Sattler, Veronica (25 page)

But,
of course, fleeing was not possible, and so she merely drew to a halt before
the two, bent her knee in a brief curtsy and softly murmured, "You wished
to speak with me, Lady Margaret?"

"Actually,
no," Lady Margaret replied abruptly.

Ashleigh's
downcast eyes, which had been studying the carpet patterns in her nervousness,
flew upward to meet the old woman's. "I—I beg your pardon, my lady?"
she asked with some surprise.

Lady
Margaret's pale lips curved into a line that was more a sneer than a smile.
"My intent," she intoned loftily, "from the moment you first set
foot in this house, Miss Sinclair, has been never to exchange more words with
you than I absolutely must... or none, actually, if I were to have my way. But
my godchild here, Lady Elizabeth Hastings, persuaded me to arrange a meeting. I
believe I explained as much in my little missive earlier." Ignoring
Ashleigh's disbelieving gasp, she turned to Elizabeth. "Well, pet, what do
you think?"

Elizabeth
Hastings had been carefully scrutinizing Ashleigh from the moment she entered the
drawing room, and she was far from happy with what she saw. Instead of some
overdone, cheaply dressed little tart, the young woman who stood before her was
a raving, elegantly accoutered beauty! She'd instantly recognized the stamp of
Madame Gautier's handiwork in the graceful design of the yellow day gown. That
miserable wretch, Brett, had obviously seen to the chit's wardrobe! And the
eye-catching loveliness of the girl was almost more than she could bear! This
was no worn-out trollop fetched from some back-street brothel. Anyone could see
the creature radiated freshness and, yes, innocence from every pore. Those
shiny raven tresses played spellbinding counterpoint to the delicate
peaches-and-cream expanse of her flawless skin; that perfect, straight little
nose was just the nose
she'd
always coveted; and those
eyes!
Their
deep blue depths put all Elizabeth's sapphires to shame!

As
she continued to eye Ashleigh's face with its fragile, elfin beauty, a
deep-seated pool of jealousy began to bubble and seethe within Elizabeth; as
she glanced at Ashleigh's petite, perfectly proportioned body with its
generously swelling breasts and long, lissome limbs, a cancerous envy filled
her being; as she beheld the sweet openness of Ashleigh's expression, she knew
she hated her and would not rest until the little bitch was out of her life—
and
Brett's
—forever.

Tearing
her eyes away from Ashleigh, she turned to Lady Margaret. "How much of a
wardrobe has he bought her?"

Margaret
shrugged. "There were several trunks with her when she arrived, and she
had almost nothing during her first stay."

"Just
as I thought," Elizabeth seethed, "and Madame Gautier does not come
cheap!"

"No,"
Margaret replied, "but I suggest you cease troubling yourself on that
account, pet. His Grace can easily afford it. It is the girl's presence here
that we are about. How are we to deal with it?"

Ashleigh
stood in stunned silence as she listened to their exchange. They were
discussing her like... like some object—a stick of furniture or the like! It
was as if she weren't even present in the room! Why, they hadn't even asked her
to sit down, but instead, kept her standing here before them while they
scrutinized every inch of her and picked her apart with their eyes! Was this
what fine ladies of the English aristocracy were all about? If so, she was glad
she'd lost her title and its so-called advantages years ago. Oh, dear God! What
was she to do?

"I
never actually thought Brett favored brunettes," Elizabeth was saying,
"and she seems a bit small for his tastes, don't you think?"

Margaret
smiled thinly and arched one white eyebrow. "Surely, my dear, you know of
his rakish reputation by now! Tall or short, blond or brunette, young or
not-so-young, His Grace has had them all, and quite indiscriminately, I'm told.
Only his grandfather failed to learn of my grandnephew's reputation with women,
and sometimes now I wonder if it wasn't a mistake on my part, not to correct
his ignorance." She shrugged. "Of course, in recent years his health
was failing, and the physicians warned that any great shock—well, that's water
beneath the bridge. Tell me, have you seen enough? Shall I dismiss her?"

