Chapter Six

With an inward sigh, Christian extended his arm to the elderly duchess. “Your Grace, how lucky I am to escort you into dinner tonight.”

“You’ve escorted me every other night, Amstead.” The Duchess of Claremore raised her lorgnette to her sharp blue eye and peered at him for a long moment. She shook her head from side to side. “Yet, you don’t appear to truly grasp what an honor it is.”

The old tabby delighted in tormenting him. “Come now, Duchess. You know how much I enjoy your witty remarks and pointed jabs.”

“Not enough, apparently.” She slipped her thin arm through his and allowed him to lead her into the dining room. “If you were around more during the day, I’m sure I could provide you ample examples of my cutting wit.”

“Are you accusing me of being a neglectful host?”

The duchess patted his hand. “I’m too well-bred for that.” At his scoff, her lips twitched. “I would feel neglected if I were unaware of how much you have pulling at your attention.” She slid a sly glance at Regina, who was seated farther down the table. “I hope all your guests have been as understanding.”

He thought back to his ride with the countess earlier that day. He’d shown her the wildflower meadow on the east side of the estate, as well as the expanse of the home wood, before she’d asked to return to the paddock. And once there, she’d pulled his head down for a deep kiss, making it abundantly clear that she expected him to join her in her chambers for an afternoon romp.

She’d been livid when he’d declined. He used to be amused by her piques, but now, with so much on the line, her anger made him…uneasy.

“Not everyone is a paragon of virtue like you, Duchess,” he said, flashing her a genuine smile.

“You rogue,” she said, swatting his arm.

Taking his seat at the head of the table, he allowed a footman to place a napkin on his lap and pour him a glass of claret. He surveyed the guests aligned before him as he took a sip. His secretary had invited a swath of London society, from the Duke and Duchess of Claremore to a shipping magnate. Every person he had invited had accepted, with the exception of one—the Marquess of Inverray, an old friend from his days at university, could not miss several important committee meetings and had sent his regrets.

Christian didn’t entertain often—or ever—but when he did, his staff made him proud. Tonight, the dining room showed to perfection. The beams some long-ago ancestor had installed to crisscross the length of the ceiling were highlighted by the glow of a hundred candles from the large chandelier that had been polished to a mirror shine. The rich gold-brocade drapes that bracketed every window reflected the candlelight and created an intimate yet lavish space. The footmen who bustled about the table were polite and unobtrusive, and the food and beverages appeared as if by magic.

Yes, he was proud of his staff. He almost considered the possibility of entertaining more often—until he remembered how much it pulled him from the activity on the practice track. If he was with his guests, he thought of Asad and the parts of his regimen he was missing. If he was on the track, he stressed about his guests and whether his absence would be taken as an insult.

Which was why the Duchess of Claremore’s words nagged at his conscience.

Dipping his head, he said, “Would you be interested in touring the stables, Your Grace? I know Claremore has already toured the operation, but you haven’t. I would be very happy to show you what I’m up to when I’m not engaging in our verbal sparring matches.”

The folds of the older woman’s face softened, along with her eyes. “I’d enjoy that.”

“I’m glad.” He shrugged as he picked up his soup spoon. “It’s the least I can do for a woman who’s not long for this world.”

A strangled sound met his ears, but when he glanced at her, the duchess appeared nonplussed. “How gracious you are, my boy. I do hope you take care when you’re seeing to your cattle. I’ve heard it’s quite easy for young dunderheads to experience a fall or mishap.” She reached for her glass of wine. “Not that anyone would accuse you of being a dunderhead, of course.”

Christian snorted. “Of course not.”

…

“Amstead has brought an observer to this morning’s session,” Mr. Mubarak shared as he met Flora at the gate to the track. Taking the stallion’s reins from her, he whispered, “Some old bird. A duchess apparently.”

Flora went still. A duchess? There were only so many duchesses in England, and one was her sister and another her best friend. She grew lightheaded as she considered who it could be.

Realizing that the training manager awaited a response from her, she nodded. She may have even offered a semblance of a smile. “Do you suppose she’ll offer his lordship training tips?”

The older man flashed slightly crooked teeth. “You tell me, ya bintee. It seems like something an elderly noblewoman would do, but you’d know better than me.”

Her heart lurched. “There aren’t many duchesses in Scotland.”

