CHAPTER NINE
“If I was a witch or the devil’s helper, like they say, I wouldn’t be stuck in here, would I?”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
Laughter echoed from the study so Lucas stuck his head around the open door. He found Stonebridge laughing over an enormous tome.
“What’s so amusing at nine in the morning?”
“Quaggy!”
“Quaggy? Who’s Quaggy? Another one of your neighbours?”
That brought forth another burst of merriment, and Lucas looked sourly at the man. Stone was positively bristling with bonhomie and it made him quite irritable.
“Quaggy is a word. Can you believe it?”
“Never heard of it. What does it mean?”
The man pointed into the large book. “According to Dr Johnson, it means soft, not solid, boggy!” And he dissolved into chuckles again.
It wasn’t that funny, so Lucas just stood and glowered. He watched as Stone wiped a hand over his face and attempted to compose himself, although his eyes still twinkled with mirth.
“I’m sorry,” Stone finally said, “it’s just that Rosalind described something as quaggy and we had a wager. I’ve lost, damn it.”
“You don’t seem worried. What did she describe as quaggy?” That set him off again, and Lucas decided he’d had enough and turned to the door.
“Us…we’re quaggy.”
“Miss Trewent called us soft and boggy?” he enquired.
Stone merely nodded, his mouth barely concealing another smirk.
Lucas wasn’t sure of the circumstance, but he would be having words about anyone calling him soft. “I hope you didn’t lose anything precious in the wager?”
“Hmm. Not really, I like venison. Sorry about Lady Hurst, by the way. She was a late addition to the dinner as she’s staying with the Lincolns. What a shrew.”
“I knew her from London, actually, but no matter. I’ll be at the Lamberts’ this morning, but I hope to talk with you this afternoon.” He watched the expression of amusement abruptly change; it became wary and still. Lucas hadn’t meant it as a question but a statement of intent.
“I cannot help you, Mainwaring.”
“Cannot or will not? There is a murderer out there, and anything or anyone that hinders my investigations is as culpable as the killer…especially if more women are hurt.” He watched Stone’s face pale and hoped he was getting through to the man.
Rosalind contemplated the day ahead over her eggs and tea. It was fairly frosty out again, but she hoped Lucas had taken the suggestion about teaching her to ride seriously. She’d avoided horses for three years, since the disastrous episode with Benedict, but it was curtailing her freedom and she needed to overcome her fear. She loved watching people ride, envying their independence and speed.
It was just that the horses were so big. They moved around when you didn’t want them to, and seemed to have their own mind about wheretheywanted to go.
The lesson with Benedict had started well as she had actually managed to get on the animal, but then he’d told her they’d trot around the field and Ben did. It’s just, well, she and her horse didn’t.
Her mount just ambled along for a while before deciding to munch blackberries in the hedge, and no amount of coaxing or digging in heels made any difference. Indeed, it looked back over its huge shoulder, its big eyes saying, “If you do that again, I’ll buck you off and be nibbling atyouin this hedge.”
So she hadn’t done anything – just watched Benedict trot around the field, oblivious to the fact she wasn’t accompanying him. Finally, she’d had enough and attempted to slide off but her feet hadn’t been able to reach the ground, and she’d been left hanging half on. The damn animal had strolled forward and unable to maintain her hold, she’d fallen straight into a thorny bush.
Despite the lilac riding habit she’d been wearing, it had taken Mrs Reynolds an hour to extract the thorns, one by one, from her stockinged legs.
So engrossed was she in the painful memory that she didn’t notice the quiet footfall.
“I’m soft, am I?” The whisper was rough and carried memories of gentle lips and a large, strong hand cupping her face.
