Lady Eve's Indiscretion

Two

“Having family in your employ is always a mixed blessing.”

His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, made this observation while Deene ambled along at his side in the gardens behind the Moreland mansion. “You want to provide for your dependents, and you expect they’ll be somewhat more loyal than strangers would be, but it can also get complicated.”

“Anthony has done a magnificent job,” Deene countered. “He’s never once by word or deed indicated he has designs on the title.”

His Grace paused to sniff a white rose. “Then you are fortunate indeed, since he’s all the family you’ve got.”

“Not all.”

His Grace straightened. “There is the girl. I’d forgotten, but you likely haven’t. How does she go on?”

Upon the death of Deene’s father, Percival, Duke of Moreland, had come calling with his duchess as part of the usual round of condolence visits. The Moreland estates neighbored with the seat of the Deene marquessate, and if nothing else, His Grace and his late lordship had ridden to hounds together countless times.

What had begun as a neighborly gesture had turned into something unprecedented in Deene’s experience: a mentorship of sorts on Moreland’s part.

“The girl isn’t in poor health, from what I can tell. Dolan does not permit me to call.”

“He wouldn’t turn your wife away.”

Deene didn’t flatter himself that he was any particular friend of Moreland’s—he was a vote, perhaps, on some of the duke’s pet bills—but Moreland had been generous with advice at a time when Deene was without much wisdom of his own.

“Except I have no wife.”

This provoked a surprisingly sweet smile from His Grace. “Then you should rectify that poverty posthaste. Because I am the lone male in my household at present, I am more privy to the ladies’ views on your situation than I would be otherwise. I understand you are being stalked by the debutantes and their mamas.”

“Of course I am being stalked.” Lest this conversation continue on into the Moreland home itself, Deene gestured to a bench and waited for Moreland to seat himself before doing the same. “I am the highest available title, unless you count some septuagenarian dukes with ample progeny, and I am in need of an heir. When I am riding to hounds, I will never pursue Reynard with quite the same lack of sympathy I have in the past.”

“The fox most often escapes the hounds, because he’s running for his life. The wrong wife can make you entirely resent yours.”

How honest could one be with a man twice one’s age?

“I cannot say my parents’ union escaped such a characterization.”

His Grace stretched out long legs and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “Times were different then. Matches were usually arranged by the parents for dynastic reasons, and expectations of the institution were different. Here is my advice to you, young man, which you may discard or heed at your pleasure: do not marry until you meet that person whom you cannot imagine living the rest of your life without. Call it love, call it affection, call it a fine understanding. Put whatever label you want on it. You will be wed for the rest of your life or perhaps for hers, and that can be a long, long time.”

His Grace sat up and speared Deene with a look. “Take your cousin about with you socially. Have him shadow your moves so you’re not waylaid in the rose arbor by some scheming minx. I know of what I speak, young Deene, having climbed out of more than one window in my heedless youth. If it hadn’t been for my brother Tony, there’s no telling what my fate might have been.”

The confidence was surprising and… endearing. Moreland was tall, with the ramrod straight posture of the former cavalry officer and a head of distinguished white hair to go with blue eyes that could turn arctic when his will was opposed.

Just now though, the man did not look so much like a duke as he did like a husband, a papa, a hale old fellow who valued his family above anything else.

“And here comes my duchess now to make sure I’m not lecturing you into a stupor.” His Grace rose smoothly to his feet and met his duchess on the graveled walk. “My dear, I was just coming to fetch you.”

She greeted Deene genially then gave His Grace her hand, which he tucked onto his arm.

“Deene, you will excuse us? Her Grace has requested my escort on a visit to Westhaven’s household, and this is a privilege I would not forego even to ensure I have your vote on the shipping amendments.”

Deene bowed to the duchess, who very likely fit Eve’s definition of an English beauty even in the woman’s sixth decade of life: tall, willowy, kind green eyes, and hair shading from gold to wheat around a face still lovely and unlined.

“Your Graces, I bid you good day, and of course you have my vote, Moreland.”

“Run along into the house, then. I’m sure the girls will be sitting down to lunch. You can ask them who’s most desperate for a husband and avoid the traps accordingly.” His Grace winked, patted his duchess’s hand, and led her off in the direction of the mews.

They had a peace about them, a sense of effortless communion Deene found fascinating, even as it made his chest feel a trifle queer.

He would not be joining the ladies for lunch—the lunching hour had passed—but he let himself in the French doors leading to the Moreland library, thinking to head straight for the front door.

“Why, Lord Deene. A pleasure.” Louisa, Lady Kesmore, smiled at him, a somewhat unnerving prospect involving a number of straight, white teeth. Lady Jenny’s smile was sweeter, and Eve’s smile was forced. They sat on the sofa, to Deene’s eye a trio of lovely women showing graduated degrees of disgruntlement.

“I beg your pardon, my ladies, Mr. Trottenham. I did not realize I’d be intruding unannounced.”

“Deene, good day.” Trottenham rose and bowed, smacking his heels together audibly. “The more the merrier, I say, what? Saw your colt beat Islington’s by two lengths. Well done, jolly good and all that. Islington’s made a bit too much blunt off that animal in my opinion.”

Trottenham apparently had a nervous affliction of the eyebrows, for they bounced up and down as he spoke, suggesting either a severe tic or an attempt to indicate some sort of shared confidence.

“Perhaps the ladies would rather we save the race talk for the clubs?”

“The ladies would indeed,” Louisa said. “Sit you down, Deene, and do the pretty. Mr. Trottenham was just leaving.” She gave a pointed look at the clock, while Eve, who had said nothing, busied herself pouring tea, which Deene most assuredly did not want.

“Leaving?” Trottenham’s eyebrows jiggled around. “Suppose I ought, but first I must ask Lady Eve to join me at the fashionable hour for a drive around The Ring. It’s a beautiful day, and I’ve a spanking pair of bays to show off.”

Deene accepted his cup of tea with good grace. “Afraid she’s not in a position to oblige, Trottenham, at least not today.” He smiled over at Eve, who blinked once then smiled back.

Looking just a bit like Louisa when she did.

“Sorry, Mr. Trottenham.” She did not sound sorry to Deene. “His lordship has spoken for my time today.”

Trottenham’s smile dimmed then regained its strength. “Tomorrow, then?”

Jenny spoke up. “We’re supposed to attend that Venetian breakfast with Her Grace tomorrow.”

“And the next day is His Grace’s birthday. Couldn’t possibly wander off on such an occasion as that,” Louisa volunteered. “Why don’t I see you out, Mr. Trottenham, and you can tell me where you found these bays.”

