Thirteen

He followed the sway of her skirts through the garden. A few stolen moments with Miss Turner before the workday began shouldn’t be out of the question. She picked her way along the center garden path, pointing at dirt patches in need of straw. He trailed behind her, a faithful laborer doing her bidding, her army of one.

There had to be a better way to win a woman’s heart—at least a better way to pry open her tight-lipped secrets.

“Having fun swanning about the garden?” He tossed another handful of straw to the ground. He was in danger of becoming a besotted rustic.

“Lily Dutton tells me this keeps weeds away. At least until planting time in spring.”

If his London friends knew he whiled away his time spreading straw in a dormant garden, he’d never hear the end of it. They’d inform him there were more dignified ways to chase a skirt.

He’d have to inform his friends a certain russet-skirted, red-cloaked housekeeper had snared his interest. No other woman would do.

“In spring, I picture red flowers here.” She waved a hand over the raised bed and pivoted toward the cottage. “The vegetable garden there. That is, if I’m still here.”

He tossed the last handful of straw. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Your plans, milord. To return to London come spring.”

Miss Turner toed a broken granite cobble, her red hood hiding her face. “Unless you’re staying?”

Last night’s storm had left a damp chill and, like the morning after too much grog, left a head hurting. He’d tossed and turned half the night, mulling over his housekeeper’s unsettling admission.

“I don’t know—”

Plodding hooves and jangling harnesses saved him. From the road, Samuel led a string of horses, and behind him, Alexander led several more horses in similar fashion. An old man rode beside Samuel, leading two gaunt mares. At the rear, Adam drove the Beckworth cart with two horses hobbling behind on tethers.

Miss Turner’s hand shaded her eyes for a better look. “Did you buy more horses?”

“No.”

Samuel waved his hat at the pasture, yelling, “Open the gate.”

“Go talk to him, milord. I’ll get the gate.”

“There’s no need. We’re not taking in more horses.”

Miss Turner touched his sleeve, tender-eyed and hopeful. “Look at them. Even I can tell those animals need a good dose of your care.”

Standing close, it’d be easy to drop a soft kiss on her lips. Her eyes shined with staunch belief. In him. His chest swelled. He was glad to be a hero in her eyes, though he didn’t deserve it. Despite the wretched cold, Miss Turner warmed him. And she was right on one score: the horses streaming into his yard wouldn’t last another mile.

“The gate, if you please,” Samuel yelled again, raising a hand to halt the line of horses.

His housekeeper clutched her skirts high and darted off to the west gate. “I’ll have it open in a trice.”

Marcus slogged through mud on a shortcut to the front of the cottage and cast an eye at the line of sorry horseflesh stretching down the road. “Care to tell me where these horses came from?”

“From Lowick village.”

The older man beside Samuel, hunched and thin of hair, doffed his hat. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, yer lordship, and glad I am to know yer taking me beauties off me hands. They’ve become too much.”

“This is Mr. Hereford of Lowick. The seller I told you about.” Samuel’s smile was strained, and his eyes were flinty. “He’s ready to part with these beauties for an excellent price. Today, in fact.”

“Beauties, you say.” Marcus studied the ragged line. Two swaybacked nags stood near a bay-colored mare suffering from what had to be mud fever. One older brown filly favored a back leg. Probably a case of bog spavin in the hock—and these were the horses close enough to see.

Samuel notched his head at the meadow adjoining his property to Pallinsburn. “I would’ve put them in that pasture, but with the gate and walls not properly fixed—”

“One of the many reasons why I thought we weren’t taking on any more commitments.”

“Dithering will cost us. I seized an opportunity.”

At the pasture fence, Miss Turner opened the gate, her cloak a billowing red sail. She waved her arm in a wide greeting.

Marcus eyed the lines of horses from under the brim of his hat. “I thought we were going to wait.”

Samuel waved his hat at Miss Turner and faced Marcus, his smile frosty. “And I thought you understood that we’ve all made our adjustments in this arrangement.”

Forlorn creatures stood still in the yard, noses snorting at the mud. One brave mare cocked her head at him, her brown eyes vacant as a beggar’s. Ribs showed above a belly swollen with an unborn foal. Her dark-eyed stare was a silent plea, hitting his heart.

“Take them to the pasture,” Marcus ordered. “I’ll examine them one at a time in the barn.”

Hooves sloshed through puddles. A small tic twitched beneath Marcus’s right eye as he followed the sorry lot. The twinge in his heart at their neglect was one thing. The resources to properly tend these horses was another. The tack room held a few ointments for the ailments passing before him, but ailing or not, the cost alone to purchase this number would crush them.

“Good day to you, milord.” Alexander touched the brim of his hat, his face grim.

