Lord Somerton's Heir (11 page)

How did she do it?

Isabel tugged impatiently at a small pearl button, tearing the silk threads that held it to the fine kid. The button fell to the floor with a soft ping and rolled under a chair.

‘Oh, curse it!’ Isabel said aloud, consigning this small domestic inconvenience to the long list of grudges she held against Lady Kendall.

What concern was of it hers if Lord Somerton succumbed to the obvious charms of Lady Kendall?

Going down on her hands and knees, she searched around for the little button.

She sat back on her heels and caught her refection in the long mirror. Who was that woman with the haggard face and dark circled eyes that looked back at her?

‘Lucy!’ she summoned her maid who appeared at the door.

‘My lady?’

‘Find my riding habit and tell the stables to saddle Stella. I am going for a ride before dinner.’

Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘A ride, my lady?’

‘I need exercise and fresh air.’

An hour later, she stood in front of the long mirror, pleating the fine woollen skirt of her riding habit between her fingers. The deep bottle-green habit, fashionably trimmed with black frogging, had been her last purchase before William’s death. She rode rarely and it had seemed foolish to consign an expensive garment to the box in the attic where the rest of her fine gowns had been sent.

Now the gown hung on her and, for the first time, she noted how thin she had become. Experimentally, she pulled a few stray curls from the severe coil of hair on the back of her head, noting how they softened the hard angles of her face, a parody of the fashionable hairstyles she had once favoured.

Impatiently, she poked the unruly curls back. Why was she indulging in such foolishness? She had no one to impress and yet, if Sebastian could see her as she had once been, he may be pleasantly surprised. No one had ever called her a beauty but, in the right clothes and the right company, she had been known to turn heads. The Queen of the London drawing rooms, reduced to black rags and hideous caps.

She stood up and reached for her hat, pinning it to her head and settling the veil over her face, pulling on her gloves she left her room.

In the stable yard, her usual mount, the star-faced bay mare called Stella, stood saddled and ready. With the boy’s help she mounted, kicking the mare into a trot and then a canter, clearing the stables and the house, her ride taking her more by instinct than design to the grand mausoleum on the hill.

Only when she reached the small grove of trees did she pause, slipping off the saddle and securing Stella’s reins to the nearest oak. Tripping over her skirts, she ran towards the mausoleum and flung herself down on the step, pressing her cheek against the cold marble.

With her finger she traced the letters of the carved, gilded name.

WILLIAM ANTHONY CHARLES KINGSLEY

born 3 August 1813

died 29th May 1814

Suffer Little Children
.

Below William’s name was that of her husband, but Isabel hadn’t come here to think about Anthony. The death of her child sat heavily on her heart. Every day she came here and every day she wondered if the hurting ever became any easier. The horror of that morning they had found William dead in his crib still twisted like a knife in her heart.

She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them. A cold breeze stirred the dry grass around the crypt and the smell of freshly cut hay rose in the wind. The grass should be scythed before winter set in. Anthony would hate to have his tomb in such an untidy state.

Chapter 7

On his return to Brantstone after church, Sebastian spent an hour avoiding Fanny and Freddy by shutting himself in his own bedchamber with the London broadsheets. He sat in an overstuffed armchair covered in the same silk as the walls and bed hangings, and surveyed the room. When Connie arrived he would consult her about redecorating. She had a marvellous eye for what suited the occupant of a room. All he knew was that the pale silk wall coverings and matching bed covers and elegant gilded furniture was
not
his style.

He rose to his feet and looked out the window. It still lacked an hour until dinner so he decided that a visit to the stables would be in order. He found a side door and, circled the house until he reached the magnificent buildings that could only be the stables. Although at first glance they resembled a fine residence with an elegant clock tower surmounting the entrance.

Thompson, the head groom, had been included in the introductions on his arrival and he came out to meet him, hastily pulling a coat on over his shirtsleeves. Sebastian greeted him by name and asked to be shown over the stables.

‘Honoured, my lord,’ Thompson replied.

