Recklessly Yours (5 page)

Holly stroked Willow's coppery gold hair and smoothed the bittersweet smile dawning on her own lips. “First of all, you seem in a dreadful hurry to marry me off, when in fact I have no prospects I care to acknowledge.”

How true. Laurel's and Ivy's marriages had left Holly the next eligible sister, and she had seen no dearth of suitors eager to attach themselves to her wealthy brothers-in-law, an earl and a marquess respectively. With a moue of distaste she considered the middle-aged and miserly Sir Robert Hodges, and the handsome and thoroughly conceited Lord Padstone. And then there was the awkward and sweaty-palmed Emerson Stoke-Brandish, who never let her forget that he would someday inherit ten thousand a year.

That was to name only a few of the hopefuls who had recently vied for Holly's hand, none of whom could have named her favorite book or pastime or even venture an opinion as to the color of her eyes.

“You are wrong, Holly, utterly mistaken. With each mission comes a husband. That is how it works.”

“Don't be silly.” But Holly's conviction drained from her voice by the last syllable. How could she dissuade Willow of such a notion when she herself had come to believe that that was indeed how
it
worked, it being the magic that seemed intertwined with these secret missions for the queen?

For it was true that after their missions, Laurel and Ivy had married—gloriously—each finding love with a man who in turn adored his new wife, not for her wealth or position, of which the Sutherland sisters had none, but for themselves.

But how many other such men could be waiting to sweep a Sutherland off her feet? In Holly's estimate, none. Besides, she was just now experiencing her first delicious taste of freedom. And of true purpose. To her, marriage seemed a bitter medicine to swallow.

She continued stroking Willow's hair, so beautifully silky, and so unlike her own unruly red locks. “Don't you fret, dearest. I hear no wedding bells in my foreseeable future. I don't wish to hear them. I am not like the rest of you; I never have been.”

Willow's head came up, her eyes shining. “You mustn't listen to what other people say. You are neither brassy nor gauche and you
never
embarrass the rest of us. So what if you like to gallop your horse across Hyde Park? And who cares if you prefer sturdy riding boots to dancing slippers? Or if you sometimes express your opinion in mixed company when other ladies wouldn't dare? You'll make some fine man an excellent wife someday, and he'll value those traits in you.”

Holly chuckled. “We shall see about that, I suppose. Just remember that you are next in line after me, and one of these days Victoria will call on you. If there
is
some strange enchantment about the vow we made her, I've no doubt that you, darling Willow, will reap the most thrilling reward of all.”

She expected that to bring a smile to her sister's face, but Willow regarded her gravely. “I doubt that very much. Soon enough, Victoria too will marry. She will have Albert to champion her and will no longer need us. My turn may never come. And then I'll be alone. Very much alone.”

Holly studied her younger sister's features: her dark blue eyes, her creamy skin, and the high, round cheeks that always hinted at the velvety petals of Uncle Edward's prized Bourbon roses. Of the Sutherland sisters, Willow was the striking beauty, and the one usually so sweet of temperament that, of them all, she should least have feared growing old alone.

“I'm very glad that you and Ivy are here,” Holly lied. Truly, she would have preferred her mission to more closely resemble Laurel's and Ivy's, to allow her to work alone and at her own discretion. Willow was right—this was not how
it
was supposed to work. Rewards aside, Holly feared this new complication could very well hinder her from recovering Victoria's horse and exposing the thief.

She sighed. She would have to make the best of it. At the very least, do her best to make Ivy comfortable and Willow less sad.

“I'm sorry I snapped at you about the wardrobe,” she said.

Willow gave a delicate sniffle. “I'm sorry I made you drop your linens.”

Holly glanced about the tiny room, which seemed to close in around her. “These walls are too confining for two people to move about at once. You finish unpacking while I go out for a walk. Take all the space you need in the dressers and armoire. When I return, we'll all three go downstairs and see what the chef has prepared for supper.”