He was old enough to grasp the tension, but Adam was blithe, his cart trundling along the driveway, great globs of mud collecting on the wheels.

“Good morning, milord,” he shouted over the noise. “Looks like the business got a boost today.”

“So it did.” He wouldn’t dampen the light in Adam’s eyes. Had Samuel already promised a tutor to the boy? He rubbed the tic under his eye, his boots sinking deeper in mud. “Unless you got these nags for free, care to explain how we’ll pay for them?”

“With your winnings next week.”

“Baron Atal’s house party.”

“It’s all been arranged,” Samuel said. “Mr. Hereford was all too glad for me to take these horses off his hands. He was having a hard time caring for them.”

The older man hobbled around the pasture, stopping to stroke a horse. Genevieve was with him, her head bending as he pointed to the front knee of a sorrel mare.

“This lot lived in piss-poor conditions. Their paddock was a bog.” Samuel’s shoulders set stubbornly under his frock coat.

“And when are we going to pay Mr. Hereford?”

Samuel watched the old man petting a horse. “Says we can pay him when we come into our funds next week.”

Marcus’s vision narrowed on Samuel. “Did you mention how you expect us to come into these funds?”

“I didn’t. But he wouldn’t care.”

“He will if we can’t pay him.”

The current herd of horses in their growing enterprise stirred to life in the smaller paddock. Their noses tipped high at the newcomers. The herds would need careful blending.

Marcus folded his arms across his chest, the ache in his head increasing. “You’re assuming I’ll win…that is if I gamble in the first place.”

“You will.”

“Even if I did…” He sighed. “I don’t have a feather to fly with when it comes to the baron’s guests.”

“We’ll pool our funds. I’ve some pound notes to spare. You must have a few tucked away. We’ll manage.” Samuel nodded at the pasture where the new herd nipped dormant grass. “They’re better off here, and you know it.”

The sickly horses stayed in a tight group. As he suspected, the mare who had looked at him in the yard was the dominant one in the herd. She led a cluster of horses followed closely by a limping bay to the water trough near the gate. He’d have to win the trust of those two first, a time-intensive task.

Marcus shook his head. “Are you not listening to me?”

“You’re not listening to me.” Samuel crossed his hands on the pommel. “Win the money at Baron Atal’s to pay for this herd, and we’ll consider this thing between us done.”

“What? Now you’re cutting me out?”

“You don’t want to be here in the first place. I’ll do this properly and write the marchioness, ask to lease the land and pay her next year.” Samuel faced the meadow where a pair of horses frolicked. “I’m setting you free. Isn’t that what you want?”

Marcus’s arms swung wide. “We’ve barely started.”

An icy breeze blew past, roiling clouds overhead. Sunlight etched dark clouds with gold, shining down on Miss Turner climbing the stone wall.

“I was wrong to burden you with my tale of woe,” Samuel said gruffly. “I’ll stumble through on my own. But I’d be grateful if you did this last thing for me before you moved on.”

“No need to write any letters.”

Samuel cocked his head at him, his blue eyes narrowing. “Have you discovered the merits of rustication?” He checked Miss Turner from under the brim of his hat. “Or should I thank your housekeeper for this change of heart?”

Marcus rolled a casual shoulder, his attention on the woman atop the fence. “You could say I’ve discovered there’s some merit to our business arrangement.”

“You’re telling me a certain woman has nothing to do with this…merit?”

Miss Turner was a vibrant spot of red and gold midst earthly hues of stone and land. Wind caught her cloak and hair, a flag both men watched.

“She’s…” Something twisted in Marcus’s chest when she glanced his way.

Skirling winds molded plain skirts to her legs. Miss Turner could be a sailor braving stormy seas for all the strength she exuded, yet only last eve she’d curled up beside him, trusting and honest, baring her troubles and practicing her reading.

“She’s a singular young woman,” he finished, turning to Samuel. “No more ambushing each other. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“But I make no promises about the gambling. I’ll consider writing the marchioness for a loan.”

Another cart slogged off the road. Peter Dutton.

Samuel jutted his chin at the line of horses tethered behind him. “I’ll take care of these mares. We need to repair the eastern gate before the next rains come.”

“And build new stalls in the barn,” Marcus added. He squished through the mud to the cottage’s front step to wait for Peter’s cart. Clouds roiled overhead, awakening old memories.

His vision blurred as Samuel’s line of horses rambled by. His grandfather’s steady voice rang in his head, teaching him to use a hammer as they built a chicken coop. His hand curled at his side, the feel of the hammer in it. Grandfather had slapped him on the back, singing praises to his youthful carpentry skills.

