LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes, calmly perceptive, never leaving Jack’s face. “However, as such is the case, and we will depart on Friday, Mrs. Webb has charged me to convey to you her earnest entreaty that you’ll call on us once we’re established in Mount Street. Number eighteen. Naturally, I add my entreaty to hers. I take it you’ll be removing to the capital shortly?”

      Jack nodded, discarding the notion of urging Sophie’s uncle to forbid her his more dangerous steeds. The shock she had so recently received should, with luck, suffice to keep her from the backs of murderous stallions, at least until the end of the week. “I intend quitting Melton any day, as it happens. However, as I must break my journey in Berkshire, I don’t expect to reach the metropolis much in advance of your party.”

      Horatio nodded approvingly. “Please convey my greetings to your father. We were once, if not close friends, then certainly good acquaintances.”

      Jack’s eyes widened. “You’re that Webb!” Blinking, he hastily explained, “Forgive me—I hadn’t realized. With so many Webbs in these parts, I wasn’t sure which one had been my father’s crony. I understand you and he shared many interests. He has told me of your devotion to the field.”

      “Ah, yes.” Horatio smiled serenely. “My one vice, as it were. But I think you share it, too?”

      Jack returned the smile. “I certainly enjoy the sport, but I feel my interest does not reach the obsessive heights of my father’s.”

      “Naturally,” Horatio acceded. “You younger men have other obsessions to compete with the Quorn, the Cottesmore and the Belvoir. But the Lester stud is still one of the best in the land, is it not?”

      “Under my brother Harry’s management,” Jack replied. “Our kennels still produce some of the strongest runners, too.”

      While their conversation drifted into a discussion of the latest trends in breeding both hunters and hounds, Jack sized up Sophie’s uncle. Horatio Webb, while younger than his own father, had been a long-time acquaintance of the Honorable Archibald Lester. More specifically, it had been he who had dropped that quiet word in his father’s ear which had ultimately led to the resurrection of the family fortunes.

      Taking advantage of a natural lull in the conversation, Jack said, “Incidentally, I must make you all our thanks for your timely advice in the matter of the Indies Corporation.”

      Horatio waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it. What friends are for, after all.” Before Jack could respond with a further expression of gratitude, Horatio murmured, “Besides, you’ve cleaned the slate. I assure you I would not have liked to have had to face my brother-in-law, eccentric though he is, with the news that his Sophie had broken her neck on one of my stallions. As far as I can see, the scales between the Webbs and the Lesters are entirely level.”

      Just for an instant, Jack glimpsed the reality behind Horatio Webb’s mask. Understanding, then, that this visit had many purposes, perhaps even more than he had yet divined, Jack could do no more than graciously accept the older man’s edict. “I’m pleased to have been able to be of service, sir.”

      Horatio smiled his deceptive smile and rose. “And now I must be off.” He waited while Jack rang and gave orders for his horse to be brought round, then shook hands with his host. His eyes roving the room once more, he added, “It’s nice to see this place kept up. It’s been in your family for some time, has it not?”

      Escorting Sophie’s amazing uncle to the door, Jack nodded. “Five generations. All the Lester men have been bred to hunting.”

      “As it should be,” Horatio said, and meant far more than the obvious. “Don’t forget,” he added, as he swung up to the back of his bay. “We’ll look to see you in London.”

      Horatio nodded a last farewell and turned his horse’s head for home. As he urged the bay to a canter, a subtle smile curved his lips. He was well pleased with what he had found at Rawling’s Cottage. Aside from all else, the Lesters were obviously planning on remaining a part of the landscape, here as much as in Berkshire.

      Lucilla would be pleased.

      * * *

      BY THE TIME she returned from their ride, Sophie had a headache. As she was not normally prey to even such minor ailments, she felt the constraint deeply. As she preceded Clarissa into the back parlour, she massaged her temples in an effort to ease the throbbing ache behind them.

      It was, of course, all Jack Lester’s fault. If she hadn’t spent half her time worrying about how she would respond if he joined them, and the other half scanning the horizon for his broad-shouldered frame, metaphorically looking over her shoulder all the way, she would doubtless have taken her customary enjoyment in the ride. Instead, she felt dreadful.

      Throwing her riding cap onto a chair, she sank gratefully into the overstuffed armchair in the shadows by the hearth.

      “A pity Mr. Lester and Lord Percy didn’t join us.” Clarissa dropped onto the chaise, obviously ready to chat. “I was sure that, after yesterday, they would be waiting at Ashes’ Hill.”

      “Perhaps they’ve already returned to London,” Sophie suggested. “The ground’s certainly soft enough to send the tail-chasers back to town.”

      “Tail-chasers” was the family term for those gentlemen whose only purpose in coming to Melton Mowbray was to chase a fox’s tail. At the first sign of the thaw, such gentlemen invariably deserted the packs for the more refined ambience of the ton’s gaming rooms.

      “Oh, but I don’t think Mr. Lester and Lord Percy are tail-chasers, exactly. Not when they both ride such superb horses.”

      Sophie blinked and wondered if her headache was affecting her reason. “What have their horses to do with it?” she felt compelled to ask. “All tail-chasers, ipso facto, must have horses.”

      But Clarissa’s mind was on quite a different track. “They’re both terribly elegant, aren’t they? Not just in the ballroom—well, everyone tries to be elegant there. But they both have that indefinable London polish, don’t they?”

      Sophie openly studied her cousin’s lovely face. At the sight of the glowing expression inhabiting Clarissa’s clear eyes, she stifled a groan. “Clarissa—please believe me—not all London gentlemen are like Lord Percy and Mr. Lester. Some of them are no better than…than any of the young gentlemen you’ve met at the local balls. And many are a great deal worse.”

      “Maybe so,” Clarissa allowed. “But it’s an indisputable fact that both Mr. Lester and Lord Percy put all the gentlemen hereabouts to shame.”

      Sophie closed her eyes and wished she could argue.

      Clarissa rose, eyes shining, and twirled about the room. “Oh, Sophie! I’m so looking forward to being surrounded by all the swells—the dandies, the town beaux, even the fops. It will be so thrilling to be sought after by such gentlemen, to be twitted and teased—in a perfectly acceptable way, of course.” Clarissa dipped and swirled closer. “And I know,” she continued, lowering her voice, “that one is not supposed to say so, but I can’t wait to at least try my hand at flirting, and I positively can’t wait to be ogled.”

      As she squinted against the glare of the late afternoon sun, her narrowed vision filled with Clarissa’s svelte form, Sophie didn’t think her cousin would have all that long to wait. She should, she supposed, make a push to bring Clarissa back to earth, and defend the local young gentlemen, Ned in particular. If she hadn’t been feeling so ill, she would have. But with her head throbbing so, and her mind still tangled in her own confusion, she doubted she could find sufficient words to succeed.

      “But what of you, Sophie?” Abruptly, Clarissa turned from rapt contemplation of her rosy future and plumped down on the chaise close by. “After his dramatically chivalrous rescue yesterday, aren’t you just a little bit taken with Mr. Lester?”

      Sophie let her lids fall; Clarissa, when she put her mind to it, could be quite as perspicacious as her mother. “Indeed,” she forced

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