A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World (6 page)

He bowed to the portly gray-haired earl. If Hernescroft had thrown a fit upon losing, he’d recovered. He didn’t pretend happiness but offered congratulations.

“A damn fine race, Dracy, and a damn fine horse too. Damn fine. I regret she won’t be joining my stables.”

“They both ran well, Hernescroft. I assure you Fancy Free will be well cared for in my stables. They aren’t as fine as yours, but she’ll have the necessities.”

The earl’s jowly features twitched. “Perhaps she can stay with her familiar attendants for now, eh? Rest a day or two before traveling.”

“By all means. I intend the same for Cartagena.”

“Good, good. Would you take a celebratory glass of wine with me at the house? We can discuss the arrangements.”

“Honored, Hernescroft.” Dracy bowed again. “I’ll just
see to Cartagena’s care.”

“Have her brought to my stables. She and your people will have the best care.”

Dracy’s “people” were Jorrocks and a thirteen-year-old lad, and they’d be uncomfortable in grand surroundings.

“Thank you, my lord, but she’s happily settled at the Bull nearby.”

He turned away, intrigued by the earl’s tone. Perhaps Hernescroft was already thinking along the right lines.

Carta was playing the coquette now, but in a well-mannered way, preening for her admirers and dancing just a little, as if to say she could do it all again, immediately.

“You minx,” he said, rubbing her nose. “You beautiful, magnificent minx.” Close to her ear he added, “I’m going to get you a fine stallion as a reward.”

He sent her off to the Bull and told Knowlton, “I’m invited to drink wine with the loser.”

“Gracious of him.”

“Only what I’d expect.” He strolled with Knowlton away from the dwindling crowd. “I suspect he’s already thinking along the same lines as I. It’s all going according to plan.”

“You couldn’t be sure you’d win,” Knowlton complained.

“Fate’s a capricious wench. I survived actions when men on either side of me died, and they’d done nothing to warrant their bad luck. I’ve seen winds change to favor one side or the other in battle. Some cry that God’s favored them, but why should he? Neither side was good or evil, and wars are usually about money and land in someone’s pocket.”

“Oh, I say…”

Dracy regretted disturbing his friend. “In this case, I pray it’s a stallion in my stables.”

“Wish I had your nerve.”

“No, you don’t. You have all you want in life. You’ve no need to risk anything to gain more.”

Knowlton smiled. “I admit it, but sometimes I think I lead a dull life.”

“Give thanks for it daily. I hope for the same.”

“You think to marry?” Knowlton asked, surprised.

Dracy had been thinking of life in general, but he supposed a cozy life would benefit from a cozy wife. One day.

“I’ve
too much on my plate restoring house, estate, and stables to take on more at the moment.”

“A wife can be a helpmeet, especially with the house. That’s her domain.”

“It’s certainly not mine. Very well, if you think of a suitable lady with a tranquil temperament, frugal domestic talents, and a handsome dowry, let me know. One who won’t mind my face.”

Knowlton spluttered, and Dracy felt guilty again for upsetting him. Theirs was an odd friendship, but he truly liked Tom Knowlton and valued the entree to his cozy, normal world.

He slapped him on the back. “I’m off to my appointment with fate. Wish me luck. I’ll report all to you over dinner at the Bull.”

Chapter 3

D
racy walked toward Herne through a dispersing crowd, but he was still frequently slowed by men wanting to congratulate him. He fended off a number of invitations to dine, or even to spend a few days at this place or that, but realized he was enjoying the spirit of the moment.

He missed the navy, especially the camaraderie enforced by crowded ships. He missed having friends and acquaintances in every port, especially those who shared his devil-may-care attitude to life. It didn’t take long for any military man to realize how much of survival was up to chance.

He especially missed encounters with the men he’d first met as a cabin boy. Some were dead and the rest scattered around the world.

After nearly six months, he still struggled to fit into the sleepy Devon society around Dracy. The racing world was a better fit because it was manly and adventurous, with fortunes often in the balance. However, most of these men would return to lives as predictable and comfortable as Tom Knowlton’s. They hadn’t learned that anyone had only the moment, that disaster could strike with no warning, even on a sunny day.

They should have learned it—he met men, and even
some women, who teetered constantly on the edge of disaster, mired in debt, reveling in dangerous sports, flirting with fatal scandal. Every now and then one toppled over into the mire, yet the rest showed no visible awareness of their mortality.

Did they think they were gods?

He’d take the solid country gentlemen like Tom Knowlton over the beau monde any day.

But take a wife?

The idea was growing on him, however, especially now he’d won the gamble. Solitary life held little appeal. Perhaps a wife—a plump and practical one like Annie Knowlton—would know how to make damp, dusty Dracy into a cozy home. But she’d have to do it on a pittance. The stud, not the farmland, appealed
to his temperament, and he was putting every spare penny to work there, and nearly all his energy too. Many a time he’d taken up saw or hammer to attend to a job.

A house was a wife’s job, however, as Tom had said. He was sure Annie Knowlton took up duster and scrubbing brush alongside her servants. Perhaps a wife would know how to dragoon his handful of servants into hard work.

