He didn’t look, but he could feel the weight of Henrietta’s gaze, and Mary’s, as well. He kept his gaze on Louise’s blue eyes—very like Henrietta’s—then, lips tightening, capitulated. “Yes. Of course.” He glanced at Henrietta and was met by a brilliant smile. At least he’d made her happy.
Apparently his surrender had made Mary happy, too; her smile was simply dazzling.
Which left him feeling confused. Deeming retreat the course of wisdom, he rose. He bowed politely to Louise, then looked at Henrietta. After that kiss in the street, he would have liked to speak privately with her—just a word, a touch, perhaps another kiss—but at the same time, he didn’t want her to bestir herself unnecessarily. He inclined his head. “I’ll see you at Ellsmere Grange this afternoon.”
She held out her hand, her face uptilted, her expression grateful and relaxed. “Indeed—and thank you again. I’m steadfastly not thinking about what would have happened had you not joined me this morning.”
He wished he could do the same, but that thought was firmly embedded in his brain. However . . . he bowed over her hand, then, releasing it, nodded to Mary and strode from the room.
Henrietta watched him go. She really had no business feeling so very thrilled over the outcome of a potentially fatal accident, but what had been revealed by his responses and hers—that scorching kiss they’d shared in the middle of Upper Brook Street, which thankfully no one of any note socially had seen—had been their truth. In that moment, what was evolving between them had flared like a flame, indisputably true; to know that, to have been afforded that insight, was worth almost any price.
And she hadn’t, after all, been harmed in the least.
Transferring her gaze to her mother’s curious face, she smiled reassuringly. “I truly am fine.”
Louise’s lips curved with that deeper understanding only a mother possessed. “Indeed, so it seems. Now go up and have your bath, and you would be wise to take a nap. Mary and I will be out for luncheon, but we’ll be back to see you off this afternoon.”
After quitting the back parlor, James paused in the front hall, then glanced at the butler, Hudson. “Have you heard whether the groom caught Miss Cynster’s mare?”
“Yes, sir. Gibbs caught up with the beast on the other side of Grosvenor Square, when some carriages blocked it in.”
“So the animal’s back in the stables?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“And where might your master’s stables be?”
Directed to the mews, James found the stables easily enough. The stableman, an older, experienced man, was walking the black mare, now perfectly placid again, on the cobbles before the stable doors, studying the horse’s finely shaped black legs, no doubt checking for any wounds.
Hands in his pockets, James walked up and halted beside the man. “Good morning. Hudson told me where to find you. I was riding with Miss Cynster this morning—I’m a friend of Mr. Simon Cynster.”
“Oh, aye.” The stableman regarded him. “You’re the one who saved our lassie.” He nodded respectfully. “You have our thanks and more besides, sir. Miss Henrietta’s a game rider, but from what Gibbs—her groom—said, she’d never have been able to rein in Marie here.”
“Indeed. Miss Cynster told me the horse came from her cousin Demon’s stable. And that, I admit, makes me curious.” James tipped his head toward the horse. “Marie here was perfectly placid earlier, all the way until she screamed and reared, and I can’t imagine Demon Cynster allowing any of his female cousins to possess a horse with an uncertain temper, or any other susceptibility that might result in what I saw this morning.”
“No, indeed.” The stableman’s face darkened. “You’re right there, but it’s no wonder that Marie screamed as she did.” Moving to the horse’s rump, the stableman lifted a corner of the blanket currently draped over Marie’s back. “Just look at what some bastard did to her.”
James looked at where the man pointed. A small wound was still seeping blood. It took him an instant to realize what it meant. “A dart?”
Straightening, he looked incredulously at the stableman, who nodded grimly. “Aye—that’s my guess. Some idiot boy out for a lark, I suppose—throw the dart and watch the fine lady flying off her horse.” The stableman snorted. “If me or my boys could lay hands on the blighter, he wouldn’t be smiling.”
“No, indeed.” But they’d have to get in line. James quashed the sudden impulse to violence, and nodded at the stableman. “Thank you for showing me—I thought it must have been something like that.”
They parted with goodwill and good wishes all around.
James walked slowly back up the mews, lips twisting as he wondered . . . but there was no reason to suppose that the dart had been aimed specifically at Henrietta’s horse, and not, as the stableman assumed, simply at the horse of some fine lady.
Chapter Seven
James left London early in the afternoon. Driving his curricle, he reached Ellsmere Grange in good time. After greeting his
hosts, Lord and Lady Ellsmere, friends of his parents, and being shown to his room, he descended to the drawing room to lounge and chat with the other guests who had already assembled.
Miss Violet Ellsmere, the daughter of the house, had recently become engaged to Viscount Channing. James and Channing had known each other for years; James duly ribbed Channing over his soon-to-be lost freedom, which, James noted, Channing bore with the smugness of a well-satisfied cat.
Which only made James all the more restless as he prowled the gathering while constantly keeping one eye on the forecourt.
Finally, a black carriage rolled up the drive—the right black carriage; James recognized the Cynsters’ coachman. By the time the coach rocked to a halt on the fine gravel of the forecourt, James was stepping off the porch, waving the footman back as he reached for the carriage door.