He nodded to the groom, swung into the saddle, and made off along the four soggy miles to town.
* * *
The letter burned through the inner pocket of Emilie's jacket, right against her heart. She couldn't read it here, of course, with the rain filling the air in front of a curious Freddie. She would have to wait for the security of her room.
"Couldn't you have posted your note from the house?" said Freddie. "I'm sure Pater would have franked it for you."
"Of course. I shall remember that next time."
The rain couldn't decide how it wanted to settle: one moment mist, the next drizzle, and back to mist again. Emilie kept her shoulders straight, her back straight. She peered under the brim of her hat at the track ahead and recognized the Anvil, hunched by the side of the road, looking even more ramshackle than it had by night. A few lanterns had already been lit on the eaves, and a pair of men were sliding drunkenly off their horses in the courtyard.
"Only a pint, Mr. Grimsby. You can't say no," said Freddie, casting a longing glance.
"I can and I do. There will be nice hot tea waiting for us in the schoolroom when we return."
"The schoolroom," Freddie said, as he might say the army latrine, and then, "What ho! It's Pater, by God."
"Language, your lordship," said Emilie, but her blood was already singing, her eyes already peering through the gloaming ahead. The swift physical reaction shocked her.
Freddie was not mistaken. There was no mistaking the figure ahead, tall and resolute atop a magnificent dark horse, his left hand on the reins and his other arm resting on his thigh.
How does he manage? Emilie wanted to ask, but she bit the words back and concentrated instead on calming the skip of her heart, the flush in her cheeks. This was ridiculous. She was the daughter of a prince. She had met the Kaiser more than once. She was accustomed to powerful men. She could not possibly be nervous at meeting a mere English duke on a rain-dashed Yorkshire road. She of all people knew that princes and dukes were simply men, made of clay, requiring food and drink and rest, subject to wind after ingesting an excess of cabbage.
Perhaps because he was her employer. That would account for this shortening of breath. He held an absolute power over her fate at the moment, more than any human being had before. No wonder her senses were so wary, so filled with every detail of him.
"Pater!" Freddie hailed cheerfully, as the horses drew near.
The Duke of Ashland pulled up. "What the devil are you two doing here, on such a night?"
"Language, Pater! Mr. Grimsby's frightfully strict about it. It's hardly night, though, is it? Not even teatime."
"It grows dark early in November, as you very well know, and Mr. Grimsby is unfamiliar with the area." Ashland took in Emilie with a single enveloping glance, and then returned to his son.
"But I'm familiar with the area. I know every blade of grass between here and Ashland Spa. Daresay I could find the house blindfolded on a windy night. In fact, I believe I have, once or twice." Freddie laughed. "I take it you're bound for your own amusement this evening? Fourth Tuesday of the month, isn't it?" He laughed again. "You're like clockwork, Pater."
Ashland was frowning. His cheeks were damp with rain and slightly pink from cold and exercise. The color rather became him. "See that you bring Mr. Grimsby straight home. None of your tricks, do you hear me? I shall expect a report from Simpson."
The dark horse danced underneath him, either from eagerness to move on or from some agitation communicating itself through his master. His ears had swiveled backward, trained on Ashland.
"That would be a great deal more convincing, Pater, if you weren't off on your own lark. But never fear! I shall escort Mr. Grimsby home without incident, I promise. Virtue quite intact. Shall we leave the lights on for you, or do you plan to stop the night this time?"
"Don't be impertinent," said Ashland. He urged his horse forward. "I shall expect you to attend Mr. Grimsby in the schoolroom at nine tomorrow."
"Have a smashing evening, Pater!" Freddie called back, laughing.
The horses' hooves rattled against the wet stones on the track. Emilie waited until the sound of the duke's horse faded into the fog behind them, and said quietly, "You should not speak to your father with such disrespect."
"Pater? Oh, he don't mind it a bit. He likes to make out that he's a dreadful brute, but really he's nothing but a pussycat on the inside."
"That's because he loves you. You're all he has."
"Oh, rubbish." Freddie shifted the reins to one hand and flicked the rain off his cap. "I didn't mean that he's the tender sort, only that his bark is worse than his bite."
"You're mixing metaphors. We were discussing cats."
"Oh, you know what I mean. I'm a bother to him, really. A reminder of my mother, I suppose. He lets me get away with that sort of impertinence because I'm not worth the trouble of scolding." Another flick of the cap. "Hence the plot to head off early to university."
"Your plot."
"He didn't object, did he?"
The horses walked on, thump-thump against the low patter of the drizzle, the creak of leather. Emilie burned to ask Freddie where Ashland was going, what on earth could bring him out on horseback on such a night. A lark, Freddie had said. Fourth Tuesday of the month.
Perhaps she didn't want to know.
But Freddie broke the silence with sudden force. "Anyway, he hasn't a leg to stand on, does he? Off on his own immoral philanderings, isn't he?"
"Really, your lordship."
"Well, it's true. He's off to meet some woman, his mistress I suppose, right there at his own hotel. Goes every month, rain or shine. Not that I blame him, of course, but he needn't come off so high and holy."
Emilie saw, for an instant, a naked Ashland heaving in some strumpet's bed. His back was arched and gleaming; her breasts were bare. "Perhaps you're mistaken."
"No, I'm not. I asked one of the maids. The woman's escorted up the back stairs, to the suite at the rear. Keeps things respectable, you see. He joins her there. Stays a couple of hours and goes home." Freddie laughed. "Good old Pater. Doesn't waste time, even in sport."
"There might . . ." Her horse was tossing its head. Emilie swallowed and looked down, to where her hands were clenched on the reins. She loosened her grip, finger by finger. "Your father seems to me a man of principle. There might be another explanation."
Freddie laughed again. "You're a funny old fellow, Mr. Grimsby. Another explanation! Ha-ha. Look here, I'm dashed hungry. Let's see if these animals can stretch their legs, shall we? Or else it will be dark before we get back, and Mrs. Needle, for one, is more than happy to scold the living daylights out of me." He urged his horse into a trot.
Emilie's brain said yes, of course and sent the necessary communication down her spine. But her body did not want to obey. Her legs, the muscles of her calves, remained heavy and immobile. Almost as if her body did not wish to tighten about the horse's girth; as if it had no desire to quicken the pace at which they pulled away from the town of Ashland Spa, from Ashland Spa Hotel, from the Duke of Ashland himself.
As if her body wanted, instead, to weigh itself into a pivot and turn the horse around. To intercept Ashland before he reached his destination.
She forced her heels into the horse's side. He sprang forward into a trot, and the motion caused a little tear to open up inside Emilie's rib cage, right underneath her inside jacket pocket and the letter from the post office. It stung her all the way back to Ashland Abbey.
SIX
Lucy was appalled.
"Oh, Mr. Grimsby! Ye're fair soaked!" She clutched her hands together. "Ye must go straight up and doff yer things, and I'll draw ye a hot bath afore ye catch yer death."
"What about me, Lucy?" said Freddie. "I'm just as wet."
She bobbed an obedient curtsy, but her look was murderous. "I'm being to tell Jane to draw your bath and all, your lordship, though I knows whose fault it all is."
"I protest! Grimsby was the one who wanted to ride through town! I was all for a virtuous pint of ale at the dry old Anvil."
"T'Anvil!" Lucy drew in a shocked breath. "Taking dear Mr. Grimsby to t'Anvil! Oh, yer lordship! T'very idea." She turned to Emilie with limpid eyes. "Do ye let me have yer wet things directly, Mr. Grimsby. I'm being to dry and brush them mysen."
Emilie blinked. Lucy's eyelashes trembled.