leaves. ‘‘I suppose it never occurred to you that we females might contribute something?’’
‘‘If you saw the contribution my mother thought of mak- ing you wouldn’t ask. She penned a note to the magistrate that would have made his hair stand on end—if he could have deciphered it.’’
Honoria flicked over a clod. ‘‘If we weren’t left feeling so frustratingly helpless—set to one side and told to knit mit- tens—perhaps we wouldn’t react quite so wildly.’’ Swinging about, she waved her stick at him. ‘‘Just think how frustrated you would feel if you knew you, personally, could never achieveanything.’’
He looked at her—steadily—for what seemed a long time.
Then his features hardened; he gestured at the ground. ‘‘Just keepsearching.’’
Though they searched both sides of the lane, they found precisely nothing. Remounting, they cantered through the fields, then through the gate into the park, both absorbed with thoughts of Tolly’s death.
As they rode between the ranks of golden poplars, Honoria glanced at Devil. ‘‘Your aunt intends to give you the silver hipflask you gave Tolly for his birthday as a keepsake—he had it on him when he was shot.’’ When he merely nodded, his gaze fixed ahead, she added somewhat tartly: ‘‘It seems the ‘highwayman’ forgot it.’’
That got her a glance—a warning one.
‘‘Your aunt also mentioned,’’ she plowed on, ‘‘that if he was in trouble, Tolly would turn to you first, as head of the family, rather than to his father or Charles. Do you think that the reason he was killed could be the same as his reason for seeking you?’’
Devil’s gaze sharpened; in that instant, Honoria knew tri- umph. She’d beaten him to that conclusion, and he thought she was right. He said nothing, however, until they reached the stable yard. Lifting her down, he held her before him.
‘‘Don’t say anything toMamanor Aunt Louise—there’s no need to start hares.’’
Honoria met his gaze with one of bland hauteur.
‘‘And if you should hear or discover anything, tell me.’’
She opened her eyes innocently wide. ‘‘And you’ll tell me whatever you discover?’’
His expression turned grim. ‘‘Don’t press your luck, Hon- oria Prudence.’’
96
Chapter 8
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wo mornings later, Devil descended the main stairs, tugging on his driving gloves. As he started down the last flight, Webster appeared, heading for the front door.‘‘Your curricle should be waiting, Your Grace.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ Reaching the front door, Devil looked back.
Hand on the latch, Webster paused. ‘‘Is anything amiss, Your Grace?’’
Devil turned as Webster opened the door—revealing his curricle drawn upbefore the steps, along with a figure in pale lilac. Devil smiled. ‘‘No, Webster—everything’s as I expected.’’
Strolling out, Devil paused in the shadows of the porch to relish the picture Honoria presented. His bride-to-be had a certain style, an innate elegance. Her hair was piled high in a fashionable knot, fine errant curls wreathing her face. A frilled parasol protected her complexion; her hands and feet were encased in tan leather. Her lilac carriage dress had been cut with skill, neatly fitting her slender waist, emphasizing the ripe swell of her hips and the generous curves of her breasts. It took conscious effort to wipe the wolfish smile from his face.
Adopting a bland, impassive expression, he strolled down the steps.
Twirling her parasol, Honoria watched him approach. ‘‘I gather you intend driving to St. Ives, Your Grace. I wonder if I might accompany you? I have a keen interest in old
chapels—I believe the bridge-chapel at St. Ives is a partic- ularly fine example of its kind.’’
‘‘Good morning, Honoria Prudence.’’ Halting before her, Devil claimed her right hand; smoothly raising it, he pressed his lips to her inner wrist, left bare by her glove.
Honoria nearly dropped her parasol. She shot him a glare and tried to calm her racing heart. ‘‘Good morning, Your Grace.’’
Without another word—without the argument she had primed herself to win—he led her to the curricle’s side and lifted her to the seat. Effortlessly. She had to calm her way- ward heart all over again. Shifting along, she clung to the rail as the seat tipped as he climbed up. Once it resettled, she rearranged her skirts, then fussed with her parasol.
Devil took the reins, dismissed his groom, then they were bowling down the drive. Honoria drew a deepbreath; the cool air beneath the oaks revived her wits—and brought the last minutes into sharper focus. Abruptly narrowing her eyes, she turned them on Devil. ‘‘Youknew!’’
He glanced her way, his expression mildly indulgent. ‘‘I’m generally considered a fast learner.’’
An unnerving suspicion leapt to mind. ‘‘Where are you taking me?’’
This time his expression was innocence incarnate. ‘‘To St.
Ives—to see the bridge-chapel.’’
Honoria looked into his eyes—they were crystal-clear.
Twisting about, she looked behind—and saw a horse on a leading rein following the curricle. She turned back. ‘‘You’re going to St. Ives to return the horse Tolly was riding the afternoon he was shot.’’
Devil’s gaze turned sharp, his expression irritated. ‘‘I don’t suppose I can persuade you to leave the matter in my hands?’’
Honoria frowned. ‘‘Is it Tolly’s horse—or could it be the murderer’s?’’
Devil’s jaw firmed. ‘‘It must be the horse Tolly was rid- ing—it was found fully saddled in a field near the wood the day after the storm. It’s from the stables Tolly usually used.
And the murderer presumably left the scene on horseback.’’
A straight stretch lay before them; he slowed his matched