Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (18 page)

He supposed he should make some response to that, but damned if he knew what it was. He was too tired to think of niceties. He closed his eyes, feeling them burn with dryness and fatigue, and ran a hand though his hair. It felt wild and unkempt, and he could feel the itch of the shadow of his beard, demanding he shave. He wore shirtsleeves and trousers, having long ago discarded his coat, cravat, and waistcoat. His shirt was open at the throat, and he supposed he was dressed inappropriately for a visit by a lady, especially one wearing not only gloves but a bonnet. She carried a parasol as well—as though the weak morning light would be any threat to her pale complexion.

He opened his eyes, and she’d come closer. Too close. He could detect the scent of her perfume. He moved away, grabbing one of the shovels set nearby. “You should return to the house. I have work to do.” That much was true. He had horses to feed, stables to muck out, a new foal to evaluate, mail to address. The days he’d spent in London meant he was woefully behind.

He’d dismissed her, or so he thought, and he walked to the end of the aisle and opened Lily’s Turn’s stall. She was looking well. He would never have known she’d so recently been ill. He laid a hand on her nose, and she nudged it expectantly. He smiled. “No apples with me this morning.”

“Where are your grooms?”

Dominic turned, feeling suddenly exposed, as though interrupted in a private moment. “I thought you had returned to the house.”

She raised her brows. “I am not that easy to be rid of. You cannot really think to muck out stables.”

Dominic put the shovel he held to use. “As you see.”

“I do.” She watched him, her eyes dark. He wondered what she saw, or thought she saw. “What should I do to help?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Go back to the house.”

But she was already peeling off her gloves. “Do not be ridiculous. You look exhausted, and you are doing the work of two men on your own and, from all appearances, without the benefit of any sleep.”

“If my appearance offends you—”

“I have seen far worse than a man with stubble on his chin and shadows under his eyes.” She removed her bonnet and set it, with her gloves inside, on a stool. She leaned her frilly white parasol beside it. Her dress was white as well, he noted. Not ideal for working in a dirty stable. He glanced down at her feet, pleased with himself for not lingering too long on the swell of her hip. At least she wore walking boots and not slippers.

“This is not the sort of work a lady does.”

“It’s not the sort of work a gentleman occupies himself with either,” she countered. “But here you are.”

“I am no gentleman, and I do this every day.”

“And today you need assistance.” She looked behind her. “Is there another shovel? Or perhaps I should climb into the hayloft and pitch hay for you?”

Lily’s Turn moved forward now, and when Jane glanced back, the horse nuzzled her. Jane laughed, and Dominic had a moment of jealousy, though for the attention the horse gave to Bonde or the attention Bonde gave to the animal, he couldn’t have said. He was better off not thinking too deeply about it.

“Do you want a treat?”

Lily’s Turn’s ears perked up.

“Of course you do. I have nothing with me this morning, but I promise to bring you something later.”

“The horses are on a strict diet,” Dominic said. “They eat at prescribed times, and only the best feed.”

Jane raised a brow. “And yet this animal expects some sort of treat. How can that be?”

Dominic lifted the shovel again and went to work. She was too observant by far. Lily’s Turn had been spoiled on occasion with apples and carrots, but since the colic…he did not want to call it an epidemic, as it was not contagious…instances might be a better term. Since the frequent colic instances, he had outlawed any treats to the horses.

“Perhaps I could assist by feeding the animals. If I come after you, you could ensure I give each horse the proper amount in the correct proportions.”

“Jane, this is not necessary. Go back to the house.”

She did not move. “You realize I still have not given you leave to use my Christian name.”

“We are betrothed. I believe the permission is implied in the contract I signed.”

“Then shall I call you Dominic?”

“Call me whatever the hell you want, but leave me alone.” Every woman of his acquaintance, and most men, would have run away at the tone in his voice. Jane did not even blink.

“In your time of need? I think not.” She stepped out of the stall, and when she didn’t immediately return, he was forced to follow her. “Is that the feed room there?” She gestured to the end of the aisle. There was a small room where he kept feed. She’d spotted it right away, most likely because of the various buckets stacked outside.

“Yes.”

“And how much does…what is her name?” She gestured to the horse.

“Lily’s Turn.”

“How much does Lily’s Turn receive?”

He told her, as much because he was tired of arguing as because he wanted her and that tantalizing scent of violets away from him for a few moments. Perhaps then he could think how to rid himself of her for the rest of the morning, if not the entire day.

He watched her go to the feed room then stepped back into the stall to continue the mucking it out. A moment later, she called, “Which grain should I use?”

He frowned. All of the horses grazed on the grass in the pasture and received the same hay in the stables. Each also received a measure of grain—the amount depending on the horse’s age, health, and lactation status—at set times throughout the day. The grain was of the highest quality, and he always ordered it from one supplier.

“They are all the same,” he called.

Silence. “No, they are not.”

A shiver of dread made him drop the shovel and race to meet her.

Ten

Jane heard the shovel clang and peered out of the small room, only to jump back when she saw Griffyn racing toward her. Her stitches gave a small twinge of pain, and she remembered she was not supposed to make sudden movements. Obviously, she’d caused some sort of trouble. She did not mean to cause trouble, but she’d been doing it since she was a young child. Her aunt said she was too inquisitive by far. She saw things she was not supposed to.

Her uncle, of course, said this made her the perfect spy. But right now she had wanted only to be useful, and she could see that, instead, she had made Griffyn worry about something else. That had not been her intention. Surely, she had simply made a mistake, and he would explain her misstep to her.

Except, of course, she rarely made mistakes. Something here was not right.