Marcus stared blankly into the yard, his hand flexing and curling at the memory of returning to Northampton Hall, the day he’d reported the accomplishment to his father. Father had peered down his nose at him with all the respect he gave an insect.

“Honoria,” his father boomed.

Weak-kneed Marcus stood, boyish arms at his side. That voice. Alarms rang in his head when he heard the forbidden use of his mother’s Christian name.

Mother’s heels echoed on marble floors. “Yes, what is it?”

Temperate until cornered, she was the calm in the storms that shook Northampton’s halls.

“An issue of mine used a hammer like some common laborer.” Lips thinning, the marquis clamped his hands behind his back.

“He was helping my father.” The marchioness folded demure hands against shiny skirts. “There was a storm. The chickens—”

“The chickens?” Father repeated with disgust. “No son of mine will spend his day wielding hammers and tending animals. It’s common.”

A tiny frown marred her complexion. “You forget, Husband, you married a woman of common birth.”

“A rash decision. One I shall pay for the rest of my life.”

Mother’s fingertips turned white from hands clenched hard. Her hazel eyes flared as though she’d lash out, but she kept silent.

His father’s stern hand sliced the air. “I forbid you to take our children to Pallinsburn. They should be here or in the company of children of similar station.”

His mother’s stricken face tore Marcus’s heart to pieces. Hot childish tears burning, he launched himself at her skirts and held on tight. Would there be no more visits with Grandfather?

It was the day Marcus learned a chasm separated the classes. Crossing it drew blood.

Father snorted his disgust and turned on his heel. The marquis disappeared for two months into his lofty world before Marcus saw him again.

There’d been one more visit to Pallinsburn, snuck in when he was twelve. After the journey north, the marchioness wouldn’t risk the ire of her husband. He’d taken away her prized horses, sold them as punishment when he discovered her disobedience.

Beneath the brim of his hat, Marcus followed Miss Turner’s adventurous walk atop the stone wall.

If he dared form a connection with her, who would bleed when it ended? For he was no good at staying put.

The sucking sounds of wheels rolling through thick mud drew him back to his yard. Peter Dutton maneuvered his cart to the front step to spare his sisters mucking through the mess. Peter sprang from his seat, laughing at the spray of mud and water when he landed. He wore hip boots the same as Marcus. He helped the quieter, darker-haired sister—the one called Lily—onto the front step.

Marcus was obliged to assist Ruby Dutton, but when he offered his hand, she grabbed it and crashed into him as though she’d lost her footing. Her body rubbed fully against him, her gray-green eyes alight with mischief.

“Excuse me, milord,” she purred.

He grasped her game, but preoccupied as he was, he stepped back and swung open the cottage door in gentlemanly fashion.

“Happy to help, Miss Dutton.” He touched the brim of his cocked hat and smiled a halfhearted effort. He gave the other Miss Dutton the same courtesy. “Miss Abbott mentioned the laundry is piling high in the scullery.”

The sisters curtsied, and he shut the door once they were inside.

Peter Dutton reached for his leather satchel. “My apologies about Ruby, milord. Sometimes she forgets her place.”

Marcus waved off the apology. Shouts and bellows came from the east. The last of the new horses had been freed from their tethers. A trio galloped in wide circles, kicking up their hooves. Seeing their tails flying, he couldn’t help but sense their joy at being free to run in a good place.

Miss Turner ambled along the stone fence, clapping her delight. She’d grabbed his arm in the garden on behalf of those nags, her eyes shining in gentle plea as though he were a magician who could transform those horses. He’d welcome the chance to be half the man she thought he was.

Fresh wind fanned her skirts and cloak, revealing a fair bit of leg. She had to be oblivious, caught up in the beauty of the horses’ glee.

A discreet cough brought him back to his front step. Peter Dutton stood before him, holding out some letters. “Your post, milord.”

Marcus accepted the post, eyeing the old chicken coop by the barn. “Do you know where I can get some chickens?”

“Pullets and a rooster?” Peter tucked his satchel under his arm. “There’s a farmer in Berwickshire. Give me a few days. I should be able to deliver a half dozen. Any other birds, milord? Some geese perhaps?”

Chuckling, Marcus pulled coins from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them into Peter’s hand. “No geese. Only chickens. I’m sorely outflanked by geese these days.”

The lad surveilled the yard bare of fowl and gave him an odd gape. “If you say so, milord.”

Marcus riffled through the post. A missive from the marchioness. Something from his favorite tobacconist in London. A note from his brother. Elegant parchment with a stag stamped in thick red wax, Baron Atal’s invitation. He split the seal.

Peter Dutton slogged two steps through mud before he stopped. “There’s one more thing, milord,” he said, digging a slip of paper from his satchel. “That woman you’re searching for…Maude Turner. I found her.”