Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

J oshua was certain of his success, so did not hasten to the moment of his proposal. He thought Lady Dalhousie's open curiosity about his property was a bit vulgar, but he was content to show her the house that her niece would soon consider her own. Lady Dalhousie would likely continue to live nearby, so he would have to accustom himself to her mannerisms, for better or for worse.

His father had often jested that one could not choose one's family. The aunt's manner was no reflection upon the niece.

Miss Emerson wore a dress of pale pink on this day, festooned with black and pink embroidery, along with that black spencer. The combination was both flattering and elegant. Her cheeks were flushed and her manner with the dogs had been utterly charming.

And truly, he had no issue with Miss Emerson preferring her silk slippers to boots. He had been granted a most admirable view of her ankles when the puppy made trouble, and found himself keenly aware of Miss Emerson's allure.

He would even allow Mischief in the bedroom if that prompted the lady's approval.

Meanwhile, he strolled through the house with his guests, seeing it with new eyes as he showed it to them. The drawing room was found to be most attractive, the library suitable to a gentleman—even with an acceptable fireplace for the comfort of dogs—the dining room a delight and the foyer most commodious. The views from the principal rooms were complimented, the lighting remarked upon, the quality of the furnishings admired. They reviewed the portraits in the foyer, one of each of the six previous viscounts and a large one of his mother. Joshua even imagined that his father beamed down upon them in approval of his matrimonial scheme.

When they sat in the drawing room and he invited Lady Dalhousie to pour the tea, he was certain of her approval. He knew she tested the weight of the teapot and ascertained (correctly) that it was sterling, for he saw her satisfied smile. Miss Emerson, for her part, surveyed the room with an interest that seemed a good omen for his prospects.

"It is so bright and cheerful," she said. "I like the pale yellow very much."

"My mother favored the hue." Joshua could not help but notice how the shade favored Miss Emerson as well. She looked like a flower in the sunlight, and just the sight of his intended in his mother's favorite room made Joshua's chest tighten in a way that was decidedly not rational.

Miss Emerson flushed with pleasure and smiled, which only increased his awareness of her. "She chose the furnishings?"

"Every detail was left to her."

"A most comfortable and elegant house," Lady Dalhousie said with approval, handing him a teacup. "You must always be glad to return to such a refuge."

"Yes," he ceded. "But in the absence of my father and brother, the house seems quiet."

"Of course," Lady Dalhousie agreed. "But when you wed, sir, if I may be so bold as to mention such an eventuality, the house is likely to be filled with the sound of children shortly thereafter."

Miss Emerson blushed and averted her gaze, evidence that they were in agreement about her aunt's commentary.

"I should like nothing better in such circumstance, Lady Dalhousie."

His gaze snared that of the older lady and Joshua knew that their inclinations were as one. Lady Dalhousie had discerned and approved of his suit. Should he ask Miss Emerson for her hand in her aunt's presence? A bit late, Joshua was compelled to admit that he had no notion how such conversations were contrived. It seemed a private matter, but Miss Emerson also had need of a chaperone for the sake of her reputation.

He had never thought he might wish he had a sister, if only to better understand the niceties of proposals.

Lady Dalhousie, against expectation, came to his rescue. "I must compliment you, my lord, upon these scones and this marmalade, in particular. Both are delicious, but the marmalade is superb."

"Mrs. Baird makes it each year," he supplied. "From the oranges we order from Spain for Christmas. There are always too many to eat fresh."

"And it is perfect. Not too sweet, and the taste of the fruit is robust," Aunt Fanny said. Without a moment's hesitation, she continued. "I wonder, my lord, if I might be so bold as to ask your cook about her recipe. I would not dream of interrupting her work, but…"

Opportunity arrived and Joshua would not waste it.

In fact, he found a new admiration for Lady Dalhousie's tendency to blunt speech.

"Of course." He rang and Fairfax appeared, then escorted Lady Dalhousie toward the kitchens at his request. They would not be gone long.

"Goodness," Miss Emerson said. "My aunt must trust you beyond all to leave me alone in your presence, sir." She took a scone and smiled at him.

Joshua moved to take the seat beside Miss Emerson and she looked up at him from her scone, her surprise clear. "I would seize this chance to ask you, Miss Emerson, to do me the honor of becoming my wife."

Miss Emerson put down her scone and studied him. "I beg your pardon?"

