Recklessly Yours (24 page)

“Perhaps Lady Sabrina moved the colt.”

“Oh, Willow, don't be a goose. Sabrina Ashworth, a horse thief?” Ivy chuckled, and Willow bristled with indignation.

“Perhaps she and Lord Bryce conspired,” Willow said. She scowled, and added, “Or she and Geoffrey. Or all three.”

Ivy started to laugh outright, but Holly shushed her. “All the more reason to take their oldest brother into our confidence. We've accomplished little so far. It's time we took a risk. A leap of faith. Are you with me?”

Willow's worried look deepened. “If you cannot be dissuaded . . .”

“You have my support,” Ivy said with more conviction.

“It's decided, then. On the pretext of purchasing a horse, I'll contrive to speak with Lord Drayton alone at his earliest convenience. Come, let's return to the terrace.”

 

“What do you mean, gone?” Holly tried to conceal her dismay, but the news she had just received from Lady Sabrina delivered a startling blow. “Gone when? Where?”

“To Cambridge, apparently.” Lady Sabrina walked at an unhurried, unconcerned pace through the terrace doors and into the drawing room. “If you'll excuse me, I believe it's time I changed out of my riding habit and into a more suitable frock.”

“One moment, please . . .” Holly stumbled after her, nearly tripping over the train of her own riding skirts, the brim of her feathered hunt cap crushed in her fist as she hurried to keep up. At least a dozen people milled about the room. Holly lowered her voice. “Your brother left so suddenly.”

Looking mildly annoyed, Sabrina stopped. “A letter arrived in the post for him. Something about an uproar involving university officials and an acquaintance of his, a dean. I believe your sister knows him. Benjamin Rivers?”

Ivy and Willow, standing amid a group in the curve of the pianoforte, looked sharply over at them as Sabrina spoke the name they all knew. Across the way, Lord Bryce, suddenly distracted from his own conversation, pinned a speculative gaze on Willow.

“Excuse me.” At the masculine voice behind her, Holly moved out of the doorway. Young Lord Geoffrey stepped inside, and Holly wondered if he or Bryce were aware that their brother had left Masterfield Park. Colin's abrupt departure sent ripples of unease up and down her length.

“I'm well acquainted with Mr. Rivers,” she said to Sabrina. “Did your brother say what sort of trouble?”

“Oh, university politics, from what I could make out. The matter seemed to require my brother's immediate intervention.” Sabrina started walking again. They exited the drawing room and crossed the central hall to the staircase.

“Oh, dear . . .”

Sabrina lingered on the first step, her hand on the banister. “Is there a problem?”

“No . . . only that . . . I wished to make my purchase of a horse . . . and . . .”

Sabrina waved a dismissive hand. “You hardly need Colin for that. I'll arrange a meeting with our head trainer. The solicitors can smooth out the financial details.” She resumed her ascent, saying over her shoulder, “I believe a letter came for your sister as well. It's behind you, on the salver.”

Lady Sabrina left Holly gaping up at her from the bottom of the stairs. Now what?

Colin was gone. Abruptly and without a good-bye. Or
had
that kiss been his way of saying good-bye? But why the secrecy?

Crestfallen, she went to the round marquetry table beneath the massive hall chandelier at the center of the room. On the silver post tray, she found the envelope directed to the Marchioness of Harrow. Recognizing Simon de Burgh's familiar handwriting, she retraced her steps to the drawing room and handed the letter to Ivy.

Aware of the impropriety of lounging in the drawing room in her riding habit, she thought of bringing her sisters back out to the terrace where they would have more privacy. Ivy's flushed cheeks changed her mind, and she instead drew them to a settee that faced out over the gardens.

“Oh, that
is
good news.” Ivy, her letter in hand, scanned the lines with a smile.

“What could possibly be good news at this point?” Holly asked without much interest.

“Simon writes that Errol Quincy arrived in London two mornings ago, and together they are going to continue the experiments on Victoria's stone.” Ivy looked up, her smile widening. “Having the elderly gent on hand should prevent Simon from incinerating himself in my absence.”

