there was some little detail he was missing. He said, ‘I must visit the house. Jones is living there, I believe.’
‘Aye, Master Wolfgang, he is, and he would be willing to talk to you, I am sure, but take care who else in the village you approach, sir. There’s many who lost their livelihoods when Arrandale Hall was shut up and they would not look too kindly upon you.’
‘That is understandable, but if I do not try I shall not make any progress at all.’ Wolf rose. ‘I must go. Thank you, Brent.’ He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘No, don’t get up. I will see myself out.’
‘You’ll come again, sir. You’ll let me know how you get on?’
‘I shall, you may be sure of it.’
* * *
Wolf walked back through the lanes, going over all the old man had told him. He would not risk going through the village in daylight but he would make his way to Arrandale Hall later, and perhaps, once it was dark, he might call upon one or two of the families that he knew had worked at the house, the ones he felt sure would not denounce him. The pity of it was there were precious few of those. He had spent very little of his adult life at Arrandale. Some of the old retainers would remember him as a boy, but most of the newer staff would have little loyalty to him, especially if they believed he was the reason Arrandale was closed up.
The thud of hoofs caught his attention and he looked round to see Grace Duncombe riding towards him on a rangy strawberry roan. She sat tall and straight in the saddle, made taller by the very mannish beaver hat she wore, its wispy veil flying behind her like a pennant. Wolf straightened up and waited for her. She checked slightly, as if uncertain whether to acknowledge him, then brought her horse to a stand.
He touched his hat. ‘That is a fine mare. Is she yours?’
‘Yes.’ Her response was cool, but not unfriendly. ‘Bonnie is my indulgence. I have a small annuity from my mother that I use for her upkeep.’
He reached out and scratched the mare’s head.
‘You need not excuse yourself to me, Miss Duncombe.’
She flushed and her chin went up. ‘I do not. But people wonder that I should keep my own horse when we have had to make savings everywhere else.’
‘I imagine she is useful for visiting your father’s parishioners.’
Her reserve fled and she laughed. ‘With a basket of food hanging on my arm? I cannot claim that as my reason for keeping her.’ She smoothed the mare’s neck with one dainty gloved hand. ‘I have had Bonnie since she was a foal and cannot bear to part with her.’
‘I understand that. I had such a horse once. A black stallion. The very devil to control.’
‘Oh? What happened to him?’
‘He died. I am on my way back to your father’s house now. Shall we walk?’
Grace used the gentle pressure of her heel to set Bonnie moving.
Perhaps he is a highwayman and his horse was shot from under him. That might also account for the scars on his body.
She quickly curbed her wayward imagination. She had seen a shadow cross the lean face and guessed he had been very fond of his black horse, so it was no wonder he did not wish to talk about it. She must follow her father’s example and be charitable.
‘You would find it quicker to cut through the village,’ she said, waving her crop towards a narrow path that wound its way towards the distant houses.
‘Not much quicker.’
‘Ah. You are familiar with Arrandale?’
‘I can see the church from here, Miss Duncombe, and it is clear this way will bring us to it almost as quickly as cutting back to the village.’
‘And you would rather avoid the villagers,’ she said shrewdly.
He shrugged. ‘You know how these little places gossip about strangers.’
Grace pursed her lips. He frustrated every attempt to learn more about him.
She said now, ‘That should not worry you, if you have nothing to hide.’
‘I am merely a weary traveller, taking advantage of your father’s hospitality to rest for a few days.’
‘I fear taking advantage is just what you are doing,’ she retorted, nettled.
‘I mean no harm, Miss Duncombe, trust me.’
‘Impossible, since I know nothing about you.’
‘You could ask your father.’
‘I have done so, but he will tell me nothing.’ She paused. ‘I understand you are dining with us this evening.’
‘Yes. Do you object?’
She stopped her horse.
‘I would worry less if I knew something about you.’
He looked up and she had her first clear view of his eyes. They were blue, shot through with violet, and the intensity of his gaze was almost a physical force. Her insides fluttered like a host of butterflies.
‘One day I will tell you everything about me,’ he promised. ‘For the present I would urge you to trust your father’s judgement.’
‘He seems to have fallen completely under your spell,’ she snapped, seriously discomposed by the sensations he roused in her. ‘You might be an out-and-out villain for all we know.’
Grace inadvertently jerked the reins and Bonnie sidled. Immediately he caught the bridle, murmuring softly to the mare before looking up again.
‘Your father knows I am no villain, Miss Duncombe.’
He placed his hand on her knee as if in reassurance, but it had quite the opposite effect on Grace. Her linen skirt and several layers of petticoats separated them, but the gesture was shockingly intimate. Waves of heat flooded her, pooling low in her body. Her alarm must have shown in her countenance, because his hands dropped and he stepped away.
‘Perhaps you should ride on, if you are afraid of me.’
Afraid? Grace’s head was full of chaotic thoughts and feelings. He unsettled her, roused emotions she had thought long dead, but, no, she was not afraid of him. Quite the opposite.
‘I should,’ she said, gathering her reins and her disordered senses at the same time. ‘I shall!’
And with that she set Bonnie cantering away.
* * *
Wolf watched her go, the skirts of her russet riding habit billowing and accentuating the tiny waist beneath her tight-fitting riding jacket. He had to admit it was a fine image. He had thought when he first saw her that her hair was the colour of pale honey, but out of doors, with the sun glinting on her soft curls, it reminded him more of ripe corn. And those eyes. They were a rich, deep blue. Dark