Had he been too blunt himself?

"I propose that you might become my wife," he repeated.

She stared at him, as if his words were incomprehensible.

Perhaps she wished to hear the arguments enumerated that were in his favor.

"There are many indications in favor of the association. I believe that you approve of Addersley. Your brother has given his blessing…"

"You told Nicholas before asking me?"

"It is customary, Miss Emerson, and only rational to ascertain whether you had any previous commitments or understandings."

She inhaled sharply, though he could not reason why. "And you believe it rational that we should wed, even after such brief acquaintance?"

Ah, he had offended her romantic notions. He nodded, undeterred. "There is much of merit in the potential union. Your future would be assured and I would have a wife. Your lack of a dowry is of no concern to me. I would, naturally, hope for the blessing of children in short order…"

"No," she said and he stared in surprise. She set aside her tea cup and rose to her feet, her voice gaining vigor as she continued. "No, I will not marry you, sir. I cannot marry you."

Joshua was perplexed. "Whyever not? It is a rational and reasonable match."

Miss Emerson's expression was resolute, though Joshua could not understand her conviction. "I do not know much of you, sir, but I am already convinced that we are utterly unsuitable to each other. No. I must decline your offer."

If she was concerned about her own contributions to the match—or lack of them—he would set her fears to rest. "But Miss Emerson, do consider the matter…"

"No!" she repeated more forcefully. "I decline , sir."

"But you cannot. Your aunt clearly favors the match."

"Yet I have declined," she said, her eyes flashing furiously. She straightened. "I thank you, sir, for your consideration and for flattering me with your attention, but I refuse your suit, utterly and unequivocally. If this means you will keep the puppy, I am sorry to hear as much, but you must do as you see fit."

Joshua frowned. Miss Emerson strode toward the door with purpose, the sound of her aunt's voice drawing nearer. "But why?" he asked again. "To decline is not logical, given your circumstance."

She looked back at him, more regal than he might have expected in one so young. "I will not wed for logic or good sense, or even a secure future, sir. I will wed for love ."

What nonsense was this? "I beg your pardon?"

There was a decidedly stubborn set to her mouth. "I decline because I do not love you and you do not love me."

"Surely affection between man and wife grows with time."

"It might, in some situations," Miss Emerson ceded. "But I will never love a man who does not dance. It is simply not possible." She shook her head. "We will not suit, sir."

With that, she stepped into the foyer to greet her aunt, who was clearly triumphant in having secured Mrs. Baird's recipe. Lady Dalhousie was also sufficiently perceptive to realize that matters had not proceeded as planned. She looked between her niece, standing straight with her back to Joshua, and perhaps even discerned Joshua's own astonishment. His surprise was so overwhelming that his composure might have slipped.

Lady Dalhousie made excuses of her need to depart, due to a sudden headache, and Joshua hid his reaction to the best of his abilities. He escorted the ladies to the carriage with his thoughts churning. He stood on the steps to watch them go, knowing that Miss Emerson did not look back.

She had declined him.

Because he did not dance .

Because she would never love a man who did not dance, and she was convinced that love should govern marriage. Joshua shook his head. Perhaps a woman so lacking in the ability to logically choose was not right for him. Perhaps he should be glad that she had declined him.

But Joshua most decidedly was not glad.

His financial security, his reasonable fortune, his reputation, his house and title, even his person—he did not think himself offensive in appearance—were irrelevant to the one lady he found suitable.

Miss Emerson's decision defied belief, and yet she had made it.

That was nearly as intriguing to Joshua Hargood as the lady herself.

For he could not dismiss the possibility of changing her mind.

The prize, to be sure, was alluring indeed.

And he had been desirous of a challenge. A quest, to be sure. An errand that would consume his attention. Joshua Hargood watched his carriage vanish around the curve of the road and knew that he had found his ultimate challenge in Miss Emerson.

Damien DeVries, the Duke of Haynesdale, could only admire the young woman he had collected from a remote region of France. She sat quietly opposite him in the coach, day after day, on their journey toward London. Mademoiselle Sylvie was quiet and agreeable. She did not complain, no matter how long they rode or how simple their occasional accommodations. Her manner was sweet and serene, not to mention that she was very pretty.