She rose and took him by the arm, leaving a small silence after her departure, in which Deene spared a moment to pity poor Trottenham.

“I have an appointment at the modiste,” Lady Jenny said, getting to her feet. “Lucas, I’m sure you’ll excuse me.”

She swanned off, leaving Eve sitting before the tea tray and Deene wondering what had just happened. “Did you tell them I’ve a preference for leeks?”

“I did not, but I cannot vouch for the queer starts my sisters take. Does this mean we must drive out?”

He studied her, noting slight shadows under her eyes and a pallor beneath the peaches and cream of her complexion. He hadn’t truly intended the offer, but neither was he exactly unwilling to make good on it.

“Not if you don’t want to. My horse can develop a loose shoe. You can come down with another megrim.”

She grimaced. “I never pretend I have one if I don’t—it’s tempting fate too badly. Are you going to drink your tea?”

“No.” He set the cup and saucer down, feeling vaguely irritated to see her looking pale and peaked. “What’s troubling you, Eve Windham?”

She was silent for a moment, while Deene became aware the library door was closed and there were strawberries on the tray before her. He lifted his gaze from the damned fruit on the tray and clapped his eyes on the lady, which did not do much to stem the useless thoughts proximity to Eve Windham seemed to arouse… provoke, rather.

“I don’t believe in dissembling on general principles.” She glanced out the window to the gardens struggling to advance against a season when the nights were still chilly. “I suppose I can drive out with you.”

“As flattering as your enthusiasm for my company is, I will still oblige you with a turn in the park. Do you need to change?”

He certainly had not intended to spend an hour or two tooling around Hyde Park with Eve Windham, except His Grace’s words echoed in Deene’s head: ask the Windham sisters about the social scene. Any former cavalry officer understood the benefit of sound intelligence.

Eve would know all the debutantes and the climbers, the ambitious mamas and the young girls politely described as high-strung. Abruptly, this little turn in the park loomed like a fine idea, despite any wayward notions Deene’s male parts might be taking.

“I can go as I am, but I must fetch a wrap.” As she rose, she picked up a strawberry and bit into it, leaving Deene to realize that no matter what they discussed, this little trip around The Ring would be a long drive indeed.

Probably for them both.

As her husband settled onto the coach seat beside her, Esther, Duchess of Moreland, tucked her hand into his.

“Husband, I must ask you something.”

His smile was the embodiment of patience. “If you’re going to quiz me on my habits at the club, I can tell you I’ve been very circumspect in my drinking. There’s nothing more pathetic than some old lord passed out in his chair, droplets of wine staining his linen, yesterday’s copy of the Times crumpled in his lap. You’d think such an example would scare the young fellows into sobriety.”

“It’s about the young fellows I wanted to ask you.”

Beside her, Esther could feel her husband waiting. The patience they had with each other was only one of the blessings reaped from thirty-odd years of marriage.

“Are you meddling a bit, Percival, by having Deene over to the house as often as you do?”

He didn’t immediately break into remonstrations and protests, which suggested the question had been timely.

“He’d do, Esther. Evie bristles when he’s about, but Jenny might suit him.”

“She bristles?”

They shared a look, part humor, part despair, before His Grace spoke. “I’ve not had Deene’s finances looked into yet, if that’s what you’re asking. I like the man, and I recall all too well what it was like when the title befell us.”

He always referred to it like that: the title befell us, not just him. Our duchy, not simply his dukedom. He was not an arrogant husband, though he could be a very arrogant duke—which Esther did not regard in any way as a fault.

“You think Deene needs a wife, then?”

He patted her hand, a slow stroking gesture that likely soothed him as much as it did her. “The fellow in need of a wife is probably the last fellow to realize his predicament, to wit, your dear and adoring husband in a younger incarnation. Deene’s antecedents did not set a sanguine example in this regard. I’ve encouraged him to choose wisely.”

“You refer to our sons when you allude to fellows not knowing they needed wives.”

This merited her another smile, one hinting of mischief. “With regard to wise choices, of course I do. They take after their papa in this. If Deene were to seek to join our family, Esther, would you approve the match?”

She needed a moment to consider her answer. To better facilitate her cogitation, she laid her head on His Grace’s shoulder.

“He was very kind to Evie when she needed help the other night.”

“Ahh.”

In that simple expostulation, Esther understood that her husband divined the direction of her thoughts.

“Our perpetual darling.” His Grace sighed and put an arm around Her Grace’s shoulders. “The proposals have slowed to a trickle, but I’m thinking Tridelphius Trottenham is coming to the sticking point.”

“He will not do.”

“Of course not. Evie always engages the affections of fellows who are perfectly acceptable in any role save that of husband. She has a genius for it.”

They didn’t need to say more on that topic. Eve had her reasons, of which they were all too aware.

Esther again took her husband’s hand in hers. “She’ll get her courage back, Husband. She’s a Windham. She just hasn’t met the right fellow yet.”

His Grace maintained a diplomatic silence, which Esther was wise enough—married enough—to comprehend did not signal agreement.

The day wasn’t exactly warm, but it was sunny. Still, with a stiff breeze resulting from Deene’s horses being at the trot, Eve felt chilled.

And this had to be the reason why she sat a little closer to Deene than was strictly, absolutely proper.

“If you’re cold, there’s a blanket under the seat for your lap.”

“I’m fine.”

He glanced over at her. “You’re pale, Eve. Has another megrim been afflicting you?”

The shops and stately homes of Mayfair sped by, though in a couple of hours the streets would likely be too crowded to proceed at such a lively pace. “A gentleman would not remark such a thing.”

He leaned a little closer, as if imparting a confidence. “A lady would not be gripping the handrail as if her driver were about to capsize the vehicle.”

Dratted man. She relaxed her grip.

“Take a breath and make yourself let it out slowly.” He said this quietly too, still in that conspiratorial tone. Eve wanted to elbow him in his ribs. Out of deference to the welfare of her elbow, she took a breath.

Which did help, double drat him.

“We have two perfect gentlemen in the traces,” Deene said. “I traded your brother Devlin for them and got the better of the bargain.”

“How old are they?” Another breath.

“Rising six, and the most sensible fellows you’d ever want in harness.”

Eve considered the horses, a pair of shiny chestnuts, each with white socks on both forelegs. “Why didn’t Devlin want them?”

“They’re quite good size for riding mounts, but I think mostly he wasn’t looking to add to his training responsibilities.”

There was nothing in Deene’s tone to suggest he was being snide, yet Eve bristled. “You saw Devlin at Christmas. He’s doing much better now that he’s married.”