Mr. Mubarak paused, his brown gaze sharp as it roved over her face. “Come now. Am I expected to believe your family are peasants?” A deep groove marred his brow. “Peasant isn’t the right word. Village folk? Crofters? Is that it?”

A reluctant smile threatened her composure at the thoroughly confused look on his face. “Both are appropriate.”

He nodded. “Yes, well, you may apply whichever term you prefer because your family is neither, I’d wager.”

“Why do you say that?” She hoped her voice sounded indifferent, because she could not hear it over the roaring of her heart.

“Because, you—”

“Is Asad ready?” Lord Amstead called, his tone barbed.

Without another word, Mr. Mubarak led the stallion away, leaving Flora to contemplate what he’d been about to say.

“What a striking horse,” a raspy woman said, and something about her tone made the hairs stand up on her arm. Flora knew that voice.

With an Asad-sized lump in her throat, she slowly peeked around the corner of the paddock.

The Duchess of Claremore.

The old woman was a dragon amongst the ton and had dined at Campbell House on more than one occasion. Flora grasped the post for support. Her disguise had convinced Lord Amstead, Mr. Mubarak, and the other employees at the Gardens, but she was not certain the duchess would be so easily fooled.

Her mind raced.

Perhaps she could direct Carson to take her training duties for the day, but just the thought of appealing to the man made her grit her teeth so hard her jaw cried out in pain. Carson did not deserve to be anywhere near Asad.

She could feign illness. A sudden headache. Or a stomach ailment. Flora nibbled on her lip as she considered which excuse was more plausible.

“Where’s Mr. Grant?” She heard Lord Amstead ask, and a cold chill raced down her spine.

“I thought he was right behind me,” Mr. Mubarak said, as he stepped around the corner. Finding Flora standing there, he pulled up short. “Is something wrong?”

As her mind scrambled for an excuse to avoid the lesson, she found she could not look at him. Fixing her gaze on a point over his shoulder, she blurted, “I feel ill.”

“You feel ill?” Doubt flavored the words. “What’s wrong?”

“I”—she licked her lips—“feel a sudden headache. I get them occasionally.”

“I do not recall you experiencing one since you’ve been working for me.”

“No, I’ve been spared the discomfort.”

He didn’t move, and curiosity had her look at him. His arms crossed over his chest, he studied her with an unreadable expression. “Are you worried she will recognize you?”

Her mouth gaped before she closed it with a snap. “I beg your pardon.”

“You’re worried the duchess will recognize you, are you not?”

She shook her head in denial, but the gleam in the Egyptian man’s eyes told her he would not be deceived. “I am.”

“So you know her?”

“I’ve met her several times, yes.”

Mr. Mubarak considered this before he pointed a finger at her. “And if she recognizes you? What then?”

“I would be ruined.” She sucked in a breath. “The Gardens could be ruined.”

“We can’t have that.” He turned away without another word.

Flora covered her face with her hands, despair falling down on her like crushing rocks. After all her hard work, she should have known her career in horse racing would end in such a way. Juliana had tried to warn her, but she’d thought she knew better. She’d thought she could succeed.

She’d been such a fool.

Lord Amstead’s impatient voice reached her. “I see Mr. Grant is still not here.”

“A groom just informed us that Kadar is pacing his stall and appears agitated. William offered to check on him. We don’t want him to injure himself again.” Mr. Mubarak laughed. “You know how good he is at calming horses. He intended to send David to ride Asad for now.”

Clutching the post, Flora sent up a prayer of thanks. Mr. Mubarak could have easily destroyed her budding career. Instead, he had thrown it a lifeline.

With gratitude blooming in her chest, she darted toward the manor house in search of the bootblack.

…

Propping his boots on the hay bale in front him, Christian crossed his ankles and then his arms behind his head as he leaned back. After he had bathed and groomed Loki, he’d dragged a chair into his stall and relaxed. When he had served in His Majesty’s cavalry fighting old Boney as a naive eighteen-year-old hungry for adventure and glory, he’d fallen into the habit of sleeping near his horse. With the echoes of muskets in the distance, and the wails and whimpers of the injured and dying all around him, he’d sought refuge with his gelding. Loki was a tangible piece of home. Thankfully, his service had been short, but he still sought out Loki’s calming presence whenever he was agitated or stressed.

The practice session with the Duchess of Claremore had gone well. William’s unexpected absence had concerned him, especially when he’d learned Kadar had been the cause, but David had done a surprisingly decent job on Asad. The stallion seemed to enjoy him as well, clocking his best time yet, even with several faulty breaks.

