Lara Temple - The Reluctant Viscount

She smiled up at him, thinking he looked unfairly handsome, scratches included. She shook her head and started up the lane to the Hall.

‘It will just lend colour to the stories already making their way around the neighbourhood. I had no idea you were responsible for fomenting rebellions in South America.’

‘I was?’

‘Apparently. There is another one I particularly like. That you cleverly escaped the hangman’s noose in Australia after abducting the governor’s wife and daughter.’

‘Both of them? How precocious of me. Especially since I have never been to Australia. By what stratagem did I effect this escape? It might be useful in case I need to do so in future.’

‘They were sketchy on the details, unfortunately. And then there was the tale that you stole the Sultan of Oman’s prize mare.’

‘That has a grain of truth in it, I’m afraid. But it was the Sultan of Brunei and it isn’t precisely stealing when he himself wagered I couldn’t do it, is it?’

‘Not precisely,’ she admitted. ‘One out of three is not bad. I am sure more tales will surface. It is quite wonderful how you have unleashed the creative forces latent in Mowbray.’

‘I am always glad to be of service.’ He bowed slightly and winced. Her hand went out involuntarily, as if to support him, and he grinned down at her.

‘I repeat. I am not eight years old.’

‘I forget,’ she said tartly and kept walking.

‘No, you’re just used to managing everyone.’

His amused tone took the sting out of his words and she relaxed slightly. He might have changed a great deal in ten years, but his essence was still there. She had remembered him as serious and scholarly, but there’d always been this warm undercurrent of humour and even irreverence, which was probably why her siblings had liked him so much.

‘I’ve offended you again,’ he said suddenly, his voice more serious, and she came out of her reverie.

‘Sorry? I wasn’t listening...’

His frown faded.

‘Well, that puts me in my place.’

They came out of the woods heading towards the stables which stood at the back of Delacort Hall. She barely registered where they were going; her mind kept replaying that moment she had come over the rise and seen him lying there, unmoving. And the image of the rope twined about the tree. They had almost reached the stable when she realised she was still clasping the rope and the pouch with the coin. She thrust them at him.

‘Here, take these.’

He took them automatically, but before he could speak, head groom Jem came out of the stable and hurried towards them.

‘My lord! What happened?’

‘I am fine, Jem, and, more importantly, so is Thunder. We took a spill near Mare’s Rise and Miss Drake was kind enough to come to our aid. Could you have a gig brought round to take her back to Drake Cottage? And have Thunder’s foreleg seen to? I’ll come by the stables in a moment. Oh, and send someone to ask Mr Beauvoir to join us in the stables as well.’

Jem cast Adam a searching look, but merely nodded and took Thunder’s reins, leading him away. Adam pulled off his gloves, inspecting the damage to them ruefully.

‘Thunder’s foreleg and my favourite riding gloves. I’m beginning to be quite annoyed with whoever conceived of this prank. Come, we’ll wait over here by the garden gate. I think it best we stay outdoors.’

She sat down next to him on a bench by the ornate gate leading to the gardens. He cast the gloves, muddy rope and silken pouch on the bench with a carelessness that amazed her.

‘Concerned for my reputation, or yours?’ she asked, ignoring the urge to remonstrate against his casual treatment both of what had just happened and of the precious coin.

‘Mine, of course. There’s a limit to how much abuse it can take.’

‘You passed that limit eons ago, Lord Delacort.’

‘Well, there’s always hope I might come full circle. Who knows? I might even take to writing sermonising poetry like your esteemed sire. Put all my classical learning to good use.’

She shook her head, holding down hard on a smile, and stood up as a groom pulled out of the stable yard in a gig. Adam stopped her by moving between her and the stables, holding her arm lightly.

‘About what happened today...I want to keep that between us.’

She looked up at him, realising she had been mistaken. There was something in his eyes that was anything but casual—he might have treated it lightly, but she could see past that to the implacable determination that probably accounted for his survival so far.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

The hard look in his eyes lightened.

‘Well, I won’t be galloping Thunder for a while.’

She frowned, not in the least reassured by him reverting to humour. She didn’t speak because she knew there was nothing she could say he would listen to. He watched her, his smile turning sardonic.

‘You are a suspicious little thing, aren’t you? But I am serious. I am asking you not to mention anything about this. All right?’ he repeated, still holding her arm. She could feel the rough callouses on his palm and realised what strength it must take to ride a horse like Thunder. His grasp was impersonal, but his fingers were warm on her skin, and despite the fine weather she wished she had worn a long-sleeved dress. She didn’t answer immediately and his grasp tightened slightly as he turned her to face him more fully.

‘All right?’ he asked once more, but his voice sounded distant. She nodded and he drew her towards the gig. She let him hand her up and settled herself beside the groom and didn’t look back as they drove away.

* * *

Adam watched the gig pull away, absently rubbing his hand. When the gig had disappeared behind the trees he glanced down at the peculiar collection on the bench and went to gather the items up. He put the small silken pouch into the pocket of his muddied buckskins, picked up the rope and headed towards the stables.

Nicholas was already there, crouching down next to Thunder as Jem applied a sticky salve to the horse’s scrapes. Nicholas pushed to his feet at Adam’s entrance, but Jem kept at his work. Adam noted, thankfully, that the groom had cleared the stables of its many inhabitants.

‘How is he, Jem?’

‘Lucky, My Lord,’ Jem replied. ‘He’ll mend quick. But I’m curious as to what did this.’ He indicated a long scrape along the front and side of Thunder’s leg and Adam held out the rope.

‘This. Tied low between the trees on the narrow stretch near Mare’s Rise,’ he replied calmly and Nicholas’s brows rose. Jem glanced up, but then went back to applying the salve.

‘I know I am not very popular in these parts, Jem, but do you think there is someone here at the Hall or on the estate who has such a grudge against me? I am asking you to be honest. I won’t hold it against you.’

Jem finished with the salve and rose stiffly to his feet, rubbing his hands thoughtfully on a rag.

‘I know you wouldn’t, My Lord. If you ask me, it is no one at the Hall or on your grounds. They live in hope you’ll stay here permanent like. There’s not a man or boy on the estate who wants to see Mr Somerton in your shoes.’

Adam smiled tightly.

‘Somehow I don’t consider that much of a compliment. But I take your point. Most likely not someone from Delacort. A child’s prank, perhaps? Though somehow this does not quite strike me as a very childish act.’

‘Any youth that malignant is likely to have done similar acts in the past,’ Nicholas added.

‘My thinking as well, Mr Beauvoir, and I haven’t heard of any such mischief in Mowbray. May I see the rope, My Lord?’ Jem asked.

Adam handed it to him. ‘It looks like simple enough rope, I can’t make much from it.’