“Tha has won him over, milor’,” the stable master said, a smile splitting his round face until his cheeks bunched over the cottony bolsters of his whiskers.
“It has nothing to do with me,” Devon replied, stroking Asad’s sleek head, “and everything to do with Lady Trenear’s scent.”
“Aye, but tha has a good touch wi’ him.” Blandly the stable master added, “An’ wi’ her ladyship, it seems.”
Devon sent him a narrow-eyed glance, but the elderly man returned it innocently.
“Lady Trenear was distressed by the memory of her husband’s accident,” Devon said. “I would offer assistance to any woman in such a state.” He paused. “For her sake, I want you and the stablemen to say nothing about her loss of composure.”
“I told the lads I’d flay the hide off them if there’s so much as a whisper of’t.” Bloom frowned in concern. “That morning… there was a scruffle between her ladyship and the master, before he came running to the stables. I worrit she might fault hersel’ for it.”
“She does,” Devon said quietly. “But I told her that she is in no way accountable for his actions. Nor is the horse. My cousin brought the tragedy upon himself.”
“I agree, milor’.”
Devon gave Asad a last pat. “Good-bye, fellow… I’ll visit you in the morning before I leave.” He turned to walk along the stalls to the entrance, while the elderly man accompanied him. “I suppose rumors ran rife around the estate after the earl’s death.”
“Rumors? Aye, the air was fat wi’ them.”
“Has anyone said what Lord and Lady Trenear were arguing about that morning?”
Bloom was expressionless. “I couldn’t say.”
There was no doubt that the man had some idea as to the nature of the conflict between Theo and Kathleen. Servants knew everything. However, it would be unseemly to persist in questioning him about private family matters. Reluctantly Devon set aside the subject… for now.
“Thank you for your help with Lady Trenear,” he told the stable master. “If she decides to continue training Asad, I’ll allow it on condition of your oversight. I trust your ability to keep her safe.”
“Thank you, milor’,” Bloom exclaimed. “Tha intends for the lady to remain at Eversby Priory, then?”
Devon stared at him, unable to answer.
The question was simple on the surface, but it was overwhelmingly complex. What did he intend for Kathleen? For Theo’s sisters? What did he intend for Eversby Priory, the stables and household, and the families that farmed the estate?
Could he really bring himself to throw them all upon the mercy of fate?
But damn it, how could he spend the rest of his life with unimaginable debt and obligations hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles?
He closed his eyes briefly as the realization came to him: It was already there.
The sword had been suspected above him from the moment he’d been informed of Theo’s death.
There was no choice to make. Whether or not he wanted the responsibility that came with the title, it was his.
“I do,” he finally said to the stable master, feeling vaguely nauseous. “I intend for all of them to stay.”
The older man smiled and nodded, seeming to have expected no other answer.
Exiting through the wing of the stables that connected to the house, Devon made his way to the entrance hall. He had a sense of distance from the situation, as if his brain had decided to stand back and view it as a whole before applying itself to the particulars.
The sounds of piano music and feminine voices drifted from one of the upper floors. Perhaps he was mistaken, but Devon thought he could hear a distinctly masculine tone filtering through the conversation.
Noticing a housemaid cleaning the stair rails of the grand staircase with a banister brush, he asked, “Where is that noise coming from?”
“The family is taking their afternoon tea in the upstairs parlor, milord.”
Devon began to ascend the staircase with measured footsteps. By the time he reached the parlor, he had no doubt that the voice belonged to his incorrigible brother.
“Devon,” West exclaimed with a grin as he entered the room. “Look at the charming little bevy of cousins I’ve discovered.” He was sitting in a chair beside a game table, pouring a hefty splash of spirits from his flask into a cup of tea. The twins hovered around him, busily constructing a dissected map puzzle. Sliding a speculative glance over his brother, West remarked, “You look as though you’d been pulled backward through the hedgerow.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Devon told him. He turned to the room in general. “Has anyone been corrupted or defiled?”
“Since the age of twelve,” West replied.
“I wasn’t asking you, I was asking the girls.”
“Not yet,” Cassandra said cheerfully.
“Drat,” Pandora exclaimed, examining a handful of puzzle pieces, “I can’t find Luton.”
“Don’t concern yourself with it,” West told her. “We can leave out Luton entirely, and England will be none the worse for it. In fact, it’s an improvement.”
“They are said to make fine hats in Luton,” Cassandra said.
“I’ve heard that hat making drives people mad,” Pandora remarked. “Which I don’t understand, because it doesn’t seem tedious enough to do that.”
“It isn’t the job that drives them mad,” West said. “It’s the mercury solution they use to smooth the felt. After repeated exposure, it addles the brain. Hence the term ‘mad as a hatter.’”