The Rake of Hearts by Emily Windsor
When the heart is afire, sparks will fly from the mouth…
“His lordship’s with fair Lydia at the Wychmere tavern again,” revealed Mr Grampy Tom with a distinct twinkle to his eye.
“Is he, now?”
The perverse philanderer.
And in the fresh morning sunshine, Hebe tapped her foot upon the cobbled stable courtyard. At dawn, sitting up in her bed and sketching the scene she’d witnessed last night, she’d thought to assess the dissolute rake through fresh eyes, to make sense of it all.
But a leopard never lost its spots, it seemed, just disguised them amongst the savanna grass.
So she sternly informed herself that Lord Ernest couldn’t possibly have been that wonderful with the mare, that she’d imagined such care, mistaken his touch for gentle.
For surely a man could not be both the depraved rake she’d witnessed and a tender enchanter of animals?
“Aye, that he is, but his lordship said thee could sketch the new foal and her dam if thee sit a mite back. Birthed last night, don’t thee know?” He tapped his stick.
Hebe slid her eyes to the weather-beaten gentleman but he gazed in innocence to the blue sky before shuffling off to the stables with a limp.
“The rain didn’t come then?” she called after him as that tailless white goat ambled across to block her path. She shooed with her hands and it nipped at her skirts. She attempted an amiable smile and it belched before sauntering past in its own good time, bequeathing a malodorous waft.
She caught up with the old stable master in the corridor, the boxes and stalls as shipshape and tidy as at dawn.
Mr Grampy Tom sneezed. “It’ll rain, lass. For the cat be wipin’ over his ears.” Hebe looked askance at the snoozing moggy upon the haybale. “And the dogs be eating grass afore noon. And did thee notice those rooks? Flying low, they be.”
Grief, Noah had no doubt embarked upon the construction of his arc.
Before the deluge could fall, however, and under Mr Grampy Tom’s instruction, a chair was placed for her in the far corner of the last stable box and another slatted shutter opened for light.
This morning, the mare appeared tired yet content, standing quiet and munching hay, but the foal floundered about like a puppet on strings, legs pulling straight for a moment, only to flop the next.
Having tendered her thanks, Hebe sat and wrestled her sketchbook from the satchel, her charcoals from a special tin and…began to draw, a quiet felicity descending, not just from the scene before her but this place – a lad whistling, Mr Grampy Tom’s tap of stick, the caw of those low-flying rooks and Mr O’Conner’s Irish lilt as he directed the brushing down of a horse.
Doubtless most visitors to such a majestic castle would begin their first day with a stroll in the grounds or climb the stone stairs to the roof and gaze at the view in peaceful repose. But sketching was peace for Hebe. A way to banish the past.
At the hour of nine this morning, she’d called on her aunt to ask whether she wished to take breakfast but a hand had waved above the coverlet and pronounced it far too early. So Hebe had wandered downstairs to the smaller dining room to help her lonesome self to kippers and tea – no sign of their host.
And now she knew why.
Fair Lydia indeed.
The licentious goat.
In fact, Hebe was now quite sure that the dim light in this very stable at dawn had tricked her eyes into perceiving roughened knuckles and dark callouses upon that suave seducer’s hands. That supposed burn scar was more likely dirt.
More than a few lads wandered in with pails of water for the mare, or to cadge a look at Hebe’s drawings, but never having been precious about her work, she let them, encouraging comment – after all, they knew a horse’s physique better than she.
After an hour or so, she put the sketchbook down to stretch, fingers stiff, just as Mr O’Conner entered with a battered low table.
“Got the maid to bring ya some lemonade, Mrs Locke.”
“How thoughtful. I tend to forget such things when sketching, and I do realise I’m an extra burden for you all, Mr O’Conner.” Hebe inspected her aunt’s past love, knowing a tale or two lay there. He was a handsome man of forty or so years, but deep lines furrowed his eyes and brow, telling of hardship, his lips were not quick to smile and his hair was tinted with many strands of grey.
He laid a swollen hand on the mare’s flank. “Not at all and call me Redmond. A fine artist, ya are, Mrs Locke.”
