The Deception (10 page)

Quite suddenly I was angry. I jerked my face away and he opened his fingers and let me go. I backed up a few steps and glared at him. “I am neither of those things,” I said fiercely.

“Are you not?”

“No, I am not!”

He looked at me and his eyes were hard, intent. He said, “Let’s go down to the stables and you can show me Elsa.”

* * * *

His change of subject was bewildering, to say the least, but I was more than happy to go along with him. I changed into my winter riding clothes and he put on his driving overcoat and together we walked down to the stable.

The sun had warmed the air considerably while we were at luncheon, and I tilted my face up to feel its heat. We were both silent; the only sound between us was the crunching of our boots on the gravel path.

We walked together up to Elsa’s stall and Adrian called her name in a soft, infinitely gentle voice. “How are you, girl?” he said. “Come over here and say hello.”

She knew him. She lifted her head and pricked her ears and then she slowly turned around and came toward him, her muzzle outstretched, her eyes soft. She nickered, then rubbed her nose against his shoulder. He reached up to caress the white star on her forehead.

I think that was the moment when I fell in love with him.

“She looks wonderful,” he said to me a few minutes later. He had slipped her leather halter over her ears, buckled it, and led her out of her box. The sun reflected off her gleaming, dark bay winter coat. Adrian looked at me. “Ride her for me,” he said.

“I’ll get your saddle, my lady,” Willie volunteered before I could reply, and he jogged away toward the tack room, leaving Adrian and me standing side by side in the stable yard with the mare between us.

I smoothed my hand along the glossy crest of her neck. “How old was she when you bought her?” I asked.

“She was four and I was fourteen,” Adrian said. “She had run a few times at Newmarket, without much success, so I got her at a fairly cheap price. Half a quarter’s allowance, if I remember correctly.”

“She has such perfect conformation,” I said. “Did you never try to breed her?”

“I did, of course. Both of her foals were born dead. I didn’t want to put her through that anymore, so I gave up trying.”

“You didn’t think of taking her to the Peninsula with you?”

“Not this little girl,” he said. Amusement and affection mingled in his deep voice. “She isn’t really a horse, you know. She’s a princess in horse clothes.”

I laughed delightedly. It was a perfect description.

Willie arrived with my saddle and fitted it on Elsa’s back. Her ears went back when she felt the weight, then pricked forward again when I clucked to her.

Adrian said, “I wouldn’t subject her to the rigors of the cavalry, nor would I sell her to some neck-or-nothing fox hunter. That’s why I sent her here to Lambourn. She was too young to be retired, of course, but there didn’t seem to be anything else for me to do.”

Willie had been tightening the girth while we talked, and now he said, “She’s ready, my lady.”

Adrian looked toward the mounting block, but even though Elsa was almost sixteen hands high, I rarely used it. I put my left foot in the stirrup, swung up, and lowered myself gently into the saddle. I started toward the paddock and Adrian followed, talking easily to Willie.

I started our session off as I always did, with a long, swinging walk to loosen up Elsa’s muscles. We then moved into a straight, forward trot, with plenty of impulsion. Next we did circles and changes of lead, and after fifteen minutes of this, I began to collect her frame.

A horse that is ridden in the classical manner will be elastic, forward, and balanced. It will go with its hind legs stepping up well underneath, its supple back acting as a bridge between those active hind legs and the bit. Elsa had responded beautifully to this work. Her muscles had developed, her expression was alert and attentive, and she looked and moved like a horse half her age.

I rode for half an hour, which was enough for this kind of intensive work. Adrian opened the paddock door for us to come out and stood at Elsa’s head while I dismounted. I praised her, as I always did, and gave her some sugar. Then Willie led her back to her box and some well-deserved hay.

For the first time Adrian spoke. “I always wanted to ride her that way, but I didn’t know how.”

“My father taught me,” I said. “He studied at Saumur before the revolution.”

We left the stable yard together and began to walk back up the path toward the house. My head did not come above his shoulder, and I could see how he shortened his stride to accommodate mine. “I only had books,” he said. “La Guerniere’s
Ècole de Cavalerie
was my bible, but I had no one to show me.”

