Chapter Ten
The day had dawned overcast and gloomy. The breeze from the previous day had preceded a violent wind ushering in thunderstorms that had kept Flora in the stables calming skittish horses for most of the night. With exhaustion threatening to pull her into welcome unconsciousness, she forced herself from the warmth of her bed and to the stables.
As she slipped out of the building, she replayed her encounter with the marquess the day before. Her behavior made her cringe. He might have deserved every word she threw at him, but she was a lady, and she could have told him to go to hell in a more…ladylike fashion.
If she still had a job, she would endeavor to work on that declaration for next time, for with Lord Amstead, there would be a next time.
“Do you feel better now that you have rung a peal over his lordship’s head?
Dropping the hoof she had been inspecting, Flora scowled. “I did no such thing.”
“That is poppycock.”
Flora slowly smiled. “My, your grasp of the English language has grown.”
The older man nodded hesitantly. “I used it correctly, yes?”
Her mouth formed the word yes, but she just managed to stop herself from uttering it. “It depends on how you intended to use it.”
“I meant it as an expletive,” Mr. Mubarak said with a grin.
She tapped her chin. “Poppycock is more of an exclamation. Blimey is more of an expletive.”
The older man stared at her. “Are you quite done with your critique?”
“For now I am,” she said, turning back to her work.
“You have never been overly dramatic and missish. I do not expect you to start now.
Her mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to say, “I apologize. Such behavior was beneath me.”
“I never would have expected such antics from William Grant. I would think you’d continue to be respectful and quiet, considering his lordship knows your true identity.” Mr. Mubarak shook his head. “Why are you not acting like yourself?”
“But I am acting like myself.” She leaned her head against the horse’s thigh. “Now that the facade has been lifted away, it’s almost as if my true self has been released and is prepared to say all the things I couldn’t say as William Grant.”
“I would think Flora Grant would be just as cautious.”
She snorted. “You will quickly learn how much of a featherbrain Flora can be.”
“I would never call you a featherbrain.” The firmness of his proclamation drew her head up. “Perhaps I would remark on your sharp tongue, but then, if anyone was in need of a garment strip, it’s Lord Amstead.”
Flora’s brows knit together. “Garment strip?”
The Egyptian man frowned. “Did I say that wrong?”
“I assume so.” Although her mind whispered how nice it would be to see the marquess free of his clothes.
“How do you say he deserves a scolding?”
Considering for a moment, she finally barked a laugh. “Dressing down!”
“Yes, that.” Mr. Mubarak pulled on his waistcoat. “Amstead may deserve a dressing down, but it is not for you to do it. His lordship is managing circumstances you do not understand, and when you scold him in such a fashion, however deserved, it only reflects poorly on you…and me.”
Flora sobered. What a fool she had been not to have thought of how her behavior would reflect on her superior. Mr. Mubarak had been kind and fair with her. She owed him more respect than she had shown him.
Nibbling her lip, she said, “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I am very much aware of how privileged I am to work with you and Lord Amstead. I will try harder to curb my natural impulses.”
He did not answer and Flora returned to her examination of the chestnut colt’s hooves, but her mind was miles away. She mentally chewed on Mr. Mubarak’s words, her cheeks growing hot in shame.
“Come dine with my family.”
Her head snapped up. “Truly? You’ve never invited me to dine with you before.”
“I haven’t?” He tugged on his ear. “How unlike me. I am usually quite benevolent.”
His words brought forth a fresh round of recriminations. “You’ve been more than gracious.”
“Now you’re doing it up much too brown,” Mr. Mubarak grumbled, even as his gaze softened.
Slapping a hand to her mouth in mock shock, she said, “My, sir, I am impressed. You used the term perfectly.”
He puffed out his chest. “I’m impressive in many things. After working with me for the last several months, you should know this already.”
Unable to contain it, she chuckled. “I have always been a bit slow.”
“I highly doubt that, ya bintee,” he said with uncharacteristic seriousness.
Fidgeting awkwardly for a moment, she finally said, “If your invitation is sincere, I would be honored to join your family for supper.”