Deene drove along in silence, turning the horses through Cumberland Gate and onto The Ring. Eve kept breathing but realized part of the reason she was in such difficulties.

Since the accident, she’d driven out only with family. She didn’t know if this eccentricity had been remarked by Polite Society, but given the level of scrutiny any ducal family merited, it very likely had.

Her brothers hadn’t been on hand to drive her anywhere for ages. In recent memory, she’d driven out only with her mama. While Her Grace was a very competent whip, even a noted whip among the ladies, Deene at the ribbons was a very different proposition.

A more confident proposition, in some regards. For one thing, he was a great deal larger and more muscular than any duchess; for another, he was former cavalry; and on top of that, he was just… Deene.

“I did not mean to scold,” Eve said. “Devlin had us worried when he came back from Waterloo.”

Deene kept his gaze on the horses. “He had us all worried, Lady Eve.”

She wanted to ask him, as she’d never asked her own brother, what it was that made a man shift from a clear-eyed, doting brother with great good humor and a way with the ladies, to a haunted shell, jumping at loud noises and searching out the decanters in every parlor in the house.

Except she knew.

She must have moved closer to Deene, because he started in with the small talk.

“The leader is Duke, the off gelding is Marquis. They’re cousins on the dam side.”

“There must be some draft in them somewhere,” Eve remarked. Quarters like that didn’t result from breeding the racing lines exclusively. “They’ve good shoulder angles too. Have you ever put them over fences?”

This earned her a different glance. “You’re right, they do. I suppose the next time I take them out to Kent, I’ll have the lads set up a few jumps. Is His Grace still riding to hounds?”

“In moderation. I think you do have a loose shoe on the… on Marquis. Up front.”

“How can you tell?”

“The sound. That hoof sounds different when it strikes the ground. Listen, you’ll pick it up.”

They clippety-clopped along, though to Eve the sound of a tenuous shoe was clear as day.

“Your brothers said your seat was the envy of your sisters,” Deene remarked a few moments later. “When they talked about you taking His Grace’s stallion out against orders, they sounded nothing less than awed.”

“I was twelve, and I wanted to go to Spain to look after my brother. Proving I could ride Meteor seemed a logical way to do that.”

“I gather your plan did not succeed.”

She hadn’t thought about this stunt in ages. Meteor had been a good sort, if in need of reassurance. He was in the pensioner paddocks at Morelands now, his muzzle gray, his face showing the passage of years more than his magnificent body. Eve brought him apples from time to time.

“I had a great ride, though.” It had been a great ride. Her first real steeplechase, from Morelands to the village and back across the countryside, with grooms bellowing behind her, her brother Bart giving chase as well, and all hell breaking loose when she’d eventually brought the horse back to the stables.

“I bet it got you a stout birching, though.”

She had to smile. “Not a birching. His Grace stormed and fumed and shouted at me for an age—not about riding the horse, but about taking him without permission—then condemned me to mucking stalls for a month. Mama was in favor of bread and water and switching my backside until I couldn’t sit a horse anymore.”

“I gather you were sad when the punishment ended?”

He was a perceptive man, and he’d also known her before.

And there it was again, the great divide in Eve’s life: Before the Accident versus After the Accident. She forced herself not to drop the thread of the conversation, because that divide was private, known only to her.

She hoped.

“I learned a very great deal in that month from watching the horses, listening to the lads, and seeing them working the horses in the schooling ring. I learned how to care for my tack, how to properly groom a beast and not just fuss about with the brushes, how to tack up and untack, when a horse was cool enough to put away, what to do with an abscess or a hot tendon.”

She fell silent. In some ways that had been the happiest month of her childhood.

Of her life.

Beside her, Deene went abruptly alert. Eve followed his gaze to where a little girl was playing fetch with a spaniel. The governess or nanny was on a bench nearby, reading a book.

“Take the reins, Evie.”

Before Eve could protest that she couldn’t take the reins, she did not want to take the reins, and she would not take the reins, Deene had thrust them into her hands.

He hopped out of the still-moving vehicle and approached the child.

“Uncle Lucas!” The girl squealed her greeting and pelted toward Deene, arms outstretched. The horses shifted a bit at the commotion, making Eve’s insides shift more than a bit.

“Steady, gentlemen.” Thankfully, she still had the equestrian skill of sounding more relaxed than she felt. While Deene swept the child up in a hug, Eve also made her hands and arms relax, then her middle, lest the horses pick up on her tension and decide to leave the park at a dead gallop.

She exerted the same discipline over her thoughts as she had her body.

“And, ho.” Obediently, both geldings shuffled to a halt. “Stand, gentlemen.” She gave a little slack in the reins, and thank God, and perhaps Deene’s ability to train a team, the horses stood like statutes.

“Shall I hold ’em, miss?”

The tiger—whose existence Eve had completely forgotten—scrambled off the coach and stood blinking up at her.

“That won’t be necessary. I don’t think his lordship will be long.”

The nanny was speaking to Deene in low tones, her hand plucking at her collar. Deene kept the girl perched on his hip but reached out with one hand and snatched the ball from the woman’s hands. He pitched it quite hard, then set the girl down while the dog ran off after the ball.

While Eve watched, Deene took the girl’s hand and led her over to the curricle.

“Lady Eve, there’s somebody I’d like to introduce you to. This is my niece, Miss Georgina Dolan. Georgie, Lady Eve is my friend, so please make your curtsy.”

The girl dipped a perfect curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, my lady.”

She came up grinning, as if she knew she’d done it exactly as instructed.

Eve smiled down at a pair of dancing blue eyes framed by fat, golden sausage curls.

“Miss Georgina.” Eve inclined her head on a smile. “A pleasure. Is that your dog?”

“Charles. He’s the best. My papa got him for me when I turned seven. Are these your horses?”

“They belong to your uncle.” Who remained at the child’s side, holding her hand. “Their names are Duke and Marquis. I’m sure your uncle would let you pet them.”

“Uncle?” She turned a wheedling smile on Deene. “I don’t want to pet them, I want to ride them.”

“Which would get horsehair all over your pretty dress, my dear, and render your nanny apoplectic.”

The governess, a prim blond, was looking nervous enough, standing just a few feet off, the ball at her feet, the dog sitting nearby and panting mightily.

“You took me up before you a long time ago,” the child said. “When I was just a baby.”

“You were not a baby, but it was a long time ago,” Deene replied, his smile tight. “I’m sure your papa would ride out with you if you asked him.”

