"The problem now is where to put you," Chloe said, examining her handiwork with a critical frown. "Somewhere dark and quiet… and safe from Beatrice. Although she's fairly occupied with the mice," she added.
"A mouser, is she?" Samuel tossed sweetbreads in a skillet over the range.
"Yes, I just wish she wouldn't play with them before she kills them," Chloe lamented, sniffing hungrily.
"It's the nature of the beast, I suppose," Hugo remarked.
Chloe flicked him a look of supreme contempt, as if he'd said something idiotic, and pointedly addressed Samuel. "So, do you have any suggestions, Samuel, about where I could put him?"
"Why don't you use the old stillroom?" Hugo persevered. "It's dark and there's a key in the door, so you can be sure it won't accidentally open."
"Where will I find it?" Chloe continued to address Samuel, as if it had been his suggestion.
"End of the north corridor upstairs," Samuel provided. "Full o' cobwebs, prob'ly."
"Then he'll feel quite at home." She picked up the box and left the kitchen.
"Oh, Lord!" Hugo groaned, resting his head in his elbow-propped hands.
"Reckon as 'ow some fences need mendin'" was Samuel's laconic response. He put a loaf of bread and a crock of yellow butter on the table.
"An understatement… but I haven't the energy to do anything about it tonight."
"Now, don't you let Miss trouble ye," Samuel advised with a touch of asperity. "You just get rested." He scraped the contents of the skillet onto a plate and set it
before Hugo. "Get that down you, Sir 'Ugo. Do ye a power of good. And there's a nice brook trout to follow. Caught it this mornin'."
"And what are you going to feed the lass?" Hugo asked with a slight smile. "It's not going to sweeten her temper if I eat her dinner."
"She'll 'ave ham an' eggs like me an' be thankful."
Chloe had no fault to find with ham and eggs and cast no envious glances across the table at her guardian's dinner. She had, however, been shocked at his spent appearance on her one surreptitious examination, although the green eyes, despite their red-rimmed exhaustion, were clearer than she'd ever seen them. The memory of that dreadful music knocked at the carapace of anger she was fiercely preserving. If he hadn't been drinking during the long days and nights in the library, and he obviously hadn't, what had he been doing?
"How's Rosinante getting along?" Hugo asked, laying down his fork with a sigh of repletion.
Chloe shrugged. "All right, I suppose." She'd have liked to have discussed the animal's condition, but perversely denied herself the opportunity for a second opinion.
Hugo pushed back his chair. "I'm dead on my feet, Samuel. I'm going up to bed. Don't wake me."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Samuel declared.
Hugo came around the table and stopped at Chloe's chair. Catching her chin, he lifted her face. The deep blue eyes glared, but he could read the deeper emotion the belligerence was masking.
"I grant you the right to punish me this evening," he said evenly. "But tomorrow morning, lass, you'll accord me ordinary civility at the very least. Is that clear?"
"I am not uncivil," Chloe replied, trying to pull her chin free of his fingers.
"Oh, yes, you are. Abominably so, and I won't have it
after tonight. We have a lot to discuss, and I don't intend to conduct the discussion with a monosyllabic brat." He softened the words with a weary smile because she was heart-stoppingly beautiful despite the truculence of her expression. Then he remembered where contemplation of that beauty led and abruptly released her chin. "I bid you both good night."
The kitchen door closed on his departure. Chloe brushed her chin where the imprint of his fingers still lingered.
Chapter 10
Chloe was awake at cockcrow, filled with a sense of adventure that she knew arose from the forbidden nature of the day's plan. In any other circumstances the prospect of a ride with Crispin would have left her unmoved. He was hardly a stimulating companion. But she was sick to death of being confined in a dusty, falling-apart manor house at the bidding of a man who couldn't get his own head together. After ten years locked up in the Misses Trent's seminary, it seemed to add insult to injury. Besides, the sun was shining and there was a world awaiting.
There also seemed little point in having a new habit and a tricorn hat with a silver plume if one was denied the opportunity to wear them.
She ran down to the kitchen and let Dante out into the kitchen garden, taking an apple from the basket and following him into the orchard. She perched on the low wall encircling the orchard and looked across Shipton valley, where an early mist curled, promising another hot day.
She'd already decided to make her escape by climbing over the wall and skirting the orchard to come out halfway down the driveway. There was much less chance of discovery than using the courtyard exit.
She ate her apple while Dante chased up hares in the dew-wet grass, then returned to the kitchen. She couldn't go adventuring without leaving a note of explanation. They'd be angry enough as it was without scar-
ing them both out of their wits, wondering what had happened to her.
The kitchen dresser yielded paper and a lead pencil. She took them up to her room to compose a suitable missive.
At seven o'clock Chloe heard Samuel's heavy tread on the stair. He'd put the kettle on the range and go to the hen house to collect the eggs. Then he'd make tea and porridge for himself and Billy. When they'd breakfasted, they'd go to the stables to see to the dogs and horses.
She dressed swiftly and read through her note. It was hardly poetry, but it was clear and said she'd be back in the afternoon. In afterthought she scrawled an addendum. Dante would have to be shut up while she left, since Crispin's plans might go awry if a dog joined them. Samuel would have to release him once she'd gone.
That done, she left her bedroom, tiptoed to the end of the corridor, looked in on the sleepy Plato, in the still-room, who blinked at the crack of light but seemed peaceful and so far hadn't disturbed the splint.
The kitchen was empty, as she'd expected, the back door standing open. She propped the note against the coffeepot on the table and darted outside. Across the kitchen garden, through the orchard, over the wall, and she was home free.
Crispin was waiting in the lane at the bottom of the drive. He held Maid Marion on a leading rein and had a wicker hamper strapped to his saddle.
"Good morning," Chloe called as she ran through the gate. "Isn't it a lovely morning?"
Crispin dismounted. "Beautiful. No one knows you're here?"
"Not a soul," she said cheerfully, rubbing Maid Marion's nose. "But I left them a note so they won't worry." Crispin paled. "You left them a note?"
"Yes, of course… Will you help me mount? Without a mounting block, I find it difficult."
Crispin took her booted foot in his palm and tossed her up. She landed gracefully in the sidesaddle, hitched her right knee over the pommel, and adjusted her skirts, offering her companion a brilliant smile. "Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise." Crispin mounted his own horse. "What did you say in your note?"
"Oh, just that I was going for a ride with you and we would be back sometime this afternoon." She looked at him askance. "Is something troubling you?"
"No, why should there be?" But his mouth was tight and his eyes hard. "How soon before they find your note?"
"Oh, half an hour, I should think," Chloe said. "Why?"
Crispin shrugged and touched his spur to his mount's flanks. The horse broke into a canter and then into a gallop. Chloe, taken by surprise, followed suit, the roan's stride lengthening as she established her pace.
It was fifteen minutes before Crispin slowed, and by then Chloe was enjoying the ride so much, she thought no more about that sudden burst of speed. Crispin still refused to say where they were going, so she just relaxed into the pleasure of the bright morning and the feel of a powerful mount beneath her and the heady sense of a whole day of freedom ahead.