After he’d seen the duchess back to the manor, he’d had to contend with an unexpected visit from Regina. After promising to partner her at whist that night after dinner, Christian headed directly to the north barn to check on Kadar, an uneasy lump in his throat. He found him relaxed and enjoying a rubdown from William. Seeing the stallion so calm had eased many of his worries.

So why had he sought out Loki?

After wracking his brain for at least twenty minutes, he decided that the only plausible explanation for his increased anxiety was Cedric. His worry about Asad’s success in the Guineas, Kadar’s recovery, and the state of the Gardens had become constant stressors. There was never a time such burdens were not following him about, like a persistent storm cloud prepared to dampen any happy spirits.

Such tumultuous thoughts had allowed him to push Cedric to the recesses of his mind. He’d already lost his father, and surviving his tragic death had required all his willpower. But Cedric’s abandonment had robbed him of his soul. Who else could understand everything the Gardens had meant to the late marquess? Who else could grieve for him while still cursing the circumstances of his death and Christian’s own foolhardy hand in it?

He scrubbed a weary hand down his face. His brother was supposed to be here to help him restore glory to the Andrews name. To help Amstead Gardens find success once again. Instead, he was pursuing silly whims on the Continent, and it made him want to scream.

Still, he missed his brother. Christ, did he ever long for Cedric’s irreverent sense of humor. His innate kindness. The way he could look at an ordinary wildflower, or a summer sky filled with white clouds, or a brood of freshly hatched chicks, and be filled with awe. And wonder.

What Christian wouldn’t give to be reminded that simple miracles were occurring around him every day.

Loki had long since fallen asleep, but Christian did not move. In so many ways, he felt more at home here amongst the hay and scents of horses and earth than he had ever felt in the manor house’s well-appointed drawing rooms. Still, he had guests to entertain. He’d neglected them horribly.

A soft noise, much like a hum, drew his head around. Rising to his feet, he quietly exited Loki’s stall and paced down the walk until he arrived outside Asad’s door. He’d seen the beast grazing in the west pasture a half hour before, but he’d apparently been brought in for the night. Peering over the half door, he spied William running stiff brush over Asad’s back, humming that now familiar melody.

He propped his elbows on the ledge. “Thank you for seeing to Kadar.”

The lad jumped, causing Asad’s ears to press back.

“My apologies.”

“Nonsense, my lord.” William patted the stallion on his flank until he huffed loudly and lowered his great head. “You should be allowed to enter wherever you want within these stable walls. I simply didn’t hear you approach.”

“Obviously not.” Watching the young man’s movements, he recalled something he had said the day they had discussed running his mare against Asad. “If your family disapproves of your interest in horse racing, what would they have you do instead?”

William remained silent, the soft whisper of the brush against Asad’s coat and the muffled sounds of the paddock’s other inhabitants the only sounds. The lad’s shoulders abruptly sank. “Does it matter? It’s not what I want to do.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

Glancing over his shoulder, William raised his brows. “And you, my lord? Amstead Gardens has a storied racing history, but that does not mean you were keen on following the family tradition. Are you here because you want to be or because you have to be?”

That the lad understood the difference made him smile, and he found himself answering truthfully. “A little of both. I’m happiest when I am here amongst the scents and sounds and sights of the paddocks. But…I had not anticipated bearing the business responsibility of the enterprise so soon. I find myself second-guessing every decision I make regarding financial matters, worried that one misstep on my part will undo any progress we’ve made to rebuild after the fire.”

“You have a great responsibility, my lord. But from my perspective, narrow as it is, you seem more than up to the task.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because you’re here talking to me, when you could be in the manor house speaking with your elevated guests.”

Christian rubbed a hand across his mouth to hide his smile. “Yes, well, sometimes I find it difficult to navigate between my different roles. After spending the day amongst my horses, it can be challenging to slip into my role as a marquess.”

“I can understand why.” William snorted. “One moment you’re dealing with a thrown shoe or a two-year-old engaging in a fit on the track, and the next you have to calm a duchess incensed over a breach of protocol.”

“I’d rather deal with the two-year-old,” he grumbled.

“So would I,” William agreed with a quirk of his mouth.

As they exchanged commiserating smiles, Christian pondered William’s words. How could he have had dealings with a duchess? And if he had, what did such a revelation say about him? He thought it time to acquire an investigator to discover just exactly who young William actually was.