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

popping a tea cake with pink icing into his mouth. “Isn’t that what younger sons are for?” 
    Trent set his cup down gently. “For a man whose expertise is horses, you are well informed regarding the doings of the Quality.” 
    “Cut line, my lord.” Cato delicately patted his lips with a serviette and rose. “The help always keep an eye on the Quality, and the Quality never even see the help. This is how civilization moves forward. What are we to do about your stirrup leathers?” 
    “Repair them.” 
    “For the love of God…” Cato put his fists on his hips and glared at his employer. “Somebody tried to kill you, for all you know. Repair them… Bloody hell, Amherst, do you want to die?” 
    “We don’t know if death was the object of the exercise.” Trent rose and held out the plate of tea cakes. “For now, I’d say swear Peak to discretion and keep the saddle room locked.” 
    “Amherst,” Cato expostulated, “if tampering with the stirrups failed, then you must watch out for other avenues. Warn Cook, because poison is easy and the staff will always be blamed. Keep the footmen around you when you’re far from the house. Stay the hell out of the woods, because poaching is considered tame sport by the locals, and don’t let anybody know your plans in advance.” 
    All very reasonable precautions. “You have a peculiar sense of how to go on when a mere prank is under discussion, but I’ll heed your advice, to the extent practical.” 
    Cato sighed mightily and before he quit the library, took two more tea cakes, having an apparent preference for pink icing. “At the very least let your family know what’s afoot, and give serious thought to who could mean you harm.” 
    “Sound advice.” Trent walked with his stable master toward the door. “My thanks for your concern.” 
    “Sleep with one eye open,” Cato warned. “Better yet, don’t sleep alone.” 
    “Is that any way to address your betters, Catullus?” 
    “You’re showing me to the front door , Amherst,” Cato retorted, his tone long-suffering. “I’m not even considered an upper servant.” 
    “This does appear to be the front door, and I’m tucking the last sandwich into your starving pocket,” Trent said. “It’s the least I can do when you denied yourself a lifetime of Cook’s charms to tend my stables.” 
    “Ever your humble servant.” Cato bowed elaborately, accepted the linen-wrapped sandwich, and sauntered out the door. 
    Trent munched a tea cake of his own—one with lemon icing—and hoped that last part about being ever his humble servant had been the only lie to pass Cato’s lips. 
    Chapter Five 
     
    The evening spent with Drew Hampton had yielded two results in addition to cut stirrup leathers. By virtue of delicate questioning over the port, Trent had learned that the Rammel heir was all but terrified of taking responsibility for young Miss Andy. A session of gentlemanly small talk was little price to pay for reassurances that the viscountess’s authority over the child was safe. 
    The second, less sanguine result was an invitation to join Drew Hampton and the Earl of Greymoor, considered the local expert on horseflesh, in a review of the equine stock gracing the Deerhaven paddocks. 
    After more than two hours spent tromping around the wet fields and chilly barns, Greymoor and Hampton had volunteered Trent to explain the situation to the viscountess.
    According to Hampton, that good lady had had the sense to remain indoors in a cozy private parlor. Trent tapped softly on the door, no doubt closed to keep in the heat of a fire on this dreary day. No response greeted him even after he tapped again, so he opened the door, expecting to find that her ladyship’s whereabouts had changed without notice to the new viscount. 
    Lady Rammel was the sole occupant of the room. She sat in a rocking chair by the fire, a shawl around her shoulders, an afghan across her knees, while she slept, her