Chapter Twenty One
Marcus’s next conscious act was to blink in the full glare of the morning sunlight as Bain pulled back the drapes at the long casements with their view east over the park. ‘Another fine morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well. Shall I direct them to send up your bathwater immediately?’
Bain, an immaculately-trained valet, was well used to carrying on a one-sided conversation with his master, who was never talkative much before eleven in the morning. Encouraged by a grunt, he ushered in footmen carrying hot-water cans and began gathering up discarded clothing from the day before.
So well-schooled was he and so discreet that Bain had been known to retrieve intimate articles of feminine apparel and return them to the wearer’s lady’s maid perfectly laundered and without even a quirk of an eyebrow.
Later, when he must have noticed the faint bruise on employer’s cheek, he did not comment, beyond wielding the cutthroat razor with extra care.
Marcus met Anne sweeping downstairs an hour later, clearly with every intention of bearding her brother. She encountered him in the hall, dressed for riding and pulling on his gloves as he gave orders to Saye, his groom.
‘And tell Welling to come with us, you can both ride over to Sir George Dover’s and collect that bay gelding I bought off him last week. It is unbroken and will need both of you to bring it home.’ He broke off to kiss her cheek. ‘Good morning, Anne. I trust you slept well?’
‘Marcus, must you go out now? I particularly wished to speak to you.’ It was a demand rather than a request.
‘I shall be back later.’ He had no doubt she intended to lecture him on the subject of Antonia. Well, by the time he returned, her lecture would be redundant, and she would be too pleased with his news to scold him.
Marcus made his escape and gave the horse its head on the fine cropped down land grass as he cut across the parkland to the Dower House, the grooms behind him. The sound of the church clock striking ten reached him fain
tly over the pounding of three sets of hooves. The sun, though warm, was still tempered by the fresh early morning air and the prospect of bringing the smile back to Antonia’s face lent urgency to the ride.
The old, twisted chimneys of the Dower House came into view behind a stand of trees. At the gate he turned in the saddle. ‘Wait here, Saye.’ What instinct prompted him to keep the two grooms he could not say, something perhaps about the unwonted stillness of the normally bustling house.
Surely they are not still abed, he thought, as the heavy knocker dropped from his hand onto the old oak door. Jane appeared and dropped him a curtsy, her cheeks even pinker than normal.
‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
‘Good morning, Jane. Is Miss Dane at home?’
Jane’s pretty country complexion grew more rosy. ‘No, Your Grace.’
‘Well, may I speak to Miss Donaldson?’ So Antonia was angry with him still. That was not to be wondered at.
‘Miss Donaldson is not at home, Your Grace,’ Jane recited with the air of a child repeating a lesson.
Marcus’s lips tightened. ‘Do you mean,’ he enquired with dangerous civility, ‘that the ladies are not here, or that they are not at home to me?’
This threw the maid servant into even more confusion than he might have expected. ‘Yes. Er, no. That is…’ She took a deep breath and said desperately, ‘Miss Donaldson said as I was to say, that they aren’t at home, Your Grace.’
He fought the impulse to shoulder past the girl into the house, nodded curtly, turned on his heel, vaulted into the saddle and urged his horse into a gallop.
After the first quarter of a mile Marcus reined back to a more temperate pace, smiling grimly at his own mood. He was not used to being thwarted but he was uneasily aware of how hurt Antonia must be feeling, and storming around the Hertfordshire countryside was no remedy. He would go back and write her a note.
He pulled up where the lane crossed the Berkhamsted road and watched the approaching grooms. If he sent the note with Josh Saye, who was courting young Jane, there was a good chance it would reach Antonia, more so than if he took it himself.
The men had just reached him when a gig driven by young Jem came bowling round the bend from the direction of the town. The lad’s cheerful expression changed into a look of alarm tinged with shiftiness the moment he saw who was at the crossroads.
A sudden suspicion made Marcus snap, ‘Stop that gig,’ and the two grooms moved their mounts into the road.
Jem tugged his forelock and shifted uneasily on the bench seat. Marcus, still unsure why he had stopped him, urged his horse alongside the gig, then saw a beribboned hat box on the floor.
‘Where have you been, boy?’
‘Nowhere, Your Grace,’ Jem said sullenly.
'You speak proper.’ Saye lifted a hand. ‘Or I’ll thicken your ear.’
‘Do not bully the lad,’ Marcus intervened. ‘What is your name, boy?’