The reluctant cavalier (21 page)

"He is
not
a simpleton, but the most kind, generous man I've—" Annabella exclaimed hotly.

"Yes, yes, you can stop now," Lord Grafton said. "I don't want a catalogue of his virtues—I see too damned much of him as it is, anyway."

"And as for living under the cat's foot, I wonder that you bothered to comply with your mother's wishes!"

He gave her a cold, sharp look, and when she moved away from him slightly, he smiled. "If you must know," he said genially, "it was because she had brought out her vinaigrette bottle. It is her only weapon, and very effective."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I am surprised you should be so persuaded by it."

Lord Grafton gave her another long look, then turned his attention to the horses. "I suppose I should offer you and Parsifal my felicitations."

A lump formed in Annabella's throat, and she could not say anything or even look at him. Finally, she glanced at him. He was looking at her steadily, disgust clearly on his face.

"Oh, I see it now!" he said. "My stupid brother has not even taken the first step with you, has he? What an idiot! Poor, poor Annabella. Have you been chasing after him all the while, then?" He leered at her and slipped his arm around her waist. "Perhaps I'll try myself, in that case!"

Annabella's hand shot to his face, and she slapped him. Lord Grafton's face grew pale, except for the red spot upon his cheek where she had hit him, and his eyes grew stormy. A tremor of fear passed through her, but she stared at him defiantly. "Don't
ever
touch me again!" she said in a low voice, trembling with anger. "I'd much rather marry the duke than you!"

The black look disappeared from Lord Grafton's face, and a thoughtful one replaced it. "Ahh... so the rumors are true. The Duke of Stratton has asked you to marry him. Well, that's four hundred guineas in my pocket." He smiled cheerfully. "I'd refuse him, though, my dear. You're much better off—and so would the Wentworth coffers be, too, come to think of it—marrying Parsifal."

Annabella looked at him with disgust. "Of course
you
would say that. I'm sure such things have never entered the duke's mind, much less Mr. Wentworth's."

Lord Grafton shot her an undecipherable look. "Don't be so sure. Did you not say yourself that appearances are deceiving?" Before she could ask him what he meant, he reined in the horses. "Hup! Here we are. Go get your gewgaws or ribbons or whatever you came for. I don't like waiting." She gazed at him, about to speak, but he waved at her in an irritated manner. "Go!"

Annabella bought her ribbons and a pair of stockings at the shop, then came out quickly, wishing Lord Grafton was not such an impatient, disagreeable sort, for she wanted to look in more of the shops nearby. But it was past midday, and she was feeling a little hungry, so she supposed it was just as well that they return to Wentworth Abbey. Besides, though the village was small, it was bustling and busy as well. The streets were becoming a little crowded with more carriages, farm carts filled with early vegetables, and village and country folk buying and selling goods.

Lord Grafton only grimaced at Annabella when she and her maid returned, then he blew a kiss to a young country lass who had lingered by the carriage. The young woman blushed and giggled. Annabella rolled her eyes in exasperation. What it was that some women found attractive in Lord Grafton, she did not know.

They started back, this time laboring up an incline, for the village was set in a small valley between two hills. The streets were not wide, but a hole in the traffic developed and Lord Grafton moved his carriage into it so as to pass a dilapidated farm cart just ahead. Annabella looked wistfully at the shops they were passing, but shrugged. She could come here another day, she was sure.

A shout, barking dogs, the neighing of horses, and a curse from Lord Grafton made Annabella jerk up her head. She gasped. The farmer ahead of them was shouting, barely holding on to his rearing horses. One horse bucked, and the sharp crack of snapping wood echoed in the street. The weight of the laden cart strained at the traces—the leather was worn and could easily break.

Annabella sat, for one moment frozen, horrified. If the traces broke, the cart would roll down the hill, into the vil- lage crowd below. She stood up in the carriage, her legs shaking.

"Run! Run!" she screamed. The people below looked up and began to scatter. But one young child still stood in the street, staring wide-eyed, clearly paralyzed in fear. Annabella heard the snap of broken traces and jumped from the carriage. She fell and got upon her feet again, running for the child. Oh, heavens, the cart was beginning to roll. But the child! It was not far; surely she could seize the girl and run before it reached her.