The man escorted him through the immaculate stable block, stopping at each stall to introduce the occupant as if they were favoured tenants. Sebastian followed, enthralled and a little in awe that all these magnificent beasts were now his. Freddy had been right. Whatever else his cousin lacked, there was no denying he knew his horses. A dozen racehorses, handsome beasts with long legs and powerful hindquarters, strong and beautifully matched carriage horses and an assortment of saddle horses filled the stalls. For the first time, Sebastian felt a cousinly bond with the late Lord Somerton. More than the house and the estate, he understood horses and knew what they meant.

He stopped to admire a magnificent black stallion. The animal watched him, ears swivelling with curiosity at the sound of his voice as he approached. Sebastian opened the door of the stall and stepped inside, running an experienced hand down the arched neck of the horse.

‘More than a little Arab in this one,’ he remarked,

Thompson nodded. ‘That’s Pharaoh. You’ve a good eye, my lord.’

‘I’d like to ride him.’

Thompson looked dubious. ‘He’s a handful, my lord.’ He hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘To be honest with you, his late lordship was riding ‘im when he had the accident.’

Sebastian gave the handsome beast a thoughtful look. ‘Has anyone ridden him since?’

‘I’ve had him out a few times, my lord, but you know how ‘tis when a horse —’ He broke off. ‘There’s some as would have had him destroyed.’

Sebastian knew he had been going to add: ‘When a horse becomes a killer’.

‘That would have been a pity. From what I know of my cousin’s demise, it was hardly the fault of the horse. Get him ready for me, Thompson. I’ll take him out now.’

Thompson hesitated as if about to say something but thought better of it and inclined his head. ‘As your lordship wishes.’

Sebastian continued the rest of the stables tour by himself. As he reached the end of the row of stalls, past a pair of matching bay carriage horses, he heard the soft tone of a woman’s voice. In the very last stall, a small, heavily pregnant piebald mare was being fed withered carrots by no less a person than the dowager Lady Somerton.

She’d not heard him approach and it gave him the luxury of a moment to stop and watch her as she caressed the little mare’s nose and whispered in her ear. The mare seemed to lean against her, nickering softly in answer to Isabel’s voice.

Isabel herself wore an elegant green riding habit, completely at odds with the dreadful, shapeless black gowns she seemed to favour. A long strand of hair, the colour of burnished mahogany, had escaped the jaunty hat with its green and black feathers and black netting.

No one would describe Isabel as beautiful, but here, when she thought no one was watching, she had a lovely serenity to her regular features, normally glazed in a mask of polite indifference. With her face partly turned away from him he could see her profile, the intelligent brow and strong, slightly pointed nose and a determined little chin. It seemed for a moment as though he was looking at different woman.

He cleared his throat and she turned around with an expression that was at once startled and annoyed at being disturbed. Seeing Sebastian, she tucked the loose strand of hair under her hat.

He whipped his hat off to return her greeting and indicated the little pony. ‘Is the mare yours?’

She nodded. ‘I know she’s not much to look at but she’s my last link with my uncle. He gave her to me for my sixteenth birthday. She has the sweetest temperament of any horse I have ever known.’

Sebastian entered the stall and ran a hand down the mare’s nose and nodded. ‘You can see that in her eyes,’ he agreed, running an expert hand over the mare’s swollen belly. ‘She’s not far off foaling.’

Isabel nodded. ‘Only a matter of days. Lucky girl,’ she addressed the horse, ‘you’re going to be a mama again.’

‘Your husband kept a good stable,’ Sebastian said.

‘Horses were his life and he enjoyed some success at Newmarket. One of the few things he was good at,’ she added.

She gave the mare one last pat on the nose, brushed her hands on her skirt and walked out of the stall. Sebastian followed her out into the courtyard where a couple of the stable boys were grooming two of the racehorses. One of the animals fidgeted under the boy’s ministrations and Sebastian gave it a cursory glance, taking in the twitching of its ears and the way in which it pulled against the boy’s hand. A nervous beast. Not one he would trust.

Thompson waited by the mounting block, holding Pharaoh by the bridle.

Isabel stopped and looked up at Sebastian. ‘You’re not going to ride Pharaoh, are you?’

Hearing the genuine apprehension in her voice, he looked at her, seeing fear in her eyes. ‘Why not?’

‘Didn’t Thompson tell you…?’

