“Yes indeed.” Francesca scribbled a note. “Now, Cook-you advise we get pasties from Mrs. Duckett?”
“Aye-my bread’s as good as hers, but no one hereabouts has a hand for pastry like Duckett. And she’ll be thrilled to be doing it again, too.”
“Very good.” Francesca scribbled on, then looked up. “Now, is there anything we’ve forgotten?”
They all shook their heads. Lips twisting, Gyles volunteered, “Edwards.”
They all stilled, all exchanged glances, then Wallace cleared his throat. “If you would leave Edwards to me and Mrs. Cantle, ma’am, I believe we can sort out all the arrangements without creating any undue disturbance.”
Francesca looked down to hide her smile. “Indeed, that might be best. Very well.” Laying down her pen, she looked at them all. “That’s it-if we all do our parts, I’m sure it will be a wonderful, most memorable day.”
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Francesca snuggled deeper under her satin covers and tried to will away the hand curving about her shoulder, gently shaking her.
“It’s past eight and the morning’s clear,” a familiar voice murmured in her ear. “Come riding with me.”
She frowned. “We already did-didn’t we?”
He laughed, his chest to her back, rocking her. “I mean on the downs, on Regina. She must be missing your runs.”
“Oh.” Wriggling up, Francesca pushed her hair back. Gyles was lounging on her bed, already dressed but without cravat or coat. Sitting straighter, she peered past him to the window. “Is it really fine?”
“As fine as we’re going to get at this time of year.” Rising and heading for his room, he threw her a challenging look. “Come on.”
Francesca struggled out of bed. By the time Millie had appeared with her water and she’d washed and climbed into her habit, the anticipation of a rousing gallop had stirred her blood. Millie had left her crop and gloves on the bed; she swiped them up and looked about. “My cap?”
Millie’s head was buried in the wardrobe. “I know it was here with the whip and gloves, but I can’t find it.”
Francesca heard striding footsteps in the corridor, then a tap sounded on her door. “Never mind. You can hunt it out later.”
Gyles was waiting in the corridor. His gaze raked her as she emerged, then returned to her hair.
“We can’t find it at the moment.”
He waved her on, then fell in beside her, his gaze drifting again to her uncovered head. “I have to admit I’ve got used to that flirting feather.”
She threw him a grin and started down the stairs. “I don’t need a feather.”
He caught her gaze, and stepped down in her wake. “Neither do I.”
They reached the stable yard to find Gyles’s grey saddled and held waiting, but no sign of Regina. They entered the stable and headed for the mare’s stall, from which Jacob’s voice could be heard, crooning.
He heard them coming and stepped out. “Don’t ask me how it happened, but she picked up a stone. Wedged tight in her rear hoof it was, poor lamb. I just got it out.” He showed them the small, sharp rock.
Gyles frowned. “How could that happen? She couldn’t have been put into the stall without someone noticing.”
“Aye-but there it is, plain as day.” Jacobs shook his head. “All I can think is some rascally lad didn’t take enough care and a stone got lobbed in with the straw. I’ll be speaking with them, you may be sure, but for now, I’m right sorry, ma’am, but the mare’s not for riding.”
Francesca had gone into the stall to inspect her darling; she nodded and came out again. “No-you’re quite right. That hoof’s obviously tender.”
Jacobs looked uncomfortable; he glanced from her to Gyles. “I’m not sure we’ve another mount suitable, ma’am.”
Francesca scanned the huge hunters, then arched a brow at Gyles.
He sighed. “If you promise not to go tearing off, faster than the wind over the downs, then I suppose, seeing I’ll be with you-”
“Thank you.” Francesca gifted him with a glorious smile, then turned it on Jacobs. “That one, I think.”
Gyles glanced at the black she’d selected, then nodded, ignoring Jacobs’s stunned look. “Wizard’s at least reasonably biddable.”
Francesca pulled a face at him. They walked back out to the yard. In a minute, Jacobs, still looking unsure, walked the black out.
His hand at her waist, Gyles urged Francesca forward. She stopped by the black’s side and he lifted her to the saddle. Jacobs held the horse steady while she got settled. Gyles mounted and picked up his reins, glanced at the small figure perched atop the massive hunter, then wheeled. She brought the black alongside as they trotted out of the yard.
“Is it possible to ride through the village, then up to the downs that way?”
“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Why?”
“We need to speak with Mrs. Duckett and Harris about the supplies for the Festival-I thought we might kill two birds with one stone.”
He nodded. Instead of taking the track to the escarpment, he led the way along a ride that circled the house, running under the trees of the park to eventually join the main drive.
When they slowed and clattered through the main gates, Francesca laughed. “That’s a lovely gallop.”
They trotted on to the village.
Francesca went into the bakery to speak with Mrs. Duckett. Gyles strode down to the Red Pigeon, arranged the supply of ale with Harris, then returned to liberate Francesca from Mrs. Duckett’s clutches, that lady having been as honored and delighted as Cook had predicted.
Both once more in the saddle, Gyles led the way up the street to the church. A path to the downs lay beyond it. Five minutes later, they crested the escarpment, the horses stepping into the wide, treeless expanse with evident anticipation.
The black pranced; Francesca held the big gelding back, waiting, watching for Gyles’s direction. He glanced her way. “Any preference?”
A fleeting recollection popped into her head. “What about those barrows Lancelot Gilmartin mentioned? They must be close.”
“A few miles.” Gyles studied her, then added, “I wouldn’t, myself, term them romantic.”
“Well, you may take me there and let me see for myself.” Francesca looked around as the black jigged impatiently. “Which way?”
“North.”
Gyles sprang the grey and she went with him. Shoulder to shoulder, the huge hunters thundered across the rolling green. The wind of their passing whipped back Francesca’s curls; exhilaration sang in her veins.
The sky was slate grey and no sun shone, yet there was a glow in her heart as they swept on. Again and again, she felt Gyles’s gaze, on her face, her hands, checking her posture. This was no race; although they rode hard, the gallop was severely controlled, judged to a whisker so as not to feel restricted-an indulgence, yes, one held just within the limits of safety.
It was comforting to feel so watched over, to know that he was there, with her.
They gained the top of a low rise and he slowed. She followed suit, drawing the black in. The gelding was still frisky, still wanting to run. She patted his glossy neck as she trotted up to Gyles.
He nodded ahead. “See those mounds?”
She saw a cluster of earth mounds about a mile further on. “Is that it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
His tone alerted her; she looked and found him gazing at a point much nearer to hand. Another rider, previously hidden in a dip, came riding toward them.
“Lancelot Gilmartin?”
“Indeed.”
Lancelot had seen them. They waited. Gyles steadied his grey as Lancelot came pounding up. Pounding too furiously. He hauled his bay to a too-precipitous halt. It snorted, backed, reared.
The black jerked and sidled; Francesca’s arms were tugged sharply as he shook his head.
Gyles angled the grey closer. The presence of the more experienced horse calmed the black.
By then, Lancelot had his showy bay under control. “Lady Chillingworth.” He swept her a bow, then nodded at Gyles. “My lord.” Before either could reply, his glowing gaze locked on Francesca’s face. “I knew you wouldn’t resist the lure of the Barrows. I was on my way there when I saw you and turned back.” He glanced at Gyles. “My lord, I would be happy to escort her ladyship farther. No doubt you have much business to attend to.”