A mulish expression blighted otherwise angelic features, giving the girl a resemblance to her uncle. “He will not. Papa is too busy, and he says I can’t have a pony until I speak French and we’re in the country, which won’t be until forever, because the roses aren’t even blooming yet.”

Deene’s lips flattened, which was a curious reaction to a child’s predictable griping.

“I’ll bet you can draw a very pretty pony, though,” Eve suggested. “One with bows in his mane and even one in his tail.”

The child shot Eve a frown. “I thought a bow in the tail meant the horse kicked.”

“At the hunt meet, it can mean that. In your drawing, you can make it just for decoration.”

The nanny had approached a few feet closer, her expression almost tormented. Clearly, the woman wasn’t used to having her charge plucked from her care. Deene’s glance at the governess was positively venomous, but thankfully aimed over the child’s head.

“Can you play some fetch with me and Charles, Uncle?”

“Eve, would you mind?”

“May I play too?” For some reason, she did not want to leave Deene, the child, and the woman to their own devices.

“Oh, please!” Georgina shrieked and clapped her hands together. Marquis took a single step in reaction, which should have sent Eve into a blind panic.

“Settle, Marquis.” The beast flicked an ear at Eve’s voice and held still.

Deene had only to glance at his tiger, and the boy was up at the horses’ heads while Deene himself helped Eve from the vehicle.

“We can play catch, all of us,” Georgina caroled, grabbing Eve and Deene by the hand, “and Charles will run mad between us. He loves to run and loves to come to the park. I love to come to the park too, and I think Miss Ingraham does also. She reads lurid novels, though I would never tell Papa.”

Children were like this. Eve used to volunteer to watch the little ones in the nursery at church, and this startling honesty was something she’d forgotten. She’d been this honest once: I don’t want to pet them, I want to ride them.

She played catch, berating Deene sorely when he threw the ball too high over her head, tossing it gently to the girl, and keeping an eye on the fretful governess. When even the dog was too tired to play anymore, Deene went down on one knee.

“Give me a hug, Georgie. I must take Lady Eve home now, and if we play any longer, you’ll have to carry Charles back to your house.”

The girl bundled in close and wrapped her arms around her uncle’s neck. While they embraced, Deene’s hand stroked over the little blond head, the expression in his eyes… bleak.

He kissed the girl’s cheek, stood, and led the child over to her caretaker. “My thanks for your patience, miss.”

The woman muttered something too low for Eve to hear, and then Deene was handing Eve up into the curricle. The tiger climbed up behind, and Deene just sat there.

He did not take up the reins.

He did not speak.

“Deene?” His face was set in a expression Eve hadn’t seen before—angry and determined, for all she couldn’t say exactly which handsome feature portrayed which emotion, or how.

“Lucas?”

“You’ll have to drive, Evie.”

She didn’t question him. He was clearly in no state to take the reins. She unwrapped them, took up the contact with each horse’s mouth, glanced back to make sure the tiger was holding on, and gave the command to walk on.

“Is there a reason why you’re off balance, Deene?”

He snorted. “Off balance? A fair term for it, and yes, there are many reasons, the most recent being that the climbing Irish bastard who sired my niece had to go and give the damned dog my father’s Christian name. Dolan’s disrespect is about as subtle as a runaway ale wagon.”

As Eve sat beside him and drove the horses along at a relaxed trot, Deene became aware that he was grinding his teeth, which was hardly proper conduct in the presence of a lady.

“I beg your pardon for my language, Lady Eve.”

She didn’t take her gaze from the horses, just sat serenely on the bench. “I didn’t know you had a niece.”

He should have realized the child might be in the park at an odd hour. He’d set his spies loose in the mornings, when most nursemaids took children for an outing. Now he’d know to keep watch at all hours.

“I am barely allowed the appearance of being her uncle.”

“Her father is protective?”

Deene counted to ten; he counted to ten in Latin and then in French. “He is barely deserving of the name Father. The child is kept virtually prisoner in her own home, and she has no friends. I am not permitted to call on her, though I am permitted to send her presents, and she sends the occasional carefully worded note of thanks. Dolan would never look askance at material goods, but he treats that girl…”

He was nigh to ranting, but Eve did not appear at all discommoded by his words.

“He raises protectiveness to a vulgar art,” Deene concluded. Georgie was a possession to Dolan, just as Marie had been a possession, a prize.

Eve turned the horses onto Park Lane while Deene counted to twenty in Italian.

“What was that comment Mr. Trottenham made about your colt beating Islington’s?” Eve asked.

Ah, she was Changing the Subject, bless her. Deene seized on the new topic gratefully.

“I got tired of hearing the old man brag on his colt and decided to turn King William loose for once.”

She clucked to the horses, who picked up the pace a touch. “King William is a horse?”

Deene propped his foot on the fender. “King William is a force of nature in the form of a colt rising four. He’s going to be the making of my racing stud, if only I can find the right balance of conditioning and competing for him.”

Eve smiled at the horses before them. “He has the heart of a champion, then. He wants to run even when he needs to laze about for a day or two, am I right?”

“You are exactly right. He doesn’t want to run, he needs to run, needs to show the other boys who’s fastest. Put him against a filly, and he’s greased lightning.”

She feathered the horses through a turn made tight by an empty dray near the curb. “I’d forgotten Devlin’s stud farm was originally one of your parcels. Do you spend much time there?”

Without Deene realizing exactly when or how, his ire at Georgie’s father, his towering frustration, and even—a man did not admit this outside his own thoughts—his sense of helplessness faded into any horseman’s enthusiasm for his sport. And Eve did not merely humor him with a pained smile on her features; she participated in the conversation with equal enthusiasm as Deene waxed eloquent about his stud colt.

“I’ve never met a stallion with quite as much personality as Wee Willy. The lads dote on him and cosset him as if he were their firstborn son.”

“Is he permitted apples?”

“In moderation. He’s a fiend for sugar or anything sweet, though.”

“Typical male.” She gave him such a smile then, it was as if somebody had put a lump of sugar on Deene’s own tongue. That smile said she was pleased with him, with herself, with life and all it beheld—and all he had done was talk horses with her.

When they turned onto the square before the Moreland mansion, Deene was almost sorry to see the outing end. He helped Eve down from the vehicle, then paused for a moment, his hands at her waist.

“We never did broach the topic I’d intended to bring up.”

She had her hands braced on his arms, making him realize again how diminutive she was.

“What topic was that?”

He let her go and signaled to the tiger to walk the horses while he offered Eve his arm. “I’ll walk you in, but let’s go by way of the gardens, shall we?”