‘That this was the horse Anthony was riding the night he died? Yes he did. I don’t blame the horse for what happened.’

‘But, Lord Somerton, you are barely out of your sick bed!’

Sebastian ignored her protest and swung himself up into the saddle, wincing as the barely healed wound caught. This may not have been a good idea, he considered as Pharaoh recoiled from the unaccustomed weight on his back, going down on his hindquarters, his eyes rolling. It took all of Thompson’s strength to hold him.

Sebastian took the reins, feeling for the horse’s mouth.

‘Let go of him, Thompson,’ he ordered.

The groom obeyed. Pharaoh responded by rearing. Failing to dislodge his rider, he danced sideways, tossing his head. Sebastian held him firmly, talking to the horse, calming him. Only when Pharaoh had settled did he put his heels to the horse’s side, taking him on a slow circuit of the stable yard. He tapped his heels and the horse responded obediently, moving into a graceful trot and then a canter with only the slightest urging.

Sebastian brought the creature back to where Isabel and Thompson stood, grudging admiration written on Thompson’s face and relief on Isabel’s.

Thompson stroked the horse’s nose. ‘You see, old fellow? The new lord ain’t so bad, is he?’

Sebastian wondered if he was talking to him or the horse. Either way, he appreciated the grudging praise.

Isabel added. ‘The new lord is not quite so hard on a horse’s mouth, either.’ She looked at the groom. ‘How is your wife today, Thompson?’

‘Fair ta middling. Kind of you to enquire, your leddyship.’

The lilt of a girl’s voice, singing a country song, made them all look up. Young Matilda, the kitchen maid, had entered the yard carrying a bucket from which carrot tops poked. Seeing the new Lord Somerton, her singing died away and she stopped in the middle of the gateway, her eyes wide with alarm, staring past the group at the mounting block.

At the sound of a horse whinnying, they all turned to see what had taken the girl’s attention. The stable boy holding the nervous racehorse gave a sharp cry as the plunging beast shook his hold. It whirled around on its hindquarters, rolling eyes fixed on the gateway to the stable yard where Matilda stood holding her bucket.

Isabel cried out a warning but Matilda did not move. She stared with wide eyes at the horse and dropped her bucket, scattering carrot tops. Without thought, Sebastian pulled Pharaoh around, putting his heels to the horse’s side. He reached Matilda seconds before the runaway, leaning down from Pharaoh and scooping her up as the stallion crashed past them, making for the park.

Safe in his arms, the young girl pressed her face into his coat. He put a protective arm around her shaking shoulders.

‘You’re safe now, Matilda,’ he said, and turned Pharaoh back to the mounting block where he let Matilda down. She sat down on the block and buried her head in her hands. Isabel pulled the sobbing child towards her and held her close, making hushing sounds. Sebastian watched her, seeing not the child but the woman who should have been a mother.

Now the danger had passed, a familiar stabbing catch in the wound and, more worryingly, the warm stickiness of blood on his shirt reminded Sebastian that the exercise had been foolish. Making sure he had the animal positioned so that he could dismount on the offside to the bystanders, he slid off, grimacing in pain under the pretence of adjusting the stirrup.

He thanked Thompson, who had taken the reins. Isabel looked up from Matilda and he inclined his head. Without another word he walked out of the stable yard, only his stiff back and tight mouth betraying the fact that each footstep sent shafts of fire jarring through his body.

He made it to his bedchamber without a break in his stride. Once there, he looked around for a chair but the elegant silk-covered seats and oriental rugs did not invite the risk of a bloodstain. Finding nothing suitable, he rang for Bennet and sat on the windowsill.

He got no sympathy from his corporal.

‘What were you thinking, sir?’ Bennet chided, removing the ruined jacket and bloodstained shirt. ‘That exit wound is barely scabbed and you’ve gone and broken it open again. Sorry, sir, I’m going to say it: you’re an idiot.’

‘I should have you whipped for your impudence,’ Sebastian said between gritted teeth.
If I didn’t happen to agree with you
. ‘Just patch me up.’

‘Patch you up so you can go off careening around on ‘orses again? I don’t think so. You’re going back to your bed,’ Bennet said in a voice that brooked no argument.