“No. Not haunted at all. It feels…expectant.”
He exhaled gustily. “That’s what I have always thought. The land and manor were built in Queen Anne’s time for a beloved daughter of the Rothwells who had no wish to wed. Although ’tis rumoured she had romantic leanings towards the butler.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It’s not entailed and I hope to buy it from Casper one day. Make it my home.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He tapped his foot. Tousled a hand through his overlong hair. Muttered. Pulled at his crooked cravat. She could tell he was debating something.
“What’s the matter?”
“Hebe…” And he abruptly swivelled, dropping the reins to reach out and cup her cheeks in both his palms. “I just… I just want you to know that Tobias Locke was wrong.” His hands drifted down her throat, to her shoulders, where they lightly rested. “You are exquisite – within and without. Your cornflower eyes and your silken skin. Your art and your passion. Your empathy for old stablemen and tolerance of young ones. Your wonderful ripostes for wicked rakes and your innate affection for your aunt. You are not pale or cold or dull in any way whatsoever but just so…utterly, utterly magnificent.”
Hebe swallowed; her throat clogged. “I…”
And all this from a man who’d said his words weren’t worth a penny.
“Now…” And he swivelled. As though he hadn’t just voiced words that melted her heart like morning rays to the night frost. “Let’s poke our noses in the manor. I’ll tell you my plans and then we’ll go home, yes?”
And he held out his hand once more.
Hebe clasped it tight and smiled.
20
ALE’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
The company of stable lads and grooms quietened, shuffling foot to foot as Ernest stepped up onto the horse trough and threw his arms wide.
“In order to thank you all for your long search yesterday, and for finding both Thos’s and Mrs Locke’s horses unhurt, I shall be buying the ales in each of Burford’s fine hostelries this night.”
Raucous huzzahs filled the stable courtyard, caps flung high; the grooms licked their lips; Grampy Tom whacked his cane to the cobbles.
Ernest grinned and held up his palms to settle the hubbub. “But first finish up your duties. We’ll meet at the top of Burford hill in one hour.”
As he leaped from the trough, the courtyard had already become a hive of frenzied activity, grooms crashing into one another as they raced for brooms, blankets and buckets.
Redmond looked askew. “That’ll cost a fair bit, ya know, there’s more ale-houses in Burford than saints in the Irish Almanac.”
Were there? Ernest frowned. From his youth, he recalled four or so but since returning from London, he’d tended not to venture further than the Wychmere village inn.
“How much do you think?” he asked, flattening himself to the courtyard wall as water sloshed the cobbles and hay scattered from waving pitchforks.
“With pies? Or without pies?”
“With?”
“Well…” He glanced up. “Will ya be joining us, Grampy Tom?”
“Thankin’ thee, but ’twere tha Burford hill tha gave I the gammy leg in the first place.” A sly wink followed. “And leastways, someone has to look after the ladies.”
Having always suspected that Grampy Tom had been a bit of a rogue in his youth, Ernest smiled and would make sure a keg of cider made its way to the old stable master’s cottage.
Redmond tilted his head. “In that case, I’d reckon on a bit under two quid.”
Ernest winced. Thought of the fifty guineas he’d oft frittered in less than a half-hour at the Prince’s gambling hell.
“Burford’s not cheap,” continued Redmond, cursing as a pitchfork nigh stabbed Daniel in the thigh. “All the city folk coming here push the prices up.”
“No matter, the lads deserve it. They are a hard-working group.”
