Another grunt.
“Exactly, and next time it could be you.”
An odour from the bowels of hell wafted in reply – concocted by the devil himself.
“True. Who’d want a malodorous goat?”
Scape belched.
Ernest sighed. “Come on. Do your job and settle the horses.”
So, with Scape trotting alongside, Ernest wandered to the moat bridge.
Of course, the most intriguing rumour heard by Redmond at the masquerade was that despite his denial, an unruly new stallion had been seen in Sir Henry’s paddock. Few thoroughbred auctions took place over summer, so where had this acquisition come from?
It would be all too easy to assume some kind of subterfuge upon Sir Henry’s part, but alas trainers of racehorses were a guarded lot – fierce competition for limited race entries and ruthless rivalry for prize money – so a few fibs about your current stock was standard.
And surely Sir Henry would not involve himself in theft? His stables were in fine fettle, with the last Epsom Derby won by a grey gelding of his.
“What do you make of Sir Henry?”
Scape the goat peeled his lips back, thrust his tongue out and belched.
“A fine answer and more intelligible than the magistrate.”
Quickening his stride, Ernest passed through the shadowed coolness of the gatehouse and into the stable courtyard to find a surly Daniel loping off to his quarters with a grim Redmond watching on, fists on hips.
Scape commenced licking Ernest’s muddy feet.
“Anything wrong?”
“Daniel keeps hieing off and Lady Mary didn’t get a brush down. That’s thrice in two days so I had to give him another warning.”
“I thought he looked a tad surlier than usual.”
“Ach. The whippersnapper thinks himself in love…” The stable master’s gaze shifted over Ernest’s shoulder. “And we all get a touch maggoty in that state o’mind.”
Ernest swivelled to encounter the usually cheerful Mrs Cassell biting her lip, a frown marring her brow.
“Oh, do excuse me. I… I just wished to request a horse for Mrs Locke tomorrow morning. She’s to call upon Squire Skelton.”
“Have Thos and Daniel escort her,” advised Ernest. “For I am to Witney to speak with the magistrate.”
“Thank you, Lord Ernest. Mr O’Conner.” And with a nod, she twisted away.
Ernest frowned at her retreat. “I saw the two of you dancing at the ball. Very…intimate.”
His stable master grunted and folded his arms. “’Tis a bloody shambles, so it is, and as Grampy Tom’ll tell ya, whoever says time heals all wounds hasn’t been gutted to the spine by a woman.”
“I didn’t realise you’d been…entangled in the past.”
Another grunt. “Herself has got m’gizzards twisted like Dick’s hatband and no mistake.”
Ernest knew the feeling and clapped Redmond upon the shoulder. “Well, remember another of Grampy Tom’s pearls of wisdom: ‘If thee want a woman, be bold and be cunning. But first, defend thine talliwags’.”
17
PRETTY AS A PICTURE