“And why wouldn’t my invitation be sincere?” he demanded, his hands on his hips.
Pressing her lips together, she thought it best to ignore the question. “I will be there.”
Flora watched him go until she called, “Mr. Mubarak?”
He pivoted, his eyebrows raised in a question.
“Thank you,” she said, although she was not certain he heard her.
But his familiar, sunny grin told her he had.
…
Stars twinkled bright across the expanse of dark Suffolk sky, and Flora stumbled to a halt to simply admire the beauty on display above her. As a child in the Highlands, she had loved to stretch out on the banks of the nearby Loch Kilmorow with her father and siblings, and watch for shooting stars or mirrie dancers, delighting in the antics of the night sky. But as she grew older, she found she no longer had time for such fanciful diversions.
Yet, after an enjoyable dinner spent with friends, she was in a fanciful mood. So Flora paused in her walk back to her quarters from Mr. Mubarak’s cottage and looked up. She studied the map of stars above her as her mind replayed her dinner with the Mubarak family. They had charmed her with their easy banter and welcoming friendliness. The hours she had spent with them eating, laughing, and swapping stories on everything from horse racing to sea voyages had been interesting and engaging. She hoped they would invite her to return soon.
An odd sight in the barn snagged her attention. Light filtered from Banrigh’s stable into the small outer courtyard. Her breath caught. Someone was in her mare’s stable. But why?
Flora prowled into the stables, yanking a whip off the wall as she passed the tack room and dragging the thick piece of leather behind her as she advanced toward Banrigh’s stable. When she arrived outside the doorframe, she flicked her wrist, ready to strike any intruder intent on harming her friend.
As her eyes took in the sight before her, Flora’s hand grew slack until the whip slipped from her fingers altogether. Lord Amstead sat propped on a stool he’d nestled amongst the straw, Banrigh’s black head hovering over his shoulder as she happily munched on slices of apples he cut from the fruit in his hand. They looked like old friends enjoying a peaceful moment together, and her heart lurched to see her temperamental mare so relaxed with the marquess.
“Your lass has been quite impatient for your arrival, and I have almost run out of apples.”
Flora shifted on her feet, suddenly feeling nervous. “I did not expect to find you here, my lord.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. But then, I’ve always had a weak spot for pretty ladies.”
She rolled her eyes when Banrigh nuzzled his cheek.
“You’ve obviously found the way to her heart.” She tsked at her horse. “At the first sight of an apple or pear, she loses all her fierceness.”
“We all have our weaknesses,” he mumbled, patting Banrigh on her neck. He considered Flora, a pucker between his brows. “Mine is relying too heavily on my instincts and not on logic.”
“Mine is speaking without forethought or care for the consequences.”
Lord Amstead pressed his lips together. “A flaw I find terribly surprising, considering how circumspect William was in all things.”
“Yes, well, being William took a great deal of effort”—Flora tugged on her waistcoat—“and I don’t just mean the disguise.”
“I’m sure not.” He studied her thoughtfully. “What do you hope to gain here?”
She ran her gloved hands along the top of the half door and avoided his gaze. “Knowledge. Experience. Amstead Gardens has a storied history, and yet you, my lord, have managed to make a name for yourself as a horseman amongst horsemen.” She swallowed. “I hope to own my own stud farm one day, and I was keen on learning from the very best.”
After a long pause, the marquess chuckled. “My. If you are trying to turn my head, you have succeeded.”
Flora scoffed. “I’m sure you require no flattery, my lord.”
He smiled at that, his body relaxed.
Leaning her shoulder against the frame, she considered him with her mount. “You know, the only people Banrigh has ever truly been comfortable with are my siblings.”
“And the only person who has never been comfortable around my horses is my sibling.”
“Truly?” Flora frowned. “From the talk I have heard, Lord Cedric was always a favorite about the stables.”
“Oh, Cedric was well-liked amongst the staff and equine residents alike.” Amstead rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has a quick smile and easy laugh. It’s impossible not to like him. But that did not mean he liked or enjoyed the family business.”
Every word he uttered was heavy with the things he did not say, and more unvoiced emotions lurked in the shuttered expression in his eyes. Flora could not help but push him…just a bit. “Is that why he is not here now?”
