Let Me Be The One (9 page)

* * *

Brendan David Hampton, Earl of Northam, woke with a start. He had only just fallen asleep, or so it seemed. Southerton was no respecter of anyone's respite but his own. He closed the door loudly behind himself and proceeded into the room without waiting for an invitation.

Northam opened one eye, saw who it was, and rearranged his pillow so it was
over
his head. He did not care in the least if he suffocated, only that he died in his sleep. "Go away," he muttered in the event Southerton could not interpret his mood.

Southerton blithely ignored his friend."I have confiscated a tea service from one of the maids. Apparently it was intended for Lady Heathering, but I am confident that lady will thank me for my timely interference. She is still ensconced with Lord Allen, though they have moved from the linen closet to his room. I stumbled upon them yet again trying to find my way here."

Since Southerton had been one of the finest navigators in the Royal Navy, it seemed highly unlikely to Northam that his sense of direction had suddenly become impaired. "What are you up to, South?" he asked, lifting the pillow just enough for his voice to carry.

Grinning, Southerton said, "Returning a favor."

Northam realized this was something he did
not
want to know. He pushed one hand out from under the covers and held it up. There was blessed silence. "What are you doing here? Where is Brill?"

"Your valet is deuced unhappy with you. Most everyone else is risen these last two hours and he hasn't been able to turn you out. I am here as the sacrificial lamb. If I do not have my heart cut out, Brill will let himself in directly." Southerton poured a cup of tea, added a single lump of sugar, and carried it to the bed. "Here. Take this. You will feel more the thing after you drink something." His clear gray eyes dropped to the books on top of the bedside table. "Never say you only nodded off."

Northam sat up slowly, raked back his hair in a tired gesture, then took the offered cup and saucer. "I was reading."

Southerton lifted the uppermost book. "
Castle Rackrent.
A Gothic novel." One brow kicked up. "Kept you awake, did it?"

"I confess I was reeled in like a gaping trout."

The viscount laughed. He set the book aside and picked up the essays. "Now this has the sandman's grit all through it. I take it you intended to fall asleep perusing it."

"My thought exactly."

"Perhaps tonight."

"I have to finish
Rackrent."

Southerton laughed again. He put down the book and crossed the room to the wing chair. He dropped into it, seemed to remember himself, rose, walked to the rocker, and began an obvious investigation of the area.

"What are you looking for?"

"My snuffbox."

"You don't take snuff."

"True, but I have a very nice box. You've seen it. The black enameled one with the gold trim and diamonds set into the lid. I like to carry it when I play cards. Superstitious, I know, but there you have it. With Lady Powell in pursuit of me yesterday, it seemed inordinately good judgment to have a fall-back position. Hence, the card game. I was certain I had the box." His eyes wandered to the edge of the bed. He bent, raised the covers, and looked under the frame. "But as you noted, I do not take snuff, so it is not as if I pulled it out and used it. I will have my valet look again in my room. Perhaps it is only that I am so used to having it with me that I have convinced myself of the fact of it."

Northam stared at his cup of tea. "No doubt that's the explanation."

With some reluctance Southerton gave up the search and returned to his chair. "It's only that it was my grandfather's. A wedding present from my grandmother. The sentiment is worth more than the box."

"The lid was encrusted with diamonds," Northam reminded him."You place a great deal of value on sentiment."

Southerton grinned. "At least five hundred pounds." He motioned to Northam to drink up. "I think I hear Brill scratching at your door. Finish that so you can take breakfast with me. I dare not announce myself in the dining room with Lady Powell prowling about. You will save me from her, won't you?"

"You but have to give the signal."

There was just the briefest hesitation before Southerton replied, "I will count on that."

Northam eyed his friend over the rim of his teacup. "Apparently you are not as set on avoiding the widow today as you were last night."

"It was a long night."

Northam's lips twisted wryly. "May I suggest
Castle Rackren?"

Chapter 3

Rain delayed the start of the hunt for several hours. During that time there was much sky-watching among the male guests at Battenburn. Spurious predictions abounded and wagers were made on the strength of them. Louise quietly commiserated with Ladies Powell and Heathering that she shouldn't be surprised if there was not a path worn into the carpets. Even as she spoke, thunder rumbled and her husband and three of his friends dutifully left their seats for the windows to gauge the change in the weather.

For a while there was talk of postponing the hunt until the morrow. No one wanted to see their mounts mired in mud and come up lame. When the sun reappeared in the early afternoon and beat hard on the fields and treetops surrounding Battenburn, it was agreed there should be no waiting beyond a single hour.

The men gathered at the rear of the manor, all fashionably turned out in their pinks, while their horses were brought to them from the stable. In their bright scarlet, double-breasted cutaway coats with the claw-hammer tails, brass buttons flashing in the sun, they could not fail to catch a woman's eye. It might have put a damper on some of the strutting had they known there was general agreement among their admirers that they resembled nothing so much as banty roosters. There was much giggling in the ranks of the female observers, likening their top hats to a cock's comb, and the inevitable acknowledgment that they
were
coxcombs.

Few women joined the foxhunt or wanted to. By and large, the sport was a masculine pursuit. Women, being forced to ride sidesaddle, were necessarily excluded because of the danger. Elizabeth Penrose had participated in several hunts since being taken under the wing of the Battenburns. Their willingness to sanction this activity for her inevitably silenced the whispering about it. She was indifferent about their blessing, imagining that she would have been strong-headed enough to ride to the hounds without it. It was not the chase she enjoyed, or the ultimate surrender of the fox to the hounds. It was the freedom she found intoxicating, the opportunity to go hell-bent for leather across fields and fences, to
fly
over water jumps and drive hard into the woods at a speed that could kill her if she or her horse miscalculated.

