Recklessly Yours (17 page)

She had envisioned excitement and intrigue, not a tangle of emotions that left her confused and reluctant to continue her mission. Ah, but the brooch, she remembered, had been a gift from Victoria, one of many. She closed her fist around it. If a girl younger than she could rule a country, then certainly Holly should not begrudge the small part she had been asked to play in helping secure the crown on the head of that very young girl.

But this morning Holly had nearly forgotten her mission. Last night, she had stolen down to the stables alone to search for the missing colt. Oh, she supposed an animal whisked from the Royal Stables would have been secreted in a far more clever place than the Duke of Masterfield's private stables, but it had been worth a look. This morning, however, missing colts couldn't have been farther from her mind, especially with the ground blurring beneath her and her heart thundering from the presence of the dashing man galloping beside her.

Even now, she was doing it again—forgetting he was under suspicion, thinking only of how her insides heated at the sight of him, and the fact that he alone seemed to recognize the spark she tried so hard to conceal, but never quite could, because it sometimes burned too bright, too intensely, inside her.

She opened her fist. Looking at herself in the mirror, she gave a nod of approval. Her curls had been dressed to their best advantage, upswept and held with combs at her crown while spiraling tendrils danced above her shoulders. Her dress, with its plunging neckline and cinched bodice, was all the rage in London and Paris. Her jewelry was costly, but sparse and simple: earrings and the matching brooch. She affixed the piece to the aqua-blue silk, close to her shoulder. Then she turned to her sisters.

“I didn't question him this morning,” she said in reply to Ivy's question. “I thought it best to allow the conversation to take its natural course.”

“And?” Willow tugged her evening gloves on and smoothed the satin that reached above her elbows. Holly might look the proper lady tonight, but her youngest sister was positively angelic in soft rose trimmed in velvet and georgette. The three older Sutherlands always considered Willow the most beautiful of them all, and tonight she promised to steal the heart of every man attending the Ashworths' ball. “What did you speak about?”

Ivy turned from the swivel mirror, where she had been scrutinizing her reflection to reassure herself that her condition had not yet become evident. She tilted her head expectantly
.

“We spoke of”—
everything but missing colts
—“horses and the sorts of traits that sometimes hide within a bloodline. And science. He, Lord Drayton, has the most extraordinary ideas about breeding. He doesn't leave it all to hired breeders. Nor are his efforts only for racing, but for the good of the species as a whole. Diseases, injuries . . . he hopes to ease those burdens and someday—this is most extraordinary of all—he aspires to apply his findings to humans, and—”

She paused for a quick breath and stopped. Ivy and Willow were regarding her as if she had taken leave of her senses. She quickly realized it wasn't what she was saying that puzzled them, for scientific principles were no oddities to them, especially not since Ivy had married Simon. But it was
how
she had been running on, her voice rising a full octave in her excitement.

“Interesting,” Ivy said with a smile that suggested she wasn't referring to the earl's work. Plucking her fan from the top of the bureau, she snapped it open and fluttered it before her face. “It would certainly seem that you two connected on an academic level.”

Holly didn't miss the teasing sarcasm. “It wasn't like that at all, Ivy. Just because you and Simon fell in love over the gears and gadgets in his laboratory is no reason to believe two people can't have an intelligent conversation without becoming moon-faced over each other.”

Ivy stilled her fan, her eyes peeking innocently over the lacy edge. She glanced at Willow and winked. “Did I imply any such thing?”

Willow stifled a giggle and returned her attention to Holly. “You were gone for a good two hours. Surely you didn't talk about breeding the entire time.”

“The rest of the time we rode.”

“Ahhh,” her sisters said in unison, and traded looks of comprehension.

“Oh, never mind. What about the two of you? Did you have a chance to question more of the guests?”

“I had tea with Colin's uncle, Lord Shelby, along with the Fenhursts, Lord and Lady Arnold, and the duchess.” Ivy smoothed her hands over her amber silk bodice and glanced in the mirror again. “Holly, are you certain no one can tell?”