Her arms came around the girl, and Annabella fell, pushing the child against a shop wall. She shot a terrified glance at the cart.

Miraculously, it had stopped.

A man had his neck and shoulder bent against the back of the cart, and his calf and thigh bulged as he strained against it. His feet were slipping against the cobblestones however, and she could see the cart slowly shoving him down the hill as well. She pushed herself up on her feet and ran to him.

"Help him, someone!" she cried, put her hands beside his on the cart, and pushed. The man turned his head, giving her a brief, strained smile, and she almost faltered. It was Parsifal.

"Unload the cart," he gasped.

Quickly, she dragged a heavy bag from the cart and let it fall to the ground. The cart continued slowly down the hill. She glanced swiftly about her. Where was Lord Grafton? She spied him running toward her, black anger on his face.

"The bags!" she called to him. "Get them out! Parsifal is holding the cart!"

The earl uttered a foul curse and began pulling off the bags. More hands came to help, and the cart finally stopped. Someone pulled it off to the side.

Annabella's dress was filthy and torn, but she did not care. She looked about for Parsifal, but she could not find him. It was as if he had disappeared, ghostlike, into the crowd. She grew conscious of an odd, niggling feeling, as if there was something she forgot, but it faded, and she shook her head.

"Damn!"

Annabella turned to look at Lord Grafton, who was examining his index finger. He glanced at her, and she raised an eyebrow at him in question.

"Got a splinter in my finger, just where I hold the reins. It'll ruin my concentration when I drive the carriage," he explained.

She gazed at him a few moments in astonishment, then found her voice at last. "You are fussing about a splinter in your finger when Parsifal—indeed the villagers—" She closed her mouth, staring at the discontented look on his face, then snapped, "And where were you when Parsifal was holding up the cart?"

Lord Grafton looked affronted. "My brother is fully capable of doing the job without my help—strong as an ox, for all his annoying virtues. I tried to catch the rascally farmer who ran away from his cart—that's what I was doing! Damned smokey if you ask me, him running off like that. You'd think that—Hallo! What's this?"

He had been leaning against the cart and bent to pick up a long piece of wood with a leather strap still threaded through a loop. Annabella watched him turn it over in his hands. He looked at her, his mouth grim.

"It's from the cart. It's been half sawn, and the traces cut." He smiled at her, a strange excitement in his eyes. "I do think, my dear Miss Smith, that someone caused the cart to break on purpose. I wonder who the farmer—or whoever was behind this—wanted to kill?"

Only a handful of guests had lingered for the week after the ball, and for that Parsifal was grateful. The ensuing scandal upon the discovery of Sir Quentin's body in his garden was bad enough without having to keep a large number of people at his estate, who were too eager to leave upon hearing the news. As it was, Lord Laughton kept his investigation brief and to the point, offending many, but at least allowing the rest of the guests to leave the house quickly afterward.

Except, of course, for Annabella and her mother. Lady Smith was still not well, for a second examination by Doctor Robinson showed that she had indeed broken her ankle, and her dizziness was only a little improved. It would do little good if they returned to their home either, for Sir Robert Smith had been called to France, and they would be wholly unprotected.

Not, of course, that they were out of danger here, Parsifal thought. He clipped off a rosebud that seemed a little bug-eaten and gazed around his garden. Even he did not feel safe in his garden anymore. The body of Sir Quentin had been removed, the gravel path raked so that all signs of disturbance had disappeared, and all had been put in order again. But it was not the same. It had been
his
place, his solace when he wished to be away from his family or whatever unpleasantness might come his way. Now the outside world had intruded into his sanctuary, and violently, at that.

Anger welled up within him, and he threw down the garden scissors. He could not stop thinking of it as long as he stayed here. He left the garden and strode to the stables. He wanted to be alone, away from the memories of the speculative glances he received from each of the guests as they left. He was an eccentric, reclusive, and it was his garden. How could anyone—including Annabella and certainly Lady Smith—not make the obvious conclusion, that he was somehow involved in Sir Quentin's death?