She took the hint and trundled along beside him quietly until they were away from the street.

“My original agenda for requesting your company this afternoon was not to talk your ear off about King William.”

She took a bench behind a privet hedge and patted the place beside her. “Your agenda was rescuing me from Mr. Trit-Trot, though I fear you’re too late. He has that blindly determined look in his eye.”

“Trit-Trot?” While he took the place beside her, Eve took off her bonnet and set it aside, then smoothed her hand over her hair.

When that little delaying tactic was at an end, she grimaced. “Louisa finds these appellations and applies them indiscriminately to the poor gentlemen who come to call. She’s gotten worse since she married. Tridelphius Trottenham, ergo Trit-Trot, and it suits him.”

“Dear Trit-Trot has a gambling problem.”

One did not share such a thing with the ladies, generally, but if the idiot was thinking to offer for a Windham daughter, somebody needed to sound a warning.

And as to that, the idea of Trit-Trot—the man was now doomed to wear the unfortunate moniker forevermore in Deene’s mind—kissing any of Moreland’s young ladies, much less kissing Eve, made Deene’s sanguine mood… sink a trifle.

“He also clicks his heels in the most aggravating manner,” Eve said, her gaze fixed on a bed of cheery yellow tulips. “And he doesn’t hold a conversation, he chirps. He licks his fingers when he’s eaten tea cakes, though he’s a passable dancer and has a kind heart.”

Bright yellow tulips meant something in the language of flowers: I am hopelessly in love. In his idiot youth, Deene had sent a few such bouquets to some opera dancers and merry widows.

Rather than ponder those follies, Deene considered the woman beside him. “I never gave a great deal of thought to how much you ladies must simply endure the company of your callers. Is it so very bad?”

She shifted her focus up, to where a stately oak was sporting a reddish cast to its branches in anticipation of leafing out. “It’s worse now that Sophie, Maggie, and Louisa are married. One heard of the infantry squares at Waterloo, closing ranks again and again as the French cavalry charged them. I expect we two youngest sisters share a little of that same sense.”

Oak leaves for bravery.

He spoke slowly, the words dragged past his pride by the mental plough horse of practicality. “I might be able to help, Eve, and you could do me a considerable service in return.”

Now she studied a lilac bush about a week away from blooming. First emotions of love.

“You already rendered me a considerable service, Lucas.” She spoke very quietly, and hunched in on herself, bracing her hands on the bench beneath them.

She’d called him Lucas. He’d been Lucas to the entire Windham family as a youth, and now he was Lucas to no one save Georgie. He wasn’t sure if he liked this presumption on Eve’s part, or resented it.

“I can have a word with Trit-Trot if you want me to run him off.”

She waved a hand. “I’ll mention the fact that I have only two dozen pairs of shoes, and the Season is soon upon us. In the alternative, I can suggest I’m never up before noon because I must have my drops every night without fail just to sleep. The tittering has slowed him down some, and if that doesn’t serve, I’ll turn up pious.”

So casual, and yet as she sat there on the bench, scuffing one slipper over the gravel, she was a battle-weary woman.

On impulse, he reached over and plucked her a yellow daffodil.

“What’s this?” She accepted the flower in a gloved hand, bringing it to her nose for a whiff.

Yellow daffodils for chivalry.

“You look in need of cheering up, but I see my offer was arrogant.”

“What offer was that?”

“I was going to assist you to assess the prospects of the various swains orbiting around you, and you were going to keep me informed regarding the ladies circling me.”

Now that he put the scheme into words, it sounded ungentlemanly, but Eve was not taking offense. She sat straighter and put the flower carefully to the side on the bench.

“You’ve been traveling off and on for the past few years,” she said. “This can put a man behindhand when in Polite Society.”

Egypt, the Americas, anywhere to escape his father and the man’s scathing tirades.

“I’ll be keeping to home territory for the foreseeable future, and you’re right: I have no idea who is overusing her laudanum, who owes far too much to the modistes, and whose mama plays too deep in unmentionable places.”

Now that he enumerated a few of them, the pitfalls for an unwary suitor seemed numerous and fraught.

Eve regarded her slippered toes. “Before the boys married, we used to gossip among ourselves terribly. They never told us everything, I’m sure, but they told us enough. We did the same for them, my sisters and I.”

And this was likely part of the reason no Windham son had been caught in any publicly compromising position, nor had any Windham daughters. And now the Windham infantry had been deserted by both cavalry and cannon.

While he had ever marched alone, which was a dangerous approach to any battle. “What do you know of the Staines ladies? They’re very determined, almost too determined.”

He asked the question because he genuinely wanted to know and had no one to ask whom he could trust. He also asked because he sensed—hoped, maybe—that Eve missed providing this sort of intelligence to her brothers.

“Lady Staines has a sister,” she said, dragging one toe through the gravel. “She chronically rusticates in Northumbria, but it’s said she’s quite high-strung.”

“Ah. And the daughter?”

Eve bit her lip then picked up her daffodil. “She did not make a come out until she was nineteen. Nobody knows precisely why, and Lady Staines does not permit the girl to socialize at all without her mama hovering almost literally at her elbow. We tend to feel sorry for Mildred, but she ignores all friendly overtures unless her mother approves them.”

And here he’d been half-considering offering for the girl just to trade the misery of the unknown for the misery of the known. He spent another half hour on that bench, listening to Eve Windham delicately indicate which young ladies might hold up well in a highly visible marriage, and which would not.

“Your recitation is unnerving, my lady.” In fact, what she’d had to say, and the fact that she was privy to so much unflattering information, left him daunted.

“Unnerved you in what regard?”

“I would never have suspected these polite, graceful young darlings of society are coping with everything from violent papas, to brothers who leave bastards all over the shire, to high-strung aunts. It puts a rather bleak face on what I thought was an empty social whirl.”

She did not argue. She sniffed her little daffodil. “Has this been helpful?”

She was entitled to extract her pound of flesh, so he was honest, up to a point. “You have been extremely helpful, and to show my gratitude, will you come with me to Surrey next week to make King William’s acquaintance?”

He put it purposely in the posture of compensation for services rendered, as if that particular exchange was the only one they managed civilly.

Her brows rose while she batted her lips with the flower.

They were pretty lips, finely curved, a luscious pink that put him in mind of a ripe—

The spring air was obviously affecting his male humors.

“I will come with you, provided you’re willing to take Jenny and Louisa as well, if Kesmore can spare her. They’d enjoy such an outing, and I’m sure King William would enjoy the company.”

“We have an appointment, then.”

