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West Riding, Yorkshire
1809
The problem with the country, James Finley, Earl of Westmont, decided, was mostly the people. The cool spring air was bracing, perfect for a good hunt, and the greens of the Yorkshire countryside could make even an avowed city man like James himself stop and gape in shock at the purity of the color. However, even clean air and splendid greens palled when the land was populated with dour Yorkshiremen who cared less about the money James could give them than they did about the fact that he didn't have roots in the area extending back to the Conquest.
He had hoped, after the incident in London, that he could pass a few months rusticating in Yorkshire, missing the end of the Season, but entertaining himself in other ways. Yorkshire seemed to be as good a location as any, and when he had discovered that some of the recent years' finest hunters had come out of the region's stud farms, it had almost seemed like fate.
Of course, he hadn't counted on the region's suspicion of outsiders while he was learning more about its horseflesh. Even proclaiming his title hadn't made a difference; some of the finest breeders were earls and marquesses themselves, and peers or not, there was no fellow feeling to be found there.
“We're not selling this year,” James heard over and over again. “Not to those without a recommendation or a sponsor.”
James, who was not used to doors being closed in his face no matter what they said about him in London, could only laugh about it, because the alternative was befuddled rage. In fact, the best response he had gotten in West Riding wasn't due to his titles or his charm, but instead his horse.
Gunner was a tall bay gelding with the long and lean form characteristic of the descendants of the Godolphin Arabian. He was one of the most responsive horses James had ever owned with a gait as smooth as Irish cream, and the closest that James had gotten to actually seeing the famed Yorkshire stud farms was when one of the owners asked if Gunner was for sale.
Gunner most definitely was not, and now James rode him along the river road south of the River Ouse. Gunner was eager to run, and for a short while, James gave him his head, letting the tall horse stretch out his legs on the firm and smooth track. It was spring, the time when most of the country people were tending to their wakening farms and holdings. The road was empty, and James let his mind drift.
Yorkshire wasn't feeling particularly welcoming, and it would be at least another little while before he could show his face in London again. He was tempted to take some time away from England entirely, going north to Ireland, or perhaps south to Italy. The urge to roam was never all that far from his mind these days, and a man with a good horse could go nearly anywhere.
He pulled Gunner back to a canter and then to a walk before the gelding could thoroughly wind himself, and then James happened to glance right, toward the river. Splashing through the shallow water came the most beautiful mare James had ever seen. He pulled Gunner to a halt, staring in shock.
The mare was a perfect black, not a hair of white on her slim and elegant form, and she moved like music over the water. From where James sat, he caught a glimpse of her large deep eyes, her slightly dished face, and her deep chest.
Not an Arabian, but I'd bet Gunner's keep for a year that she has some of their blood in her. God, but what a gleam on her coat, and how lightly she moves.
James was so fascinated by the mare's bewitching beauty that it took him a moment to look at the mare's rider. For a mare like that, he would have expected a gentleman of the ton, or perhaps one of the ladies who rode on the hunt. Instead, he was surprised to see a grubby, stocky boy of perhaps thirteen years, most of his face hidden by a tattered cap. The boy was dressed like most of the men-of-all-work who were so common in Yorkshire, but he handled the mare with an expert touch on the reins. As James watched, the boy guided the horse through the water with care, guiding her only as much as she needed and otherwise letting her own superior instincts find her way.
As boy and mare gained the river road, they passed through a stray beam of sunlight, and James stared at the gleam on the mare's coat. He had been around horses since he could toddle, and he had never seen a shine like that. It was less like the fur on a real animal than it was like a mineral gleam, and before he had quite decided to do something about it, he urged Gunner forward to canter alongside the boy.
The boy gigged the mare to the left, gesturing for James to pass.
James ignored the gesture, falling in beside the pair.
“Fine looking horse you have.”
The boy scowled at him. “What's it to you?”
James ignored the boy's curt response. “I know horseflesh, and I've never seen one like her before. I couldn't really let you pass without trying to find out more.”