He had wondered often since retrieving the girl whether Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne had once appeared thus. It was hard to imagine the lively courtesan as so young and innocent, but even more difficult to think of her in possession of such serenity. Mlle. Sylvie was complacent and accepting of any change in her circumstance. He would have wagered that Miss Ballantyne had always been one determined to shape her own destiny, not to accept whatever was bestowed upon her and be glad of it.

The physical resemblance between the two was so great—and in more than just their coloring of jet black hair and brilliant green eyes—that Damien could not have failed to conclude that they were sisters. Mlle. Sylvie, he had quickly realized was as astute and practical as her older sister, despite having been raised in the shelter of a convent.

Upon leaving that place, he had repeated his promise of protection and vow to never touch her himself. She had been the one to suggest that she use a name other than her own, and they had decided upon Sylvie Lafleur. He had suggested that they explain her presence in his company by saying she was his ward, but she had solemnly shaken her head.

"It will be assumed to be a lie, Monsieur. Far better that you declare me to be your betrothed, though you may have no inclination to wed me."

"I do not, but not for any lack in your charms," he said, appreciating how admirably French was suited to such nuanced declarations. "If I claim you as my ward, you may be certain that most will conclude that you are my intended. It will be a tale and a rumor for your safety alone, yet one that does not demand a formal betrothal between us. I would not have you fettered with that apparent obligation, in the event that you find a suitor of merit yourself."

She nodded, appearing far wiser than her years. "I believe, Monsieur, that I have gained your protection through your interest in my sister," she said with soft assurance. "And I am pleased that she has won the esteem of a gentleman of such honor."

At the time, Damien had thought to let the girl believe what she desired, but as they approached England, he found his thoughts returning to Miss Ballantyne and her fate. He felt an urgency to reach her with all haste, to assure himself of her welfare, that he knew was not entirely without hopes of more than her thanks.

He had paid for her comforts in Fleet Prison, not caring who knew of his involvement. He had ensured that the bills were paid at her residence, so that she would have a home to which she could return. In the view of many, such actions would have bought him a mistress, perhaps even one who granted him exclusive access to her favors.

Yet Damien could not anticipate what Miss Ballantyne would conclude.

The curious thing was that despite his desire for her, despite how that one taste of her had touched a spark to his dreams, he was more concerned with her safety than any earthly satisfaction she might provide.

As well as the proving of her innocence. Her trial would be held in early May, but he would prefer to have the charges dismissed against her. That could only happen if the real culprit was found and arrested, and if that man, Jacques Desjardins, confessed to the jewel theft of which Miss Ballantyne had been accused.

This conundrum and its potential solution occupied his thoughts as they journeyed north.

Mlle. Sylvie was ill on the voyage across the Channel, which was admittedly rougher than any in Damien's recent memory. She was so unsteady and pale when they reached Dover that he was compelled to carry her to the rented carriage, which only strengthened the rumor of their joined future. Her delicacy made him fear anew for Miss Ballantyne. She had lost weight and been less robust when he had visited her, and it had been almost a fortnight since then.

Surely, she could not be cheated of knowing that her sister was safe? Or that of seeing the man who had tormented her brought to justice? It could not be thus! Damien offered the driver a greater payment for a hasty journey, though it would not be easy for Mlle. Sylvie.

The door of the carriage was closed and the driver cracked the whip, doubtless determined to earn that promised bonus. Damien glanced out the window and spotted a furtive figure hastening toward a mail coach. His heart leapt at the familiarity of the man.

He recognized that figure, even with such a fleeting glimpse, and settled back in the coach with satisfaction. They had been followed. He had wondered several times. And now that Jacques Desjardins was back on English soil, Damien intended to be sure that fiend never left the country alive.

He offered Mlle. Sylvie his handkerchief as the coach rocked and kept his voice low, even though they were alone in the darkened interior. "Would you be amenable to a small deceit, Mademoiselle Lafleur? I should like to set a trap for the man responsible for your sister's circumstance."

With that, the young lady's spirits were evidently revived, for she met his gaze with a resolve in her own. "Oui, monsieur. I will do whatsoever you advise to aid Esmeralda."

"Because he does not dance ?" Aunt Fanny sounded more like an angry hen than her usual self. Her voice rose to a pitch that made Helena wince. "Truly, you have become capricious beyond expectation. Why would you decline an eligible offer over such triviality?"