He rose and bowed over her gloved hand, feeling a vague discontent with their exchange. As he made his way back out to the street, he turned and gave her a wave. She waved back, but the sight of her there on the bench, clutching her lone flower, left a queer ache in his chest.

Thank God, she wasn’t his type. He liked women with dramatic coloring and dramatic passions. Women with whom a man always knew exactly where he stood, and how much the trinket would cost that would allow him to stand a great deal closer.

But Eve Windham could talk horses, she was proving a sensible ally, and he did like to kiss her. She also drove a team like she was born to hold the reins.

What an odd combination of attributes.

“What did Deene say to Miss Georgina?”

Dolan kept his voice even when he wanted to thunder the question to the rafters. Miss Amy Ingraham was not a timid soul, but neither did she deserve bullying. She stood before him on the other side of his massive desk, back straight as a pike, expression that particular cross between blank and deferential only a lady fallen on hard times could evidence to her employer.

“His lordship said very little, sir. He played catch with the child and introduced her to Lady Eve Windham.”

Windham?

“One of Moreland’s girls?” The duchess herself would have been “Her Grace”—never “lady” this or that. Dolan knew that much, though the entire order of precedence with its rules of address left an Irish stonemason’s son ready to kick something repeatedly.

“I believe Lady Eve is the youngest, sir.”

This was the value of employing a genteel sort of English governess, granddaughter of a viscount, no less. She’d stay up late on summer nights and pore over Debrett’s by the meager light of her oil lamp, and she’d recall exactly which family whelped which titled pups.

“How young is this Lady Eve?”

“She’s been out several years, sir, from what I understand.”

“Did she say anything to Georgina?”

Miss Ingraham took a substantial breath, which drew attention to her feminine attributes. The day he’d hired her, Dolan had noted the woman had a good figure to go with her pretty face and pale blond hair. He knew of no rule that said governesses couldn’t be lovely for their employers to behold, though knowing the English, such a rule no doubt existed.

“Her ladyship complimented Miss Georgina on her curtsy, praised the dog, chided his lordship for throwing the ball too high, and thanked Miss Georgina for giving the horses a chance to rest.”

Lady Eve had chided his lordship. Dolan gave the lady a grudging mental nod, duke’s daughter or not. Deene was in need of a good deal of chiding, though he was no worse than the rest of his arrogant, presuming…

“Was there something more, Miss Ingraham?”

If anything, her spine got straighter.

“Speak plainly, woman. I don’t punish my employees for being honest, though I take a dim view of dishonesty.”

“Miss Georgina seemed to enjoy her uncle’s company very much, as well as that of Lady Eve.”

He peered at Miss Ingraham a little more closely. She had fine gray eyes that were aimed directly at him, and a wide, generous mouth held in a flat, disapproving line.

“How much do I pay you, Miss Ingraham?”

She named a figure that would have kept Dolan’s entire family of twelve in potatoes for a year, which was more a measure of their poverty than the generosity of her salary.

“Effective today, your salary is doubled. Start taking Miss Georgina to St. James’s Park for her outings. That will be all.”

“Are you attending one of Papa’s political meetings, or did Anna shoo you out from underfoot?”

Gayle Windham, the Earl of Westhaven, smiled at his sister’s blunt question.

“Hello to you as well, Louisa.” He passed the reins of his horse off to a groom and glanced from Jenny to Louisa. “You two are up to something.”

Standing there arm in arm, the flower of genteel English womanhood, they exchanged a sororal look. That look spoke volumes, about who would say what to whom, in what order, and how the other sister would respond. Westhaven’s sisters had been exchanging such looks as long as he could recall, and he still had no insight into their specific meanings.

His only consolation was that Maggie had once admitted there were fraternal looks that caused the same degree of consternation among the distaff.

“Walk with us.” Jenny slipped an arm through his, while Louisa strode along on his other side, a two-sister press gang intent on dragooning him into the mansion’s back gardens.

“Don’t mind if I do. I trust all is well with both of you?”

Jenny smiled at him, her usual gentle smile, which did not fool Westhaven for one moment. Genevieve Windham got away with a great deal on the strength of her unassuming demeanor, almost as much as Louisa got away with on the basis of sheer brass. He kept his peace, though. They’d reveal whatever mischief they were up to when they jolly well pleased to—and wheedling never worked anyway.

“What do we know of Lucas Denning’s marital prospects?” Louisa fired her broadside without warning.

Westhaven stopped walking and shrugged off Jenny’s arm. “Why do we want to know anything at all about such a topic? Among the five of you sisters, I’m fairly certain you could tell me how many teeth, how much blunt, and what type of cattle are associated with every titled bachelor in Polite Society.”

And how they knew such things was enough to unnerve even a very happily married man.

“He has all his teeth,” Jenny observed, linking her arm with Westhaven’s again. “We understand the family coffers are a trifle… reduced, due to the late marquis’s spending habits, and we know Deene owns a racing stud and keeps a nice stable here in Town. We want to know about his prospects.”

Westhaven took the liberty of seating himself on a bench near a patch of yellow tulips. “Haven’t a clue, my dears.”

They were his sisters. Sometimes a little deliberate rudeness was necessary in pursuit of proper sibling relations.

Louisa put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “We aren’t asking out of idle curiosity, you dolt. We need to know, and if you don’t spill, I will simply ask Kesmore. Lucas was racketing about before the old marquis died, and then he went off ruralizing for his mourning, so our usual sources know very little. Is he looking to run in double harness?”

Every prospective duke ought occasionally to be referred to as a dolt, and it was apparently the sworn duty of the man’s sisters to see to the matter.

“He has a title, Lou, and only the one second cousin to inherit. I’m fairly certain he’ll be looking for a filly to run with him in double harness, as you so delicately refer to the state of holy matrimony.”

Another look passed from Jenny to Louisa—a smug, satisfied, so-there sort of look.

“What do you two think you know?”

Jenny sat beside him. “We know, Brother, that we saw Evie driving out with Deene, which would have been remarkable enough.”

He did not ask, for Louisa’s expression confirmed she was dying to shock him further.

She took the remaining end of the bench. “We also know that when they came tooling back, there was Deene, reclining against the seat like the Caliph of Mayfair, and Evie handling the ribbons.”

Evie. Handling. The ribbons… News, indeed. Westhaven rose and turned to glower at them. “You will not remark this to Eve, and you will not tattle to Their Graces.”

“Too late.” Jenny looked worried now, and Louisa looked annoyed, which was her version of what others would call anxiety. “Mama came to the door to see us off on our perambulation, and she saw Evie driving Deene’s team too.”

