Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] (13 page)

The feelings he had for Nell, he couldn’t explain, or name them. All he knew was they weren’t love.

He knew about love. He was never going to let himself fall into its toils again.

“She’s good with horses,” he offered finally.

Aunt Maude stared for a moment, then made a half-stifled noise. “G-good with horses, of course.” A choke of laughter escaped her. “Why didn’t I think of that? Good with horses. Just what a man wants in a wife.” She pulled a wisp of lace from somewhere. “Oh, Harry, dear boy, life was such a bore before you came to visit.” She swept away, wiping tears from her eyes, chuckles floating back in her wake.

“I’m going out for a ride,” Harry called after her. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” He was coiled tight as a spring. He needed to work off some energy.

She paused on the stairs and looked back. “Will you be staying until Saturday after all, do you think? Only you were invited to dinner at the Anstruthers, and I refused on your behalf because you said you had to be back at Firmin Court by Saturday.”

Harry wrinkled his brow. “Did I?” He remembered perfectly well. He’d told her that when he was feeling suffocated by potential brides. Before he knew that Nell was in Bath.

“Yes, you said you couldn’t leave all the work for Mr. Delaney.”

“There’s a limit one can do at this time of year,” he prevaricated. “So I’ll stay on here a few more days.” At least until Nell left for London. “But leave the Anstruthers invitation as is, thanks.”

“And what of Mr. Delaney?”

“Oh, Ethan will manage. He’s very capable. There’s nothing he can’t do.”

E
than Delaney sat sweating over a sheet of paper covered with blots and scratchings out. He muttered curses under his breath as he wrestled with the pen. It was so much trickier now that he was living at Firmin Court. At the Grange he’d been able to consult with Mrs. Barrow over this word or that.

Somehow, he didn’t mind women knowing. Mrs. Barrow was a talker, but she’d never breathed a word of his little problem to another soul.

Trouble was, there was nobody he could ask here.

He tried again. No. It was wrong, he was sure of it. He threw down the pen in disgust. “Ye’re a fool, Ethan, and ye’ll never be any different.”

Beside him went a thump-thump-thump of a dog’s tail. He glanced at the dog. “Aye, Freckles, ’tis all very well for you, life’s easy for you. Two houses to live in and your pick of scraps from two kitchens. And they call it a dog’s life.”

He folded the paper and tucked it in his breast pocket. He never left his attempts lying around for anyone to see.

“Come on, dog, night’s falling. I’ll take you back to the vicara—” He broke off. The vicarage . . . A vicar was like a priest, wasn’t he?

A man could only ask . . .

He whistled for the dog and set off for the vicarage at a brisk pace.

Aggie greeted him warmly at the door. “A nice cup of tea, Mr. Delaney?” she offered, already reaching for the tea caddy. It had become a bit of a ritual; Ethan brought Freckles back for the night, had a cup of tea with the old woman, exchanged the news of the day, then walked home.

“Er, not right now, Aggie, thanks,” Ethan said, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Would it be possible for me to see the vicar?”

“The vicar?” Aggie said, surprised. He’d never asked to see the vicar before. “Of course, sir, I’ll go and ask.”

She returned in a moment, saying, “Go through, Mr. Delaney. He’ll see you now.”

She ushered him into a shabby but comfortable study where a fire crackled brightly. Books were everywhere, lining the walls, scattered about on tables and stacked beside the vicar’s chair. There was also a fine chessboard with intricately carved chess pieces in ebony and ivory. Ethan didn’t mind a game of chess.

The vicar rose from a worn, leather armchair as Ethan entered. “Welcome, Mr. Delaney,” he said in a mellow, priestly voice.

He was a thin, stooped man in his seventies, with a fringe of pure white hair. According to Aggie he’d been married once but lost his wife to childbirth and had never had the heart to remarry.

Ethan shook the man’s hand. There couldn’t be a greater contrast, he thought, between his own big, scarred, rough-skinned paw and this man’s frail, elegant white hand.

The vicar waved him to a seat and when they were both seated, said, “Now, Mr. Delaney, how can I help you?”

