In the Brief Eternal Silence (4 page)

“Well done,” she heard the duke behind her
say. Miss Murdock felt an unexpected burst of pleasure that she had
performed well and made up for at least some of her poor
horsemanship of before.

She took one last measure of his lordship,
his dark, soaking wet hair, his gold eyes, which met hers with a
reflective glance before shifting to inspect her mount, raindrops
clinging to their lashes. Now that he was standing, only his boots
showed from beneath his coat, and although his figure was slender,
she remembered the muscles in his legs and thought of him now as so
much coiled and finely tempered steel, ready to spring without
warning.

Miss Murdock smiled at her thoughts, telling
herself that at least she could claim acquaintance with the
notorious duke whose exploits, all unsavory, were bandied about
even in this far off region of the realm, and that she had survived
the encounter with at least a small success at the end of her
unfortunate afternoon.

Old Kennedy, their only groom, had at last
made appearance, and with some relief she handed him the reins. All
the same, when he began to lead the horse slowly toward the
stables, she followed, gimping, after him, her concentration on the
filly's stride, watching carefully for any sign of limp or
lameness.

“Goodbye, Miss Murdock,” Ryan Tempton
called.

She turned and waved a brief salute. Then she
continued up the track, her shoulders hunched against the still
drizzling rain.

Rather than letting up, the rain that had
been coming down all day had intensified by the time St. James and
his party made the five mile trek to the crossroads inn.

It was becoming dark, the horses they had
hired out for their excursion (as they had all left their
conveyances and teams at the inn's stable) were roundly
disgruntled, and Squire Murdock, who had joined them, was less than
enthusiastic with his choice of accepting the unexpected invitation
to join St. James and the two Tempton brothers.

It was the filly, he supposed. Perhaps all
was not lost after all.

His gout was acting up with the wet, and
although a meal at the inn would be quite pleasant, he still missed
being home in front of the fire, his foot propped up, with a glass
of adequate if not exceptional rum to help him forget his
discomfort.

But when a lord of high ranking, such as the
Duke of St. James, requested one's presence, one did not lightly
put him off, despite his reputation. Or possibly, even more so
because of his reputation. So the Squire, sopping wet and
miserable, found himself pulling his horse up in front of the inn
and dismounting in the company of the duke, and Lord and Mister
Temptons.

The private salon they were shown to helped
bolster his spirits. The fire was built up and snapping. The table
was set for three, but a chambermaid quickly added an extra plate,
and the innkeeper assured the duke that food would be brought in
shortwith. St. James, only dispensing of his riding gloves, but
before taking off his great coat, poured into four glasses from a
bottle of brandy. Yes, the Squire thought as he shrugged with
difficulty from his own worn coat, things were definitely looking
up. St. James offered around the glasses and the Squire accepted
with gratitude. He settled himself in a seat at the table, feeling
the steam rise from him as he began, at last, to dry out and warm
up.

“Here's to a filly with promise,” St. James
said, lifting his glass. Then added, “If not ruined by the
unfortunate episode I witnessed today.”

The Squire raised his glass to meet the
salute.

Lord Bertram Tempton, his red hair plastered
to his head but his yellow coat dispensed of and revealing him in
all his brightly clothed glory, said, “I say, St. James. Told you
was a good filly!”

“You did,” St. James replied. “But forgive me
if I have rather small faith in your eye for horseflesh.” He set
his glass aside, took off the caped coat he wore to reveal tanned
riding breeches and a rather plain white shirt, its only adornment
being lace at the cravat and cuffs. As his long fingers wrapped
again around his goblet, the lace fell back to reveal the delicate
whiteness of his skin. He was not tall, the Squire noted, nor was
he powerfully built, but there was an air of intenseness about him,
a feeling that the mind behind his dark locked brow was churning
away at endless and complicated thoughts that made his presence a
little overwhelming. And intimidating.