Bloody hell.

“We need to warn Evie,” Westhaven muttered. This was what came from making purely social calls on one’s parents, from heeding a wife’s gentle admonitions to spend more time with his siblings.

Now the damned look was directed at him, and he knew very well what it meant. Jenny—ever anxious to be helpful—spelled it out for him anyway. “Yes, Brother, we do need to warn Evie.”

He left them there on the bench, no doubt hatching up more awkwardness for him to deal with. When it suited his family, he was the heir, the duke-in-training, and therefore called upon to handle whatever odd business nobody else wanted to handle.

He desperately hoped Their Graces lived to biblical ages to forestall the day when he graduated to the title altogether. While he was offering up a short prayer to that effect, he found Eve in the music room.

“Greetings, Sister.” She was sitting at the piano, the instrument dwarfing her petite presence.

“Gayle!” She hurried off the bench and hugged him tightly.

A man with five sisters did not dare admit to having favorites. He appreciated each of them for their various attributes: Maggie for her courage and brains; Sophie for her quiet competence and practicality; Louisa for her independence and well-hidden tender heart; Jenny for her determination and kindness.

But Evie… Evie was just plain lovable. Where Jenny smiled and dragged him about by the arm, or Louisa called him a dolt, Evie hugged him and called him by his name.

“Were you thinking to play an étude?” he asked, leading her to a settee against the wall.

“I was thinking to have some privacy. Shall I ring for a tray?”

“No, thank you. As soon as His Grace catches wind of my presence, I’ll no doubt be sequestered in the ducal study with several trays, a decanter, and such a lengthy lecture on whatever damned bill is plaguing our sire at the moment that my appetite will desert me. You’re in good looks, Evie.”

She was. Eve was an exquisite woman in a diminutive package, but today there was something a little rosier about her complexion, a little more animated in her bearing.

“I got some air, which on a spring day is never a bad idea. How is Anna?”

He was ever willing to expound on the topic of his countess, but he couldn’t let Eve prevaricate that easily.

“You were out driving with Deene.”

Some of the life went out of her. “Are you going to castigate me for this? I know Lucas has a certain reputation among his fellows.”

“Every unmarried man of means at his age has a certain reputation among his fellows, whether it’s deserved or not.” Though she had a point—at least before his travels, Deene had been somewhat profligate in his appetites.

Somewhat profligate? Was there such a thing?

“He can be decent company.” Eve didn’t seem to be defending the man so much as justifying her actions to herself.

“He has been a firm friend to this family, Evie. I do not raise the subject of your outing to criticize you in any way. I’m asking, rather, because I want to know what the man did that got you to take up the reins when, for seven years, everything your entire family has done in that direction has been unavailing, hmm?”

Gayle was going to be a superb duke. He had a kind of quiet perspicacity about him that fit well with the obligations of both an exalted title and being head of a large family. But he hadn’t yet learned to hide from his eyes the hurt and puzzlement Eve saw virtually every time she caught her brother regarding her.

“I’m not sure what Deene did.” She rose from the sofa, and being a good brother, Gayle allowed her space by remaining seated. “I suppose it was what he didn’t do.”

“I should also like to not do it, then, whatever it was, as would Louisa, Jenny, and—I regret to inform you—Her Grace.”

“Merciful heavens.”

He did rise, but ambled over to the piano bench, sat, closed the cover, and rested an elbow on it. “It’s just a ride in the park, Evie. If you want my advice, go on as if it didn’t happen.”

“Stare them down. One of Her Grace’s favorite tactics.”

She settled beside him on the piano bench, realizing that she wanted to talk to somebody about this outing with Deene.

“He simply put the reins in my hands and jumped out of the vehicle before the horses had even come to a halt.” Recalling the moment brought a frisson of anxiety to her middle but also a sense of blooming wonder.

“He assumed you were capable of handling a team, which you are.”

Gayle was frowning, as if he, too, were puzzled.

“I am not.” She got to her feet. “I was not.” Again he let her wander the room while he watched her out of curious green eyes. Deene shared Westhaven’s build—tall, a shade more muscular than lanky—but Westhaven had hair of a dark chestnut in contrast to Deene’s blond, blue-eyed good looks.

“I assumed I wasn’t capable,” she eventually clarified. “He proved me wrong, and I have never been happier to be wrong, it’s just… why him?”

“Does it matter? You enjoyed an outing and learned something wonderful about yourself.”

As usual, the man’s logic was unassailable.

“They’re a lovely team, his geldings. Marquis and Duke. His stud colt is King William.” She felt sheepish recounting these details, almost as if she were confessing to Deene taking her hand or kissing her cheek.

“I’ve met His Highness, and if he’s brought along properly, I agree with Deene he’s a one-in-a-million horse. St. Just was quite taken with him as well.”

“Devlin is taken with anything sporting a mane and a tail.”

And then, with breathtaking precision, Westhaven made his point. “You were once too.”

Rotten man. Rotten, honest, brilliant, brave man. How did Anna stand being married to such a fellow?

Eve sank onto the settee but did not meet her brother’s gaze for some time. His four little true words were underscoring something Eve had long since stopped allowing herself to acknowledge: by eschewing her passion for all things equestrian, she’d firmly closed an unfortunate chapter of her life and minimized the possibility of any more severe injuries to her person.

She’d also given up one of her greatest joys and told herself it was for the best.

“I made a small misstep in my enthusiasm to take the reins,” she said.

Gayle waited. He was an infernally patient man.

“I did not want to be in Deene’s debt, so I agreed to assist him in separating the sheep and goats among the Season’s offerings on the marriage market. He has no sisters…” She fell silent rather than further justify her actions. She wasn’t sure they could be justified, except on the odd abacus that had taken up residence between her and the Marquis of Deene.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate your aid in this regard, Evie.”

There was something ironic in Westhaven’s comment, but not mean. Westhaven would never be mean to his siblings—probably not to anybody—but he could be quite stern and serious.

He got up, crossed the room, and paused to kiss Eve’s forehead before he left for his appointment with the duke.

A good man, a wonderful brother, and even a dear friend.

And still, Eve hadn’t told him she’d agreed to another outing with Deene. Hadn’t told her sisters either.

Deene bit into a pastry only to pull the thing from his mouth and stare at it.

Stale as hardtack, not just inadvertently left sitting out for an hour.

“Something amiss, Cousin?” Anthony lounged at the foot of the table, the Times at his elbow and a steaming plate of eggs, kippers, and toast before him.

“Nothing that a few helpings of omelet won’t set to rights.” Deene dug in, wondering vaguely why the Times wasn’t sitting at his own elbow.