"It is not trivial," Helena argued. "And it is not the sum of my reason. We simply would not suit each other. He has little inclination to smile or laugh. He…"

"Is practical, handsome, responsible and younger than many eligible bachelors." Aunt Fanny sighed. "He is even tall, with a good chin! And doubtless he has an income of some measure, besides. Though I have yet to discover the precise amount, that house could not be kept on pennies, never mind a house in London—in Cavendish Square no less!—as well."

"He has twenty-five thousand pounds," Helena supplied, looking out the window as she braced herself for the inevitable reaction.

Aunt Fanny was so furious she nearly rocked the carriage. "Twenty-five thousand! What has seized your wits, girl? You could live in one house and he in the other for that annual sum."

"Oh!" Helena had not considered the possibility of being a wife alone in London while the viscount occupied himself with his country estate. "I thought couples lived in the same house." And truly, she had no desire for such an arrangement. She wanted a passionate marriage, one in which neither partner could consider being without the other.

The very prospect made her yearn to meet a man who would capture her heart.

Meanwhile, Aunt was fuming. "While first wed, certainly, but after you give him sons, I am certain he would indulge your whim."

Sons. That would take at least several years, if not more. Truly, Helena might not bear sons ever. Such a condition certainly did not guarantee its eventual success—and her freedom. Helena shuddered, knowing it was better she had declined.

"How many such offers do you anticipate you will receive?" Aunt Fanny continued with outrage. "You are no longer in London, Helena, with opportunity at every dance."

"Lady Haynesdale is hosting a ball."

"And just yesterday, she complained to me of the paucity of young gentlemen in the vicinity. Do you imagine they will fail to hear that you have declined the most eligible of them all?" Aunt Fanny pinched the bridge of her nose as she grimaced. "Less than a week in Nottinghamshire and you will be known far and wide as a young lady too proud to see reason."

"Am I not entitled to choose the man with whom I will spend my life?"

"No, you are not!" Aunt Fanny fairly shouted. "I will invite Nicholas to dinner that he might talk sense into you. Perhaps, if you are sufficiently contrite and charming, the viscount might be convinced to renew his addresses."

Helena folded her arms across her chest and glared out the window. Fortunately, they approached Bramble Cottage. "I do not want him to renew his addresses," she said with heat. "We will not suit each other."

" He believes you will suit each other!"

"He does not know me. He sees only a lady young enough to give him sons and pretty enough to grace his table. He sees a logical match." She spat the hateful word. "His objectives are not the sole detail of interest, Aunt!"

"But, of course, they are. Have I taught you nothing at all?"

Helena was spared more of Aunt Fanny's diatribe by the coach's halt on the drive before Bramble Cottage. A footman swept open the door, his expression hinting that their conversation had been overheard. Helena flushed but did not care what he thought. As soon as her aunt descended, she followed and hastened into the house.

She did not linger, though. She remained only long enough to collect her coat and a bonnet better suited to walking. The wind was rising and clouds gathered in the western sky, but she would not sit obediently to be berated for making the only possible choice.

"I am going for a walk," she informed her aunt, who was sufficiently astonished that she could not immediately summon a protest. By the time Lady Dalhousie had found her tongue, Helena intended to be beyond shouting distance.

She was not one to actively seek the opportunity for even such exercise as a walk, but this day would be the exception. Where would she go?

Helena halted beyond the hedge of shrubbery—her aunt had assured her that the rhododendrons would be magnificent in May—and considered her choices once she was out of view of the cottage. The road to the right led to Southpoint, but she could wait until dinner for her brother to add his voice to the criticism. Doubtless his wife would recite many dire prospects for young ladies who declined suitable offers, based upon her previous experiences as the wife of a vicar.

Helena grimaced. From Southpoint, she could proceed to Haynesdale House in one direction, and Haynesdale Hollow beyond, or toward Colsterworth in the other. She had no intention of walking so far.

The road to the left returned ultimately to Addersley and she could see the viscount's coach disappearing into the distance. This was a smaller curving road, one that ambled through the forested hills in a most inviting manner. There was little traffic upon it, which suited her well on this day. Addersley's village was beyond the manor but Helena could see some kind of structure in the forest between cottage and manor. It seemed that its roof shone, which was most unusual. She would make it her destination this day and learn something more of the countryside surrounding her prison.

