over the border in years, and Brydone only came down for the Ascot, the Silchester, and, sometimes, Newmarket. To be honest, I don’t think he really gave a damn for anything other than his stables. He didn’t even bother to list his children in Debrett’s. Of course, since he had four girls, there was no question of inheritance. The estate went to some distant cousin.’
‘Why on earth -’ Mayne glanced at the five women standing to the side of the room and checked himself.
‘He asked me,’ Rafe said, shrugging. ‘I didn’t think twice of it. Apparently Monkton had been in line, but he cocked up his toes last year. And Brydone asked me to step in. Who would have thought that ill could come to Brydone? It was a freak accident, that horse throwing him. Although he was fool enough to ride a half-broken stallion.’
‘Damned if I thought I’d ever see you a father,’ Mayne said.
‘I had no excuse to say no. I have the substance to raise any number of children. Besides, Brydone gave me Starling in return for acting as a guardian. I told him I’d do the job, as soon as he wrote me, and no bribe was necessary. But he sent Starling down from Scotland, and no one would say nay to adding that horse to their stables.’
‘Starling is out of Standout, isn’t he?’
Rafe nodded. ‘Patchem’s brother. The core of Brydone’s stable is out of Patchem, and those are now the only horses in England in Patchem’s direct line. I’m hopeful that Starling will win the Derby next year, even if he is descended from Standout rather than Patchem himself.’
‘What will happen to Patchem’s offspring?’ Mayne asked, with the particular intensity he reserved for talk of horses. ‘Something Wanton, for example?’
‘I don’t know yet. Obviously, the stables aren’t entailed. My secretary has been up there working on the estate. Should Brydone’s stable come to the children, I’ll put the horses up for auction and the money in trust. The girls will need dowries someday, and I’d be surprised if Brydone bothered to set them up himself.’
‘If Wanton is for sale, I’m the one to buy him. I’d pay thousands for him. There could be no better addition to my stables.’
‘He would do wonders for mine as well,’ Rafe agreed.
Mayne had found a little heap of cast-iron horses and was sorting them out so that each carriage was pulled by a matched pair. ‘You know, these are quite good.’ He had all the cast-iron horses and their carriages lined up on the mantelpiece now. ‘Wait till your wards see these horses. They won’t think twice about the move from Scotland. Pity there’s no boy amongst them.’
Rafe just looked at him. The earl was one of his dearest friends, and always would be. But Mayne’s sleek, protected life had not put him in the way of grief. Rafe knew only too well what it felt like to find oneself lonely in the midst of a cozy nursery, and cast-iron horses wouldn’t help, for all he found himself buying more and more of them. As if toys would make up for a dead father. ‘I hardly think you -’
The door behind him swung open. He stopped and turned.
Brinkley moved to the side more nimbly than was his practice. It wasn’t every day that one got to knock the master speechless with surprise. ‘I’m happy to announce Miss Essex. Miss Imogen. Miss Annabel. Miss Josephine.’
Then he added, unable to resist, if the truth be known, ‘The children have arrived, Your Grace.’
The first thing Teresa Essex noticed was that the Englishmen were playing with toys. Toys! That fitted with everything they’d heard about Englishmen: thin, puny types they were, who never grew up and shivered with cold during a stiff breeze.
Still, they were only men, if English versions of them.
Tess hadn’t been much over sixteen years old when she realised that men’s notions of toys were flexible. With a glance at Josie and a touch on Imogen’s shoulder she brought her sisters into a straight line. Annabel had already fallen into place, her head tilted just so, the better to allow the beholders to appreciate the sheen of her honey-golden hair.
These Englishmen looked even more shocked at the sight of the four of them than was usual. They were practically gaping. Quite rude, really. They weren’t exactly the spindly-legged, sickly creatures she would have expected, from what was said about Englishmen. The one of them looked like a fashion plate and had a wild mop of black curls that she supposed must be fashionable. Not that he was a dandy. Dandies didn’t have that faintly dangerous air. The other was tall, with a bit of a gut and a messy shock of brown hair falling over his brow. A lone wolf, perhaps.
‘Well,’ she said finally, when no one spoke, ‘we are, naturally, sorry to interrupt you both, especially when you were so gainfully occupied.’ She gave it just the faintest stress. Just enough to let them know that they were not merely pretty Scottish lasses, to be shunted off to the back room and ignored. They were ladies, after all, whether they wore unfashionable clothing or not.
The elegant one bowed and came forward, saying, ‘What a delightful surprise to meet you, Miss Essex. All of you.’
There was something odd about his voice, as if he were having trouble not laughing. But he kissed her hand with all the adroitness of a courtier.
Then finally the big one, the lone wolf, shook himself, for all the world like a dog coming out of a puddle, and came to her side as well. ‘I apologise for my impoliteness,’ he said. ‘I am Rafe Jourdain, the Duke of Holbrook. I’m afraid that I mistook your ages.’
‘Our ages?’ Tess let her eyebrows ask a delicate question. Then, slowly, the implications of the gaudily painted room and the clusters of toys sank in. ‘You thought we were still children?’
He nodded, standing before her now, bowing again, the easy sweep of a man who has spent his lifetime in the highest echelons of society, even though he (apparently) didn’t bother to brush his hair. ‘I offer you all my heartiest apologies. I was under the erroneous belief that you and you sisters were quite young.’
‘Young!’ Tess said. ‘You must have thought we were mere babes in arms!’ Because now she had taken in the presence of a nanny and four gaping young nursemaids in white aprons, the rocking horses, the dolls. ‘Didn’t Papa tell you -’
But she broke off. Of course Papa hadn’t told him. Papa had likely informed him of Starling’s age, and Wanton’s stride, and what Lady of Pleasure liked to eat before a race, but not the ages of his daughters.
Their guardian had taken her hand and was smiling down at her now, and her heart warmed despite her resentment. ‘I’m such a fool that I forgot to ask your father. And, of course, I hadn’t the faintest notion that my guardianship would be needed. Will you accept my deepest sympathies for your loss, Miss Essex?’
Tess blinked. His eyes were a curious colour, sort of a grey-blue. And kind, for all he looked like a wild man of Borneo. A dash of hope mixed with the bleak feeling of defensiveness in her chest.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘May I introduce my sisters? This is Imogen,’ she said, turning to her sister. ‘Imogen is just turned twenty.’ There were moments when she thought that Imogen was