Ashleigh
wanted to scream. She'd never encountered such base rudeness in all her life!
Even at Hampton House, where there was jealousy and competition aplenty, the
rivalries had been forthright and fairly open. Why, even Monica had addressed
her as a
person!
But
this!
This was a cold and brutal cruelty,
calculated, she was sure, to put her in her place— which was nowhere, but
certainly out of this house, if these two women had anything to say about it!

"There's
just one little thing..." Elizabeth was saying. She leaned forward in her
chair and reached for the skirt of Ashleigh's gown. "Hmm, the sprigged
muslin is of a superior quality, but there's something about the way the skirt
hangs that isn't—" she was fingering the gown's material now, as Ashleigh
watched in silent apprehension "—quite as it should be," Elizabeth
continued. "Perhaps...
there!"
With a jerk of her wrist, she
yanked at a fold in Ashleigh's skirt and a sharp ripping sound cut the air.

Horrified,
Ashleigh looked down to see half of the front skirt of the lovely yellow gown
torn from its high waistline and sagging to the carpet. Instantly she looked up
and met the snidely smiling, cold-eyed visage of Elizabeth Hastings. The look
in the silvery eyes was pure hatred.

"Ah,
well, what a pity," Margaret said. "It was such a lovely gown.
Perhaps you can have your, ah, abigail repair it. Good day, Miss
Sinclair."

Hot
tears stung Ashleigh's eyes as she gazed for a moment in stunned horror at the
two women before her. Then, a sob tearing at her throat, she picked up the
damaged folds of her skirt, whirled and ran from the room.

Brett
relaxed in his saddle, allowing Raven to find his own way on the path that
followed the lake along the western edge of Ravensford Hall's vast acreage. It
wasn't the most direct route back to the Hall, but the midsummer air was cooler
here in the afternoons, and the lake a lovely, refreshing sight. It was
especially reviving to one who'd had a surfeit of the hot, stifling air of
London's drawing rooms and the humid confines of its paved streets and narrow
alleyways.

A
frown of annoyance creased Brett's brow as he thought of the difficulty he'd
had getting away this visit. After all, it was the height of the warm season
when most of London's inhabitants with the ability to do so headed out of the
city to their country estates or to resorts such as Bath, or Brighton, by the
seaside. Brett smiled to himself, thinking of Brighton, for it had been the
lure of that favored pleasure resort of the prince regent that had at last
freed him from the relentless rounds of meetings at Carlton House and Whitehall
during the past several weeks. Count on the attraction of luxury to lure Prinny
away from the boring demands of rulership!

The
frown settled back in place as Brett reviewed the reasons the prince and his
ministers had been reluctant to allow him to return to Kent. He could be more
forgiving if the endless meetings and conferences had demanded the type of
national security work he'd been involved with in recent years. But what was it
that had all the government agencies and most of the peerage jumping and
feverishly bustling about? A major treaty? No. A battle campaign? Hardly, for
the fighting in Europe was over. No, it was the unbelievably frivolous business
of a round of celebrations to honor the national and international heroes of
the victory over Bonaparte. There had been party after party, ball after ball,
speeches, fireworks, parades and banquets, and Brett's presence had been
required at all of them. Damn, he swore to himself, it would be a cold day in
hell before he welcomed the sight of cheering crowds again, no matter how
bloody patriotic the occasion!

A
smile found its way across his face again as he pictured poor von Blücher at a
recent celebration; he had little doubt that the Prussian field marshal who was
one of the Allies' foremost heroes had suffered the recent round of toasting and
speechmaking with as little enthusiasm as he. It was a shame that the world
couldn't allow military men to remain where they were largely most
comfortable—with their men. But of course, he mused, the populace must welcome
its heroes, and perhaps it was just as well; for most Englishmen at home, as
well as the civilians in the allied countries of Europe, the conflict had been
going on for so long, they needed to cheer and touch the hems of the returning
victors to feel it had at last come to an end and peace was truly here....

