Jared had been gone a long time, Guin thought. By the time luncheon had been cleared away there was still no sign of him. She began to pace restlessly from room to room downstairs until Thomas suggested he harness the gig and take her for a drive.
‘It only seats one person beside the driver,’ she pointed out. ‘Mr Hunt does not want me to go outside the house without one of you men and Faith.’
‘That’ll be if’en you were walking, my lady,’ Thomas said. ‘Up in the gig, if we saw trouble coming, we could be off in a moment. I’d take my big stick as well – that’d deal with any footpad.’ He picked up a hefty cudgel from where it had been leaning against the hall wall and brandished it.
‘It looks lethal.’
‘Aye, it would be. A tap on the head from that and you’d not get up again,’ he said with a relish that made her shiver.
‘Even so, I did promise Mr Hunt, so I will call Faith and we will just take a turn around the garden.’
‘If you feel like that, my lady.’ He sounded on the verge of sulkiness. ‘I’m sure his lordship trusted me to look after you, ma’am.’
‘Mr Hunt trusts nobody, I think,’ Guin said lightly, trying to make a joke out of it. The last thing she wanted was a peevish footman about the place. ‘And I have no intention of proving him right by breaking my word. Ah, there you are, Faith. Come along, Thomas, and don’t forget your cudgel.’
They found Topshore the gardener muttering darkly at greenfly on his broad beans and he attached himself to their party, confident that the mistress of the house wanted nothing better than to debate the best cure for moss in the lawns and whether a new arbour was needed, given the state of the old one.
Guin confessed to total ignorance about moss and allowed herself to be talked into a new arbour and a dozen climbing roses from the best supplier in York. The stable yard clock was chiming half past three by the time a circuit of the garden had been accomplished, and there was still no sign of Jared.
‘I wonder what can be keeping – ah, I can hear the sound of hooves on the yard cobbles.’ Guin led her little party round to the yard, Topshore tagging along behind and holding a monologue on the value of well-rotted stable manure for roses. The lad was just leading away a bay mare and its rider stood brushing down his dusty breeches.
It was not Jared, Guin realised with a stab of disappointment tinged with worry. This was a young man, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, sandy, freckled and earnest. Then she saw there was a rapier at his side and recognised him. It was Jared’s manservant.
‘Portsmouth?’
‘Dover, my lady.’
‘I do beg your pardon, I was somewhat distracted when we last met. Is something wrong?’
To her surprise he blushed. Then she recalled just where she had met him. ‘Er… Is Mr Hunt here, my lady?’
‘No, I have no idea where he is, I am beginning to feel a little anxious – Oh, that must be him.’ She turned at the sound of another horse and this time it was Jared.
Chapter Seventeen
Jared reined in from a trot to survey the group in the middle of the yard. ‘Dover? I left you in London with a task to perform.’
‘Yes, sir, and I have. Performed it, I mean. That was easy, only there’s something else and I thought I had best come immediately. I didn’t want to risk writing and perhaps you having moved on.’
‘All right. We will talk in the house directly.’ Jared dismounted, tossed the reins to the stable lad. ‘Give him a good rub down, a feed and drink when he’s cooler. We’ve covered a lot of ground today.’
‘Where have you been?’ Guin demanded, relief making her snappish.
‘I am sure we will all be more comfortable inside.’ Jared offered his arm and, when she took it, murmured, ‘With a smaller audience.’
He smelled very male, of horse and leather and dust and sweat and Guin was shocked to find that arousing. She was almost disappointed when, as they entered through the front door, he said, ‘Hot water, if you please, Thomas. To my chamber and bring some there for Dover as well. We’ll find him a room later. If you’ll excuse us for half an hour, Lady Northam, neither of us are fit for the drawing room. Then a council of war is called for, I think, including Faith.’
Guin suppressed the desire to demand an immediate report and rang for a substantial tea instead. Whatever the news, cake would be a comfort.
Jared and Dover were downstairs washed and changed within twenty minutes and she waved them towards the food. Dover and Faith looked uneasy at being expected to make themselves at home in the drawing room but Jared said firmly that he was famished and that he had no intention of repeating everything twice and so they relaxed.
‘Dover, finish what you have on your plate, then begin.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He manfully swallowed a mouthful of meat pie, gulped some tea and took an envelope from his pocket. ‘I made enquiries about Mr Theo Quenten as you ordered, sir. That was easy. He is universally liked, even if some sticklers disapprove of his wild ways and they say he relies too much on charm to worm his way out of trouble. He’s been up to larks, had some losses on the tables and the race course, but it’s play and pay – no really bad debts and tradesmen say he settles up with them too, even if they have to wait until his next instalment of allowance comes due. He’s a bit in the petticoat line – begging your pardon, my lady – but no gossip that’s nasty, if you know what I mean.
‘By all accounts he’s settling down and his father’s illness has speeded up the sobering process. I was writing all that down as a report for you, sir, then it all started.’
‘What?’