path.
She turned her horse to more completely block the way, which was bloody stupid when she was on a mare and Percival was on a frisky young stallion. “Oh come now, Percy! Can’t you greet an old friend? And, Tony, you never used to be unfriendly.”
Percival had the odd thought that even Cecily O’Donnell would not have approached him had he been with his lady wife. Would to God that he were.
“Madam, good day.” He did not so much as touch his hat brim.
“Tony, you’ll run along now. Dear Percy and I have things to discuss in private.”
She’d drenched herself in some musky, sweet scent redolent of patchouli, and she used singsong tones another, much younger and sillier man might have taken for flirtation.
Tony, bless him, stayed right where he was and uttered not a word of greeting.
Percival let Comet toss his head restively. “I have nothing to discuss with you, madam. Unless you want to provoke my stallion to an unseemly display, you’ll move aside.”
Though in truth, it was the mare who might deliver a stout kick to the stallion if she were crowded.
“You are in error, dear man, and I am partly responsible. My apologies.” The devil himself could not have offered less sincere regrets to St. Peter.
Percival shot a look at his brother. Tony would ride around and haul the woman’s horse off the path by the bridle at the first indication from Percival, but then, the damned female would only pop out from behind another bush at some more public moment.
“Anthony, if you would oblige the… woman.” For she wasn’t a lady.
Without acknowledging Mrs. O’Donnell in any way, Tony steered his gelding back a few yards on the path. A little privacy, no more, which was exactly what Percival intended.
“What can you possibly have to discuss with me, ma’am? When you threw me over for some admiral five years ago, I withdrew from the field without protest. I am happily married”—he
And yet… the morning sun was not kind to a woman who’d been plying a strumpet’s trade practically since girlhood. Kathleen St. Just had looked tired, sad, and worried, while Cecily O’Donnell appeared as brittle and cold as the ice on the nearby water. Her hair, once her crowning glory, looked as if it had been dulled by regular applications of henna, and her skin, once toasted as flawless, looked sallow.
Pity was a damned nuisance when coupled with a man’s regrets.
Percival waited until Cecily had turned her horse then allowed Comet to walk forward. “What do you want?”
“I’m a reasonable woman, Percy. What I want is reasonable too.”
Part of what she wanted was dramatics. This aspect of her personality was one reason ending their casual association had been such a relief.
“You’d best spit it out. Both my father and brother are ailing. I may well be leaving for Morelands this afternoon.”
“I know.”
She let the echo of that broadside fade. She’d been spying on him, or at least keeping up with gossip. Neither was encouraging.
“Anybody who’s been to the theater would know. Get to the point.”
“I’ve missed you, Percy.”
Oh, for the love of God. “I cannot find that notion flattering—or sincere. If that’s all you had to say, I’ll just be going.” Comet, ever a sensitive lad, began to pull on the reins. Percival smoothed a hand down the stallion’s crest.
“Damn you,” she hissed. “I might have been amicable, but you’re determined on your arrogance. You are the Moreland spare, and if you don’t want scandal the like of which will disgrace your family and destroy your welcome in polite circles, you’ll attend me at my home tomorrow promptly at ten of the clock.”
Having made her threat, she whacked the mare stoutly with her whip and cantered off in high dudgeon, while Percival reined in and waited for Tony to catch up.
“So?” Tony asked.
“I am to attend her tomorrow morning at ten of the clock.” Late enough that any guest from the previous evening would be gone, early enough that decent folk would not yet be calling on one another.
“I can’t like it, Perce. She’s a trollop in a way that has nothing to do with trading her favors for coin.”
“I loathe it, but I’ll go. She’s plotting something, probably some form of blackmail. The woman has not aged well.”
“Will I go with you?”
“You’ll go back to Morelands.” Leaving Percival’s flank unprotected but guarding the home front.
“Did you breed Comet overmuch this autumn?”
Percival stared at his brother. “I did not. Why?”
“He hardly noticed there was a female present, not in the sense a swain notices a damsel.”
“Neither did I.” Which, thank a merciful deity, was nothing less than the complete truth.
“Did you enjoy your meal, Esther?”
Esther paused in setting up the white pieces on the chessboard—Percival insisted she have the opening advantage—and regarded her husband. “We’re having rather a lot of beef lately. Cook must have misplaced the menus I gave her.”
Percival regarded one of her exquisitely carved ivory knights then passed it across to her. “Perhaps Cook is trying to turn the butcher’s boy up sweet. The shires can do with one or two fewer cows.”
Several fewer cows. Percival had taken to passing her at least half his beefsteak at breakfast with a muttered, “Finish it for me? Mustn’t let good food go to waste.”
A kiss to her cheek, and he’d be off for his morning hack or to a levee or one of his “never-ending, blighted, bedamned committee meetings.”
In moments, they had the pieces arranged on the chessboard between them. Percival sat back and passed her his brandy. “A toast to a well-fought match.”
He was up to something—still, yet, again. Esther took a sip and passed the drink back. “To a well-fought match.”
She regarded the board with a relish she hadn’t felt since… “Percival, when was the last time we played chess?”
His frown probably matched her own. “Not since… you were carrying Victor? Or was it Gayle?”
They measured their lives in pregnancies and births, which had an intimacy to it. “Gayle. We played a lot of chess when I carried Gayle. You said the child would be professorial as a result, and he is.”
“Then perhaps we should get into the habit of laughing, in the event you’re carrying again. A merry little girl would liven up Morelands considerably.”
How was a woman to concentrate on chess when her husband came out with such observations? Did he want to try for a daughter, or was he saying Morelands lacked cheerful females?
“My love, I am atremble in anticipation of your opening salvo.”
Teasing, then. She was inclined to give as good as she got. “You should be atremble to contemplate your sons as grown men. If the mother’s behavior in gestation influences the child’s disposition, we’re likely to see a number of grandchildren at an early age.”
Percival’s smile was sweet and naughty. “I suppose we are at that.”
Esther opened with a feint toward the King’s Gambit, but whatever was distracting her husband of late, he was not completely oblivious to the pieces in play. She settled into a thoughtful game, sensing after about two dozen moves that Percival’s lack of focus would cost him the game.
“Percival, you are not putting up enough of a fight.” And the chessboard was practically the only place Esther could challenge him and enjoy it.
“I do apologize. More brandy?” He held up his drink, which he’d replenished at some point.
“A sip. Maybe you are trying to addle my wits.”
“Spirits fortify the blood. It’s