Willow rallied at the suggestion. After a quick check on Ivy, who had awakened from her nap and was now relaxing with a book, Holly decided she had done everything presently in her power to ensure the contentment of both sisters. The slanting sunshine and bracing breezes of the clear afternoon called to her. She soon left the precincts of the tiny village and headed off across the heath in the direction of the Ascot racecourse.

 

“Have you lost all capacity for rational thought? Do you not comprehend the damage you might have inflicted upon yourself, your brother, the horses . . .”

Himself
. Could his sister not comprehend what havoc her antics had wreaked on
him
as he waited to know whether he would suddenly find himself without his two youngest siblings? Colin wished to shake her till her teeth rattled, or grasp her neck and thoroughly wring it, or thrash some small amount of sense into Geoffrey—sense the whelp sorely lacked—because damn it,
damn it
. . .

He clenched his fists and dragged air into his lungs. As he calmed, an image flashed in his mind, that of the laboratory he happily shared with his colleague, Errol Quincy. Confound it, he should be in Cambridge now; he and Errol were close,
so
close to the breakthrough they'd been seeking these several years. Just before he'd been called home, Colin had sensed success, felt it right down to his bones. A few experiments more promised to finally lead to the development of a blight-resistant grain that could essentially end the periodic famines that threatened England's population each year, not to mention the country's fragile economic stability.

But no, before he could save the country he must first find a way to save his family's future, without ever letting them know their future was at stake . . . or that he, the eldest and heir to the Masterfield fortune, had resorted to horse theft to stave off brewing disaster.

They would never understand. Neither would the queen. There were moments when he scarcely understood what sardonic devil had prompted him to press his advantage as the queen's chief horse breeder, steal onto the royal property and reclaim what his father should never have given away.

He wondered if dear old Papa had acted in blind ignorance or bald-faced spite before he had sailed away from England last week. Was the old bastard even now standing on the deck of the America-bound
Sea Goddess
, laughing into the wind?

A string of curses streamed through his brain, but he fought them back and summoned a shred of cool and, in his opinion, fair reason.

Before he could speak, Bentley touched his elbow and pointed to the grandstand. “Looks like your carriage survived, old boy, but the railing fell and shattered.”

Colin pinched the bridge of his nose and regarded his siblings. “A torn-up track, a broken balustrade—you two have much to answer for.”

“Bother the track,” Sabrina shot back. “A few men with rakes will set it to rights in no time. And you can hardly blame us for some old balustrade shattering.” She looked to Geoffrey for concurrence. The boy shrugged a shoulder and looked away.

Colin turned to Bentley and Lord Kinnard. “Would you excuse us, please.” He waited for the two men to walk out of hearing range, then rounded on his sister. “If not for your ridiculous stunt, my attention would have been on the workmen. Who knows but that I might have issued a warning that could have saved the railing? Have you any notion of the cost of either the workmanship or the materials?”

“A pittance, most likely.” She tossed her golden curls. “I hardly see what all this fuss is about.”

“Then I shall educate you. Until the damages are repaired and paid for, neither of you will see so much as a ha'penny of your allowances.”

“Our allowances?” Ruddy color suffused her face. “You can't do that. You haven't the authority.”

“Don't I? Until Father returns from the West Indies I am head of this family. One short note to our bankers in London is all it will take. Unless . . .” He leaned in closer, drawn by a flicker of vulnerability in his sister's eyes. He raised a hand to gesture at the sweating horses. “This exceeds even your wildest penchant for mischief. I've never seen you mistreat a horse, not in your entire life.”

He paused as her cheeks reddened yet more, became mottled. The slightest of quivers shook her chin. Or was it only a passing shadow?

“Why today, Sabrina? What is different about today?”

She ignored the question and asked one of her own. “So then, I managed to capture your interest, did I?” Her mouth quirked with disdain. “Too little, too late, brother.”

“What are you talking about?” When she only glared at him as though he were some disgusting insect to be trampled, he shifted his gaze to Geoffrey. “What is she talking about?”