She limped rather painfully to where a groom held her mount, aware of the stares she received by virtue of her slow, halting progress. She knew by now how to read the expressions of those who stared in her direction. There would be those who pitied her and those who found something to admire. These reactions she considered to be but two sides of the same coin, for both focused on the obvious physical infirmity. Among those who knew her well there would be little reaction. Lady Battenburn would not countenance any remarks that brought more attention to her. The baron did not publicly recognize her limitations. Friends took their cue from this acceptance, and gradually what was different about her became unexceptional. By the end of the fortnight at Battenburn she would elicit no more comments for her ungainliness than she did for the shape of her nose.

Elizabeth accepted a leg up from the groom and settled comfortably into her saddle. Her mount, a silver gelding that could cover distances with the speed and smoothness of a bullet, pranced lightly while she fawned over him and patted his neck.

"He's a fine animal," Northam said approvingly, coming abreast of Elizabeth. He looked her mount over from forelock to fetlock and could see nothing but prime horseflesh. His expression was admiring and a shade envious. When he looked at Elizabeth he saw she was amused. "Have I done something?"

She shook her head, her eyes bright with silent laughter.

Northam frowned, a small crease appearing between his brows. "Are you quite—"

Southerton came upon them then, interrupting his friend. "Aaah, Lady Elizabeth. How fine you are looking this afternoon. The fresh air and anticipation of the hunt agrees most favorably with you. Indeed, I believe one could pluck the roses from your cheeks, so pronounced are they."

She blushed a little at what she believed was outrageous flattery, deepening the very roses upon which Southerton had settled his gaze. "You are too kind, my lord."

Elizabeth's riding habit was black wool serge, fitting rather more loosely than the tailored jackets the men wore. The skirt was cut long to preserve modesty as she rode with one leg hitched around the pommel, but even so there was a tantalizing glimpse of slender ankles bound tightly in black leather riding boots. Elizabeth steadied the gelding then adjusted the sheer black scarf that held her top hat securely to her head. "I fear I am sadly out of place among all this scarlet."

"Nonsense," Southerton said grandly. "What do you think the pinks are in aid of, if not to attract the attention of a lovely little pigeon such as yourself?"

Although she was not at all certain she liked being compared to a pigeon, Elizabeth's laughter was bright, encouraging Lord Southerton to expand his thinking.

"It is the way of every species, is it not?" he asked. "The males spread their bright feathers or puff their chests to garner the notice of the females. I think it is precisely this that the tailors had in mind when they fashioned the scarlet jackets. I assure you, the fox is not at all interested in our plumage."

"You have given this matter some thought," Elizabeth said, her mouth still curved in a tempered smile. Her eyes darted briefly to Northam. There was no reproach in her look, only a deepening amusement.

"Of course." Southerton followed Elizabeth's glance. "Never say North has failed to comment on how splendid you look."

"He has been filled with admiration for my Becket." Recognizing his name, the gelding danced in place again. "His lordship noted quite rightly that this is a prime animal."

Southerton rolled his eyes, neatly avoiding the daggers Northam was shooting in his direction. "I might have known. He owns a pair of perfectly matched grays himself and has been known to haunt Tattersall's the evening before an auction. Still, his passion for horses is no excuse for—"

Northam sighed heavily, bringing Southerton to an abrupt halt. "Perhaps I should excuse myself," he said wryly. "Or is it sufficient for me to own that I have been suitably chastised?"

Elizabeth leaned over and rested her gloved hand on his scarlet forearm. She patted it lightly in much the same manner she had used to soothe Becket. Though scarely aware of her actions, or the implications, her gesture was not lost on either of the men. Southerton laughed loud and hard while the tips of Northam's ears reddened.

Understanding came slowly to Elizabeth. Her eyes widened and she withdrew her hand quickly. Too embarrassed for words, she surreptitiously tickled Becket with her riding crop and did nothing to hold him back when he surged ahead.

Northam and Southerton watched her head straight for the flock of scarlet coats taking their positions for the start of the hunt. "She has a fine seat," Southerton said conversationally.

Northam's reply was an unintelligible grunt. He pulled his mount around. "Find East, won't you?"

Southerton grinned good-naturedly. "You know, I am of the opinion it is not so terrible a thing to be treated like a horse when the Lady Elizabeth is in the saddle."

"The lady's horse," Northam said without inflection, "is a gelding."

There was an infinitesimal pause on Southerton's part. "I think I'll find East."

"A fine idea."

Elizabeth was in conversation with Lord Allen and Mr. Rutherford when Northam drew close. He did not interrupt or give any indication he was interested in their discussion, which indeed, he was not. He noticed that Elizabeth said very little but gave the impression of being deeply engaged in the matter at hand. Without making her own opinion known she was able to leave each man thinking she had agreed with him.

"You could be a diplomat," Northam said as they found their place. Forty hounds were barking frantically, worked up to an almost rabid frenzy as they caught the scent of a fox in the wind. The horses sensed their excitement and beat at the ground. He noticed that Elizabeth had no difficulty reining Becket in and maintaining her seat. "That was very skillfully maneuvered."