Even walking was better than listening to Aunt Fanny all afternoon. Helena knew she had made the right choice, but she also knew her aunt would not be convinced of that soon. She dared not risk returning to the house for her boots, for she might be detained.

It seemed she would have to learn how to mend her slippers and soon.

Helena tied her bonnet securely and began to walk.

The truth of the matter was that Joshua could dance.

He could race horses and gamble all night long, he could drink himself witless and he could fight duel after duel. He had spent the better part of year proving that he could be every bit as much of a wastrel as his brother Gerald. While he had enjoyed some of those newfound temptations, there were intervals of that wild period in London that he could not recall—save for the disastrous end result.

He had vowed to his father that he would never succumb to such temptations again, and he would not.

He owed Charlotte's memory that much.

His word was his vow, after all.

And yet—would Miss Emerson have declined him ten years before, in London? She must have been a child then, but if she had been of age, Joshua imagined she would have found him a far more interesting suitor than she did now.

How unfair that keeping a pledge should cheat him of the one lady he desired!

Joshua paced through the empty corridors of Addersley Manor, his impatience with his situation growing step by step. Miss Emerson could not have said anything else that would so vividly fill his thoughts with the pleasures of that sojourn in London. Joshua found himself wanting to ride wildly again, wanting to feel the weight of a pistol in his hand as he paced off for a duel, wanting to savor every moment of every day as Gerald had.

Why must a man choose one path or the other? Honor and respectability or notoriety and indulgence? There were points of merit on each side, in Joshua's view. He had no desire to be a wastrel again or live that dissipated life, but a little amusement at intervals would be welcome.

Like dancing.

He dismissed that thought.

After all, who had taught Miss Emerson that she could decide her future for herself? What she needed was a husband of honor, who would defend her against her own foolish impulses. Had she not chosen to leave London in the company of a rogue who desired only a fortune she did not possess? That showed an inclination to error and impulse that could lead her far astray. Would she make the same mistake again?

Joshua could not say and the very possibility chilled him. She could not rely upon the good fortune of meeting a solicitor's wife in the same coach, never mind one determined to act on her behalf, each time she stepped from the safer path.

But Miss Emerson was not Joshua's responsibility to defend.

Would he be compelled to watch her destroy her prospects? He did not know the men of age in the neighborhood, but there had to be some of dubious repute. If such a man could and would dance , she might be lost forever!

Joshua flung himself into his library, glared at the spot before the fire which might be occupied most amiably by a large dog, and seized upon a book in the hope of distracting himself.

It was regrettably, one of his father's older books, a leatherbound edition of Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne . He cast it down, Miss Emerson at the fore of his thoughts.

How did a young lady arrive at a conviction that a highwayman would be a desirable suitor? What manner of fool would wish for a thief—even one who was a nobleman in disguise and stole from the rich to give to the poor—to pursue one's affections? What if the thief won her heart? Would she happily live in the wilds of the forest with him? The notion as vexing as being declined because of his refusal to indulge in foolish fripperies.

Captain Emerson had given fair warning of the inclinations of his sister, but Joshua had not been prepared to believe her so fanciful.

He wondered if it was better she had declined him.

He could not believe it. Joshua had liked her immediately and, against every expectation, he still did. There was something about her presence that lightened his heart. She, like Gerald, could brighten a room with her arrival. She made him keenly aware of the possibilities of life—and that made him question how he chose to live. She made him want more.

Miss Emerson was the lady he wanted to wed. He knew it in his very soul.

Joshua should dismiss the incident. He should seek out another, possibly more sensible, young lady. That would be the rational choice.

And yet, his ambitions would not be so readily abandoned. He wanted to prove Miss Emerson wrong, to show her the magnitude of her error, and win her hand in his.

Joshua would never be a duke and he would never truly be a highwayman, but he was not content with his lot on this night—and he was not in a mood to lose himself in a book, however compelling the tale.

He marched through Addersley Manor in search of a trunk that was packed away but not forgotten. It was the one he had brought home from London ten years before and it had not been opened since, though it sat in the corner of his dressing room. He flung back the lid, halfway expecting to be disappointed by its contents.

One look within it and he could only smile. He lifted out a jacket, recalling visits to the tailor with Gerald. They had ordered clothes with wild abandon, in hues and fabrics he would never have chosen himself. Gerald had never been content with a conservative color or a coat that might be worn even a dozen times. Such practical considerations had been banished. And it had been amusing to indulge himself for once, to abandon his characteristic sobriety at Gerald's urging.