“Yes,” the marquess replied succinctly. “At the first chance he had, he ran off to the Continent to study his precious painting. Or drawing. Or whatever nonsense he always found more fascinating than assisting in the stable yard.”
While she sympathized with Lord Amstead, Flora also understood the drive, the need, to indulge one’s passions. It sounded as if art was Lord Cedric’s passion. “Perhaps Lord Cedric was not so much escaping as he was exploring. Tell me, my lord, did your late father view Lord Cedric’s art in the same manner you do?”
“Do you mean did my father view it as a frivolous waste of time?” Lord Amstead arched a brow. “Indeed he did, because it is.”
“But it’s obviously not a waste of time to Lord Cedric. It must have been of importance for him to leave you with so much responsibility.”
“It’s not just a responsibility. It’s our family’s legacy. I thought that mattered to him.” The marquess slashed a hand through the air. “I don’t want to discuss my blasted brother anymore. All that matters is that he left me to pursue selfish ventures.”
There was obviously a great deal of bitterness and tension between the Andrews brothers, and she did not want to upset the marquess by prying too much. She knew all too well about contentious brotherly relationships.
“And you, Flora? How is it that your family is not concerned about you, a young woman of means, working on the estate of a bachelor lord?”
She blinked as she took in the hint of suspicion tightening the corners of his eyes. He had called her a young woman of means, and while she had accounted for many things when she disguised herself as a lad to work at Amstead Gardens, she had not taken into consideration many others. Like what Banrigh’s presence said about her status. Like the fact she had just confessed to her desire to own her own stud farm. These were not things so easily attained.
So why had she stayed?
It seemed the height of foolishness to remain at Amstead Gardens after the marquess had confronted her with his knowledge of her secret. If her true identity were exposed, her ruination would be the less severe casualty.
And then she thought of Asad and the exhilaration she felt watching him race around the course. She wanted so desperately to see him compete in the Guineas. Flora just had to make sure to behave and avoid any possible predicaments for the next month.
Licking her lips, she debated what to say. “They are…wary. They have been kind enough to allow me the space to pursue my education under your tutelage, but they are worried over my safety. I write to them weekly to assure them of my health and wellbeing.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his mouth a slash of displeasure. “They have a right to be worried about your safety. Horse training is a dangerous sport.”
“As I am well aware.” Flora shrugged, striving for blitheness. “I have grown up in the stables. Was seated on my first pony before I was a two-year-old lass. I assure you, my family has long known such dangers do not frighten me.”
“What does frighten you?” he asked.
“Living a life someone else has chosen for me.”
…
Christian stood as still as a hare in the path of a fox in the corner of the ballroom as his guests chattered, laughed, and waltzed around him. He discreetly tried to adjust the fit of his tail coat, which was cinched inordinately tight at the waist. His valet informed him the fit was fashionable, but he’d never given a damn about what was fashionable. The sooner he could bid adieu to his guests and focus on Asad’s training, the better.
It was the last day of the blasted house party, and his freedom was within sight. He found he could not wait to wave the carriages goodbye. Agreeing to host the infernal gathering had been well intentioned, but the execution had whittled down his nerves. There was a reason he eschewed the Season, traveling to London only when it was necessary, and then attending society events when his investors invited him, or his secretary deemed his attendance financially beneficial.
Christian allowed his eyes to dance about the crowd. All the predictable folks were present. The local gentry, vicar, and magistrate. Even those well-born families who spent their summer sojourns in Suffolk were there, and he was relieved to see them. He might be a recluse of a neighbor, more intent on the output of his stables than on his social duties to the surrounding neighborhood, but he threw a good party. He had spared no expense and was determined his guests would remember Amstead Gardens with a sense of wonderment.
His gaze snagged on Regina, resplendent in crimson and gold as she twirled about the dance floor with a gentleman he did not recognize. Christian had probably been introduced to him, but his face sparked no memory. He took a sip of brandy as he considered the countess over the rim of his glass.