“I’m not Church of England,” he blurted. “I was born Catholic, though I’m not religious.” He looked at the priest. “Does that matter?”

The old man smiled. “Not to me. I am here for all God’s children.”

Ethan pulled a wry face. “I’m not so sure I’d call meself one of God’s children, Father. I’ve done a hel—er, plenty of bad things in me life. Years in the army.”

“You’re still a child of God,” the old man said gently.

“Mebbe.” Ethan shifted uncomfortably. “The thing is, I know Catholic priests are not supposed to tell what they’ve been told in confidence. I’m not so knowledgeable about Protestant priests, I mean—”

The old man leaned forward. His eyes were deeply set and faded blue, in the way of men who have looked on the world for many years. “Are you here to confess, Mr. Delaney?”

Ethan looked at him in horror. “Good God, no!”

The old man laughed and sat back in his chair. “Then what is it? I promise to keep your confidence, as long as you haven’t broken the law.”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” He glanced around the room. “Would I be right in thinking you’re an educated man, Father?”

“Call me vicar, or Mr. Pigeon. And yes, I was at one time something of a scholar, though not for many years now.”

Ethan took a deep breath. “Well, I’m not, Vicar—educated, I mean. Not at all. Never went to school, never learned to read or write, until I asked a lady to teach me last year.”

“Good for you. It’s never too late.”

“I hope not,” Ethan said fervently. “My problem is, though, she’s gone to live in another country, and though I seem to have picked up reading just fine, me writing’s atrocious and me spelling’s worse.”

The old man nodded. “I see. And what is it you want of me?”

Ethan ran a finger around his collar. “I’m wondering, Vicar, if you’d mind very much helpin’ me out from time to time with me spelling.” He gave the man a straight look. “I don’t want anyone else to know about me little problem, see?”

The old man said nothing.

“I’ll pay,” Ethan told him. “I was born poor bog Irish—and not ashamed of it—but I’m hopin’ to move up in the world and don’t wish to look like a fool among educated men.”

“Being denied education is nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Delaney,” the vicar said, “and my guess is you’re far from a fool.” He steepled his fingers and gazed thoughtfully at them for a moment, then said, “I noticed you looking at my chess set when you came in. Do you play?”

Ethan nodded. “A bit.”

“Would you give me a game, Mr. Delaney?”

The old man was turning him down gently, Ethan decided, by changing the subject. “Aye, I’ll give you a game, sir,” he said heavily. He’d been mistaken, thinking the vicar an enlightened man. He was obviously of the class who believed a man should not be educated above his station. Ethan had come across many of that sort in his life, especially in the army.

He fetched the heavy chessboard while the vicar cleared a small table and placed it between them.

“You first,” the vicar said, and with a shrug, Ethan made his first move. There was a small knot of anger inside him at the smooth rejection and he resolved to thrash this old man with his soft white hands that had probably never done a hard day’s work in his life.

It was not so easy. The vicar had a wily mind, and for all his quiet ways he played a cutthroat game, managing to surprise Ethan more than once. Slowly Ethan’s anger drained away as he got more and more caught up in the game. Two hours later the match ended in a stalemate.

The vicar sat back in his chair with a long, satisfied sigh. “That’s the best game I’ve had in years, my boy. That settles the fee.”

Ethan looked up. “The fee?”

“For your lessons. You said you were willing to pay.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“You’re right, of course, I would normally do it for nothing. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything as useful, and I do enjoy having pupils, but now that I’ve seen how well you can play, I can’t resist. For every lesson, I want a game of chess.”

Ethan gave him a slow grin. “Well, in that case, sir, you owe me a lesson.” He pulled the sheet of paper from his pocket. “So would ye mind showin’ me the errors I’ve made in that?”

The vicar pulled out a pair of pince-nez and scanned the paper quickly. He peered over the top of his spectacles. “A letter to a lady?”

Ethan felt his face warm. “Yes, sir. To the lady who taught me my letters in the first place.”

The old man smiled. “And you’d like her to be proud of her pupil. Excellent.” He read a bit more and paused. “And would she be an elderly lady?”

“No, sir.”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Pretty, is she?”