“Oh, well, I’m not sure… I hope to be. It was my aunt who encouraged me, who told me to disregard males that thought a woman wishing to paint horses was peculiar. She is so…open and worldly-wise.” Slyly, she glanced up to find Redmond’s lips pressed so tight, they’d all but disappeared. It seemed he wasn’t so unaffected by her aunt either. “Mrs Cassell has travelled much, you know. Is considering Peru next year.”
“Likely her rich husband takes her where she pleases.”
“My aunt has been a widow for twelve years now, Redmond.”
His jaw gritted and he shuffled with unease. “Ya painting the neighbour’s horses too, are ya not? Squire Skelton’s and Sir Henry’s thoroughbreds?”
Hebe grinned at the abrupt change of subject. “I am inde–”
A foot kicked into the table, nigh tumbling it. “Oh, I be right sorry, madam,” a maid in white cap and black dress gushed. “It be mortal dingy in here after the bright sunshine.”
“Ach, ya clumsy lass.”
“Forgive me, Mr O’Conner. I have the lemonade as thee requested.”
“I’ll leave ya to it, Mrs Locke.” After righting the table, the stable master departed.
“I do appreciate this…”
“The name’s Mary. Mary Merreck.” The maid placed the tray down with a tentative smile. “And tha be a mighty fine drawing of Lady Lucy.”
Pretty, the maid had serious brown eyes and fair hair.
“Thank you, and is that her name? Mr O’Conner never said.”
“Aye. I only know tha cos I be stepping out with Daniel, the fourth groom,” she confided. “He told I that all the mares were named after…” She peered to the open door and fastened her lips.
“Named after?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t…”
“Oh, you should…”
“Well…” Mary Merreck nibbled a finger. “Daniel heard tell from Thos, the third groom, tha his lordship names the mares after all his…” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Fancy women in London.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded gravely.
Hebe gulped. There were…so many. “And the…stallions?”
The maid leaned close, lyre soap wafting. “Named after all the husbands he’s cuckolded.” She grimaced. “Have thee ever heard of such wickedness?”
No, Hebe had not.
Even having lived with Aunt for four years.
“Oy, lass. I hope thee ain’t tattling. Unless Daniel’s here, away with thee.”
Eyes wide, she scuttled off and Mr Grampy Tom winked from the doorway. “Mary be the kitchen maid and can’t keep away from tha dizzard Daniel. Dunno why, he be as surly as a butcher’s dog. Always the same wi’ these town grooms tha come here from afar.”
“London?”
“No. Burford, lass.”
Oh. And she drained her lemonade.
* * *
Ernest whistledas he strolled the garden path to the stables, cheery as a cat in a tripe shop despite his tiredness after the night’s exertions – and to visit Lydia again after a mere four hours’ rest had quite frankly done him in.
Not only that, but a chat with the Wychmere blacksmith had produced the smidgeon of gossip that Will Skelton’s prized mare had likewise vanished yester-noon, a fence smashed and grass churned.
In spite of the magistrate’s denial, this was too much of a coincidence for Ernest. A thief lurked in their midst, which made him less cheery, and he must formulate a plan, starting with a call on Will. They’d roamed the countryside together as cubs but school had seen them go their separate ways.
Backgrounds on all the permanent grooms and stable lads would also be beneficial but Redmond was recently arrived and unlikely to know much. This afternoon, Ernest would send a missive to the previous stable master, who’d taken work in Sussex in order to be nearer his son.
The other visit to make was to Sir Henry Drinkwater, who owned fine training stables in the nearby village of Upper Slayer to the east. It wouldn’t do to aggravate him, however, as the baronet was a good customer and had acquired a few colts and fillies from the Rothwells’ studs in the past, training them up for the most famous of races – St Legers, Ascot and Newmarket.
Sir Henry was to host one of his famed masquerade balls at his manor in a sennight, so perhaps it could wait till then as liquor might loosen his lips.
Ernest hastened his step. For now, scrubbed and polished, he was in search of his pretty houseguest, to convey his profuse apologies for not welcoming them yesterday. According to Mrs Pettifer, who’d spoken with Garvey, who’d jabbered with Redmond, the beguiling Mrs Locke had thus far spent three hours sketching the new foal. The presence of a lady in the stables had caused quite a stir amongst the stable lads, the agog swains drawing lots for who’d change the mare’s water.
He lengthened his stride through the courtyard and into the stabl–
A bundle of cotton and woman filled his hands, the scent of rosemary igniting his senses and he tightened his grip around a slender waist to prevent a vigorous tumble to the cobbles for the both of them.