“You did very well on your own.” Small white clouds were scudding across the brilliant blue sky and the smell of wood smoke floated toward us from the direction of the house. “Frankly, I was surprised when I first got on Elsa to find that she had been so well ridden. The English are usually so heavy.”

He did not reply. He had been a cavalry officer, I remembered, and I was suddenly afraid that I had offended him. “I just meant that the English do not ride the classical seat,” I added hastily.

“When the Duke of Wellington was a young man, he attended the manege at Angers,” Adrian said. “He has always thought the English cavalry was composed of terrible riders.”

Papa had thought the same thing, but I thought it was best not to labor the point. “The duke could not have been talking about you,” I said.

He looked faintly amused at my defense of his riding ability. “I have improved,” was all he said.

We were passing in front of the old dairy, and there was ice on the walk where the outhouse’s shadow had blocked the sun. I kept my eyes on the ice to make certain I wouldn’t slip and heard him say, “When I was in Lisbon I had a chance to ride at the Royal Manege. It was a revelation.”

I looked up and met his eyes. He grinned. It was the first time I had ever seen that particular smile, and my heart gave the strangest flutter. “I brought a Lusitano stallion home with me,” he said.

My mouth dropped open. The Lusitano is the national horse of Portugal and, like the Lipizzaners of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, for centuries it had been bred for dressage. “Here in England?” I squeaked. The Portuguese were notoriously strict about not allowing their horses out of the country.

“At Greystone,” he said. “You must come over one day and ride him.”

Chapter Seven

“Was your brother angry that you were sent down?” I asked Harry. I had not seen or heard from my husband since his initial visit of five days ago. This was also the first I had seen of Harry.

We were sitting in the library, as usual, and Harry was ravenously devouring one of Mrs. Noakes’s buttered muffins. He swallowed and said glumly, “He wasn’t angry, Kate, he was disappointed. Anger would have been easier on my conscience.”

I understood perfectly.

Harry was going on, “He expects me to go back next term, of course. I am to study with the Rector, so I don’t fall behind.”

“Do you think you will still have the time to look for Paddy?” I asked anxiously.

“Looking for Paddy is my first priority, Kate,” he assured me, and took another bite of muffin.

This was a great relief. I had been worrying about how Adrian’s return was going to affect my investigations.

“Seen yesterday’s
Morning Post?”
Harry asked around the piece of muffin that was in his mouth.

“No.” I was not eating muffins. My appetite had fallen off again these last five days. “I get the papers a few days late.”

“Adrian gets ‘em bang up on time,” Harry said. He swallowed the last of the muffin and lifted one eyebrow in the identical gesture I had observed his brother make. It was not a gesture I had seen from Harry before. “There was an interesting bit in the gossip column.”

I tapped my toe impatiently on the carpet. “Are you going to tell me or are you going to continue to sit there and smirk?”

“I ain’t smirking,” he said indignantly.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

I closed my eyes and began to count silently to ten. As I reached eight I heard the crinkle of paper. I opened my eyes and found Harry standing beside my chair, holding out a newspaper clipping. I took it from him and saw immediately that it was from the
Morning Post.
I bent my head to read.

The “interesting bit” Harry had referred to was the first entry in the “On Dits” column. It read:
Where is the wife of a certain earl who has recently Returned from Abroad? Are the rumors about a divorce True After All? And if they are, what is going to happen to his Political Career?

“Oh dear.” I looked up from the paper in my hand. “Is your brother frightfully angry?”

“Furious,” Harry replied. He returned to his chair and sprawled comfortably, his feet stretched toward the fire. “Adrian don’t like having his hand forced, and Charlwood has done it twice now.”

“Do you think this,” I held up the news clipping, “is Charlwood’s doing?”

“Has to be, don’t you think?”

“Probably,” I replied in a gloomy voice.

“I told Adrian the only one way to fix the bastard was to put a good face on the marriage,” Harry informed me with great satisfaction. “And I think he has finally come to agree.”

“What do you mean by
put a good face on the marriage?”
I asked warily.

