had made him hesitate-on the brink, as it were.
Now he knew.
Emotions such as he had felt yesterday were dangerous.
They boded fair to being strong enough to overset his reason and control his life.
Love, he was fast coming to understand, was a force to be reckoned with.
A knock on the front door interrupted his reverie. Glancing out of the window, he saw his undergroom leading a handsome bay around to the stables. The sight piqued Jack’s interest.
A scrape on the parlour door heralded his housekeeper. “Mr. Horatio Webb to see you, sir.”
Intrigued, Jack lifted a brow. “Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell. I’ll receive him here.”
A moment later, Horatio Webb was shown into the room. As his calm gaze swept the comfortable parlour, warm and inviting with its wealth of oak panelling and the numerous sporting prints gracing the walls, a smile of ineffable good humour creased Horatio’s face. Rawling’s Cottage was much as he remembered it-a sprawling conglomeration of buildings that, despite its name, constituted a good-sized hunting lodge with considerable stabling and more than enough accommodation for guests. Approaching his host, waiting by the fireplace, he was pleased to note that Jack Lester was much as he had imagined him to be.
“Mr. Webb?” Jack held out a hand as the older man drew near.
“Mr. Lester.” Horatio took the proffered hand in a strong clasp. “I’m here, sir, to extend my thanks, and that of Mrs. Webb, for the sterling service you rendered in averting misadventure yesterday afternoon.”
“It was nothing, I assure you, sir. I was there and merely did what any other gentleman, similarly circumstanced, would have done.”
Horatio’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I make no doubt any other gentleman would have
Jack felt himself falling under the spell of the peculiarly engaging light in his visitor’s eye. His lips twitched appreciatively. “A glass of Madeira, sir?” When Horatio inclined his head, Jack crossed to pour two glasses, then returned, handing one to his guest. “Phoenix is, perhaps, one of the few horses that could have caught your Sheik. I’m just dev’lish glad I was on him.”
With a wave, he invited Sophie’s uncle to a chair, waiting until the older man sat before taking a seat facing him.
With the contemplative air of a connoisseur, Horatio sipped the Madeira, savouring the fine wine. Then he brought his grey gaze to bear on Jack. “Seriously, Mr. Lester, I do, as you must understand, value your intervention of yesterday. If it weren’t for the fact we’ll be shortly removing to town, I’d insist you honour us for dinner one night.” His words came easily, his eyes, calmly perceptive, never leaving Jack’s face. “However, as such is the case, and we will depart on Friday, Mrs. Webb has charged me to convey to you her earnest entreaty that you’ll call on us once we’re established in Mount Street. Number eighteen. Naturally, I add my entreaty to hers. I take it you’ll be removing to the capital shortly?”
Jack nodded, discarding the notion of urging Sophie’s uncle to forbid her his more dangerous steeds. The shock she had so recently received should, with luck, suffice to keep her from the backs of murderous stallions, at least until the end of the week. “I intend quitting Melton any day, as it happens. However, as I must break my journey in Berkshire, I don’t expect to reach the metropolis much in advance of your party.”
Horatio nodded approvingly. “Please convey my greetings to your father. We were once, if not close friends, then certainly good acquaintances.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “You’re
“Ah, yes.” Horatio smiled serenely. “My one vice, as it were. But I think you share it, too?”
Jack returned the smile. “I certainly enjoy the sport, but I feel my interest does not reach the obsessive heights of my father’s.”
“Naturally,” Horatio acceded. “You younger men have other obsessions to compete with the Quorn, the Cottesmore and the Belvoir. But the Lester stud is still one of the best in the land, is it not?”
“Under my brother Harry’s management,” Jack replied. “Our kennels still produce some of the strongest runners, too.”
While their conversation drifted into a discussion of the latest trends in breeding both hunters and hounds, Jack sized up Sophie’s uncle. Horatio Webb, while younger than his own father, had been a long-time acquaintance of the Honorable Archibald Lester. More specifically, it had been he who had dropped that quiet word in his father’s ear which had ultimately led to the resurrection of the family fortunes.
Taking advantage of a natural lull in the conversation, Jack said, “Incidentally, I must make you all our thanks for your timely advice in the matter of the Indies Corporation.”
Horatio waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it. What friends are for, after all.” Before Jack could respond with a further expression of gratitude, Horatio murmured, “Besides, you’ve cleaned the slate. I assure you I would not have liked to have had to face my brother-in-law, eccentric though he is, with the news that his Sophie had broken her neck on one of my stallions. As far as I can see, the scales between the Webbs and the Lesters are entirely level.”
Just for an instant, Jack glimpsed the reality behind Horatio Webb’s mask. Understanding, then, that this visit had many purposes, perhaps even more than he had yet divined, Jack could do no more than graciously accept the older man’s edict. “I’m pleased to have been able to be of service, sir.”
Horatio smiled his deceptive smile and rose. “And now I must be off.” He waited while Jack rang and gave orders for his horse to be brought round, then shook hands with his host. His eyes roving the room once more, he added, “It’s nice to see this place kept up. It’s been in your family for some time, has it not?”
Escorting Sophie’s amazing uncle to the door, Jack nodded. “Five generations. All the Lester men have been bred to hunting.”
“As it should be,” Horatio said, and meant far more than the obvious. “Don’t forget,” he added, as he swung up to the back of his bay. “We’ll look to see you in London.”
Horatio nodded a last farewell and turned his horse’s head for home. As he urged the bay to a canter, a subtle smile curved his lips. He was well pleased with what he had found at Rawling’s Cottage. Aside from all else, the Lesters were obviously planning on remaining a part of the landscape, here as much as in Berkshire.
Lucilla would be pleased.
BY THE TIME she returned from their ride, Sophie had a headache. As she was not normally prey to even such minor ailments, she felt the constraint deeply. As she preceded Clarissa into the back parlour, she massaged her temples in an effort to ease the throbbing ache behind them.
It was, of course, all Jack Lester’s fault. If she hadn’t spent half her time worrying about how she would respond if he joined them, and the other half scanning the horizon for his broad-shouldered frame, metaphorically looking over her shoulder all the way, she would doubtless have taken her customary enjoyment in the ride. Instead, she felt dreadful.
Throwing her riding cap onto a chair, she sank gratefully into the overstuffed armchair in the shadows by the hearth.
“A pity Mr. Lester and Lord Percy didn’t join us.” Clarissa dropped onto the chaise, obviously ready to chat. “I was sure that, after yesterday, they would be waiting at Ashes’ Hill.”
“Perhaps they’ve already returned to London,” Sophie suggested. “The ground’s certainly soft enough to send the tail-chasers back to town.”
“Tail-chasers” was the family term for those gentlemen whose only purpose in coming to Melton Mowbray was to chase a fox’s tail. At the first sign of the thaw, such gentlemen invariably deserted the packs for the more refined ambience of the
“Oh, but I don’t think Mr. Lester and Lord Percy are tail-chasers, exactly. Not when they both ride such superb horses.”
Sophie blinked and wondered if her headache was affecting her reason. “What have their horses to do with it?” she felt compelled to ask. “All tail-chasers,
But Clarissa’s mind was on quite a different track. “They’re both terribly
