Sattler, Veronica (28 page)

Ashleigh
heard it and smiled. How different he was when he laughed! Guessing at the
reason, she asked, "You're glad to be back, then?"

"Yes,
little one—" he grinned "—I am most glad to be back!"

Chauncey
Jameson had been the butler at Ravensford Hall for fourteen years, and during
that time he had always discharged his duties with a remarkable degree of
efficiency and aplomb. Nevertheless, on this particular morning in mid-July
1814, Jameson was conspicuously lacking in the air of unruffled confidence he
normally commanded when seeing to the well-oiled running of the Westmont
household. He stood in the butler's pantry that adjoined the kitchens and
carefully blotted his perspiring brow with a white linen handkerchief before
resuming his speech to the staff he'd hastily assembled there not five minutes
earlier.

"Merton,"
he said to the tall footman who stood at attention in front of him, "are
you sure there were
three?"

"Aye,
sir, three coaches, all of 'em 'eaded straight fer the 'All."

If
Jameson had been the type to groan aloud with the announcement of distressing
news, he would have done so now, but as it was, he merely raised the white
linen and blotted again. "Three coaches filled with guests.... I
see." He turned to face Hettie Busby who stood waiting expectantly, next
to Merton. "Mrs. Busby, you're sure the Lady Margaret had no prior
knowledge of this?"

Hettie
shook her head. "She was as much in the dark as the rest of us when I
questioned her a moment ago. Said to ask His Grace whilst she hurried and
dressed. But His Grace—"

"I
know, Mrs. Busby. We have already covered that ground. His Grace is out riding
with the Misses Sinclair and O'Brien." Jameson's angular head snapped to
his right, and he regarded a young woman in chambermaid's apparel who looked as
if she were about to burst into tears at any moment. "Betty, ah, is Lady
Elizabeth still...?"

"Aye,
sir," sniffed Betty. '"Er ladyship's still 'avin' a fit in 'er
chamber! Broke two vases, she did, an' one of 'em just missed me
'ead!
Fairly
screamin', she was, carryin' on t'—"

"That
will be all, Betty, thank you," said Jameson. He had no wish to be
reminded of the tale that had already been carried throughout the Hall, that
Lady Elizabeth Hastings, upon awakening in her guest chamber and learning that
her betrothed had gone riding without her—and with whom—had flown into a rage
at the news, bruising the cheek of her own ladies' maid, Dorothea, who had
followed her here from Cloverhill Manor, and wreaking havoc on her room's
furnishings for the better part of an hour. Moreover, as head of staff, it was
Jameson's responsibility to quell unseemly gossip among his subordinates,
especially when it had to do with the gentry it was their duty to serve.

On
the other hand, it now became his problem as to how to deal with the existence of
a shrieking harpy in one of the upstairs chambers in the face of a virtual
caravan of unexpected guests. Oh, thought Jameson, if only His Grace, the old
duke were still alive!
He
would never have countenanced such
irregularity!

Turning
his gaze toward Old Henry, who stood a couple of paces behind his wife, the
harried butler asked his next question. "Will the stables be ready to
receive the overflow on this short notice, Mr. Busby?"

Old
Henry grinned. At last Jameson would receive a promising answer. "No
problem there, sir. The lads're already on it!"

"Good,
good," murmured Jameson. "Very well, then. It seems there's no help
for it but to do our duty as best we may." He began issuing orders.
"Mrs. Busby, take Cook into the kitchen and begin planning a menu list....
Mr. Busby, back to the stables, if you please.... Betty, take Flora and Emily
and begin airing out the guest chambers in the north wing...."

* * * * *

Ashleigh's
face was flushed with exhilaration, her eyes bright with pleasure as she bent
over Irish Night's neck and felt the power of the young horse beneath her. The
filly might be small, but she had long, muscular legs and a deep chest, the
result of a breeding program that coupled heavy Arabian lines with excellent
Irish racing stock, and the results were proving spectacular.

Up
ahead, she caught sight of Brett and Megan waving at her from where they sat on
their mounts. "Rein her in now, Ashleigh!" Brett called. "We've
got to be heading back."