“Yes, as long as you don't repeat your fainting spell. Now, what happened during tea?”

Ivy shrugged. “I detected nothing unusual. I even tried provoking Lord Arnold into a bit of a tizzy by challenging him to name a colt who could ever take Grey Momus's place. Mr. Bentley happened to be close by. He immediately championed my claim. A heated debate ensued, but there were no shifty eyes or hesitations or prevarications of any kind. Nothing to signify anyone having something to hide.”

“Not all criminals have shifty eyes,” Willow pointed out.

Holly considered the guests. No one was above suspicion; even the most elderly race enthusiast could have hired someone to steal the colt. She supposed it might be time to expand her investigation and wrangle invitations to the other area stud farms. But so far, no one had mentioned the Ashworths' extraordinary colt, not even in passing. That suggested that the existence of the animal was not common knowledge, that no one outside of the Ashworth family had ever seen it.

Which pointed the guilt toward the Ashworths themselves. Not that any of them had mentioned the colt, either.

“What about Lord Bryce?” she said. “Have either of you had the opportunity to speak with him?”

Willow turned away, but not before Holly witnessed the blush flooding her face.

“Willow? Have you and Lord Bryce conversed?”

“Ah, no . . . not about anything significant.” On her way to the wardrobe, she changed course and opened one of their trunks that had been placed beneath the window. She rummaged through the contents.

“What constitutes ‘not really'?” Ivy prodded. “And when did you speak to him?”

Kneeling, her head all but hidden inside the trunk, Willow replied, “Yesterday . . . during the demonstrations. He showed me the veterinary annex.” A chemise and a pair of stockings flew over her shoulder to land on the floor behind her.

“Why didn't you tell us?” Holly folded her arms across her chest. “We thought you'd gone up to the gardens with some of the other guests.”

When Willow didn't answer, Holly went to her, grasped her shoulders, raised her to her feet, and turned her about. Though she'd have thought it impossible, her sister's blush had deepened. “Good heavens, Willow, what happened in the veterinary wing?”

“Nothing. Lord Bryce . . . showed me kittens. That is all.”

“That is all?” Over her shoulder, Holly exchanged a glance with Ivy. She looked back at Willow. “Those must have been extraordinary kittens.”

“It is nearly nine,” Willow said in a swift change of subject. “We are expected downstairs presently.”

With a sigh, Holly released her and stepped away. “I have a plan and I'll need your help. Once supper is over, I shall slip away and search the duke's private office. Lady Sabrina mentioned earlier that that is where the record books on all the horses are kept.”

“And you think you'll open one of those books and see, ‘Remarkable colt given to and then stolen back from Her Majesty the Queen'?”

“No, Ivy, I do not expect to find that written in the ledgers. But surely the duke made a notation of his gift, perhaps with some specific identifying qualities I might use to differentiate the animal from among countless others that look virtually the same.” Holly went to the dressing table and picked up her fan, then stood tapping it against her chin. “Will you both help me or not?”

“Of course we'll help you.” Looking infinitely calmer now, Willow came up beside her and slipped an arm around her waist. “I am guessing you want us to distract the others so no one notices you've gone.”

“You do that, Willow,” she said. “If anyone asks, make my excuses. Just don't say I developed a headache or any other ailment, or the duchess will insist on following so she can nurse me back to health. I plan to exit the ballroom onto the terrace and reenter through the corridor near the library. Ivy, should someone decide to search for me, you come through the house and warn me.”

Ivy nodded her understanding. Holly did a quick survey of her sisters: their coifs, evening gowns, and glowing faces. “Causing a distraction shouldn't be difficult. You both look ravishing.”

Ivy beamed at her. “As do you, dearest. You are certain to dazzle.”

The image of striking features and strong arms flashed in her mind, and the notion of whether
he
would find her dazzling heated her through. She shook the thought away. Now was the time to concentrate, not fall prey to girlish fancies. With a toss of her curls, she pulled up straighter and opened her fan. “For Victoria, then. Are we ready?”

