And blackness swathed his vision.
HEBE HUFFED.
“Concentrate on the line of hamstring, you nitterwit,” she muttered, still confused as to why Ernest had not even bothered to linger and bid her so much as a good morning.
For instead of a brush of lip or caress of hand, a bright beam of sunlight had awoken her a little before seven – warm and comforting.
To a bed – cold and empty.
She’d peered into the bathing chamber, searched the roof of the Tower and examined under the bed.
But naught.
Perhaps that was the way of it in London with one’s lovers? Leaving them to dress in scattered frock and ripped chemise. Abandoning them to stagger to their rooms, mayhap hide behind a tapestry as the butler loped by?
How would she know?
But then…
She remembered Ernest’s utter tenderness, the way he’d touched her with such care and then his own urgent pleasure. She recalled his gasped words of admiration…
Hence the huff, for confusion beset her so.
Mayhap she ought to–
“Mrs Locke?”
She peered around, blinking. “Why, hello, Mary. It’s lovely to see someone else this morning. Are you after Daniel? I’m afraid the entire stables are still abed.”
Indeed, without breakfast, Hebe had wandered here and headed straight for the foal and mare, the place as silent as a mausoleum. If no one had arrived soon, she’d thought to water the horses with the upturned bucket in the corridor.
“So they be.” Mary twisted a curl. “But I’ve just sighted a wounded swan by the moat and I wondered if thee might help I. Mortal bad, it be.”
Hebe’s sketchbook tumbled to the straw as she stood and Mary hastened over to retrieve it.
“Of course, was it a fox or–”
“Mary? What ya doing here?” Clothes dishevelled and sans neckcloth, Redmond O’Conner stomped into the box. “And where the hell is Lord Jack?”
“Sure I don’t know, sir,” the maid mumbled, straightening with empty hand. “I’ll wake Daniel for thee.” And she scarpered from the stables like a fleet hare.
“Redmond? Is something wrong?”
He rubbed his stubbled chin and patted the mare. “Lord Jack’s not in his box.”
“Oh, well… I would guess…” She cleared her throat and breathed deep, aware what her words would reveal. “Lord Ernest left…early. So doubtless he has gone for a ride.”
His gaze narrowed. “My first thought too, yet… There’s no saddle missing. And his lordship would surely have watered the other horses first, not just ridden off.”
Hebe frowned. “There’s an upturned bucket in the corridor too which I thought odd. Not on its hook.”
“I noticed that, and I don’t rightly know but… What I do know is that my neck itches as though the devil is hissing on it.” He scratched said neck. “Ach, I’m probably imagining things but I don’t want another of our horses to vanish under my watch.”
“Mr Grampy Tom told me of Sir Oswald. A fine horse. I hope he will be found.”
“Aye. Ya should see him. A noble beast with grand lines and a deep chest. Sixteen hands high and with a spirit to strike terror in Beelzebub himself.” He snatched a piece of straw from a bale and rolled it betwixt his fingers. “He was left on the auction block due to proud flesh but his lordship saw his potential as a grand stud.”
With memory stirring, Hebe pinched her forehead. “Proud flesh? You mean like scarring, yes?”
