Free Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) by Grace Burrowes

before the food. “She stood up to my father one too many times. Being in service to him would sour any female’s humor.” 
    “You’ve succeeded in distracting me,” Cato said, sitting on the couch two feet away from his master. He sat gingerly, as if he expected to be caught by the butler humoring Trent’s queer democratic start. Cato reached for a sandwich, then drew his hand back. 
    “Eat, Catullus. The occasion of my own hunger is so rare as to be cause for celebration.” Trent helped himself to a sandwich, as much to put Cato at ease as because he was, indeed, hungry. When Cato followed suit, Trent poured them each a cup of tea. “Fix your own, and I’ll do likewise. How did you discover my leathers had been tampered with?” 
    “I didn’t.” Cato munched slowly, some of the ire draining from his posture. “Peak showed me. He wipes down any gear that’s been used, but especially if it’s been out in the wet or left to sit in the sun.” 
    Trent made a mental note to have a word with Peak—as soon as he figured out which stable hand answered to that name. “So my leathers were cut. Somebody found it amusing to try to put me on my arse in the mud.” 
    “Dane Hampton died on his arse in the mud,” Cato shot back. “That wasn’t amusing in the least.” 
    And Cato and Dane had been close, within the limits of their respective stations and the egalitarian spirit of the hunt field. 
    “The viscount was also drunk and attempting to jump a damned gate any other man would have simply opened and ridden through. He wasn’t on his own horse, either.” 
    “How did you know that?” 
    Trent paused for a tactical sip of his tea. “Old gossip in the clubs, Cato, but hardly relevant to my stirrups.” 
    Cato dusted his hands—his sandwich had been demolished—and rose to stare out the window at the gray, windy day. “He was on my horse, one of the best hunters I’ve trained.” 
    “Ah.” Then when Cato didn’t say anything more, “My condolences.” 
    Cato nodded without turning, but in the tension in his frame Trent saw confirmation that Cato had come under suspicion. As if an owner could tell a horse to sacrifice itself in the intentional murder of its rider? 
    Death by equine accomplice? “Was Dane’s equipment in good order?” 
    “Absolutely. Peak could testify to that because he groomed for the meet that day, and Peak’s word is good.” 
    “You think somebody tried to cast suspicion back on you by tampering with my saddle,” Trent suggested, taking Cato his tea. 
    Cato stared down at the steaming cup. “Somebody is trying to walk me to the gallows, and you’re serving me tea? I am your stable master, my lord, need I remind you?” He took the cup and drank anyway. 
    “Best not to drink alone, and my mama swore by the ability of a nice hot cup of tea to ameliorate every woe.” 
    “Daft,” Cato muttered, finishing his tea in two swallows. 
    “More?” 
    “Go to hell, your lordship.” 
    “Better.” Trent set the empty cup aside. “Who are your enemies?” 
    “I’m Irish. Many find that offense enough.” 
    “You’re an Irish stable master who cleans up well enough,” Trent countered. An Irish stable master who’d likely not been compensated for the loss of an excellent horse, too. “This makes you a coveted commodity in some corners.” 
    Cato’s shrug was a study in indifference. “I write to my mother once a month, and she reports all at home is quiet, or as quiet as home gets. The lads seem content. The neighbors put up with me because I’m decent with the hounds. A better question is, who wants to bring harm to you?” 
    Trent leaned back against his desk and considered the theory that Cato wasn’t the target of the miscreant, but rather, harm to Trent himself was the intended result. 
    “Slicing the stirrup leathers would be a chancy way to bring a man down,” Trent murmured. Though a fall from an eighteen-hand horse was not a short