They had been dashing when they stepped out together, that much could not be denied.

This waistcoat, for example, in a shade of green silk that could only be called chartreuse, striped with emerald, black and with a tiny glimmer of gold. If that was not sufficient, the emerald stripes had been embroidered with ivory daisies, each one formed of ribbon and adorned with a glittering bead in its eye.

On impulse, Joshua tried it on, admiring the buttons that had the shape of a daisy in the top of each one and painted with gold. It still fit perfectly and he considered his reflection in the glass, liking that he looked a little less conservative than had become his custom.

There were enormous cravats within the trunk, boots of staggering expense that had scarce been worn, trousers and coats and breeches. The abundance was startling and now he considered the excessive cost. Joshua found himself going through them, remembering at least one incident with each garment. There were frock coats for court, shoes and hats and trousers. Joshua fingered a hole in a jacket made by a musket ball, then shook his head at a stain that might have been either claret or blood. He knew his garments had been stained by both.

He smelled the perfume of Gerald's favorite courtesan, who always had a friend, and smiled in memory of those sleepless nights. There was a dried carnation in one buttonhole, a dusty memento of a long-ago evening—undoubtedly one that had included so much dancing that the ladies' slippers were left full of holes. His handkerchiefs were monogrammed, as were his shirts, all of it packed away as tokens of another life.

Of another man.

It seemed an eon ago.

He would not think about Charlotte, or about the last time he had seen Gerald. He would not permit himself to open the floodgates of those memories. He could almost taste that fateful night, the crisp hint of winter in the air, and see the way the stars glittered overhead like diamonds. He shoved the memories aside. Once he began to review them, Joshua knew he would regret so many choices, and the weight of loss might destroy him.

No, the trick was to learn from the past, to take those lessons and chart a future with them.

Perhaps he would do that in the morning.

He might have turned away, but he spied the cloak in the bottom of the trunk. Joshua had not realized he still possessed it. He lifted it out, surprised again by the weight of so much black wool cloth. There was an enormous quantity of fabric in the generous cut of the cloak, and it was lined with heavy satin. He swung it around so that it landed on his shoulders, the flourish of donning it a gesture he recalled as well as his own name. The weighty cloak hung to his knees, a formidable barrier to the elements, and he was glad to see that the moths had not damaged it. He drew up the hood and looked in the mirror, noting how his features vanished in the shadows.

He might have been that highwayman, the glimpse of his lavish waistcoat hinting that he was an aristocrat in disguise. Would Miss Emerson have accepted him in this garb? Joshua wondered. Would she have even recognized him? He doubted as much and for that reason alone, the cloak remained on his shoulders. He changed his boots on impulse, choosing the beautiful black ones from the trunk that were still gleaming from the bootmaker's shop. It was a waste that he had not worn them in recent years, for they were finely made. With a smile, he donned a pair of black leather gloves with long gauntlets.

His reflection could have been a different man, a man who savored life and all it offered, a man of audacity and charm, a man who might even believe in the merit of love. He might have been a man whose life merited a tale, a man to be dreaded—a man to be adored by innocent maidens. Joshua smiled at the mirror, feeling an almost-forgotten sense of power and audacity.

Indeed, he faced a reflection of his former self.

Did clothes truly make the man? In this moment, Joshua might have been convinced. He felt a plethora of possibilities, all at his fingertips, waiting to be seized.

The fact was that he had not taken a risk in a long time. It was true that he had proposed to Miss Emerson, but he had not believed there to be any possibility of failure so there was no risk in that choice.

Gerald would never have let him be so complacent.

It was time that Joshua dared a little more than had become his custom.

It was time that he lived more boldly and took advantage of opportunity more often. Perhaps that was the lesson he should take from his brother's memory and this trunk of garments. He need not be a reckless fool to savor a moment, or to celebrate the fact that he was yet alive.

Joshua had not ridden Gerald's stallion, Zephyr, of late. The large horse was opinionated and not inclined to tolerate many riders since Gerald's departure from Addersley. The grooms, he understood, now avoided the beast and justifiably so. But all creatures benefitted from regular exercise and Zephyr was no exception.

On this day, the stallion might meet his match.