The Squire, who viewed himself as a crusty
old soul who made up for his rather slow intelligence with a
bulldog temerity, found himself annoyed to be somewhat ill-at-ease
in the younger man's presence. He wasn't used to rubbing elbows
with the very crème de la crème of his society, true, but such
things had never much mattered to him. He was an excellent shot and
had a good seat on a hunt, and those two things, along with the
fact that he was always willing to play a good hand of cards, and
bet a good deal more than he owned, had always made him welcome
company in the circles he chose to move in. But he found this
circle to be a little above his comfort zone, and the only other in
the room he felt any kinship to was young Mister Ryan Tempton, he
of the tall, lanky, raw-boned build and hair a more shocking red
shade than even his older brother's.

Bertie swallowed from his glass. “Well, much
as I would like to say I discovered her on my own, I have to give
credit to Ryan. He was the one that first brought my attention to
her, and suggested that you may be interested likewise.”

“Indeed?” St. James asked, turning to the
young man that flushed a little under his gaze. “Very promising for
someone fresh out of University. I shall have to take you with me
on some of my scouting trips, young Ryan. You may be useful, if I
can get to you before Bertie, here, does too much damage to your
natural eye with his ill-conceived ideas of what to look for in a
horse.”

“Still say you can't go wrong with looking at
color, St. James,” Bertie replied. “Everyone knows a black can't
run. And never have seen an all white horse do anything good over
seven furlongs. Stands to reason you must start with at least
something in between.”

“And I beg to differ,” St. James countered.
“Behemoth is totally coal black, and has never been beat at a mile
and above.”

“Yes,” Lord Tempton nodded, but wagged a
finger. “But anything below that and he almost always loses. Why
the hired nag I rode today could beat him.”

“He's a distance runner. That is why I wish
to breed him to a sprinter. See if we cannot get more early speed
as well as stamina.” The duke turned to the Squire. “Which brings
us to your filly, Squire. Her times were impressive, considering
the condition of the track. And the ill-advised rider up on
her.”

“Ah, Lizzie does well enough,” the Squire
defended. “Better than most. The filly is rather short on sense and
long on spooking.”

“Anyone could have ridden her into the rail
today. That did not take much skill,” St. James returned.

“I thought she handled the whole rather
admirably,” young Ryan broke in. “Anyone could see that the filly
reacted totally unexpectedly and was not to be controlled.”

St. James gave a small dismissive shrug,
turned back to the Squire. “No apparent harm done, but I would like
to see her again in the morning, make sure that she is sound, and,
of course, any offer I make for her will be dependent on that.”

There was a brief silence as the Squire
opened his mouth, closed it again, and ran a hand through his
heavy, damp, gray hair. “Uh, milord, I appreciate your interest,
indeed, I find it very flattering that you should take such an
interest in my horse. But—”

There was a tapping on the door, and then it
opened and two chambermaids brought in several steaming platters of
food. “Shall we dine?” St. James asked. “We can iron out any
difficulties afterward.”

With relief, the Squire pulled his chair in
to the table and the other three men joined him. There was a well
cooked leg of lamb, a side of filling with apple, boiled red
potatoes, hare stew in a rich brown gravy, Yorkshire pudding, a
dish of mixed vegetables and lemon cake. None of the four wasted
time on conversation as they filled their plates. After being in
the raw weather for most of the day, their appetites were mighty
and the Squire spent a pleasant hour enjoying his meal, drinking
further, and successfully pushing from his mind the fact that he
was going to have to disappoint the duke and he was not looking
forward to it.

They were just satisfying the final twinges
of hunger with the lemon cake when St. James returned to the
conversation of the Squire's filly. “You have other plans for the
filly besides selling her, Squire?” he asked. He had pushed himself
back from the table and, unlike the others, a great deal of the
food remained upon his plate. He refilled his glass, for the fourth
time, the Squire counted, and now sipped from it steadily.

A boozy bloke, for all his elegance, the
Squire thought. Not that he could hold that against the fellow,
being a rather boozy bloke himself. “Well, miduke. It's Lizzie that
I'm concerned for. She doesn't wish to sell the horse.”