“But that's odd,” Willow said. “Shouldn't Mr. Rivers have needed Mr. Quincy's help in whatever trouble is brewing at the university?”

With a shrug, Ivy continued perusing the missive. Her chin snapped upward. “Holly, you must read this.”

She shoved the paper into Holly's hands. Willow peered over her shoulder. Aloud Holly read, “‘Ben arrived several hours behind Errol, and I fear, darling, that under their influence I shall regress to the habits of my bachelor days. . . .'” She gasped.

Willow grasped the edge of the letter between her thumb and forefinger to steady it in Holly's suddenly trembling hands. “If Mr. Rivers is in London, then . . .”

“Then . . .” Ivy drew a sharp breath. “I cannot bring myself to say it, nor to imagine that it could be true. There must be some mistake. Perhaps Lady Sabrina misunderstood.”

“She seemed awfully certain to me.” Holly met Ivy's gaze and recognized the same reluctant conclusion. “Colin lied.”

Willow released the letter, her hand falling to her lap. “What should we do?”

Holly stood up from the settee. “The only thing we can do.”

 

Colin brought Cordelier to a halt and twisted round in his saddle. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the steely glare of a late-afternoon sky that had turned overcast, he studied the road behind him. The dusty ribbon of byway curved out of sight around a bend, then reappeared a mile or so beyond the low swell of a hillside. Thatched roofs dotted the countryside, and curls of smoke drifting from chimneys indicated the ending of the workday and lighting of the evening fires. As he searched the distance he watched for any telltale movement, such as dust rising off the packed-dirt surface.

Beside him, the colt tugged its lead rope with a toss of its head, showing its impatience to be moving again.

“Easy, boy,” Colin murmured soothingly. “You and I have the same goal in mind. To get you home, where you belong.”

When Colin had started out from Masterfield Park, he had headed east in the event he was followed. Then he had doubled back, collected the colt from the hiding place where he'd moved it before dawn, and skirted the town of Ascot. He'd avoided the highway in favor of smaller, shadier country lanes until he'd traveled far enough and he felt it was safe to take the faster route. Here, he would appear as nothing more than a man transporting a young horse from one place to another, as many a fellow did during the spring, especially during the racing season.

Yet the fear of being followed, improbable though it was, never entirely left him, nor had the bristling of his nape. To his left, the roadside embankment gave way to forest that thrust the already pewter afternoon deeper into shadow. Beyond a low stone wall on the opposite side of the road, cows and sheep drifted like small craft in a gently undulating sea of green. Startled by a shrill caw, Colin followed the downward plummet of a speckled hawk, swiftly falling as if to collide with the ground. At the last minute it swooped low, then with a cry of triumph soared heavenward with some unfortunate creature dangling from its talons.

Closer to him, a cloud of dirt rolled along a field sown in neat rows of wheat, and he spotted a dray pulled by a stout little pony. His gaze darted back to the road, where in the far distance a swirling wisp rose like steam from a kettle. Instinct sent him to the side of the road. He dismounted, gathered both Cordelier's reins and the colt's lead rope in one hand, and pushed through the trees, seeking the cover offered by a dense, ancient wood.

As he went, he fumbled with the bag tied to his saddle. When he got it open he reached in and closed his fingers around his one bit of insurance, its weight solid against his palm. Then he waited, shielded by the luxuriant foliage and the cool, shady darkness.

The dray passed by at a lazy pace, its wheels creaking along the rutted road, the farmer humming a languid tune. More minutes passed. Cordelier stood patiently. Even the colt seemed resigned to the delay, and happily nibbled the moist spring leaves within reach.

Only Colin began to shuffle, grown weary of waiting for something that probably wouldn't come. He began to doubt the sensation that had raised his hackles. Since this business had begun, he'd read conspiracy in every sideways glance, deception in every young beauty that wandered lost in his home.

Obviously, he wasn't cut out for stealth. He missed his simple life at Cambridge, missed his laboratory and fellow scientists, his experiments, and the goal of one day accomplishing something extraordinary and proving that he was more, so much more, than Thaddeus Ashworth's heir.