He would ride the bay horse to the woods, the only place where he knew he would be alone, where nothing would intrude on his peace. Parsifal led out the horse, not bothering to saddle him, leaped upon his back, and dug in his heels. The bay shot from the stable yard at a gallop, and Parsifal smiled at last. The power of the horse beneath him, the thunder of hooves below, beat down the despair and the anger once again. By the time he reached the woods, thoughts of hurt and memories of the garden would be behind him, and he could be calm again, alone at last.

Annabella almost did not recognize Parsifal as he strode past her, unseeing, into the stables. She had changed into her riding dress, having ordered a horse be made ready for a ride about the estate. Parsifal's expression had been so dark with anger and despair—feelings she had never seen in him—his face so stiff and hard. She hurried to the stables after him, but he was already off in the direction of the woods.

She knew what it was that angered him, she was sure. She had seen the half-fearful, speculative looks both Parsifal and Lord Grafton had received as their guests said their farewells—especially the ones Parsifal received. Lady Grafton had retired with her vinaigrette to her room, Caroline was more intrigued and agog with curiosity about the incident than worried about her own or her family's reputation, and Lord Grafton had merely smiled in a fierce way, almost seeming to enjoy the speculation and possible notoriety. But it was not they who had found Sir Quentin's body, after all, or who received most of the looks.

Parsifal had seemed unmoved as well, his expression aloof and cool as he said his farewells. But she could see the misery and the clear wish in his eyes that he were not there. It hurt her to see it, and she had wanted to go to him,and snap at the guests who had given her pitying glances. That she continued to stay at Wentworth Abbey, even with the excuse of her mother's illness, clearly put a tarnish to her own reputation. She did not care.

She allowed the groom to lift her into her saddle, but when he went to select a horse upon which to follow her, she held up her hand.

"There is no need to accompany me. Mr. Wentworth has gone out upon his horse also, and I will be with him."

"But—but Master Parsifal said you were to be accompanied," the groom sputtered.

"And I shall be, by Mr. Wentworth himself." She gathered up her reins and gave the groom a nod and a smile. "Good day to you."

She rode off at a gallop, ignoring the groom's further protests, and hoping to catch up with Parsifal. He had not looked at her in the Great Hall as the guests gave their leave, and she wanted him to know she did not think as they did. She could not bear it if he thought she was like the others.

The trees were thick and the light dim within the woods, and she slowed her mare as she came to it. Annabella could not help feeling a little fear at the idea of entering the woods—she had never been in it, even on her father's side of the property. But the path was clear and wide, and the tracks of horse's hooves were fresh. They were certainly those of Parsifal's stallion, for she had seen him ride this way, and no one else. Her hands closed tightly on the reins. She knew now her impulsive ride after Parsifal was a foolish thing, for Sir Quentin's killer was still at bay. Though Lord Laughton believed the murder had occurred at night right after the masquerade ball, it was no guarantee the killer would not strike during the day.

If she hesitated longer, she would lose Parsifal, she was sure. Annabella urged her horse forward. The dimness grew as she entered the woods so that sometimes the tracks of his horse were obscured at times, and she grew a little more frightened. She pressed on, following the path, nevertheless.

A high, sweet melody came to her then, and at first she almost thought it was bird song. But no, it went on, a light tune she recognized, one she had danced to at the masquerade ball with the Cavalier. Her heart beat faster. Perhaps ... no, it was a silly thought. The Cavalier would not be here; he appeared only close to the house, and at masquerades. No doubt it was Parsifal, though she had never heard he played any musical instrument.

The music brought a smile to her lips, for she could not help remembering the wreck the Cavalier had made of the dance. She looked at the trees around her, and the woods did not look so dark now, with the branches arching above like the beams of a cathedral, and the leaves like stained glass against the sky's blue.

Suddenly, there was light. The woods opened to a clearing, a small meadow, with an enormous ancient oak to one side. She did not see him immediately, for there was only the bay stallion beneath the tree. But the music called to her, and she looked up, and there was Parsifal sitting on one large branch of the oak, playing a pennywhistle. He reclined against the trunk of the tree, wearing only his shirt and trousers, his eyes closed in concentration.