“Don't ask him,” his sister snapped. “Ask yourself. Where were you when I appealed to you for help? Where was your precious attention then? I'll tell you. In that repulsive laboratory of yours. And because of you—”

Sudden tears filled her eyes, reflecting the bright sunlight. She clamped her lips into a tight line. Her characteristic bravado falling into place like the painted backdrop of a play, she held her skirts and set off toward the grandstand. “I believe I shall ride home with Mr. Bentley,” she murmured over her shoulder.

Colin pushed out the breath he'd been holding. Meanwhile Geoffrey had moved beside the carriage, half hiding behind the nearest horse's flank. He pressed tighter to the horse's side as Colin approached him.

“What did she mean?”

Geoffrey shoved his hands in his coat pockets; the sun flashed on his blond hair as he stared at the ground.

“Geoff!”

The boy's chin came up in an abrupt gesture reminiscent of Sabrina's defiance. His blue eyes sharpened as they met Colin's. “Frederick Cates became engaged last week. Sabrina got word of it this morning.”

Colin's mouth dropped open and a single syllable came out. “Oh.”

“Oh.” Geoffrey shoved away from the carriage. “If I go with Sabrina and Mr. Bentley, will you drive this rig home?”

Colin nodded and watched his brother saunter down the track to the little group still milling near the grandstand. He wanted to join them, wanted to take his sister aside and apologize and . . .

It was too late. Sabrina had put her hopes in Frederick Cates, fourth Earl of Redmond, and to all appearances, her expectations had not been in vain. Redmond had even spoken to Colin's father, but for some reason no one could fathom, Thaddeus Ashworth had refused to give his permission. Colin suspected he had been holding out for an even better—more lucrative—offer, for titles alone didn't interest the duke, nor even wealth. It was power the Duke of Masterfield respected, and how that power might be of use to him.

Sabrina had written to Colin begging him to intervene, but by the time he had been able to leave Cambridge, their father had already embarked for America, where he would remain these next several weeks as he surveyed his plantations and purchased more land.

“I'm sorry, little sister,” he muttered to himself, then stepped up into the phaeton and hoisted the reins. “Once again, Father, you've managed to leave devastation in your wake.”

Sabrina . . . Briarview . . . it seemed neither would emerge unscathed from Thaddeus Ashworth's disregard. Colin could do nothing now about his sister's dashed hopes, for Frederick's engagement could not be undone. But Briarview Manor, the family's estate in Devonshire, was perhaps another matter.

Good God, he was a scientist, not a shaman. But when Thaddeus separated the colt from the Devonshire herds, he had, in the minds of the local folk, unleashed an ancient curse meant to protect a native breed of ponies—a breed whose blood ran in the colt's veins. The Briarview tenants believed themselves and their land to have fallen prey to this curse, which supposedly explained the recent falling in of the Brocktons' barn roof, the stillbirth of a pair of the Wileys' lambs, and the flooding of the river, which washed away a goodly portion of pastureland.

It didn't help matters that his grandmother, the dowager Duchess of Masterfield, who lived at Briarview Manor, believed in the curse just as strongly. “We are doomed unless the colt is returned immediately,” she had insisted in her urgent letter to Colin.

Doomed
. Yes, because they assumed it was so. He had tried reminding them all that the roof had needed replacing, the lambs had been a rare pair of twins born too small to survive, and the river, which flooded every four to five years, had been due again to overflow its banks. And it wasn't that the Ashworth coffers lacked the funds needed to make restorations. But in Devonshire his logic wasn't worth a tin farthing, and neither was his coin. The villagers and tenant farmers
believed
, and work had come to a wary, stubborn standstill.

All he wanted—
all
—was to resolve his family's troubles and return to Cambridge, to his work, his friends, and the life he had built for himself there. At the university, he felt free to be the man he truly was, not the man he was born to be. Some would argue the two were the same, but the rigid reality of being Thaddeus Ashworth's son and heir bore no resemblance to the worthwhile niche he had carved out for himself as a scientist, scholar, and educator.