Free Carla Kelly by One Good Turn

be watching the inn-yard activity, perhaps even admiring the horses, and he wondered then if she liked to ride. That can hardly be, he thought. Women of her quality usually walked, or hopped onto the back of carts. But there was no mistaking her interest in the horses. He joined her at the fence.
    “Nice animals, aren’t they?” he said. “I mean, for an inn yard.”
    She nodded. “My brother told me that England’s finest horses come from Ireland. Was he right?”
    “Indeed he was. I’ve scoured a few counties across the Irish sea for bloodstock.” He thought a moment. No harm in asking. Be casual, Benedict. “Does, does your family have horses?”
    “Some,” she replied. She seemed to hesitate, too, and he wondered if she would continue. “Ours come . . . came from North Africa.”
    My God, Arabians, he thought in surprise. “Did your brother ride?”
    “They both did.”
    “And you?” he asked, practically holding his breath.
    “Oh, yes.”
    She smiled, and he suddenly wanted to hear her laugh. “A good memory, I gather?” he prompted.
    “Yes again, until the
jefe del rancho
caught me and told me I didn’t belong in his fields.”
    So that was it. He had seen scraggly looking children hanging around his own paddocks, eager to ride, but knowing the penalties of being caught on his land. Might as well change the subject, he thought, for this one is only going where I thought it would. “Juan likes to draw horses, and I think he is quite good.” He took a deep breath. “Do you think the school in Huddersfield will nurture that talent?”
    She shrugged. “I do not even know for sure if there is a school in Huddersfield, sir. I hope, though.”
    There didn’t seem to be any inane reply that would smooth that realistic statement, so he changed the subject again. “I do fully intend to compensate you for your time and trouble on my behalf,” he said.
    “I have no doubt that you will be fair and generous.”
    She replied quickly, obviously without thinking about it, and he was touched by her trust in him, the most unreliable of men. “I will be generous, Miss Valencia. Good night, now.”
    The whole business of saying good-bye to the Valencias left him low and uncommunicative for the rest of the journey, which ended at noon on the gravel drive at Knare’s main entrance. Even in his worst days, he usually felt a lift of his heart when the road topped a rise and entered the small valley just beyond the village of Knare. He gazed at it with a frown this time. He was right; it was just a pile of cold stones, the gift of a Catholic house wrested from its owners during the time of Henry the Eighth and given to the first duke of Knare, probably for some dirty doings against the Church of Rome. True, the ivy was appealing, and the little panes of glass did catch the sun in an attractive way. At least it is well run, he thought, glancing at Luster, who looked so weary.
    The carriage rolled to a stop, and he waited for the servants to pour out of the door to line themselves along the way to the entrance, ready to bow. Luster looked at him, faint surprise on his face, too, when nothing happened. “They may not be expecting you, Your Grace, but surely someone is at least watching out a window,” he said, shaking his head in dismay.
    “You know, Luster, I think I prefer it this way,” he said. “Let me throw down the step and give you a hand.” Before his butler could object, Nez opened the door and unfolded the steps. By the time he helped Luster, his hand still trembling from illness, from the carriage, the door opened and his servants emerged. He looked again, with a deep sigh this time. His sister Augusta came next, and with her was Miss Audrey St. John from next door. She grinned at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back.
    “Well, Audrey,” he said as the footman ran up to help Luster. “I can only pray you haven’t rearranged all my furniture and replaced the draperies. ’Lo, Gussie.