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“What matter the time we arrived?” Cecil scanned the field, the horses’ ears swiveling to and fro as they began to sense a threat. “Once the deed is done, its timing will make no difference. And the work of shooting a horse requires sunlight, no matter what Father thinks.”
“I say we ought to take these horses and sell them on.” Rollo adjusted the floppy brim of his foppish hat—What all the young bucks wear whilst about to commit equicide, Cecil scoffed.
“To whom would you seek to sell them? We have no papers, no proof they are ours to offer.” Cecil shot a look over his shoulder at the thugs. “We would not gain enough to pay these good gents the worth of their time, not in the way our father will.”
“Ha!” Rollo sneered. “As ifheis ever punctual in paying the trades.”
The thugs started muttering to themselves, and Cecil widened his eyes at his brother, as though in alarm.What an ass, he exulted.Perhaps he will do all the work for me. “This is a special case, brother. Father would never renege on remunerating such an arduous mission.”
Rollo stood and began to remonstrate unconvincingly with the gunmen. Once they arrived, the ruffians lay about, drinking from jugs and scratching and pissing as though they were on a picnic. Cecil listened as his brother repeated the plan: one man would be responsible for one mare. A shot to the head and down they would go. The wagon for the horses would be taken directly to an abattoir in St. Giles so that all evidence of their existence could be destroyed.
This plan seemed shoddy to Cecil. Would it not be sensible to herd the horses onto the wagon rather than slay them on the ground upon which they stood? Moving live creatures as opposed to dead ones was less likely to be strenuous and would take less time. It was possible that there was a deeper layer to this plot: Father may have hoped that he, Cecil, had warned Felicity and she would come upon the dead mares strewn throughout the paddock. Or was he imagining shadows where there were none, as usual? A rustling whispered from the northern end of the field. Cecil jumped, and Rollo and the ruffians sneered at him as one.
The sun was well up the sky, and the men had waited long enough. One jerked his chin at him and Rollo and directed his fellows to follow him into the clearing.
“I say!” Rollo hissed, leaping to his feet. “You will take direction from me or not at all.”
“There are only six.” Cecil stood as well, gesturing with a finger as he counted again.
“They’s meant to be seven,” growled one of the thugs. “We’s gettin’ paid for seven.”
“…four, five, six. There’s one missing.” Did this mean that Felicity was here to save the day? He thought he heard something at the southern end of the enclosure but saw nothing. His imagination was running riot.
“What have you done with it?” Rollo demanded, grabbing Cecil by his neckcloth and brandishing the cudgel he carried.
“I?” For once in his life, there was no need to feign distress. Cecil wheezed as Rollo took a surprisingly strong grip on him. “Why in the world would I have done anything? How would I have done anything?”
“I don’t know.” Rollo released him, and he stumbled backward. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t mucked this up to make me look bad.”
“You are well able to do that for yourself.” Cecil had had enough. “Think you that this will elevate you in Father’s eyes? You are nothing but a puppet, a fool. Putting on airs as though you were a fine gentleman, even knowing how greatly Father despises them. Idiot! You do not even command respect from these lower-class hoodlums, look, they’re paying no mind to you at all.”
As the ruffians entered the field, the mares clustered, hind to hind, their eyes rolling in their heads as they braced themselves against this obvious aggression. The men took their time coming upon the horses, savvy enough to keep silent, as they primed their double-barreled shotguns. Rollo pushed Cecil aside again and took the lead, confident thanks to the wealth of firepower before him.
Until the mares’ ears perked up, and they turned away from the human predators. A distant sound of pounding drew the attention of all, of hooves pummeling the earth, coming closer and closer. The six in the paddock parted to reveal the seventh of their number galloping through, sliding to a halt a mere twenty yards from Rollo. This mare was not abject with fear: her nostrils flared, and her eyes—her eyes promised death to any who dared approach her.
Rollo dared. Cecil covered his eyes then uncovered them at the mare’s furious whinny. He covered his ears and debated concealing his eyes once more as she reared, hooves pawing the air in warning as Rollo flapped his arms about, the cudgel he held slipping from his hand. She snorted once more, in fair warning, and leapt for him. His brother turned and ran, as if he could outpace the beast; as Cecil watched, it was as if she were toying with Rollo, never catching him up but keeping him on the run until they were near a stream. Only then did she move closer, showing him her hind and kicking out with her hooves until Rollo stumbled and fell into the water, where he thrashed about, wailing.
Then, a horde of creatures burst from the underbrush: Cecil counted several horses that looked to be much larger than the mares, a pack of gigantic…dogs? They could not be wolves. Could they? And if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a wild boar, whose tusks lowered as he made for the gunmen. That lot, no fools, had dropped their weapons and turned to run. Two of the big dogs gave chase, as did the boar and several gigantic house cats.
The newly arrived horses danced around the mares, shunting them into a cluster in the center of the field. Rollo, meanwhile, was flailing about in the stream as that diabolical beast stood over him, teeth bared, preparatory to take a chunk out of him. “Cecil!” he called, and the demon mare snapped at Rollo. “Cecil, help me, call off this creature!”
Cecil edged over to three men, who had also appeared as though from the thin air.
“Careful, lads.” One of the men called to the horses that had calmed the mares, and if Cecil wasn’t losing his reason, they appeared to be flirting with one another. “Keep them nice and close, but not too close, if you take my meaning. Colts!” He turned to Cecil and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Mr. Cecil Purcell, at your service,” he managed and sketched an awkward bow. He heard movement behind him that proved to be the two biggest dogs, one with light fur, one black as pitch. The boar lingered near Rollo and was snorting at the intimidating mare, who turned her hind to him and kicked. Good God! It was as though the Tower Zoo had run amok.
Cecil turned back to the men. “Do I have the pleasure of meeting the Duke of Lowell?”
“Do I look like a duke, you numpty?” The man waved his arms, and the colts started herding the mares away, following the boar. Meanwhile, the seventh mare refused to allow Rollo escape from what was surely freezing-cold water.
“I beg your pardon?” Cecil’s vision was starting to flicker around the edges.
“I said,” the head man replied, “was it you that sent the letter to Her Grace?”
“Has Felicity married him, then?” Oh, joy! Perhaps his life was not on the slagheap after all. “I mean, yes, I am her cousin, her beloved cousin, well, not so beloved, not lately, but I am in hopes that she will look kindly upon me in relation to the saving of her horses.”
“I’m Marshall, stable master at Lowell Hall. These two be Aherne and Bailey, of Templeton House.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I’ve a few questions here from His Grace.” The big dogs crowded closer, and Cecil cleared his throat nervously. The blond pounced forward and back aggressively until the black one batted him hard enough that he rolled away. He took it with equanimity, and he smiled. The blond dog…smiled.
