own. They was a bit shaken, but they’re both as good as new, now.’
‘Well, that’s good news.’ Guy smiled. ‘I would not want to add to your work when you already have one lame horse to worry about.’
‘Sir?’
‘Your mistress said this morning there was an old mare needed a poultice.’
Slowly the groom shook his head. ‘Not in these stables, my lord. I check them all every morning and I’d know if there was summat wrong.’
Guy frowned for a moment, then shrugged.
‘No matter, mayhap I misunderstood her.’ He heard the rattle of an approaching carriage. ‘Ah, that should be Mr Davies’s man—and my groom. I hope you will be able to accommodate Holt in your stables, Rudge? He is a useful man, and of course he will defer to you,’ he added quickly, making a mental note to talk to Holt before he set him to work.
Guy made his way back to the front drive in time to see his travelling chariot sweep into view. Holt was riding on the back seat and jumped down nimbly even before the carriage had stopped. A few words sufficed to send him hurrying off to the stables and Guy was then free to observe Peters, Mr Davies’s diminutive but very efficient valet, and the various trunks and bags that he had brought to the Priory.
In a very short time Peters had made himself at home in the sickroom, unpacking the bags and even finding time to shave his master in readiness for Dr Compton’s next visit. However, Guy would not allow the valet to remove Mr Davies’s borrowed nightshirt until the doctor had pronounced the patient well enough to be moved. Davey himself, sleepy from laudanum and irritable from discomfort, swore roundly and wished them at the very devil, his outburst bringing a rare smile to his servant’s rather austere countenance.
‘It is good to see that you are recovering, sir,’ he murmured as he walked out of the room with the shaving apparatus.
‘Damn your eyes, why did you have to send for him?’ grumbled Davey. His fair hair was ruffled and his boyish face was uncharacteristically glum.
‘Because he is the best person to look after you,’ returned Guy, unperturbed. He perched himself on the edge of the bed. ‘But tell me truthfully, how do you feel?’
‘Like the very devil! I don’t think there is a part of me that doesn’t hurt. Can’t laugh or cough without a stabbing pain in my ribs, my wrist feels as if it’s sprained and my leg—’ He glanced up and Guy saw the anxiety lurking in his guileless blue eyes. ‘Is it …?’
‘Broken, nothing more serious. The doctor has set it and thinks it should heal perfectly, if you will be patient.’
‘And where are we? I don’t recognise this house, nor the servants.’
‘Malpass Priory, near Fentonby. It is the home of Lady Arabella Wakeford. Do you know her?’
Davey frowned. ‘No. I’ve heard the name, though.’
‘So have I.’ Guy frowned. ‘Cannot quite recall where I have seen it. They are a very old family, I understand.’ A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘The Wakefords were ennobled long before the Wylders gained their earldom.’
‘Well, their house is certainly old enough,’ remarked Davey, staring at the gracefully arching window with its leaded lights. ‘But thankfully they have had the wisdom to renew the mattress on this old bed! Have they put you up, too? Are you comfortable?’
‘The room is comfortable enough.’
Davey did not miss the hesitation in Guy’s tone and he said bluntly, ‘Are we inconveniencing the family?’
‘I am not sure.’ Guy rubbed his chin. ‘The old lady seems happy enough to have us here and they were quick enough to take you in last night, but I have the distinct impression her granddaughter doesn’t want me here.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I am unjust. It may be that she is uneasy having gentlemen in the house. The old lady lives here alone, you see, with her two granddaughters—there was a grandson, but I understand he died at sea some eighteen months ago.’
‘That will be it, then,’ said Davey sagely. ‘The women are afraid of being ravaged by the Dangerous Lord Darrington! Don’t worry—I’ll soon make it known that you are house-trained and only seduce women who throw themselves at you.’
‘Thank you, my friend, but I would prefer you to say no such thing.’ Guy noted his friend’s pallor and rose. ‘All this talking has tired you. Rest now until the doctor arrives. I could send for your own doctor from Helmsley if you prefer, but Compton seems able enough.’
‘No, no, I don’t want anyone else fussing over me.’ Davey waved his hand. ‘Go away, now, and let me sleep. And tell Peters to keep out of my sight until after the sawbones has been to see me!’
Encouraged by his friend’s return to spirits, Guy went out. He intended to go back to his own room and check his bag to see what changes of clothes his man had sent for him, but the sound of voices coming from the great hall drew him instead to descend the stairs.
He observed a tall, fashionably dressed gentleman standing before the fireplace. He had removed his Holland hat of brushed beaver to display a heavily powdered wig tied back into a queue with a green ribbon. He wore brown breeches and highly polished topboots, and the gloves and cane that lay on the bench beside his hat suggested he had arrived on horseback.
As Guy reached the bottom stair the man became aware of his presence and swung round towards him. He subjected Guy to a searching scrutiny before giving a little bow.
‘You must be Lord Darrington,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Allow me to present myself. Miles Radworth, at your service.’
Ah, thought Guy. The fiancé. That might explain the underlying reserve.
‘Kepwith has been telling me of the accident,’ continued Mr Radworth. ‘I trust your friend has sustained no serious injury?’
‘A few cracked ribs and a broken leg, but nothing more, we hope. We are awaiting the doctor now.’
‘Excellent, excellent. Let us hope he has good news for you. You will be wanting to get your friend back to his own house, I don’t doubt.’
Guy met Radworth’s smile with one equally bland.
‘All in good time,’ he responded. ‘Lady Arabella has been most hospitable. We are very comfortable here.’
‘Ah. I’m glad to hear it,’ came the insincere reply.
A rustle of skirts made both men look towards the door.
‘Miles! I did not expect you here today.’
Beth Forrester came in, pausing to remove her straw bonnet, and at that moment the sun shone in through the high window in the gable wall, bathing her in a golden glow. Guy could not but appreciate the effect: her red curls flamed about her head, accentuating the whiteness of her skin and the deep, liquid depths of her brown eyes. With the grey redingote hanging open from her shoulders and her white skirts billowing as she moved, Guy was suddenly reminded of an oil painting he had seen once, by one of the old Italian masters: an angel descending to the earth. As if to confirm his impression the glinting sun created a halo