I
n awe Holly considered the evidence of wealth that shimmered in every crystal-dripping chandelier, every flawlessly polished mirror, every gleaming gilt frame and carving and clock that graced the Ashworths' ballroom. It was said the Duke of Masterfield's peers often shook their heads at his propensity to dirty his hands in trade. If the extravagance of marble and silver and sumptuous silk could speak, it would tell the story of a man who believed himself to have the last laugh. As Victoria had told her, the duke was even now on his way to the West Indies to survey his plantations and purchase more land.

A string quartet and a pianoforte tucked into an alcove provided the music. As the duchess began pairing off her guests for the next quadrille, Holly avoided her by ducking behind a flock of plump matrons who declared their disinclination to dance by closing ranks and embarking on a rousing commentary about what the other ladies were wearing.

Holly had already danced a quadrille, a minuet, and a waltz, but this one she meant to sit out, or rather move through the room long enough to establish her presence. Should anyone inquire after her, people would say, “Oh, yes, I was just speaking to her. She went off that way. . . .”

Near the center of the room, Willow stood paired with a tall young man whose thatch of dark hair insisted on falling in his eyes despite copious amounts of pomade. Ivy had taken a seat on one of the satin-covered settees along the far wall. The very young Countess of Huntley sat beside her, nervously fluttering her fan and darting her gaze all about her. As Holly watched, Ivy placed a hand on her companion's wrist and appeared to set about distracting her from her cares.

The music began, and the dancers commenced the opening steps. Holly deemed it safe to disengage herself from the camouflaging matrons, but before she left them she joined briefly in their debate over the merits of feathers versus jewels versus ribbons in the latest headdresses.

“Does not a ribbon or two, and perhaps a small, carefully placed jewel, suffice?” she asked, then awaited their responses as if their opinions were of the utmost importance to her.

Lady Bidsworth raised her lorgnette to study her, her sharp eyes nearly swallowed by the plump folds of her aged face. “Only when the wearer is as young as you, my dear. Enjoy simplicity while yet you may.”

Smiling, Holly moved on, greeting people as she went, stopping to exchange pleasantries and trade opinions about the day's demonstrations and activities. She didn't remain with any group longer than a minute or two, but worked her way steadily across the room.

As she neared the open terrace doors, she stopped and turned for a final surveillance of the ballroom. The dancers had formed two elegant lines and were presently tracing a graceful pattern down the center of the room. The rest mingled along the room's perimeter, watching, talking, laughing, all beneath the solicitous eye of the duchess. A middle-aged couple, husband and wife, drifted past Holly and out onto the terrace, tipping their heads to her in greeting. She was just about to turn and follow them out when her gaze lighted on Lord Drayton, standing in front of one of the room's several fireplaces. He looked magnificent in ebony tails and a white silk waistcoat, his equally pristine neckcloth tied simply.

He didn't need artifice; didn't need embellishments to outshine his peers. He need only stand with his shoulders broad and relaxed. Powerful without effort, he was a man equally at home in a ballroom as in the saddle.

Her stomach dropped. Beside him, smiling up at him, was the golden-haired beauty who had arrived that afternoon with her parents: Lady Penelope Wingate, whose father owned profitable shares in the Ashworths' West Indies plantations.

“My father is pushing the match,” Lady Sabrina had whispered in Holly's ear earlier that day. “She's exquisite, isn't she?”

Holly had to agree, whereupon Lady Sabrina had leaned closer to confide, “She's also a distant relation to the queen, which is why Father is so keen on Colin marrying her. Personally, I don't like her. Despite her lineage there is a commonness about her that borders on vulgarity, as well as a look in her eye that prompts one to suspect her of clandestine thoughts.”

“Vulgar royalty?” Holly had asked with a chuckle, while her insides turned queasy.

“She is only
just
royal.”

Holly shouldn't have asked her next question, but she hadn't been able to refrain. “What does your brother think of her?”