Anthony glanced up from the paper. “You’re off to Surrey today?”

“I am, and in the company of three lovely ladies. Envy me.”

“Three? I’d heard you occasionally entertained two at once, but three is ambitious even for you.” Anthony topped off his teacup from the pot near his other elbow.

“My record is four, if you must know, Denning pride being what it is. And they all four had red hair. Pass the pot, would you?”

What an asinine waste of a night that had been, too. Five people hardly fit in a very large bed, for God’s sake, even when stacked in various gymnastic combinations.

“Why ever would you attempt to please four women at once?” Anthony sounded genuinely intrigued as he slid the pot down the table.

“The idea was for them to please me—which they rather did—and to prove false a certain allegation regarding that dread condition known as whiskey dick in relation to a certain courtesy earl in the Deene succession.”

“I am agog at the lengths you’ve been forced to go to defend the family honor, Lucas.”

Anthony went back to his paper, in case his ironic tone hadn’t underscored the point clearly enough. Just when Deene might have helped himself to more eggs, Anthony looked up again. “Which three ladies will you entertain today?”

“Louisa, Countess of Kesmore, as well as Genevieve and Eve Windham. We’re paying a call on King William, and I am escorting them, not entertaining them.”

“A pretty trio, but two of them are perilously unmarried, need I remind you.”

“As am I, need I remind you. When do you think you can have some figures ready for me, Anthony?”

Anthony peered at the paper and turned the pages over. “Which figures would those be?”

“The ones relating to our cash, our blunt, our coin of the realm.”

Anthony went still in a way that indicated he was not even trying to look like he was reading, but was instead merely staring at the paper while he formulated a polite reply. He sat back and frowned at his empty plate.

“You’re determined on this? You really want to wade through years’ worth of musty ledgers and obscure accountings? I’d commend you for your zeal, but it’s a complicated, lengthy undertaking, and it truly won’t yield you any better sense of things than you have now.”

“I want to know where I stand, Anthony.”

He needed to know, in fact, though he was hardly going to admit that to Anthony, cousin or not.

“Don’t worry.” Anthony’s smile was sardonic. “We’ve the blunt to keep you in red-haired whores for as long as you’re able to enjoy them four at a time.”

Deene dispatched the last of his eggs and rose. “Perhaps we can start on that accounting after breakfast tomorrow.” He’d phrased it as a suggestion between cousins, though Anthony ought to have heard it as something closer to an order from his employer.

Anthony lifted his teacup in a little salute. “Your servant. Enjoy the ladies—but not too much.”

Whatever that meant.

The day was fair, though not quite warm. In a fit of optimism, Deene had the horses put to the landau. The vehicle had been imported just before the old marquis’s death and was the best appointed of the town coaches. Deene elected to drive the thing rather than endure unnecessary miles sitting backward and trying to make small talk with the Windham sisters.

When he got to the Windham townhouse, he found Lady Eve waiting for him in the family parlor, dressed for an outing but sporting a mulish expression.

“You’re here.”

Her inauspicious greeting indicated they were about to spar. He kept his expression politely neutral, despite the temptation to smile. “Was I supposed to be somewhere else?”

“No, you were not.” She crossed the room in a swish of skirts. “My sisters are supposed to be here as well, ready to depart with us, but no, Louisa has begged off, and Jenny just sent Hammet to tell me she is also utterly, immediately, and incurably indisposed for the day.”

Eve was piqued. It was on the tip of Deene’s tongue to say they could simply reschedule—or better still, cancel altogether—but something in her expression stopped him.

“Would you be disappointed to miss this outing, Lady Eve?”

She swished over to the window and stood facing the back gardens. “Disappointed? Merely to miss a few hours in the country, stepping around the odoriferous evidence of livestock? Of course not.”

She was an endearingly bad liar. He came up behind her and put both hands on her shoulders to prevent any more of this swishing about, and spoke very quietly near her ear.

“You would so be disappointed.” He could feel it quivering through her, an indignation that her siblings would desert her like this.

She turned, forcing him to drop his hands. He did not step back.

“The weather bids fair to be a lovely day, my lord. I haven’t seen the countryside since we spent the holidays at Morelands, and I have every confidence Mr. Trottenham intends to speak to Papa this very afternoon.”

She was not about to admit she’d been panting to make the acquaintance of his horse, but Deene was almost certain this was her true motive. By the end of the day, he vowed he would make her admit her objective honestly.

“Come with me anyway, Lady Eve. I brought the landau, the staff at The Downs is expecting our party, and once the Season gets underway, we’ll neither of us have time for an outing.”

She was wavering. He could see her wavering in the way she almost worried a nail between her teeth but recalled at the last moment she was wearing gloves.

“Or don’t come with me.” He slapped his gloves against his thigh. “I’ll get a great deal more accomplished if I’m not forced to play host to somebody reluctant to make even such an innocuous outing with an old family friend.”

Her fists went to her hips. “Forced, Deene? Did I force this invitation from you? Did I force you to boast about the capabilities of a mere colt such as I might see on any of a dozen racecourses? Did I tell you to bring an open carriage when the weather this time of year is anything but certain?”

He stepped closer but kept his voice down in contrast to Eve’s rising tones. “You will never see the like of this colt on any racecourse, unless King William is in the field. Never. This horse has more heart, more bottom, and more sheer, blazing—”

“Excuse me.” Esther, Duchess of Moreland, stood in the doorway, her expression puzzled. “Eve, I thought you would have left by now. One doesn’t get days this promising very often so early in spring. Deene, good morning.”

“Your Grace.” He bowed to the appropriate depth and wondered if Her Grace had heard him exchanging pleasantries with Eve.

“I am not inclined to go without Jenny and Louisa, Mama. They would be disappointed to miss such an excursion.”

Her Grace’s expression shifted to a smile more determined than gracious. “Nonsense. If they want to indulge in some extra rest, that’s no reason to deprive yourself of fresh air, or of the company of such an amiable gentleman as Deene. He’s practically family. Be off with you both, and, Deene, bring her home at a reasonable hour, or you will deal with me.”

Said in perfectly cordial tones, but Deene did not mistake the warning.

“Of course, Your Grace.” He winged his elbow at Eve—arguing before the duchess was not in his schedule—and was relieved when Eve wrapped a gloved hand around his arm.

“Have a pleasant time, my dears.”

As Deene ushered Eve through the door, he caught the duchess giving him a look. When their gazes collided, she must have gotten something in her eye, because it appeared for all the world as if Her Grace had winked at him.