The Rake of Hearts by Emily Windsor
Lady Luck
Friday morning.
The Duke of Rothwell’s study was a bastion of perfect orderliness and ducal authority. Every surface polished to a pristine shine, the desk a burnished beacon of command with quills trimmed to refined perfection. Even the portraits preened with pride.
Hebe admired the trimness, even if the leather chair was rather austere, and her gaze kept straying to the comfortable blue chaise beneath the window.
Mind you, the ducal perfection was somewhat ruined by the sable-black cat who leaped to the desk, strolled upon beribboned documents and then rubbed itself against the ink stand, leaving clods of fur attached to the brass.
The duke finished scribbling, steepled his fingers and smiled from across the desk. “I apologise for the delay. Is all well, Mrs Locke? Are you and your aunt set?”
“We are indeed, Your Grace. And we do appreciate your offer of a carriage to take us. Ours is not fit for travel to the country.”
“Not at all, and I am looking forward to your finished artwork.”
Some six months past, this duke had offered to sponsor her after admiring her painting of a countess’s favoured pug. As a female artist, pug commissions had been the most she could hope for, but she so yearned to paint her beloved horses – stallions and mares with all their grace and vigour.
She’d never had a patron before and hoped this duke would introduce her to potential clients in the male-dominated world of horseracing, but to further her prospects, he had also commissioned her to paint his own hunter, and she was to journey to the ducal seat of Wychmere Castle in the Cotswolds where the horse was stabled and commence upon preliminary sketches.
The duke rose from behind the imposing desk and curled his fingers. “Come view my latest acquisition, Mrs Locke. I value your opinion.”
She swiftly abandoned the incommodious chair and followed him to the easel in the corner of the study, black cloth concealing a canvas some thirty by forty inches.
The material was tugged upwards, and as she beheld the glorious oil painting beneath, a sense of serenity filled her. She lost herself in the delightful subject matter with its nebulous landscape and the sleek muscles of the horses, the stamp of hooves and the roll of thunder…
“Mrs Locke?”
And she realised she’d not been paying heed to a duke’s words at all. “Yes, Your Grace?”
He cleared his throat, tapping a waistcoat button. “I asked your opinion?”
“It’s wondrous.” She peered closer. “The blending of iron grey and raw umber to convey a passing storm is sublime and contrasts with the clearer skies of bone white. Yet my eye is drawn to the two horses.” She reached out a hand but only traced them in air. “The sleek grey Arab is strong and beautiful but afraid as he approaches the amiable bay.” She sighed. “And the detail of leg and muzzle is superb. I solely hope I can emulate such skill with Your Grace’s hunter.”
“I admire your work equally, Mrs Locke. You imbue passion and fluidity.”
“Thank you.” Yet she frowned. “’Tis just such detail that I want to improve upon, especially in a natural setting. Here in London, my horses share stables and ’tis noisy and dark.”
“Sketch all you wish at Wychmere then. You should find gentle mares and stumbling foals as our stud farm is also located there.”
“I am most grateful, Your Grace,” she replied, aware of the great honour. After all, to the Beau Monde she was just a gentleman’s daughter, a widow with hardly a fingertip to the midpoint of society’s ladder, and since she had made known her wish to be an artist, she’d even slipped a couple of rungs.
The duke waved a hand in response. “In fact, our neighbour Sir Henry Winkfield has an adequate stable as he oft purchases our colts and fillies to train as racehorses. I’ll send a missive and you can sketch them also.” He folded his arms. “Perhaps Squire Skelton’s too – he’s some tolerable geldings.”
“Won’t they mind?”
A superior aristocratic eyebrow lifted.
No, of course, for he was a duke used to command and deference, although she did wonder how he dealt with his profligate brother who doubtless had never heeded a single command in his charmed life.
The black cloth was returned to the oil painting and Hebe returned to the durable leather chair.
“Will Your Grace and the duchess be at the castle this summer?” she enquired.
“Alas, there are other estates which need our attention. The Rothwell family is to reside at the Chiltern manor this August, so you will be alone at the castle but for the staff. My duchess’s maid will, needless to say, be at your disposal.”
Hebe imparted her thanks. Could think of nothing finer than to pass the late summer weeks in the Cotswolds with her aunt, sketching beautiful horses.
Bliss.
* * *
Friday afternoon.
The Dukeof Rothwell’s study was a bastion of wearisome orderliness and dull authority. Every surface polished to an absurd shine, the desk a burnished beacon of dreary command and quills trimmed to tedious perfection. Even the portraits preened with pomposity.
Ernest loathed it, and ignoring the hellishly hard chair that his brother Casper insisted everyone sat in, he flung himself to the blue chaise, Hessian boots lifted to the silk.
Mind you, these days the ducal tediousness was somewhat ruined by Cleopatra, the sable-black cat, who lazily stretched on the desk where she had been snoozing upon estate reports. She arched her spine, soundlessly dropped to the rug, stalked to the chaise and sprung onto Ernest’s chest.
“Why do animals like you so much?” muttered his brother from behind the desk, shuffling papers and looking important. “I feed the thing. I stroke it. I even allow it upon the ducal bed…on occasion.”
Ernest held out a curved palm for Cleo to nuzzle into. “Who knows? My winning, carefree smile, perhaps?”
His brother grimaced. “Doubtful.”
“My amusing jokes?”
“News to me.”
“My soothing, husky voice?”
“Like a parrot with laryngitis.”
“Ah, I know, my talented touch with females?”
