Elisabeth Fairchild (14 page)

“Good day, your grace. It would appear that Mr. Tyrrwhit did not exaggerate.” It was Gates who spoke from the drive that led through the mews. He held before him like a trophy, a fat brown valise.

Beau glanced up without any hesitation in the movement of the brush he was wielding. “Ah, Gates! I was never more happy to see you. What is it that Charley does not exaggerate? The state of my sanity perhaps?”

Gates allowed himself to smile. “It was the state of your wardrobe we discussed, sir. I bring you shirts, and it would appear from your current predicament that you are in direst need.”

Beau slowed his brushing for a moment. “Indeed, they will be welcome. What else do you bring me?”

Gates approached the bay, set the valise gingerly down, and then, apparently dissatisfied with its disposition amongst the dirt and straw, picked it up again.

“Clean nether garments, your grace, and one or two other necessaries that I thought you might desire: tooth powder, a comb, soap both for yourself and your clothing, today’s newspaper, a book that you have been reading, razor and strop, several plain neckcloths, and a spare pair of boots. You must make up a list of your requirements, if you find that I have forgotten something.”

Beau set aside the brush for a currycomb and regarded his valet with appreciation, over the back of the bay. “You are, as always, thoughtful of my needs, Gates. Have I ever properly thanked you for that quality?”

Gates stoic countenance took on a slightly confused aspect. “Your grace?”

“No, I can see by your expression that I have not.” Beau was quite seriously contrite. “Well, I am genuinely pleased to see you here, and not only because you bring me fresh linen. Did Charley tell you about the gray?”

Gates confused look intensified. “Is it a gray, sir? I had been informed it was a bay you were seeking?”

Beau laughed. “Quite right. It is only on account of the gray that we seek a bay. A bay that would pair well with this one.” He slapped the back of the freshly curried horse.

Gates scrutinized the animal. “Do you require the markings to be of a similar nature, your grace?”

“No, I am more concerned that this animal should be of a similar age, height and temperament, than with the number or arrangement of its stockings or facial markings. As for the rest, I trust your judgment implicitly with regard to health, conformation and soundness.”

Gates allowed a hint of a smile to lift the corners of his mouth. “I am flattered, your grace. Is there anything else you would have me do?”

“You may take that valise to the room at the top of the stairs, if you so please.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“One other thing, Gates. You must refrain from calling me “your grace” as long as I am engaged in this charade.”

“Yes, your. . . but, what must I call you then, my lord?”

 “Not, my lord. That is no more to the purpose than the other. I should prefer that you refer to me as Mr. Ferd.”

“Mr. Ferd, your grace?”

“That’s right.”

Gates nodded, still confused. “That was the room at the top of the stairs. . .” he paused, concentrating, for such informality went very much against the grain, “--Mr Ferd?”

The words were a trifle wooden, but Beau was mightily pleased. “Just so, Gates.”

Gates returned within moments, his face a picture of dismay. “Am I to understand that I heard correctly, and that it is the room at the top of the stairs that your grace occupies?” he asked, aghast.

“I find no fault with your hearing, Gates, other than the fact that you have again addressed me as your grace, when I have just r-r-requested otherwise.”  

“But, my lord.” Beau was laughing now. “Gates!”

Gates sighed. “But, your grace, that room is not fit, my lord, no matter what it is that I call you, sir. The sheets have not seen soap and water for--- I shudder to think how long, your gra. . .”

Beau gave him a warning look.

Nell stood uncertainly in the gateway from the back garden that led through the shrubbery to the mews. She hesitated to continue her errand, because she could see the new coachman, from the shadowed spot where she stood. While it was expressly to see Mr. Ferd that she had made her way through the garden, she had not anticipated seeing quite so much of him, nor of his having company. There, before her, was the same back that she had so long regarded on the trip down from London. She was quite familiar with its shape, its breadth, the contours that had shaped the jacket and greatcoat that had once covered it, and yet, unclothed, it was a creature unfamiliar to her. There was something so changed in tone and texture, so provocative in the disposition of musculature, that she could neither step forward nor retreat.

