28

 

Justain steadied his mount, the satin Derbudon, the silver Le Perche of the duke’s stables. He firmed his seat, and they jumped a fence, sailing over the high wall as easily as a breeze traversing the moors.

Yet, the speed couldn’t speak to his troubles. For the past three days, he got little sleep in Madeline’s room. The conscience he had believed he left gathering mould in the wine cellar of Trenchard had found its way to Hampshire, making him on edge, second guessing his actions.

At last night’s family dinner, between the duchess’s taunting him over the tragedies befallen his family and the duke’s bluster of his Spanish connections, Justain longed to be back at war.

At least the last of Mr. Kent’s belongings were gone. Miss Regent found bags of Dover pills. Opium drugs were the rage of the Ton. Mother had fallen victim to them. Justain wanted to punch someone. Kent had to be addicted to those things to think he could run amuck at Avington.

Justain loosened his tight grip on Derbudon’s reigns. Hard to become a better man when the past kept washing his face.

Jonathan’s crumbled note, the harbinger of bad news, smouldered in Justain’s breast pocket. “My world has become an asylum.” He pointed Derbudon past the woods behind St. Mary’s church and to the stables.

Like the main house, the stables were a work of grandeur. Constructed of the finest cedars and millwork, the building would house at least sixteen horses. The thick thatch roof could provide a haven for Wellesley’s corps. The storage area in the back contained enough barley and oats to feed the King’s mounts. Like Justain’s stables at Trenchard, this place remained tranquil, far from the commotion of his in-laws.

Derbudon slowed to a trot.

Justain bounded down and opened the iron-framed door. With all the duke’s groomsmen on patrol, he had to secure the Le Perche himself. It was a task he didn’t mind.

He led the stallion to its pen and brushed his silver coat. Mud plastered the horse’s legs. Muck covered Justain’s trousers. He’d need brushing out as well. At least riding brought him joy. Without drowning in brandy, Justain needed something to keep from exploding. He unfolded the parchment, held it up to the light, and read the horrid scratch again.

My Lord,

No signs of Barrow have been found. I ordered the groomsmen to be more vigilant and sent warnings to the tenants and the orphanage. The Duke of Dorset is asking we report our movements but seems to have no true interest in helping.

Roderick tracked rumours from the Severn Gorge to Hampshire, but it proved fruitless. He’s returning to Devon to join the hunt for Barrow.

Trenchard looks well. The painting is nearly complete. Furnishings will start arriving before the month’s end.

Your servant,

J. Winton.

He stuffed it into his pocket and avoided the urge to rip his steward’s letter to shreds. Gossipmongers were on the hunt. The Ton already alleged Justain’s tactics were heavy-handed. He took a deep, cleansing breath, grabbed his knife, and stabbed a bale of hay, cutting it free. Then, he forked fresh straw into Deburdon’s pen. “Here you go, boy.”

Manual labour would ease his spirits. It reminded him of Mason. Of listening to his driver’s stories as the man worked the stables.

Justain inhaled the perfume, the straw, the lathered horseflesh, the cedar of the pen. It calmed his warrior heart. But the rhythm in his head cried, “Join the fight. Be about the chase.” He leaned the fork against the wall. Death was on the duke’s heels. When her father passed, Justain would need to be here to support Madeline. He sighed.

Deburdon nudged his hand.

“Let’s take another turn about the grounds. What do you think, old boy?”

The stable door banged shut. No one else should be here. The hair on his neck prickled.