The mare tossed her head as if she could tell she was the topic of conversation, and the boy reached down to settle her with a hand on her proudly arched neck.
“There, sweetheart, no need to be so proud. You could satisfy your curiosity with the studbooks or with the horse breeders hereabouts, sir. I am no scholar.”
“I've been reading the studbooks since I was a lad, and I don't know which Yorkshire you know, but no one here will speak to me. I'll have to settle for you.”
The boy chuckled reluctantly. “I'm afraid I have to disappoint you, sir. I've a long journey ahead of me, and I don't have time to instruct some gent on his horses.”
There was something forced about the boy's tone, husky and almost squeaking by turns. The longer James gazed at the boy, the less pleased the boy looked. He had thought he was delivering the horse to his master's house after a run or a hunt, but now James wondered if there was something more dire at hand.
“So, who does this horse belong to?”
The boy turned his head to glare at him for a moment before looking away. The boy had wide green eyes that made James think of the green and living countryside around them. If the boy was some kind of nature spirit carrying the soul of the land in a human body, he was a sullen one. As a matter of fact, Jame thought wryly, that was nearly perfect for Yorkshire.
“This mare belongs to the Marquess of Fairport.”
There was something reluctant in the boy's tone, but James couldn't quite tease out what it was.
“The marquess must trust you a great deal to let a boy as young as you out with such a fine animal.”
The boy shrugged and urged the mare forward a little faster.
Without missing a beat, James clicked to Gunner and kept up alongside the pair.
“Do you think your master would be interested in selling that mare?”
“No. I know he won't.”
“Very certain of yourself.”
“I am, sir.”
The boy was still just a little too polite to keep from telling James to mind his own damn business, and James used that to his advantage. Ignoring the boy's sideways looks, he followed along beside. The more he saw of the mare's gait and carriage, the more the sun glinted on her coat, the more he was determined to add her to his own stable.
“Is your master in residence where you are headed?”
The boy looked at him warily, and once again, James got the idea that there was more going on than the boy wanted to reveal. “What's it to you?”
“I've been in Yorkshire for a few weeks now, and I'll confess, I've not made too many social conquests hereabouts. I feel that perhaps with a man who appreciates horseflesh as much as your master does, I might do a little better.”
The boy laughed, his voice cracking a little and making him cough. James could remember those awkward years, and he would be more sympathetic if he weren't having more and more suspicions about the situation.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but the marquess takes his horses very seriously. One fine hunter, and I'll say that yours looks passing fine, isn't enough to be reckoned an expert in these parts.”
“And what does it take, in your estimation, then, to be a true expert on horses?”
“It takes me already knowing who you are; there's that for a start.”
James laughed at the boy's effrontery, shaking his head.
“You're lucky no one's whipped that sharp tongue out of your head for you.”
“I should like to see them try. Tempest and I would be in another county before you could even reach for me.”
“Her name's Tempest, then?”
“Yes, Tempest for her coat and for her nature.”
“Where did she get a coat like that? I've never seen the like.”
The boy's mouth clamped shut, and he looked at James again warily. “I don't think I've much interest in talking to you any longer.”
“What a shame then, because we seem to be going the same way.” James was tired of dancing around the subject. “Look, lad. It's time to be honest.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You're not fooling me any longer. Why'd you steal the horse?”
The boy pulled the mare up so quickly she snorted angrily. “I didn't steal her! She's mine.”
“And I'm the Queen of Sheba. Actually, I'm James Finely, Earl of Westmont and Baron Redding. It's obvious something is going on, and I think I'm right. I think, for one reason or another, you took that horse from your employer, whoever he is. I don't need to know why, but I can help you. We can go back, tell him that you just ran into me, and I insisted on seeing the mare—”
“Why in the world would you do anything to help me?”
“I suppose because I like the look of your mare and—”
It took James a moment to realize he was speaking to thin air. The young boy was off like a shot. With a touch of his heels to the mare's sides, she was a bolt of black lightning streaking down the road before them, and after a moment staring after the boy, James urged Gunner into a hot dash behind them.
And to think I was getting bored of the country.