How did one approach a young man stripped to the waist, when one meant to ask a favor of him? Was it best done in the company of another? She thought not. She ought to go away.

And yet, she hesitated. Nell had not, in her short lifetime, had opportunity to witness more than a handful of bare, masculine torsos, and certainly none so attractively muscled as Lord Beauford’s pale, broad back looked now. Her curiosity for such a sight had been whetted that morning with the flashes of bare flesh she had glimpsed through the hedgerow. Now, with so much of him to observe, her eyes grew very round, as did her half-open mouth. Her breathing seemed suddenly unnaturally loud in her throat.

The man who stood conversing with Mr. Ferd as he finished grooming the bay with a sponge down, was none other than the same Mr. Gates she had met on the coach trip from London. He had struck her then as having the manners of an upstairs servant. She saw nothing now to change that impression.

Mr. Ferd seemed highly amused by their conversation, while Mr. Gates seemed to find nothing humorous at all in what was said. He did not stay long. And yet, even with him gone, Nell did nothing to announce herself. Instead, afraid she would be seen, she whirled back out of the line of sight, and pressed against the shrubbery, one hand at her throat, and the other pressed against her breast, where her heart seemed to beat an unusually erratic tattoo against her ribcage. Twice in one morning she had allowed her own wicked desire to consume her better judgment! Nell was surprised at herself!

Realizing that the blood no longer circulated so very well in one of her feet, so long had she stood, statue-still, in observing the object of her desire, that Nell disengaged herself from the hedge to shake out her foot. She had every intention of quitting the vicinity. Circulation returning, she peeped around the greenery to see if her going would be observed.

In that instant, the coachman turned his head to look directly at her. “Miss Quinby!”

She froze, horrified.

Beau Ferd dropped the hoof he had been examining and advanced on her, his nakedness provoking such mortification in Nell that she knew not where to look.

“I do beg your p-pardon,” he exclaimed. “I’d no idea you frequented the m-mews.” He strode to the gatepost over which his smock shirt was tossed, and thrusting both arms within the fabric, pulled the covering down over his head.

In the moment that his face, and thus his gaze, was buried in cambric, Nell found herself unable to resist staring at the thatch of curling hair on his chest. There was something awe-inspiring in observing sweat-sheened flesh as it rolled over swells of muscle that ran beneath the skin all the way down a man’s abdomen and into the lacing of his britches. There was something strangely vulnerable and at tsame time frightening, in the tuft of dark hair that nestled in each armpit.

Nell, face flushed crimson as his head emerged from the neck of the smock, thought she would never again be able to look at any gentleman without wondering how he might compare to such a baring.

The forward nature of her own curiosity, surprised and disgusted her. She could not imagine how she was now to converse with a man she had seen so exposed.

“Did you wish the carriage brought a-a-around?” he asked, returning both the tone and focus of their exchange to the mundane. “You know you have but to send word, and I will have a conveyance r-ready in the blink of an eye.”

Breath coming fast, Nell leaned upon the gate. Its hinges let out a little squawk, and swung toward him. She backed away from her prop, gloved hands alone remaining in contact with the splintered surface. Her eyes could not resist the temptation of rising to the neck of his newly donned smock, which hung wide enough to reveal a hint of the curling hair it hid. Her embarrassment was acute when one ash blond eyebrow rose ever so slightly, and with a hint of a mischievous smile, he reached up to tighten the string that gathered the fabric about his throat.

One dusty boot he thrust onto the bottom-most rung of the wooden barricade between them, while his bare, work-reddened hands he leaned against the splintered upper rung, one on either side of her own.

As if their both coming in contact with the same piece of wood, were somehow improper, Nell quickly withdrew her hold on the gate. Blushing, she clasped her hands behind her back, and tipped down her face, so that a good deal of her expression was hidden by the lip of her bonnet.

He smiled another of the slow, disarming smiles that had so enchanted her in their trip down from London. She could not stop herself from dimpling in return, though there was something in his pale blue gaze that reminded her she meant to distance herself from the effect that this young man had on her better judgment.