Casper closed his eyes, expression pained. “Indeed, I read all about your exploits in Hyde Park yesterday.”
Ernest scratched behind Cleo’s ears. “In truth, I never got the chance with Lady C in the end as–”
“Not those exploits.” Casper grabbed The Times and stabbed a finger. “And I quote… ‘Lord E’s brave and gallant rescue of a curricle’s occupants from certain drowning in the Serpentine has set all of London’s female bosoms a’heaving. Could this rake break any more hearts?’” Casper raised a brow. “End quote.”
“Rather sensationalised, I’d say. The curricle’s occupants would never have drowned as it’s scarcely two foot deep at the edge, but for the horses it might have been a different matter. Do you remember that quakebuttock Dutens who was rescued from the drink last year? His matched greys drowned.” Ernest gritted his teeth. “I cannot bear to imagine their terror.”
Without a word, Casper rose from behind his desk and strolled to the decanters upon the mahogany side table, his back ramrod straight.
Ernest shifted uneasily, awaiting the set-down for dragging the exalted Rothwell name into the gossip columns…again. Although their relationship was much improved, he and his brother still clashed on any manner of matters given their distinct dispositions – Casper could be cold, private and strait-laced whereas Ernest’s blood ran hotter than Hades and he enjoyed flirtation, laughter and absurdity.
A brandy glass was waggled before him. “It was commendable and brave, Ernest. But take care, won’t you? I don’t wish to lose my brother beneath some carriage wheels.”
“Thank you, Casp.” He accepted the liquor with a grin. “Evelyn is good for you.”
Ernest wasn’t the type of fellow to repute that love existed – how could he when his brother had shown such a marked improvement since his marriage – but he himself was a mere colt. Plenty of time yet.
“By the way, Casp, I ought to inform you…” Ernest removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. This was not going to be easy, as he was only too aware that in the past Casper had considered him an irresponsible sluggard, but now that his brother had allowed him to manage the Rothwell stud stables, he was hoping to prove his worth. What he was about to say, however, could be construed as…careless, and he didn’t relish having his ears blistered. “I seem to have…lost a horse.”
His brother stilled. Turned. Perched on the desk edge. His lips moved as though counting to ten. Inhaled. “Lost?”
“That new stallion I purchased for stud, named Sir Oswald.”
“Jumped a fence? Escaped his stall?”
Ernest sat up and placed hands to knees, a disgruntled Cleo clawing his cravat. “I thought you’d assume I’d left him at some inn.”
“If there’s one thing I know of you, Ernest, it’s that you’d never abandon a horse outside an inn, even for a pretty barmaid.”
“Thank you…I think.” He disentangled Cleo. “Well, Sir Oswald went missing from the meadow paddock. True, he’s a wild one and the fence was broken so he could have trampled it and escaped.” He scrubbed his jaw. “Yet no trace of him has been found and…”
“So theft is possible?”
“Indeed. Although there are not many places to conceal a nervy thoroughbred chestnut stallion with white stockings and a star on its forehead. So, with your agreement, I’ll return to the castle and search for him instead of coming to the Chilterns with you and Evelyn.”
“Of course, as you wish, but tread with care. Those horse thieves can be damn dangerous. And Sir Oswald could be at Dartmouth Fair by now.”
“Perhaps.” Ernest took a sip of his brother’s best brandy. “But I have a…an inkling he’s still close to Wychmere. The stable master and I have also changed the rotas so that no horse is left alone in the paddocks.”
“A good idea.” Casper tapped the glass to his lip. “But as I thought you were to accompany us to the Chilterns, I’m afraid you will have summer guests to complicate matters. Perhaps I should have informed you but…”
“You’re a duke and therefore indomitable?”
A faint flush marked his brother’s cheeks. “Anyhow, the lady will not be interested in you. She will be there for the horses.”
Lady?
Ernest’s ears pricked up like Stanley’s faced with his bag of oats.
“’Tis one of the artists I sponsor. If you remember, you met Mrs Locke–”
“In Hyde Park, brother. She was the passenger in that curricle debacle. Not that I’d forgotten her from the Plymtrees’ ball.”
How could any red-blooded male?
To say she had blond hair would be an insult to the countless strands of honey, tawny and buttermilk. Eyes, which managed to convey her utter disgust in him with one look, shone like cornflowers in a meadow. Soft skin and an obstinate chin. She’d a willow frame that appeared both fragile and strong, like a racehorse at the post, and then there were those shadows beneath her eyes which heeded a vulnerability and stirred this rake to feel rather protective…
Of course, she’d no doubt hoof him in the ballocks if he ever divulged that thought.
“I’ve commissioned a painting from her of my hunter, so she and her aunt are leaving London for the Cotswolds forthwith. Mrs Locke is to sketch him and any other horses she desires.”
Ernest tipped his glass in salutation.
“Leave her be,” Casper muttered, clonking his brandy down and folding his arms in an elderly authoritarian manner, even though a mere five years separated them. “As I told you, she’s only recently discarded her widow’s weeds and has no interest in affairs of the heart.”
“But did we not have a wager at the Plymtrees’ ball?” Ernest polished his glasses on his jacket. “If she divulged me her given name, you vowed to parade in those striped stockings of mine that you so detest. That’ll be a snap whilst beneath the same roof for August.”
Casper looked smug. “Her full name. Middle ones and all. And when you fail, I’ll burn those stockings on the Michaelmas Feast bonfire.”
Ernest raised his glass once more. “Done.”