Although…
“I do apologise,” he murmured, not yet releasing Mrs Locke.
With ringlets bouncing, her bonnetless head rose, body stiff as a new riding crop, a faintest quiver racking her bones, blue eyes so frosty they could shatter a clay pot; yet he relished the burn.
“Let me go!” she almost shrieked.
Instinct kicked in without thought. “Hush now, Mrs Lo–”
She recoiled from his hold, trembling hands pushed against his chest, all hauteur and firmed lips. “Do not hush me, Lord Ernest.”
Her breath was sharp and fierce, and he sought to ease her strange fright, so with a teasing smile, he released her and held up his leather-gloved palms. “Only with a ceaseless kiss would I ever wish to hush you, Mrs Locke.”
Her mouth dropped open…
Perhaps he’d overstepped his remit as a rake…
But then, thank hell, she tutted, lips twitching. “You are incorrigible, my lord.”
With a wink, he swept off his hat and bowed low. “I bid you welcome to our humble Wychmere Castle, Mrs Locke.”
Depraved rake or compassionate enchanter of animals?
That was what Hebe wished to know in the cold light of day as she gave a curtsey, rolling her eyes at his elaborate welcome, determined not to be smothered by his preposterous charm.
“I came looking for you. Will you walk with me?” he requested. “In the gardens? I know we have not…set forth on the best hoof, so to speak, but I’m a normal fellow when you get to know me.”
She doubted that and at any other time, she might have cast a chill glance, rebuffed his offer and stalked off, but the image of him with that mare would not depart her mind. His utter tenderness and calm, his stroke of hand. The wary creature’s complete trust…
Depraved rake or compassionate enchanter?
“I expect the devil himself makes a similar claim,” she retorted.
“Perhaps, but I think you’d notice the proprietor of hell wasn’t your regular type of fellow by the curling smoke, scaly skin and nostril hair.” And he proffered a claret-sleeved arm.
She forced the laughter back down from whence it came – foolish man. “If you promise not to besiege me with ludicrous flattery, I would be delighted to walk with you.”
With a jerk of lip, he nodded.
What was beneath those layers and layers of London polish?
A self-indulgent rake who named his many horses after his many lovers?
Or a compassionate gentleman who tended distressed creatures in the dawn hours and who gallantly brought runaway curricles to a halt?
Which reminded her…
“Why did you purchase Mr Maddock’s curricle horses? He was most jubilant that you paid more than their worth.” They entered the garden beneath a bower of late-flowering roses – romantic, their scent arousing. Was the rake endeavouring to lead her from the path of virtue?
As she’d commented to Aunt on their arrival, one would have to stand one’s guard in this beguiling place as even the encircling flowers and droning bees appeared to be in cahoots with their master in creating this sensual ambience.
The weather had warmed, urging flowers and leaves to strive for the sun, and Hebe was forced to unbutton her pelisse.
“They would never suit city life after such an initiation,” he declared. “Then what would have happened? Sold for less to another hapless driver? Till they became unmanageable and…”
He need not say more.
“Where are they now?”
“Awaiting their journey here. There’s a stable in Witney that deals with matched pairs. Mr Whittle has the contacts to make sure they will be well cared for.”
Depraved rake or compassionate enchanter?
Sauntering the path, Hebe attempted to order her mind, to dump Lord Ernest back into his convenient ‘Rake’ pit – but confused emotions kept interfering.
Not least the sensation of his arm beneath her palm. For unlike most society males, muscle twisted beneath cloth and skin, wiry and lean.
A scent of fresh air surrounded him, reminding one of sun-lit meadows.
He sauntered with an easy gait, no mincing or posturing.
And…
“Do you realise that a cat is following us?”
“Fear not,” he said, patting her with a hand sheathed in leather, and she yearned to ask that he remove those gloves to inspect those hands. Perhaps it had all been a dream? “That’s Twinkle.”
She halted on the spot and he startled, elegant in claret jacket, ivory and black striped waistcoat and that damn crooked cravat.
“You named a cat Twinkle?”
“Hmm. I thought it suited him.”
She peered back at…it.
Patchy fur. No ear. Bent tail and a dodgy eye.
