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

tumble. “Those leathers could have broken right at the mounting block or been switched to somebody else’s saddle. If I’d kept Arthur to the walk, the damage would likely still be unnoticed.” 
    Cato stalked over to the teapot and poured himself another cup. “Which suggests if you’re the target, whoever is taking aim can’t get inside your house, or hasn’t yet.” 
    Cato’s concern for his employer, grouchy though it was, warmed Trent’s heart, Would Wilton’s stable master have made this great a fuss if the earl’s well-being were threatened?
    “Maybe the malefactor doesn’t own a gun,” Trent suggested. “My life is hardly of great value. I’ve my heir, a spare, and a healthy brother in the wings. The succession is secure, leaving me more or less expendable.” 
    The notion would not have been at all disquieting only a few weeks ago. On the contrary, Trent might have viewed it as a consolation. 
    Perhaps he was daft—or had been. 
    Cato sat to stir sugar and cream into his tea. “You can’t seriously regard yourself as expendable.” 
    “Of course I do.” Trent joined him on the couch and poured himself a second cup. It wasn’t brandy, but on a cold, windy day, hot tea held some appeal. “We’re all expendable, and Dane’s example underscores the reality.” 
    “He did not regard himself as expendable,” Cato growled, stirring his tea…pugnaciously? 
    “He regarded your horse as expendable, and if the wheels are expendable, the cargo is at risk. Another sandwich?” 
    Cato took a second sandwich. “I’ve never met such a polite baby earl with such a poor grasp of his station.”
    “Being referred to as a baby earl will strain that politesse considerably, though speaking of earls, I’m jaunting over to Wilton on the first of the week.” 
    “Papa summoning you to his side?” 
    “His steward is.” Damn the man to darkest hell. “I have Wilton’s power of attorney and must occasionally put in my appearance if the merchants are to be paid.” 
    Cato tossed back his tea like so much gin and refilled his cup. One would think the man was thirsty for it—nigh parched, in fact. 
    “I didn’t realize Wilton had handed over the reins. Decent of him, I suppose. I can’t abide those old fools who leave their sons racketing about, waiting to inherit while Papa goes drooling and doddering off to the Lords each year.” 
    Stout black tea made Cato loquacious. 
    “I didn’t realize my stable master had an opinion on such a matter,” Trent said evenly. Cato met his gaze only for an instant, before picking up a third sandwich. “Catullus, doesn’t your employer feed you?” 
    “Below-stairs we get the coarse bread, the tough meat and the butter about to turn,” Cato said. “Makes a man appreciate decent fare when it finds him. And your mama and mine would agree about the restorative power of a hot cup of tea.” 
    While he stirred sugar into his tea, Trent added Cook to Peak’s name on the list of employees he needed to have a word with. “You’ll keep an eye on Lady Rammel for me when I’m off to Hampshire?”
    Cato shot Trent a puzzled look. “Has she become prone to wandering?”
    “She’ll be working on the gardens, weather permitting, and likely bringing Miss Andy along with her.” 
    “Miss Andy.” Cato paused in his pillaging of the tea tray and sat back. “The child does not hold your stable master in affection.” 
    Trent saluted with his tea cup. “A young lady of discernment. What of Lady Rammel? Does she share her daughter’s disdain of you?” 
    Though why that inquiry was relevant, Trent did not know. 
    “Step-daughter,” Cato said. “Her ladyship has no quarrel with me that I can detect. I’ll look after them when they’re on the grounds. How long will you be gone?” 
    “Less than a week. I do not enjoy my visits to the family seat, but needs must.” He loathed the very sight of the place. 
    “Send your brother,” Cato said,