“Make it work, don’t you know. After all, Kate, there’s no reason why you and Adrian can’t agree. You’re both young. You’re both good-looking. You’re both horse mad.” He gave me an angelic smile. “Why shouldn’t it work?”

This truly monumental expression of insensitivity left me speechless. He must have read my expression, however, for he waved his hand and said, “Now don’t get on your high horse, Kate. It was you I was thinking of more than Adrian. You need a home.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but he shook his head and overrode my voice with his. “It’s no good your thinking you can live with this groom, for you can’t. You’re a lady, and ladies don’t live with grooms. It will be far better for you to live with Adrian.”

I waited to be sure that he had finished, then I said, “It may be better for me, but what about Adrian? I have no intention of holding him to a marriage he was coerced into making!”

“Best thing that could have happened to him,” Harry declared stoutly. “You’ll suit him much better than that too-good Lady Mary.”

I strongly doubted this, but it was nice of Harry to say it. I looked down and reread the words of the gossip column. “Is it true that a divorce would hurt your brother’s political career?” I asked Harry.

“Yes,” he said.

“But men have mistresses all the time,” I protested. “Why, even the Duke of Wellington has mistresses! It certainly hasn’t hurt
his
political career.”

“He ain’t getting a divorce, Kate. Mistresses are one thing; divorce is quite another.”

I said hotly, “Well, if that isn’t hypocritical, I don’t know what is!”

“It’s hypocritical, all right,” Harry agreed amiably, “but it’s the way of the world, Kate. You owe it to Adrian to stay married to him.”

I scowled, leaned back in my chair, and stared into the fire. After a few moments’ silence Harry said bracingly, “Think of this, Kate. It will be much easier for us to investigate your father’s murder if we can stay in close communication. If you stay married to Adrian, you will be near at hand to me. Insist on a divorce, and God knows where you will end up living.”

I pulled at my lip. “I suppose that is so,” I said listlessly.

“Adrian will probably be coming to see you tomorrow,” Harry went on, “but I thought I would prepare you for what he’s going to say.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Harry,” I said.

“Now, don’t fall into a fit of the dismals,” he adjured me. “Adrian is a splendid fellow, Kate. There’s nothing to fear. You couldn’t find yourself in better hands.”

* * * *

I scarcely slept all night. My mind kept chasing around and around, like a dog after its own tail. The obsessive circle of my thoughts went something like this:

I
think Adrian is wonderful and I want to stay married to him.

If we do stay married, and he hates me, I’ll be miserable.

I don’t want to be married to him if he doesn’t want to be married to me.

He already loves someone else. The perfect Lady Mary.

I don’t know how to be a countess. I’ll embarrass him.

Perhaps I could make him love me.

I think Adrian is wonderful and I want to stay married to him.

Not a very fruitful exercise, as you can see. When finally I arose from my bed in the morning there were dark circles under my eyes. You can imagine Mr. and Mrs. Noakes’s comments about that.

The sky was hung with low gray clouds and the air smelled of snow.
No Adrian today,
I thought. I was tucked up in the library, once more trying to concentrate on
The Wealth of Nations,
when his lordship walked in.

There was a sprinkling of snow on the shoulders of his great coat and melted drops glistened like diamonds on his smoothly brushed hair. I looked at him over the top of my book and didn’t say a thing.

Mr. Noakes took his coat and asked if he would have some tea, or perhaps a rum punch.

“Nothing at the moment, Noakes,” Adrian replied. “Her ladyship and I want to be private. We are going to have a talk.”

“Yes, my lord.” The old man’s voice was perfectly deferential. He never sounded like that when he talked to me.

The door closed behind Mr. Noakes. Adrian walked over to the fire and held out his hands. “It’s starting to snow,” he said.

“Yes.”

He sighed, then turned to face me. “Kate, I’m afraid that you and I are going to have to hold to this marriage.”

The ends of his damp hair had begun to feather in the heat of the fire. I put the bookmark in my book and closed it carefully on my lap. “Why?” I said.

He raised his eyebrow. “I thought Harry hotfooted it over here yesterday with a copy of the
Morning Post.”