When he’d first met her at a small gathering at the Earl of Belling’s home, he’d been instantly intrigued with the blonde beauty. Their affair had begun soon after, but it did not take him long to realize that Regina had been searching not for a new lover, but for a new husband. And that he could not be for her. With his many responsibilities to Amstead Gardens and the marquessate, there was no room for a wife. And with a younger, healthy brother as his heir, the urge to secure the succession was non-existent.
Or so he had thought until Cecil had fled, vowing never to return.
Grunting, he blinked back to the present. Regina continued to twirl about in her dance partner’s arms, her head positioned at just the right angle to showcase her long neck and elegant profile. Angling her chin toward him, she met his gaze, and he glimpsed just a hint of frustration in her blue eyes. She had done her best to secure his attention over the last week, from showing up outside his chambers late at night to draping herself across the back of his chair during evening entertainments—and even ‘accidentally’ locking them in the tack room. Thankfully, young David had been nearby to save him from that mishap. Each of her machinations had been laced with a bit of desperation, and Christian could not comprehend it. He had always been honest with her and saw no point in encouraging her to believe a future between them was possible.
With a polite nod, he turned away.
To invite members of the ton to Amstead Gardens for a fortnight so soon after his extended absence, and then to expect he could entertain them whilst still participating in the intense training schedule was madness. Still, despite his lackluster attention and frequent absences, five gentlemen had committed their coin to Asad and the Gardens.
Five investors out of twenty-six. He shook his head in disgust. The number was woefully low… If Flora were here, she could tell him the exact percentage. The thought of her threatened to pull his thoughts down inconvenient paths, like replaying their discussion from earlier in the evening.
He had received a letter from his investigator just that morning indicating that he had found no evidence of a Flora Grant in Strathspey or in the surrounding Scottish villages. As a result, Christian had decided to wait for her in Banrigh’s stall to question her further, but their conversation had proceeded in a manner he had not anticipated. He’d shared thoughts about Cedric he had not intended, and then—
The footman returned with his snifter of brandy. He immediately sipped a gulp to burn away his thoughts of her. Now was not the time to consider the paradox that was his assistant trainer.
Patting his mouth with a linen napkin, he recalled another letter that had arrived in the morning’s post. The folded parchment was tucked in his front coat pocket even now.
Despite the number of years they had known each other, and the innumerable larks they had engaged in during their time at university, Christian had not been confident in Inverray’s support. Receiving his letter had been much sweeter as a result.
“I have never seen a young man grow bored with his lover as fast as you grew bored with Lady Hightower.”
With a start, Christian met the Duchess of Claremore’s pert gaze. “Your Grace. I find myself caught unawares.”
“I’m sure that happens to you often.” The duchess pressed her lips together as she looked to the dance floor. “I hope you know it’s in your interests to keep an eye on Lady Hightower. She’s always had aspirations far above her station.”
Abruptly, Christian realized the room was stifling. Surely the footmen should be opening the windows at any moment?
As he considered how to respond, she waved an impatient hand. “I’d like to speak with your trainer. Where is she?”
Dread instantly turned his bones to ice. “She, Your Grace?”
The elderly woman scoffed. “Obviously I meant he. The Egyptian gentleman. Mr. Mubarak, if I recall.” She tapped his arm with her fan. “But can you imagine how grand it would be if a woman took it upon herself to train thoroughbreds?”
Looping the duchess’s arm around his, Christian escorted her to the refreshment table. “It would be grand, indeed. Everyone knows a racehorse requires fire, grace, and determination. Surely only a woman could teach a yearling such things.”
The duchess looked at him, the slight curve to the corner of her mouth betraying her amusement. “Surely.”
“Would you be free to meet with Mr. Mubarak after breakfast?”
She halted, forcing him to stop as well. Her eyes were owlish. “Why can’t I meet him now?”
“Because I’m certain he is with his family at this time, and I do not wish to pull him away.” Christian strived for a patient tone when he was beginning to feel anything but.
The old tabby flipped open her silk fan. He was certain she wanted to snap her fingers in impatience. “Yes, but now is convenient for me. His Grace and I are very interested in signing on as investors, but I have several questions to ask of him before the duke signs your agreement.”