“She would say not, but then she’s never seen herself when she looks into a man’s eyes and gives him that smile of hers. She has her own sort o’ beauty and has loyal and lovin’ ways.” He added defiantly, “She’s a fine-bred lady, and way above me in station, but I’m by way of courting her.” People wouldn’t approve of that, either, Ethan thought, but he didn’t care.

The vicar’s snowy brows rose. He glanced at the address on the back of the paper. “The Principality of Zindaria? That’s a long way away. May an old man inquire how you met this foreign lady?”

“She’s as English as you, sir. She was governess to the princess of Zindaria, who is herself an Englishwoman. I met Tibby—Miss Tibthorpe, that is—in Dorset, where she had the neatest wee cottage. It got burned through no fault of hers, and she lost everything. Just a little thing, she is, but with so much courage—” Hearing his voice crack with emotion, Ethan stopped.

For a long time there was only the crackling of the fire in the room, then the vicar spoke. “Mr. Delaney, you’ve reminded this old man what it is to be young and in love again. It would be an honor and a privilege to assist you in the writing of letters to this fine young woman.” He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Now, put the chess set back in its place and bring me that writing set. We may as well get started on this letter right away.”

 
 
H
arry rode Sabre up into the hills that overlooked Bath. As soon as rolling fields opened up before them, he let his horse have his head. Sabre leapt forward eagerly, as pent up and in need of release as his master.

Harry crouched low over the horse’s neck, urging him faster and faster, glorying in the speed and the sensation of being one with the big powerful beast beneath him. Up here he was free of all the stupid pettifogging rules of society. Up here, thundering over the damp fields, he could think.

Cold, clean air scoured his skin, biting deep into his lungs, making his eyes water and his blood sing. On a horse he felt truly alive. He rode on, oblivious of everything except for the rhythmic pounding of Sabre’s hooves on the heavy turf.

With the first burst of excess energy burned off in a mad gallop that sent his heart racing, Harry slowed Sabre to an easy canter along the ridge of the hill. He gazed down at the vista of the town before him. Why would people want to live like that, in rows and rows of squashed-together houses, looking down over rows and rows of other squashed-together houses? Most of them were built with their back to the hills, as if a view of buildings was better than the sight of hills and trees and sky.

He shook his head. He never wanted to live in a town. Bad enough to be cooped up in a small town like Bath; he would hate to be stuck in London.

Harry couldn’t understand it. He would have sworn that someone like Nell, someone who loved horses and dogs, would have felt the same way about the city. He recalled the way she’d turned her face up to the rain, to the sky, in the forest that first day, as if it were an act of worship.

And yet she seemed utterly set on living in crowded, dirty London.

Must? Why? What was so special about London?

Harry sighed. He didn’t understand women. He never really had. He’d never pursued a woman like this before—not with so little encouragement. Verbal encouragement, he amended. Nell’s lips spoke words of rejection but when he’d kissed her, they told a different story. She wanted him. But she wanted to go to London more.

Why could he not simply accept that? It was undignified to pursue a woman who had refused him. It wasn’t as if he was in love, after all . . . Just that she seemed so . . . perfect.

And yet why was she so perfect? In most respects she was nothing like the sort of young woman he’d described to his aunt as his ideal wife.

Was Aunt Maude right after all?

Was he so set on Nell because he wanted to prove he could marry an earl’s daughter? Because of what had happened all those years ago with Anthea?

Surely not?

And for the first time in years, Harry found himself thinking—deliberately—about Anthea . . . the woman who’d taught him what it felt like to be in love.

Lady Anthea Quenborough had been one-and-twenty years old, the toast of the
ton
, and the loveliest creature Harry had ever seen in his life. Aged just twenty, he’d fallen headlong in love for the first time in his life—blindly, passionately, besottedly.

Lady Anthea was a few months older than Harry in years, but decades older in experience, though he hadn’t realized it then.

He was new to London, and though he knew many young men of the
ton
, it was his first experience with a proper lady. Lady Anthea was a golden beauty, a diamond of the first water, aristocratic, rich, and spoiled; the pampered daughter of a doting father and protective brothers. Some of the most notable men of the
ton
swarmed around her, courting her, vying for her favors.