Half-past two in the afternoon
Michael moved fromone stall to the next, checking on each of the Kennet horses, a habit he had developed not long after returning home. Although the animals were well-cared for by the grooms of the estate, Michael’s affection for the beasts had been a lifelong draw to the stables, his pockets full of apples, carrots, and lumps of sugar. As a child, he had learned to ride early, constantly begging for more time with the horses. The grooms had indulged him then—and now—even teaching him to ride bareback, to the horror of his mother. Now he supposed they all saw that his time with the animals kept him from sinking back to the bottom of a rum cask, especially after the last two weeks. Here was his escape from chaos, his place of peace.
The Kennet household had been in a frenzy since the day of his brother’s wedding. That night, his mother had collapsed with a hemorrhagic apoplexy, from which she still struggled to recover. Thomas and Rose had canceled their honeymoon trip in order take over the day-to-day management of the estate, and—for some unknown reason—seemed to be at each other’s throats. His brother Robert’s life had imploded, and he had landed in Newgate prison as a result, thrusting the entire family into scandal. The charges had been dismissed, but he’d been badly beaten. Like their mother, Robert had retreated to his bedchamber to heal.
And Michael had, once again, become the invisible child. As the third son—and not the beloved daughter Beth or the troublemaking Robert—Michael’s childhood had been one of solitude and isolation as he demanded less attention from either his parents or tutors. Now, with the focus on his mother’s illness, his injured and disgraced brother, and the chaos surrounding the newlyweds, Michael’s presence at Ashton House had been as prominent as the wallpaper. The stables had become his solace.
Until this morning, when his mother had informed him that it now fell to him to salvage what was left of his sister’s debut season. The next ball was Wednesday, giving him a mere two days to gather himself together enough to escort Beth. An engagement for his sister to the Marquess of Aldermaston loomed. Despite the turmoil within the household, propriety must be maintained. Michael had fled to the stables to fight a growing sense of trepidation and a lingering desire for ale.
The matched team of four blacks always had been his first stop, each receiving a stroke along the nose, a scratch behind the ears, and a snack. Next, the two matched grays that pulled the smaller carriages and the curricle. Robert’s, Beth’s, and Thomas’s personal horses got equal treatment, of course, but his final stop—and the most treats—were saved for Copper, his bay. His beauty. He murmured nonsense noises as the horse pressed against the door of the stall and draped his head over Michael’s shoulder. Michael stroked the long, arched neck, then dug into a pocket for a carrot.
“Are you ready for a ride later?” As much as he despised putting in an appearance in Hyde Park, it would help for Beth to be seen out, and it might even help his own reputation somewhat. He had heard the gossip about why his two brothers had made inroads back into Society, yet he had not. Rumors that swirled with speculation that he had ailments ranging from gout to the pox. None of which he had. So at four this afternoon, they would ride out together.
“I promise you a good stiff run tomorrow. We will go out early.” As Copper munched an apple, Michael heard a rustling in the empty stall behind him, turning just as Rufus, a large orange tabby, leaped onto the top of the stable door, a ball of white fluff in his mouth. “Mousing again, Rufus?”
The cat looked up at him, let out a low growl, and disappeared back down behind the door, fluff and all. That’s when he heard a furious squeal and hiss.
That was not a mouse.
Michael’s curiosity spiked. The cat was a long-time mouser in the stables, and often ate his prey or presented them as a gift to one stable boy or another. He did not hide them. Michael opened the stall door to find the tabby pressed into a corner. Just under the cat’s rear foot, the white fluff squirmed. Michael approached the cat slowly, squatting and brushing away some of the hay until his breath caught.
Behind the orange tabby, one of the prettiest—and tiniest—kittens Michael had ever seen pushed away from Rufus and backed into the wall, bright blue eyes wide with fear. A pristine white coat was broken only by black markings on the ear tips and the very end of the tail. “What do we have here?”
Rufus gave another low growl that ended in a hiss, then moved in front of the kitten.
“Do not worry, mate. I do not intend to take your friend. Where did he come from?”
A piercing shriek rent the air, followed by a harsh and alarmed, “My lady!”
Michael stood and left the stall, latching it behind him. As he headed for the stable door, a boy slid into it, his face frantic. “My lord, you need to come now!” Then he vanished.
Breaking into a run, Michael followed him out and into the alley behind the stables, skidding to a halt at the sight before him. A young woman lay face down in one of the alley’s mud puddles, struggling to push up. Hovering over her, a maid tugged at one of the woman’s arms, fussing, and occasionally snagging one of the long red locks streaming from the woman’s head. Two stable boys stood by, eyes wide, clearly at a loss at what to do.
After one significant tug, the one on the ground pushed the maid back. “Leave off, Radcliff! You are making it worse!”
“Dear God in heaven, my lady! You must get up! People will see!”
Michael moved closer. “May I help?”
The maid shrieked again, stumbling backwards, one hand covering her mouth.
The lady on the ground tried to push up again, but the heel of her hand slipped on the mud, and she floundered again. “Oh, bloody hell!”
Michael looked at the stable boys. “Bring two blankets,” he said to one. To the other, “Fetch Lady Newbury. Now!”
He squatted next to the woman. “Stop struggling. The mud is too slick.”
The woman glared at him. “Mud! The countryside is parched in this heat, and London has mud!”
Michael raked a hand over his mouth to fight a smile. “It’s from where the boys washed out the stalls.”
“Lovely. Mudandmuck. My mother will kill me. This dress may not be new or expensive, but itisone of the few I have.”
Michael’s eyebrows arched. Ladies did not discuss the financial aspects of their wardrobe, especially not with strangers.
“My lady—” the maid began.
“Just hush, Radcliff.”