Nodding,
Ashleigh eased the pressure she'd been applying to the filly's sides with her
knees and shifted her weight to signal the change in pace.

A
few moments later, she approached the other two riders at a subdued canter, a
wide grin etched on her face.

"Well?"
asked Brett, grinning back at her. "How was she?"

"Oh,
Brett! Couldn't you tell? She was
magnificent!"
Ashleigh's joy
bubbled over into her speech. "I've never
had
such a ride!"

Megan's
laughter blended with Brett's. "Ah, darlin', ye were a grand sight t'
behold! The two o' ye, I'm meanin', ridin' across those flats like ye were part
o' each other, and born on the wind!"

Ashleigh's
grin grew wider. "You two didn't do too badly yourselves, you know. From
where I stood, it looked like a dead heat. Was it?"

Brett
chuckled. "Not quite. I owe Megan two guineas or a new bonnet, her choice,
but that's the last time I'll let her talk me into surrendering Raven for a
race.
Bad cess,
indeed!" he added, giving Megan a glare.

Megan
grinned and shrugged, then bent over Raven's lathered neck and gave it a pat.
"Can I help it if I'm subject t' superstitions, Yer Grace?"

"A
superstition, I suspect," Brett returned, "conveniently resurrected
at moments like the onset of a wager!"

They
were talking about the moment when, after challenging the duke to a short race,
Megan had suddenly looked down at the beautiful gray colt she was riding and
exclaimed, "Oh! I'm so sorry, Yer Grace, but I'm afraid I'll have to
withdraw from the wager. Gray Mist, I fergot, is, after all, a
gray
colt,
and gray horses are
bad cess,
er, that is, bad luck, fer me family.
Now... if we were t' be switchin' mounts—fer the duration o' the race only,
mind ye—well then..."

Reluctantly,
Brett had agreed, for while Raven was the finest blood in his stables, the gray
colt was coming up fast and held a great deal of promise, and he was curious to
try his mettle. Of course, now it seemed that that promise hadn't yet been
quite enough....

"Well,
small matter," Brett was saying. "The real reason we flagged you in,
Ashleigh, is that we saw some coaches winding their way along the post road
when we reached that bluff a few minutes ago. It looks as though those guests I
told you about are arriving. You
did
tell Lady Margaret we could be
expecting them?"

They
had turned their horses' heads toward the Hall and were moving along at an even
pace. In the distance Ashleigh could see smoke rising from what she surmised
was the chimney of the kitchen at Ravensford Hall.

"Lady
Margaret had already retired when I went to inform her last night, Brett. But
Lady Elizabeth overheard me speaking to her maid and said she would see to it
that your great-aunt received the message." A frown of dismay crossed
Ashleigh's brow as she recalled the viciousness of Elizabeth Hastings's
response to her query about whether Lady Margaret could be disturbed. "She
certainly has no business being disturbed by the likes of
you,
you cheap
little flit!
I
shall see she gets His Grace's message in the
morning!" Even now, as she recalled the hurtful words, Ashleigh's eyes
clouded with humiliation.

Brett
saw her look and could well guess its source. Yesterday, when he and Ashleigh
had entered the Hall following their afternoon of horse training, they were met
at the entrance by Margaret and Elizabeth Hastings. He'd been astounded to find
his ill-remembered betrothed not only waiting for him, but firmly ensconced at
his home as a semipermanent guest! He'd vaguely recollected a letter from
Margaret while he was in London, telling him she'd proceeded with the planning
of his nuptials, "with circumspection, owing to the fact that the family
is in mourning," but he was positive she'd written nothing of Elizabeth's
encampment in his domicile! Then, after he'd barely had time to digest this
fact, he watched as Elizabeth proceeded to snub Ashleigh Sinclair in the most
blatant manner. Moreover, he'd have had to be blind not to see the look of
absolute hatred in his betrothed's eyes each time they fell on Ashleigh, which
was mainly during a tedious and uncomfortable dinner. Ashleigh, he'd noticed,
had carried herself graciously through the whole affair, making polite
conversation when it was required of her and appearing to quite overlook the
fact that neither Elizabeth nor Margaret deigned to speak directly to her at
all, and carried on much as if she were invisible at the table.