“My aunt means to have you fitted for your livery before noon,” she said. “Can you fetch us at eleven?”

He removed his booted foot from the gate. “A-As you say, miss.” There was something curious and watchful in his pale blue eyes as if he expected her to say more. She turned to go, feeling as if there should indeed be more said between them.

“We shall expect you at eleven then,” she said thickly, and left with far more haste than grace.

Chapter Ten

Beau’s eyes met Nell’s in the peer glass before which he stood, arms extended shoulder height, while Mr. Treedle, the tailor, took the measure of him, hands flying about with a length of tape. She blushed and looked away.

Ursula Dunn stood beside her niece, fingering two lengths of brown cloth. “What think you, Fanella? Which of these becomes the bay the best?”

There was something so very ludicrous in such a question, that Beau could not resist smiling. His eyes sought Nell’s, to see if she shared his appreciation for the ridiculous.

She did. Her eyes danced merrily. “Perhaps we should have the horse in front of the mirror in Mr. Ferd’s stead, so that we might match the shade exactly.”

Ursula Dunn looked up from the cloth. “Do be serious Fanella,” she said tartly.

“I am serious, Auntie.” Nell’s lip curled a little, as she shook her head in mock gravity. “The fashion of color can be quite cruel if one is not careful. I have heard that a member of the Whip Club by the name of Mellish is considered dashing with four matching white horses and snowy livery, and yet, Tommy Onslow is not allowed into the same club because his matched blacks and funereal livery are deemed too sober. As for Lord Petersham, he is become a laughingstock of sorts, for while all his horses and livery are a perfectly matched brown, word has it that his predilection for the color is based in his love of a certain married female of the same name.”

Ursula Dunn’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Fanella! Is it Catherine who fills your head with such gossip?”

Nell shrugged, her cheeks blooming roses of embarrassment. “Cat does follow all of the exploits of the more notorious whipsters, with the interest of a scholar.”

Such a revelation could not fail to interest Beau. He wondered what the youngest Miss Quinby might have had to say about him, if anything.

“Your sister Catherine’s time were better spent in other pursuits,” Ursula said censoriously.

“Oh, I don’t know, Auntie,” Nell laughed. “We should never have known the least little thing about Aurora’s Duke, had we not had Cat to fill us in on his status.”

Beauford’s interest was heightened.

“That is quite another matter, Fanella, and well you know it. One cannot begrudge your sister knowing a little something about the man who may very well hold the financial well-being of your entire family in his hands.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed in puzzled interest at Ursula’s reflection in the mirror, then flicked with greater interest to Fanella. Until this moment had no idea such power was his. What had he to do with their financial wellbeing?

The brilliance of amusement dimmed from Fanella’s eyes. The teasing lilt no longer tugged the corners of her lips. “Is this Season of Aurora’s truly so important, Auntie?” She asked. “How does a duke that we have never so much as laid eyes on hold so much power over us? Do you and mother seriously think he might marry Aurora, and make us all rich enough to afford matching horses and livery?”

Beau’s eyes burned with sharp-edged amusement, for he knew the answer to that question far better than Ursula Dunn.

“Marry her?” Ursula smiled and rolled her eyes heavenward. “God be pleased such a wondrous thing should come to pass. No, Fanella, neither your mother nor I are foolish enough to aspire to such heights, even with Aurora’s wealth of good looks. Despite a history of good family, and the high hopes of his own sister, Lady Beatrix, the Duke is quite above our touch. The importance, you see, of Aurora’s meeting with him has less to do with his own unattached state, than with the marital status of his circle of friends. If he will but introduce your sister to his peers, and bestow upon her brow some stamp of approval in being observed dancing or chatting with her on some occasion of note, her status will be set. And, somewhere among the Pink of the Ton, your mother and I are quite convinced, Aurora is sure to win favor. Can you fault us for hoping he may be a young man endowed with means enough indeed to afford matching horses?”