better, but I disliked to wake a servant for it. I rose, shrugged on my frock coat, and let myself out.
I hobbled along the path that led from the house, drinking in the welcome chill of morning. I speculated upon whether Lady Breckenridge had gone back to her own bed or still slept in mine.
I wondered suddenly what Louisa Brandon would make of all this nonsense. I realized I missed her deeply. She would have found some joke or quip to steady me and we would have laughed together. Also, I could have told her everything, all my fears and frustrations. She would have lent me some hint or suggestion of how I could proceed. She had helped me in the past and I longed for her help now.
I found myself turning toward the stables. Stables had a comforting smell about them, horses and leather and grain and dust. I had never realized how much a part of my life horses had been until I'd given up the cavalry and could no longer afford to keep a horse of my own.
A ride would soothe me, I decided, more than a walk. I let myself into the stables. Quietly, so as not to disturb the lads sleeping above, I chose a steady-looking bay gelding and in a trice had the horse bridled and saddled.
I did have the devil of a time making the horse stand still next to the mounting block. My injury made it impossible for me to climb onto a horse from the ground. A legup was best, but a mounting block or a box helped much-from there, I could simply swing my right leg over and quickly transfer my weight to the saddle.
The horse proved immune to my bad language, but at last, I got mounted and rode quietly out of the yard.
Once on horseback, my lameness mattered little, and I could ride with only small discomfort. Within a matter of minutes, I was moving at an easy trot toward the paths in the woods.
I had been right; the ride did soothe me. I put Breckenridge and Eggleston and their odd wives behind me, and simply enjoyed a gallop over the downs. I thought of nothing but the horse moving beneath me, of my shifting balance, and the feel of the horse's mouth through the reins.
After some time of this, I felt much better. I slowed the horse and turned him back for the house, letting him breathe while I ordered my thoughts.
Eggleston and Breckenridge were proving difficult to question. I would have to pin them down or abandon the attempt. I wanted to talk again with Lydia Westin. She must know some reason why Eggleston and Breckenridge would blackmail her husband into taking the blame for Captain Spencer's death at Badajoz.
Truth to tell, I simply wanted to see her again. I wanted her to look upon me and thank me for helping her.
I sighed. I had a long way to go before she would thank me for anything.
The curious prickling between my shoulder blades suddenly returned, just as it had at the wayside inn, just as it had in the gardens the night we'd arrived. Someone followed me, someone who lingered in the trees in the bend of the road. I could taste it in the air, breathe it in the scent of dewy grass.
I abruptly wheeled the horse and plunged back the way I'd come. Startled doves fluttered from the underbrush and a rabbit dashed away across the field. Nothing else moved.
I slowed the horse and peered among the trees. The damp brown and green of the woods showed no signs of human life, and I heard nothing but early birds in song. I hesitated for a long time, disquiet settling upon me. I knew someone followed me, someone who knew how to mask their footsteps and hide themselves with skill.
I looked for a long time, holding the horse still, but I saw no one. At last, I turned the horse again and rode back to the house, looking about me, unnerved.
The stable lads were still not stirring when I entered the yard, so I removed the saddle and bridle myself and led the horse back into his box. I was too conscientious to leave the horse without rubbing him down, so I did this quickly, with a curry comb and brush I found in the tack room. The saddle and bridle, on the other hand, I left for the stable lads to clean.
Despite the unknown person tracking me, the ride had settled my nerves somewhat. I entered the house through the garden door I'd left unlocked and trudged back upstairs. I paused at my bedchamber door then bravely opened it.
To my immense relief, the room was empty. I closed the door and locked it behind me. Tired now with my short night and long ride, I removed my boots and lay down on the bed.
I felt blissfully drowsy. The ride, the port and brandy I'd imbibed the night before, and the horse care combined to send me to sleep in a trice.
So hard I slept that I did not awaken until nearly ten, which, as it turned out, proved to be most unfortunate.
Once awake, I performed my usual ablutions-washed, shaved, cleaned my teeth with tooth powder, and combed my hair. I donned my regimentals, since I seemed to have left my coat in the stables. I had a vague memory of sliding it from my shoulders as I rubbed down the horse in the morning heat.
I made my way down to the dining room, hoping to scare up a servant to bring me a large feast for breakfast. And coffee. Plenty of coffee.
When I reached the dining room, I heard raised voices on the other side of the door. One was Grenville's. Odd, because he prided himself on never shouting or losing his sangfroid in public.
The other voice was…
My eyes widened in astonishment and I opened the door.
'How the hell should I know?' Grenville was saying. 'You and your wife are the closest thing…' He broke off and swung around as I entered.
The man facing him was Colonel Brandon. When Brandon saw me, his expression performed a powerful transformation from astonishment to relief to disappointed dismay.
I had witnessed the identical transformation one day a few years ago when I'd returned from a mission he'd sent me on. I had been dragged, half-dead, back to camp on a makeshift litter, and when Brandon had first seen me, he'd assumed me dead. His face had betrayed triumph, guilt, remorse, and behind that, glee. And then when I'd opened my mouth and called him a bastard, his look had changed to one of horror. He had wanted me dead, and against all odds, I lived.
His look now was little different. This morning, Brandon had once again thought, for some reason, that I was permanently out of his life.
Grenville, on the other hand, gaped at me, white-faced. 'Lacey! Good God.'
'What the devil is the matter?' I snapped. My headache had returned.
Grenville took two strides to me, relief lighting his eyes. He clapped both hands to my shoulders, and for a moment, I thought he would embrace me.
I frowned at him. 'Tell me what has happened.'
His fingers clenched my shoulders, hard, once, then he stepped back, his Adam's apple moving. 'We thought you had gone and died, my friend,' he said lightly. 'I knew it had to be a mistake.'
I looked from one man to the other. 'Died?'
Grenville turned and strolled to the decanter on the sideboard. His hands were shaking. 'Brandon here rushed in and told me he'd found you dead in the woods. Frightened me half to death.'
My gaze switched to Brandon. His face suffused with blood. 'I thought it was you,' he said. 'He was dressed in that brown coat of yours, or so I thought. He was facedown in the brush, and obviously dead. Hair the same color as yours, too.' He glared at my head as if it were to blame for this deception.
'Did it not occur to you to roll the poor man over and discover who he was?' I demanded.
Brandon looked peevish. 'He is down the side of a hill. I could not get to him through the mud and the saplings without help. Looks as though he was thrown from his horse and slid there. And a stable lad told me he'd seen you go riding in the wee hours of the morning. Sounded like a damn fool thing you would do.'
'I did go,' I answered. 'But I returned. I even rubbed down the horse and left the furniture in the middle of the tack room. Did they not reason I'd returned?'
Grenville broke in. 'Apparently not. Colonel Brandon came to rouse the house. And found only me. No one else is stirring.'
Brandon sneered. 'At ten o'clock on a fine summer's day. I do not think much of your friends, Mr. Grenville.'
Grenville held up his hand. 'They are not my friends. Believe that.' He drank down a measure of brandy and