The duke raised his brows. “Was I mistaken in
believing the point of my visit today was to be, if I were
satisfied, the acquirement of this horse? Bertie, is that not what
you understood after speaking to this man last night?”

Bertie lowered his glass. “I told you all I
knew, St. James.”

The Squire drew himself up in his chair. “If
that be true,” he pronounced, “he would have told you of it being
an iffy proposition, miduke.” He took a hearty bite of lemon cake
and when he spoke again, several crumbs sprayed out and down his
immense stomach. “That horse is the only means I have of securing
my daughter's future.”

St. James was half slouched in his chair. His
glass made a steady journey from table to mouth. “Indeed, that is
what Bertie conveyed to me. What is your daughter's desired outcome
for this horse, may I ask.”

The Squire lost some of his stiffness and his
hand again found his own glass. He had every appearance of a poker
player settling in for the real play that may well take him into
the wee hours of the morning. “She wishes to rent the filly out to
you, so to speak. You breed her to your stud and receive the foal,
but she keeps the filly. For a fee, of course.”

“Of course. And your desired outcome? Does it
differ from your daughter's?”

The Squire took a heavy swig that emptied his
glass. “Indeed, miduke. It does.”

St. James rose from the table, refilled the
Squire's glass and his own. Bertie and Ryan demurred. Then the duke
returned to his seat and his attention back to the Squire. And his
gold eyes were now half-hooded as though already in deep thought.
“You may begin, Squire. Tell me your concerns for your daughter and
I will endeavor to come up with a solution that you may live
with.”

The Squire took a moment to look at the faces
about him. Young Ryan, a slight frown of perplexity upon his face
as he followed all of the conversation. Bertie, whose blue eyes met
his with impassive reassurance. And St. James, whose half hooded
eyes revealed nothing, who lazed in the chair, his legs stretched
and crossed in luxurious languidness. The Squire hunched a little
defensively in his seat, his only seeming comfort the regularly
refilled glass in front of him. With a feeble gathering of courage,
he said to St. James, “I don't much like you. I've heard enough
about you even in this far-flung region of the realm to know that
you are more devil than saint you are titled.”

“Indeed, I have never denied it,” St. James
returned.

“I did not know it were you I would be
dealing with. Your man, friend, whatever he is, failed to include
that bit of information.”

“Indeed, if you have other takers you prefer,
I do not see them here before you.” St. James lost his air of
languidness as he sat abruptly forward. “Come, Squire. Need I sum
up what I have surmised and which you are now so reluctant to put
into words? It is your daughter's future you are concerned for,
yes, as you had said. But I daresay your own nest could use some
feathering also.”

“Do not damn me with that tongue of yours,”
the Squire said. “If I am simply more aware than Lizzie that our
circumstances can not be adequately improved by the mere renting
out of the horse as she supposes, it is hardly something for which
I may be condemned for.”

“I do not understand,” Ryan broke in. “I
mean, I understand, of course, that you do not wish to upset your
daughter and that she has become attached to the animal. But as her
father, surely you have the final say in what happens to it?”

“Indeed, I do not,” the Squire admitted. “The
horse was bought with money set aside by her mother for Lizzie's
dowry. I can not in all decency do whatever I like with it.”

“Decency?” interrupted Lord Tempton. “It is
hardly decent to spend the girl's dowry on a horse, Squire, in case
that escaped your notice.”

“Aye. Well it is done now,” Squire Murdock
replied. “There was no arguing with her reasoning. She is my
daughter and all, but even I was forced to admit that her having a
suitor is unlikely and with each year that goes past is more
unlikely still. She wanted the horse, saw it when it was just a
foal, and said that in the doubtful event she ever did get a
suitor, well then the horse could be her dowry.

“Aye! Scoff if you want,” he added as Bertie
snorted. “But the child has nothing else to occupy herself with,
and that money sitting there for her dowry was bringing her no
happiness. But now I fear the small bit I had put back has been run
through and with no prospects for Lizzie. . .”

“Surely she must have some suitor,” Ryan
interjected. “She seemed like quite a likable lass to me. Whatever
could be wrong with her?”