Just as Colin was about to vacate his woodland hideaway, Cordelier's ears pricked forward. The stallion tensed, sniffing the wind. Without waiting for the colt to respond in kind, Colin covered his muzzle with his hands to forestall any whickers that might give away his location. Moments later, the clip-clopping of hooves echoed from down the road. Colin held his breath, knowing the approaching rider could be nothing more than a traveler like himself, yet thoroughly convinced otherwise. Ducking his head, he peered through the web of branches in front of him.

The lower half of a bay came into view, its flanks draped by a wide abundance of verdant green skirts. Taking care not to make a sound, Colin pushed an eye-level branch out of his way. The rest of a sleek horse took shape, and then the trim rider in her stylish habit. Fiery curls spilled from her hunting cap; its feather fluttered like a tiny flag.

He smiled grimly and placed his father's pistol back into his valise. Then Cordelier's snort alerted him to the presence of another horse coming along the road. Colin strained to see through the thickening shadows. He did a double take, and swore under his breath.

 

Willow's parting admonishment rang in Holly's ears, even three hours later. As she'd prepared to leave Masterfield Park, her sisters had argued against this plan of hers, protesting at her back all the way down to the stables. They had threatened to follow in their carriage, but Holly knew they wouldn't. Ivy wouldn't dare risk a jostling ride. And Willow wouldn't leave Ivy alone with the Ashworths.

Now, many miles down a lonely winding road bordered by vast fields and brooding forests, Holly wished they
were
with her. Already the trees cast long shadows across the road, and with growing misgivings she gauged the angle of the sun. In the fields, farmhands with their long, hooked staffs urged their herds of sheep and cattle homeward for the evening. She had not expected to be gone this long.

She had expected to catch up to Colin hours ago, but maybe she had been wrong about his direction. She had been so certain that if he hadn't gone to Cambridge as he'd claimed, then he must have headed west to the family's estate in Devonshire. She had found the records indicating that much of his work breeding horses took place at Briarview. Where better to bring the colt than that distant, isolated place?

But perhaps she had miscalculated. At this point, she might not make it back to Ascot before dark, and if she didn't turn back immediately, she'd have no choice but to spend the night at a roadside inn—one she hoped could offer her a clean room with a sturdy lock on the door.

“I say, Miss Sutherland?”

At the hail from behind her, she started and brought Maribelle to a halt, then with a flick of the reins turned the mare about. The face she saw snapped her eyes wide with disbelief. “Have you followed me all this way?”

Geoffrey Ashworth walked his horse up beside hers. “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly.

Indignation unhinged her jaw. “Why? How could you have known . . . ? The drawing room—you overheard.”

He hesitated for an instant, fingering his horse's mane. Then he glanced at her and once again uttered a single syllable. “Yes.”

“Well . . . for your information, young man, I do not need a chaperone. I'll thank you to turn around this instant and go home.”

“No.”

“No? No?” Her temper surged, mingling with her chagrin. How on earth had this youth managed to trail her all this way without her knowing? She regarded the stubborn set of his youthful features. “Go!” she ordered with an outthrust finger.

“No.”

Her frustration reaching a boil, she clamped her teeth, thought quickly, and drew a calming breath. “Lord Geoffrey, good friends of mine live in this area. I have decided to head there now, so I assure you I shall be quite all right on my own. I implore you to return home before your family begins to worry, if they aren't doing so already.”

The boy faced straight ahead as if intent on some point in the far distance. “You are not going to visit friends, Miss Sutherland. You are following my brother.”

“You had your ear to the door of our suite!”

“What I overheard in the drawing room worried me. So yes, I followed you upstairs and listened in.”

“I've a good mind to tell your mother . . .”

He gave an unconcerned shrug. “Will you also tell her that you believe my brother has stolen something from the queen?”

“Good heavens . . .” She scrutinized him from head to foot and back again as understanding dawned. “It's like the other day on the racecourse, isn't it?”