was so worried about what people would say, it was laughable. Why, he fled the London social scene to avoid the gabble-grinders, she’d heard, burying himself in the country like a turnip putting down roots, the noddy. As if anyone’s opinion mattered, not even his high-and-mighty lordship’s. She did not care a bit that he didn’t call for weeks after the reading of the will; it just showed what a rude, boorish clodpole he was. Of course, she heard about the carriage accident from her maid, but Foster assured her it was nothing.
Foster was too impressed by his hero to mention that Carlinn—they were on a first-name basis now—was suffering from abrasions and cracked ribs. Real men didn’t whimper about their injuries. Besides, Foster would never let it be known that Carlinn was anything less than a top-of-the-trees whip. There had to have been ice on the road that evening. All Marisol knew was that the earl was letting Foster tool his curricle and pair—and bang-up bits of blood they were, too, according to her brother—and exercise his Thoroughbreds.
“And he’s even writing his old commander about me. Cavalry, don’t you know,” Foster chattered happily. “Carlinn says that’s the only way to go, especially for a chap hoping to win advancement in the field. Carlinn says I might hear shortly if there’s an aide-de-camp position open.”
Marisol was sick unto death of hearing what Carlinn said, but she smiled for Foster’s sake. The rustic earl might be stiff and dull, without an ounce of cultured refinement in him, but at least he was steady. He wouldn’t lead Foster into bad habits, like Boynton kept trying to do, daring the younger man into rash wagers. Since they were all pockets to let until the final disbursement of funds, nothing came of it, but Marisol could only be that much more appreciative of the earl’s influence.
Boynton kept to his rooms for the most part…and to the bottle. When he wasn’t in the stables trying to fleece the grooms of their wages, Arvid’s brother and his shifty-eyed valet experimented with new ways of tying neckcloths. Occasionally he challenged Marisol to a hand of piquet for imaginary sums. They gave up on billiards when Marisol couldn’t get close enough to the table.
The dowager, meanwhile, was suffering pangs of indecision. On the one hand, her daughter-in-law was a fallen woman, a pariah, and a murderess, deserving only of the cut direct. That’s what she’d convinced her friends, so none of her cronies called. On the other hand, Marisol might be the mother of the next duke, controlling Denning Castle and all of its inhabitants. What to do? The dowager’s decision was made easier by the lack of company she also felt. She couldn’t accept invitations for dinner parties and cards, not after making a to-do about the trollop’s lack of proper mourning, and the local matrons were hesitant about calling. They didn’t want to get in the middle of the two duchesses either. So the dowager was forced to give Marisol grudging acceptance, to have a fourth at whist.
*
The Bow Street Runner was recovering from his concussion nicely. Just the occasional headache now, thank you, but a chap couldn’t be too careful with head wounds, don’t you know. He was staying on at the inn at the earl’s expense, naturally, with two pretty chambermaids at his beck and call. This left the proprietor of the Three Feathers a shade shorthanded, so he agreed to give Dimm’s niece a trial. Changing sheets at a country inn mightn’t be precisely what Dimm would have chosen for the girl, but Suky was a pretty little thing with a head on her shoulders. If she didn’t nab herself a handsome young farmer or such, his name wasn’t Jeremiah Dimm. ’Sides, he told himself, it wasn’t like she’d have any chance of getting into trouble, not with her strapping big cousin working in Lord Kimbrough’s stables, another cousin fixed as the duchess’s abigail, and her other uncle right
Foster was too impressed by his hero to mention that Carlinn—they were on a first-name basis now—was suffering from abrasions and cracked ribs. Real men didn’t whimper about their injuries. Besides, Foster would never let it be known that Carlinn was anything less than a top-of-the-trees whip. There had to have been ice on the road that evening. All Marisol knew was that the earl was letting Foster tool his curricle and pair—and bang-up bits of blood they were, too, according to her brother—and exercise his Thoroughbreds.
“And he’s even writing his old commander about me. Cavalry, don’t you know,” Foster chattered happily. “Carlinn says that’s the only way to go, especially for a chap hoping to win advancement in the field. Carlinn says I might hear shortly if there’s an aide-de-camp position open.”
Marisol was sick unto death of hearing what Carlinn said, but she smiled for Foster’s sake. The rustic earl might be stiff and dull, without an ounce of cultured refinement in him, but at least he was steady. He wouldn’t lead Foster into bad habits, like Boynton kept trying to do, daring the younger man into rash wagers. Since they were all pockets to let until the final disbursement of funds, nothing came of it, but Marisol could only be that much more appreciative of the earl’s influence.
Boynton kept to his rooms for the most part…and to the bottle. When he wasn’t in the stables trying to fleece the grooms of their wages, Arvid’s brother and his shifty-eyed valet experimented with new ways of tying neckcloths. Occasionally he challenged Marisol to a hand of piquet for imaginary sums. They gave up on billiards when Marisol couldn’t get close enough to the table.
The dowager, meanwhile, was suffering pangs of indecision. On the one hand, her daughter-in-law was a fallen woman, a pariah, and a murderess, deserving only of the cut direct. That’s what she’d convinced her friends, so none of her cronies called. On the other hand, Marisol might be the mother of the next duke, controlling Denning Castle and all of its inhabitants. What to do? The dowager’s decision was made easier by the lack of company she also felt. She couldn’t accept invitations for dinner parties and cards, not after making a to-do about the trollop’s lack of proper mourning, and the local matrons were hesitant about calling. They didn’t want to get in the middle of the two duchesses either. So the dowager was forced to give Marisol grudging acceptance, to have a fourth at whist.
*
The Bow Street Runner was recovering from his concussion nicely. Just the occasional headache now, thank you, but a chap couldn’t be too careful with head wounds, don’t you know. He was staying on at the inn at the earl’s expense, naturally, with two pretty chambermaids at his beck and call. This left the proprietor of the Three Feathers a shade shorthanded, so he agreed to give Dimm’s niece a trial. Changing sheets at a country inn mightn’t be precisely what Dimm would have chosen for the girl, but Suky was a pretty little thing with a head on her shoulders. If she didn’t nab herself a handsome young farmer or such, his name wasn’t Jeremiah Dimm. ’Sides, he told himself, it wasn’t like she’d have any chance of getting into trouble, not with her strapping big cousin working in Lord Kimbrough’s stables, another cousin fixed as the duchess’s abigail, and her other uncle right
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