At
least, he
hoped
it was here.... Brett's thoughts turned momentarily dark
as he contemplated the likelihood of a comeback by Napoleon. A lot depended on
the stability of the new French government that was in the throes of being formed,
on whether de Talleyrand could marshall the necessary strength to support the
Bourbons and—

Raven
nickered, drawing Brett's attention away from such pessimistic musings; looking
up, his gaze swept the placid surface of the lake, but could detect little to
draw the stallion's attention. But for his grandfather's beloved swans serenely
skimming its waters, all seemed quiet and devoid of movement.

Then,
off to his left, he heard an answering nicker; it appeared to come from the
area beyond a small copse of trees that abutted the path. He knew a wide meadow
lay in that direction, just out of sight from where he rode. Curious, he turned
Raven's head toward the trees and began to thread his way through them.

Ashleigh
had been working with the filly she now knew as Irish Night since midday, and
she'd begun to despair of ever making any headway with her plan. The problem
was the little horse's skittishness, and in particular, the way it had become
an obstacle when it came to taking her over fences.

When
Megan had implored Old Henry, as Mr. Busby was now known to them, to allow
Ashleigh to ride Irish Night while at Ravensford Hall, the head groom had
insisted he could not allow it until the filly was better schooled. Instead,
he'd assigned Ashleigh a placid gelding by the name of Major who was safe
enough for a baby to ride and ever so dull. But Megan had not allowed the
matter to rest there. Pleading and cajoling, begging and wheedling, she'd at
last gained Old Henry's consent to allow Ashleigh a few hours a day to work
with the filly to try to correct her bad habits, providing Ashleigh promised to
adhere to some very exacting safety standards the old man set forth.

The
most vexing of these was that she
never mount
Irish Night for the
training; all effort must be accomplished with Ashleigh on foot and the filly
at the other end of a lunge line, as the long training tether was called.

Now,
as she eyed the uprooted tree two of the grooms had located and set up for her
in the meadow as a jumping barrier, Ashleigh heaved a sigh of disgust. She'd
coaxed Irish Night over the barrier several dozen times this afternoon without
any problems—as long as the scene remained tranquil and serene, with nothing
interfering to alarm the little black. But during the intervening attempts
when, at a signal from Ashleigh, Finn had darted out from a nearby clump of
wildflowers, barking, the filly had consistently shied and refused the hurdle.
The same was true when Ashleigh herself issued disturbance from her end of the
lunge line, accomplished by banging together a pair of tin pie pans she'd
"borrowed" from the kitchens, pierced with a nail and tied to her
waist with a bit of string.

"All
right, Finn," she called, "back to your post. We'll try it
again." Ashleigh watched as the big dog happily padded over to the gently
waving clump of tall daisies and lay down behind them. To Finn this was all
some kind of exciting game, and he eagerly pursued it, no matter how often the
repetitions. As Ashleigh faced the filly, out of the corner of her eye she
caught a flash of pink and knew that Lady Dimples had ceased her investigation
of a rabbit hole and was falling in beside Finn. Ashleigh grinned. The two
animals were inseparable, and even during the tedious horse training, the pert
little piglet had been stoutly behind the wolfhound on every venture. It hadn't
taken the pig long to learn the routine; she only wished Irish Night were
schooled as quickly!

"Very
well, Irish," she said to the filly. "Here we go!" Ashleigh gave
a small yank on the lunge line and began to run toward the barrier.
Understanding this much of what she was supposed to do, the filly pricked her
ears forward and began to move, parallel with Ashleigh. Ashleigh kept her eye
on the horse, and when she saw Irish Night's muscles begin to bunch to take the
hurdle, she waved her free arm at Finn.

The
big dog pounced from the flowery thicket with an excited bark, Lady Dimples
squealing behind him, and at the same moment, the filly, her eyes rolling in
fright, swerved to her left and avoided the jump.

Ashleigh
groaned. Even the penetrating squeals of Lady Dimples sounded humdrum to her
ears by now; why couldn't that skittish filly learn to ignore them? And if she
still shied at familiar disruptions, what would she do at
un
familiar
ones? Of course, she smiled to herself, she doubted that Irish Night would ever
be likely to run into something as noisy and distracting as a giant barking dog
followed by a squealing pig!