She flattened herself against the wall of the tiny room as Griffyn’s large frame filled it. He smelled of horses and hay and leather—all scents familiar to her. She had seen how exhausted he was before, but now that he was so close to her and the light of the lantern on the peg in the room shone on him, she realized the man was fortunate to still be standing. She had thought him a strong man, as well as an exceptionally handsome one, and she had not misjudged. And this morning, with the dark stubble bruising his jaw and the purple smudges under his already coal-black eyes, he looked not only exotic but almost feral.

A shiver of heat swirled through her, landing in her lower belly. Her gaze fell to his hands, large and strong and covered with dirt. She wondered what those dark hands would look like on her pale skin, on the pink of her aureole as he cupped her breast.

She took a sharp breath, and he gave her a curious look. But then he was all seriousness. “What did you do?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” But she could see he wanted a full account. “I walked back here, took a pail, then set it down and lit the lantern. I saw the two sacks of feed and asked which I should use.”

“You did nothing else?”

“No.” She narrowed her eyes at him, watched as he lifted the grain to inspect the contents of first one sack then the other. “There should not be two types of feed,” she surmised.

“No.” His answer was short and to the point.

“One appears unadulterated,” she said, pointing to the fuller bag, the new bag. “The other has been mixed with something else.”

“And that’s what I’ve been feeding my horses. This inferior grade.” He pointed to the bag with the mixed grain. “I pay for the best, and unwittingly I kill my horses with this…this…” Words seemed to fail him, and a vein throbbed in his forehead.

“I suppose your supplier could be cheating you.”

He gave her a sharp look. “But you don’t think so.”

She gestured to the new bag. “This is perfectly acceptable. I assume.” She shrugged. “I know nothing of horse feed.” She looked at the other bag, which was almost empty. “This is a mixture of that and something else. If I had to guess, I would say someone mixed the premium feed with something less desirable.”

“That is my deduction as well.”

“Are the stables in financial crisis?” she asked, then recollected herself. She was not on a mission and could not interrogate the Marchioness of Edgeberry’s son about the marquessate’s financial situation. “Of course, that is none of my concern. I withdraw the question.”

“The stables are in excellent financial condition,” Griffyn said, and she could see from the subtle way his chest swelled when he said it that situation was entirely due to his efforts. But if that was the case, why would they mix inferior grain with the superior?

“Oh.” She gave him a cautious look. Perhaps she should not reveal any more. She had caused enough trouble.

“Out with it,” he said, grasping her arm before she could back away, make her excuses, and return to the house. She should have listened to him the first time he ordered her to return. But she had never been very good at following orders.

“I do believe my aunt may worry if I am not at breakfast soon.”

“It is far too early for breakfast or for your aunt to rise. I already know what is happening. I want you to confirm my suspicions.”

Well, if that was the case, she would not be the bearer of bad news, so much as the confirmer. “One of your grooms is stealing the superior feed, selling it for profit, and replacing it with an inferior grade.”

He glared at her, and she considered shrinking back. But she did not shrink. She was Jane Bonde. Suddenly, he whirled and slammed his fists against the wall of the small room. It shook. It felt as though the entire stable shook, and she heard several horses emit concerned whinnies. She thought he would take out his rage in some dramatic way now—throw pails about, rip hooks off the wall. Instead, he leaned his head against his fists and did not move.

Jane could have dealt with an outward manifestation of rage. But this…what to call it? Internalization? This internalization was foreign to her. She stood still, feeling helpless. Finally, he turned and looked at her. Only his eyes burned with anger and the intensity of his emotions. His face showed nothing at all. “I am going to find this man,” he said, voice low and quiet. “And kill him.”

She swallowed at the razor edge to his tone. He sounded as though he really could kill the man responsible. “That might be a bit extreme,” she ventured.

“Do you think so?”

No, not at all. I will keep my opinions to myself in future. I will keep my opinions to myself!
But she said nothing, waiting for him to speak again.

“Nessa is dead.”

She had not met anyone called Nessa, family member or servant. “Nessa is a horse?”

“She died of colic in the wee hours of the morning.”

That explained why he had been up all night, and why he looked like he’d battled Satan and lost.

“Colic caused by inferior feed.”

“Colic caused by rapid changes in her diet, or whatever the devil is mixed with her feed in this bag. It could be ground wood for all I know. She suffered horribly at the end. I have never heard a horse make the noises of pain that she made. And there was no reason for it”—he looked at the grain—“other than greed.”

“I’m sorry.” She wanted to touch him. She wanted desperately to reach out and take his hand or pull him into an embrace. But she had the distinct impression that if she did so, he would pull away. He did not like to be touched except on his terms. She could not say how she knew such a thing. It was something she sensed, not anything he’d said or done. She knew it the way she knew when an informant was lying or a man was a double agent or that an ambush waited ahead. These instincts kept her alive. Griffyn wasn’t a threat to her life, but he was a threat nonetheless. He wouldn’t take her life, but he might just take her heart. His grief over his horse, his obvious love of them, pulled at something inside her. He suddenly seemed human, seemed so much more than a dark mystery. She wanted to know more of that tender side. She must guard against him the same way she guarded against any enemy—by keeping him close.

Perhaps that was why she had sought him out this morning. Perhaps it was not merely that she was weak and longed for his company. Perhaps it was only a protective measure. It was better to know where he was and what he was doing. That way, she could avoid him in the future.

He was looking at her, his expression unreadable. Was that scorn or curiosity? “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Can I help in any way?”

“No.” The statement was final, and she heard the tone of dismissal. Now was her chance to escape. She could hurry back to the house and avoid the stable in the future. She need not involve herself with this matter. Her time could and would be better spent strategizing how to defeat Foncé. Why was he in London? What was his plan? Was it to kill Lord Melbourne? Attack the Barbican group at the source? Or was there more to it?