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. If the Duke of Claremore signed on as an investor, that would go leaps and bounds toward encouraging other patrons to invest as well. And everyone knew the older duke did not act without his wife’s approval. And here she stood before him, her gaze sharp. He easily glimpsed her unspoken message in her eyes. Do you want our support or not, you foolish boy?
Oh, he did. But…some agreements were better left negotiated during the light of day. When all members involved were awake and ready to take part.
Smoothing a hand down his lapels, he inclined his head. “I would be delighted—”
“And relieved,” she interjected.
“And relieved,” he admitted with a smile, “if I could count you and His Grace amongst my investors. Asad is a talented horse and I knew you would recognize his potential.”
“Get to the ‘but’ lad,” Her Grace said, waving her hand. “I haven’t got a lifetime to spend waiting for you to get to the point.”
He pressed his lips together to contain a laugh. “But now is not convenient for Mr. Mubarak. My training staff is not available at”—he glanced at the timepiece he fished out of his pocket—“eleven thirty at night for discussions about Asad or his training regimen. Which is why I would be more than happy to arrange a time for you to meet with him tomorrow.”
The duchess stared at him and before he could fidget under the weight of her condemnation, a footman walked by. Motioning him over with a nod of the head, he said, “Please bring Her Grace a glass of ratafia.”
An inelegant noise greeted his words. “Ratafia?” She enunciated the four syllables with disgust. “At this moment I think it only fitting for you to bring me a glass of the spirits you’re partaking of.”
“You drink brandy, Your Grace?”
“Do you honestly think I drink that sticky sweet nonsense, or worst, the watered-down lemonade served at every ball? I’m too old to waste my time with such insipid beverages.”
The exasperated look on her face made him chuckle. Addressing the footman, he said, “Please bring the duchess a glass of the 1812 bottle I keep in my study. Her Grace deserves only the best I can offer her.”
“I’m glad you have finally realized how to treat your guests.” She sniffed.
Unease soured his stomach. “Have I been an inattentive host, Your Grace?”
She idly fanned her face as she studied the guests milling about them. “Hush, Amstead. All your guests knew you to be a horse trainer, so it came as no surprise that you shunned silly parlor games in favor of being in your stables.”
He pressed his fingers to his temple. “Is it wrong to admit that I’m thankful this party is over?”
“Of course not.” Her pert nose wrinkled as if she had smelled day-old fish. “The older I get, the more I realize that I’m surrounded by idiots on any given day. You apparently realized this long before I did. I suppose you have an old soul.”
“Or very few social graces.”
She grabbed his arm. “Have your Mr. Mubarak prepared to meet with me at eleven o’clock.”
Unable to resist, he smirked. “Are you sure you’ll be fully recovered from these festivities with only twelve hours of sleep? Surely you require a longer respite in your coffin.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Although her mouth remained a slash of displeasure, her eyes sparkled. “But I suppose you do not have much of a choice.”
Christian’s hearty laugh caused heads to turn throughout the ballroom, but he ignored the attention. When the footman returned with the brandy, he said, “I should have asked him to bring you two glasses. Women of your age have trouble sleeping, I’ve heard, and surely you could benefit from any aids available.”
“Such impertinence,” she growled. Her face suddenly brightened, and she turned to the footman. “Young man, send the remainder of the bottle up to my room.”
Christian bowed. “It’s the least I can do for depriving you of the meeting you desired.”
“The very least.” Her Grace tapped her fan against her chin. “In truth, I find I am relieved you refused to disturb your trainer at this late hour. It tells me that you respect those who work for you and recognize they are people first and not merely servants.”
His brows disappeared into his hairline. Never would he have thought that the Duchess of Claremore would commend him for his treatment of his employees—but then, he had always known not to underestimate the old dragon.
“I look forward to watching your Asad race down the track one more time.”
“Of course,” Christian said, a little too enthusiastically.
The duchess nodded. “Now be a dear and tell the duke I’m retiring for the night. And do let him know that if he hurries, he can share a delicious nightcap with me.”
“Consider it done.” He chuckled under his breath as she walked away.