The right wife would know how to put cheap, tasty meals on the table and defeat the army of moths and other pests he housed. She would sit with him by the fireside in the evening, mending sheets as he worked on the estate books. And then in time, they’d go to bed.

How the devil would that go?

His bed partners had always been sophisticated ladies who by the very nature of things were demanding of those they favored. There’d been none of that since returning home. An impoverished baron didn’t have the allure of a naval officer in a foreign port, and of course his appearance counted against him with some.

No, he wouldn’t give much for his chances of any
sort of wife. One particularly sensitive lady in Devon had swooned when brought suddenly face-to-face with him.

Even Tom’s wife was uncomfortable with his appearance. She was sorry for him rather than disgusted, but it had taken her a while to become at ease. Tom’s children still weren’t. If they caught sight of him they stared and clutched at an attendant. He’d quickly learned not to smile at them.

He wasn’t one to mourn what couldn’t be changed, but before leaving the navy he’d not been so aware of his disfigurement.

He passed through a yew hedge and paused to give due tribute to the great house known simply as Herne. The place was enormous, stretching left and right, ranks of windows gleaming despite the window tax. The front doubtless had pillars and porticos, but he was approaching from the rear. The back was still richly decorated, and a long terrace ran across the middle of the house, with stairs leading up to it.

There didn’t seem much point in walking around to the front, but what were the appropriate entrances on this side? Three sets of glass doors led from the terrace into the house. The left-hand doors stood open. They’d do. He set off across a sea of lawn scattered with pale classical statues and then wove his way through geometric gardens.

He climbed the steps and crossed the stone terrace, pausing before a pair of gryphons, half eagle, half lion. As symbols of valor and magnanimity they were all very well, but as guardians they were rather easily circumvented. He walked around them and headed for the open doors, wondering whether it would be seen as a rude invasion.

Just then, a powdered and liveried footman stepped out to bow. “Welcome to Herne, your lordship.”

Dracy nodded and went in, liking the feel of that.
Hernescroft had arranged for his comfort, and that augured well for making a good deal.

He was in an elegant room with a richly plastered ceiling, and walls covered with paintings. Probably not a drawing room, as they were generally on a higher floor, less easily invaded. This was for more public use. He wagered himself a shilling it was called the Terrace Room.

The footman led him down a corridor, then right and down another, until they’d moved beyond the main part of the house into a plainer part.

They halted before a plain door.

An estate room?

Not so promising.

When Dracy entered, however, he liked it better. This had to be the earl’s office, but he clearly also used it as a comfortable retreat. Dracy’s boots were treading on a fine carpet, and the furniture was all richly made and lavishly gilded, including a monumental desk. The walls here were also hung with paintings, but all of horses and races, alongside other sporting items. A small table might be used for private dining. Two upholstered chairs sat by the fireplace, and a settee nearby could be used by additional guests.

Dracy knew that noting all these details might seem odd, but it was an old instinct. Details were crucial in warfare, and especially in navigating unknown waters. Whether in the temperamental seas of the fashionable world or the more placid lakes of the country gentry, one wrong word could sink a man.

“Come in, Dracy, come in,” said the earl. “Claret, brandy, port?”

“Claret, thank you,” Dracy said, noting that the footman had left and the earl was serving the wine. So, a private discussion.

He’d studied all available information about the Earl of Hernescroft. Though portly and ruddy-faced, he was in excellent health. His heir, Viscount Pranksworth, was
thirty-two years old and already father of two sons,
so the line seemed safe. If that branch failed, the earl had three other sons, one in the army, one in the navy, and one a Town idler.

There were also two daughters, both well married.

Or in one case, widowed, Dracy remembered, and stained by scandal. An image of a laughing face and fiery hair darted through his mind like a shooting star. He blanked it out. This was no time to be distracted by a highborn doxy.

Dracy took the crystal glass and raised it. “To fine horses and fine races, my lord.”

The earl raised his glass and repeated the toast. “Have a seat, Dracy. I’ve a matter to discuss with you.”

Very promising. Dracy sat in one upholstered chair and the earl took the other.

“I play, I pay,” Hernescroft said, “but there are methods of payment. Would you consider accepting a prize of equal value?”

Dracy took another sip of wine so as not to snatch the prize too quickly. “I would be churlish not to consider it, sir. Another horse, you mean?”

“Another horse?” Hernescroft’s pouchy eyes narrowed.

Not another horse?

“What else, to be of equal value?”

“I don’t have another mare to compare with Fancy Free, and I’d not offer less.”

“So you mean a stallion?” Dracy did his best to pretend surprise. “I recollect that you do have two of quality.”

His acting ability wasn’t up to the job.

“Damn me! Was that your game? Gosling-go, I assume.” The earl pulled a face. “Won’t play, Dracy. Took exception to something a few days back and tried to kick down his stall. Broke his hock. Had to be shot.”

“Dead,” Dracy said, trying to conceal the blow. He should have kept himself better informed, but even a
few days ago the die had been cast. “Most unfortunate, my lord. I heard nothing of it.”

“I’d moved him to Lambourne to cover some mares there. Perhaps he objected to the relocation. I only heard the news myself yesterday.”

Dracy drank more wine, replotting his course. “Then I regret I’ll have to sell Fancy Free in order to purchase a stallion of quality.”