he took in looking at her in such a disconcerting manner. Her lips parted to speak, and yet she could not seem to articulate the thoughts that passed through her head. Did she really want him to cease looking at her so?

“Can not a coachman possess friends, Miss Quinby, and fine gloves, a-a-and an a-a-appreciation for music?”

Nell flinched, pained that he judged her a snob. “Of course. That and more, I’m sure. I do apologize for attempting to pigeonhole you. It was wrong in me. I’ll leave you to Toby now.” She nodded formally. The man was an enigma, a cipher, a contradiction to all the rules that would seem to govern the separation of the classes, and as her own class was now in question, she found the smoky boundaries of his manners, mores and interests imminently intriguing. “I hope you will be content with only two horses to drive. It will seem rather tame I’m sure after having four at hand.”

“Not at all, Miss Quinby.”

“Mr. Ferd?”

Again the slow smile transformed his features. “Yes, miss?”

She felt awkward in asking him to perform as ordinary coachman, having just explained her conviction that he was anything but an ordinary coachman. “I realize that this is short notice, but do you think the horses might be ready and brought  ’round within a half hour’s time? My aunt did most particularly wish to purchase a fan before this evening’s Assembly.”

Politely, almost regally, he bowed his head. “Yes, miss. As you say, in a half hour’s time.”

With one last searching look, for doubts still riddled Nell’s confidence in his veracity, she nodded and left him.

Chapter E
ight

Toby’s tour revealed a small but neat stable, that did but lack a certain level of spit and polish to satisfy the Duke’s discerning eye. It began in the tackroom, and ended at the top of the steep, narrow flight of stairs that led to the room Beau was to call his own.

“This ’uns yours,” the groom proudly presented their quarters. “My own flop, is down at the end."

The room smelled as richly of hay and horse and leather as the stalls below. Deep, but not very wide, the room was big enough to hold no more than a narrow cot, a washstand with plain pitcher and bowl, and a crate that served as both cupboard and chair. There was a shelf above the bed with a lamp perched on it, and three pegs behind the door for the hanging of clothes.

“Nice, aye? It’s had fresh paint no more than a year ago.” Toby cheerfully slapped the backside of the door.

Beau was touched. That so little could so well please, was something foreign to him. Struck by how fortunate he was to have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he scrutinized his narrow domain. The linens might have been fresh at about the same time as the paint. He tested the bed. The ticking was sadly flat. Odd how one never really appreciated what one had until it was no longer available. Beau had never appreciated his father so much, as in the months following his death. What would the old man say about this cork-brained escapade? If history ran true, his father had kicked his own heels fairly high in the days of his youth.

Beauford crossed to the window. The dusty, fly-blown pane looked out over the back garden. Miss Quinby had stopped to pick some flowers there. The sight of her made his pulse quicken. She looked like a watercolor come to life, distorted as she was by the wavery unwashed glass, elusive and unattainable, like his willfully lowered station it separated them. He could see,but not touch. He shook such thoughts aside.