and, when Mama died of influenza, he had continued to support Rosalind and Freddie as if they were his own children, even though their maternal relatives continued to disown them. When his second wife had died after giving birth to Jack, Rosalind, then sixteen, became a replacement mother to Freddie, eleven, Nell, four, and baby Jack and, three years later, when presented with the chance of a Season in London in order to find a husband, she had opted to stay at home with her family. She had never regretted her choice. The thought of facing her maternal relatives and their censorious friends, with their contempt and their snubs, filled her with dread even now.
The poor relations. The nobodies. The spinster and the cripple.
No, she held no envy in her heart for Nell and her forthcoming debut into polite society.
‘Well, with any luck,’ Freddie said, ‘Nell will find herself a husband during the Season and he will keep her safe.’
‘I do hope so.’ Rosalind sank on to the sofa with a sigh. ‘I cannot be easy that we have left Sir Peter in sole occupation of Lydney, Freddie. Heaven knows what havoc he will wreak. If only Step-Papa had realised the danger of him being appointed guardian, I am sure he would have altered his will as soon as his brother died.’
Her fingers were twisting together in her lap and she forced her hands to lie still. The weight of responsibility lay heavy upon her. Her stepfather would expect her to protect Jack’s inheritance, but although she and Freddie had both tried to stand up to Sir Peter, in the end they’d had to admit defeat.
‘We couldn’t have stayed there, Ros,’ Freddie said. ‘We were right to leave. If we had not, poor Nell would be married off to Bulbridge by now. But I agree. If Tadlow is left on a free rein, Jack won’t have much of an estate to take over when he reaches his majority.’
Rosalind silently cursed their lack of power. ‘Maybe I should ask Sir William’s advice on it all?’
She had been reluctant to burden their benefactor with more of their troubles. They did not know him well, though he had been a lifelong friend of the late Earl.
‘I will consult him as soon as he returns from his visit to his daughter,’ Freddie said.
Sir William had left Foxbourne the day after their arrival, on a long-planned visit to his widowed daughter and his grandchildren, who lived in the north.
Freddie’s quiet statement penetrated Rosalind’s thoughts. ‘You need not bother yourself, Freddie. I will deal with it.’
Freddie had his sketching, his insatiable appetite for books and his interest in politics to occupy him. She did not want him troubled. He had enough to contend with and the mockery he’d endured from Sir Peter and his friends had only increased Rosalind’s determination to protect him from the harshness of life.
She stood up. ‘I will go and ask Penny to make some tea.’ She caught sight of Freddie’s scowl, prompting her to add, ‘Unless you would prefer something stronger?’
‘No. Tea is fine.’
Rosalind was distracted by the door opening before she could question his brusqueness.
‘Oh, how lovely. Thank you, Penny. I was about to come and request tea. You have saved me the bother.’
Penny—who had been Freddie’s nursemaid and had agreed to accompany them to Buckinghamshire to keep house—smiled as she placed the tray on a table. ‘Shall I pour, ma’am?’
‘No. I shall do it.’
By the time she handed a cup and saucer to Freddie, and sat down with her own cup, Freddie had resumed his customary expression of good humour. When they had drunk their tea, Rosalind worked on her embroidery whilst Freddie picked up his book and opened it.
As Rosalind set her stitches, she tried to ignore the slow, uneasy coil of her stomach. That anxiety had been present ever since they had arrived at Stoney End, but today there was a different edge to it. A foreboding. Was it because Nell had gone to London, leaving the future for herself and Freddie even more uncertain? She would love nothing more than to go home to Lydney Hall and to live out her days there in obscurity, but would that be possible with Sir Peter in residence? Surely not.
Or was it that meeting with Lascelles that had increased her apprehension?
Leo’s face materialised in her mind’s eye—handsome, strong, assured—and a very different feeling stirred...tension of a sort she had never experienced before today, as though something deep within her had recognised him and now stretched out...seeking...yearning.
Humph!
‘Is there anything amiss, Ros?’
Startled, she looked up to find Freddie regarding her with raised brows. Her cheeks heated, realising she had allowed her snort of exasperation to sound aloud.
‘I am quite all right, thank you.’
Rosalind bent her head to her embroidery once more, pushing all thought of Leo’s lean face and silver grey, penetrating eyes from her thoughts. He might be the most attractive man she had ever met, but he demonstrated a remarkably poor choice of friends and, worse, he was obviously a member of the conceited and condescending world of the haut ton. The world she detested.
Three days later, Leo strode into the local village of Malton, leading one of Lascelles’s hunters, a fine gelding, his coat as black as Leo’s mood. The horse—recommended to him particularly by Lascelles—had thrown a shoe within half an hour of the hunt starting and a swift examination of the animal’s remaining shoes had revealed their sorry states. Leo cursed himself for not examining the horse more thoroughly before they left Halsdon Manor. His cousin was doing a fine job of pushing Leo’s temper to the limit, the bad blood between the two smouldering beneath the surface urbanity.
This trip to Buckinghamshire had been a mistake. The days were just about acceptable, with outdoor pastimes to occupy them, but the evenings were a trial, the atmosphere fraught. More than once Leo had been within ames ace of leaving and returning to town, but Stanton had arranged to view those ponies the day after tomorrow, and Leo was damned if he would give Lascelles the satisfaction of believing he had driven him away. No. He would stay put and return to London with Vernon and Stanton in a week’s time as previously arranged.
Disinclined to wait for a fresh horse to be sent from Halsdon, Leo had instead elected to lead Saga the mile and a half to Malton for reshoeing, savouring the solitude. It was a bright morning, with frost still lingering in pockets where the sun had yet to reach and a chilly breeze. As he waited in the February sunshine, Leo felt his irritation dissipate as he watched life in the quiet village of Malton unfold before him. The farrier—Benson by name—chattered nonstop as he worked, calling out greetings to passers-by, regaling Leo with their life histories once they were out of earshot. During a lull in the man’s discourse, Leo’s attention was drawn by a light grey Arabian, complete with side-saddle, tethered a hundred yards or so down the street. The horse had exceptional conformation and a flowing snowy-white mane and tail.
‘That is a spectacular animal,’ he said, thinking how much Olivia would love the Arabian.
Benson peered along the street before fixing his attention once more on Saga’s off fore. ‘Ah, yes, a fine beast, sir, a fine beast indeed.’ He placed the red-hot horseshoe on the animal’s hoof, removed it and deftly pared the scorched areas level before nailing the shoe in place. ‘’E belongs to Mrs Pryce, so he does. Poor young lady. A widder, sir, so they say.’
Mrs Pryce? Leo kept an eye on the horse and, before long, a figure dressed in a peacock-blue riding habit and matching hat emerged from a nearby doorway, followed by a man who laced his fingers for Mrs Pryce to step on to in order to mount the Arabian. If Benson had not already identified her, Leo would never have recognised her. She looked very different to the shabbily clad woman of a few days before.
A widow. Anticipation rushed through