But
Brett had noticed the two spots of color staining Ashleigh's cheeks as the
evening progressed, and had readily acquiesced when she asked to be excused
early to look in on Megan, who'd taken to her chamber with a headache. The
truth here, although Brett was unaware of it, was that Megan's eyes had
glittered with a blood lust any time they looked upon Elizabeth and Margaret,
prompting Ashleigh to make her promise to avoid encounters with them at all
costs; the result was that Megan had "headaches" whenever household
routine required that she spend any time with them.

"And
just who is it ye're expectin', Yer Grace?" Megan asked now. "From
the fine look o' those coaches, 'twould appear t' be a pretty fancy group o'
visitors, I'd be thinkin'."

"Oh,
no one that daunting," said Brett. "Just some friends from London. I
do wonder how it is they all seem to be arriving at once, though. I expected
various people to be trickling in over a period of days. I thought I recognized
Lord Edwards's team of bays, though. Ah, that would be Lord Christopher
Edwards, the earl of Ranleagh."

Ashleigh's
head suddenly went up with a start at this news. "Lord Edwards, the earl
of— Oh, dear! I just
realized...
I'm supposed to be acting as a hostess
in just a few minutes!"

"That
would seem to be an accurate assessment of matters, yes," Brett replied
with some amusement. "Is there a problem with—"

"Oh,
but—but, Your Grace!... Brett! Just
look
at me!" She glanced down
at the hem of her blue and cream riding habit, which was soaked with the dew
that had lain on the grass when they began their outing several hours earlier.

I
am looking at you, lovely little witch,
Brett thought, seizing on a term that
had occurred to him late last night as he lay in his bed. While visions of his
afternoon with her danced through his mind, he had been hard put to explain
such a preoccupation. What was it about the girl that so entrapped his
thoughts? Surely not her beauty, for he'd known scores of beautiful women
before....

What,
then? Was it the host of surprises that had consistently sprung up about her as
he'd gotten to know her? It was as if she'd bewitched him, he'd finally
decided, and the thought had not sat particularly well with him. He'd even told
himself, as he was drifting off to sleep, that he'd do well to create some
distance between them in the future—after all, she was a female....

And
yet, when morning had dawned and the day promised to be a rare one, breezy and
blue-skied, with the sun brightly shining, he found himself quickly dressed and
sending a maid to inquire if Miss Sinclair would like to join him for a ride!
Of course, the note that had come back, penned by Megan in coarse block
letters—she had been illiterate until Ashleigh began to teach her how to read
and write some months earlier, he'd learned—had informed him Miss Sinclair
would indeed care to join him, provided she might be accompanied by Miss
O'Brien and also that she might be allowed to ride the filly, Irish Night,
which she would do with care, and only on the flats.

Brett
smiled wryly as he recalled the tall redhead's audaciousness. But then he
frowned as his mind returned to his own impromptu behavior. He was at a total
loss to explain it.... Finally his helpless thoughts had seized on that first
fanciful explanation of his midnight musings.... She was a witch, a beautiful,
fascinating, blue-eyed witch....

But
now he found himself grinning as Ashleigh ran a slender hand through her
charmingly windblown curls and lamented her disheveled appearance.

"I
cannot greet your guests looking like this, Brett! I simply cannot!" Her
blue eyes pleaded with his.

Brett
chuckled. "Very well," he told her, "you and Megan take the path
that leads to the kitchens and use the rear entrance. I'll hold them off while
you change. Come and join us in the front drawing room when you're ready."

"Oh,
may I?
Oh, Brett, thank you!" she chirped. "Oh, I can never
thank you enough for understanding! I won't take too long—"

Brett's
laughter intervened. "Yes, well, if you take any more time thanking me,
you
will
be late. Off with you, now! I'll see you at the Hall."