How could a polished libertine of London with a reputation to uphold name a cat Twinkle?
And in her, admittedly, limited experience, such men who lived for the seduction of beautiful ladies, yet ultimately cared little for their hearts, would have no concern for ugly misshaped cats.
Indisputably.
Lord Ernest released her arm, stooped on one knee and scratched the cat behind its one ear.
Twinkle rumbled as though a plate of raw fish had been placed before him.
“I found him half-starved in London, lads baiting a dog with him, so I brought Twinkle here. He needs a month or so more and he’ll be just fine.”
Depraved rake or compassionate enchanter?
She couldn’t help herself. “I’m not sure a notorious rake should have such rapport with animals.” Twinkle mewed. “And aren’t cats meant to be discerning?” Hebe held hand to mouth – ordinarily she hoped her disdain was deserved by the recipient, but that had just been…rude.
His lordship grinned. “Well, this one’s not discerning at all. Twinkle sleeps on my bed at night.”
“Ridiculous.” She tutted. “You should glare and shoo it away, like any self-respecting libertine with no care for such emotional entanglements.”
Lord Ernest duly glared and shooed the cat with his hands, lips flattened.
Twinkle purred and nuzzled into the libertine’s leg.
Oh, good grief.
“Did you have no pets as a child?” he enquired, glancing up.
She’d always considered her own eyes a wintry blue but his were the warmth of a deep summer sky.
“No. Father considered them a waste of money.” She likewise bent down and tentatively patted the cat’s head.
It contorted from her touch and stared. And stared. And stared.
Hebe’s eyes darted away, hand dropping.
“And your late husband? Did he not buy you a kitten or puppy?”
She blinked before a burst of laughter gushed forth.
And then frowned. For recollections of Tobias had never once caused laughter – even ironic laughter – but the idea was so nonsensical…
“No. He disliked animals.” And me.
“Well,” he said, rising, “I had hoped to chat more at dinner and meet Mrs Cassell but I will be in Wychmere village again.”
Really, she shouldn’t.
But she did.
“With the fair Lydia?” she interrogated, lashes batting.
Depraved rake or compassionate enchanter?
“Oh, you’ve heard about her. Good.” Lord Ernest rubbed his palms together, inhaling with pleasure. “She’s a handful and no mistake, but I’ll make sure I leave her gratified. And now her sister wants me too, but who am I to say no?”
Hebe’s lips parted.
The dissolute buck fitch.
And her mind easily plopped him back into his designated pit.
Depraved rake.
“I believe I’ll return to the stables,” she said icily, twisting away. “I find horses to be more salubrious company.”
Mrs Locke stomped backup the garden path without so much as a backwards glance at either himself or Twinkle.
What on earth had caused her abrupt flight? Had his absence tonight offended her? After all, as host he should be the provider of musical entertainment and scintillating conversation.
She swished through the doors to the stable courtyard as he followed at a fair clip, her cinnamon skirts brushing by Scape the goat as though he wasn’t there.
“All well, my lord.”
“No, Grampy Tom, it is not,” he growled, coming to a halt on the cobbles. “It appears I can say nothing to Mrs Locke without giving offence. She’s as cross as two sticks with me.”
“Well, I tell thee again, ’tis all those florid layers thee put on nowadays.”
Ernest peered down at his natty superfine jacket and striped waistcoat. “This is all the rage in London.”
“Weren’t talking of thee togs.”
The old stable master breathed deep, perused the low-flying crows, peered at the one cloud, scrutinised the sleeping dogs.
Grampy Tom could be rather cryptic on occasion.
“Thee need to listen to I…”
Ernest tarried. He presumed a weather prediction was imminent – perchance a gusting wind that obliged the stable box walls to be further banked up with straw against draughts. Or a storm that required the horses be brought in from the paddock?
One never rushed Grampy Tom.
“Did thee mention Lydia to Mrs Locke?”
Er… “Well, yes. She gave me the bloody run-around last night. And now her sister needs attention.”
Grampy cackled. “Did thee think to mention Lydia were a dray horse?”
Ernest stared. Reprised their conversation.
Then his lips curved.
Tugging each finger in turn, he removed his leather gloves and pushed a calloused hand through his hair.
Oh, Mrs Locke. Entrancing, beguiling, so cautious, so wary, Mrs Locke…
Just wait till they next met.