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"We'll loan you one," Frances said. "Do you prefer a gelding, stallion, or mare?"
Oh, dear. Charlotte could count the number of times she'd been horseback riding on one hand. It wasn't an activity they'd had the money to finance in her youth. Gelding, stallion, mare? She wasn't even certain she knew the difference.
"Oh," she said, "whichever horse you think would suit me."
Frances's slow, smug smile was rather alarming.
The next morning, Charlotte understood why.
They'd barely set out from the stables when the dappled gray horse beneath her whinnied and danced sideways.
Charlotte tightened her gloved hands on the pommel.
Frances called to her. "Lady isn't too much for you, I hope?"
"Not at all," Charlotte called back, trying to sound breezy and confident. "I enjoy a horse with spirit."
Unfortunately, the particular spirit possessing this mare seemed to be an ill-tempered, malevolent demon fed on soured milk. Charlotte wished she'd thought to bring apples or sugar lumps. Or holy water.
Frances nudged her horse into a canter, and Lady followed suit.
Charlotte felt her teeth rattle and her tailbone bounce. Under her breath, she muttered a curse.
She managed to hang on across several fields and over a narrow bridge. Fortunately, as they neared the prominence, the horses were forced to slow to a walk.
When they reached their picnicking spot atop the hill, Charlotte slid gratefully from the saddle and gave Lady's neck a loving pat. "Good girl. I'll save you a sandwich."
In return, the mare snapped at her, nearly removing two of her fingers.
Perhaps she'd walk home instead.
Charlotte left the sulking mare and turned her attention to the reason she'd come here.
Stealing a close look at Mrs. White and her hair.
"Oh, Nellie," Lady Parkhurst called. "Would you be a dear and help with arranging the baskets?"
Charlotte watched closely as a lady stepped forward to answer the call.
The good news was, Mrs. White wasn't wearing a dreadful yellow turban today. However, she was wearing a bonnet. An enormous bonnet that not only covered all of her hair, but shielded most of her face and was secured under her chin with a firmly knotted blue ribbon.
Drat.
In this business of solving mysteries, one encountered the most vexing and mundane obstacles. Thwarted by a bonnet, of all things.
The distant blare of bugles sounded.
"Oh, look! They're off."
Charlotte turned to watch, shielding her eyes with her hand.
The hounds appeared first. Scores of them, racing out from the wooded valley in a yapping, churning pack. Then came the men, riding swiftly behind. There were more than a dozen of them, all told--local squires and even some of the more prominent farmers had been invited to join.
She could make a few out even at this distance, however. Sir Vernon's portly figure and hunter-green coat were distinguishable at the head of the pack.
And then, trailing a polite distance behind his host, came Piers.
He wore a black coat, indistinguishable from those of several other gentlemen, but Charlotte knew him at once. She would have recognized his figure anywhere. He guided his mount over the hedges and stiles with ease. So smooth and powerful, moving as one with his bay gelding.
Or was it a stallion?
She tore her gaze from the spectacle.
Mrs. White had wandered away from the ladies arranging the picnic baskets. Her enormous, confounding bonnet bobbed toward the other side of the hill.
Charlotte hurried to catch up with her. "Oh, Mrs. White."
The woman slowed.
"Mrs. White, do you remember me from the other evening? I'm Miss Highwood."
"Oh." The widow looked her up and down. "Yes, of course."
Charlotte curtsied. "Isn't it a fine morning for a hunt?"
"I suppose it is."
Mrs. White looked a bit baffled at Charlotte's friendly overtures.
Perhaps she was shy.
Or . . . perhaps she was riddled with guilt over her torrid, illicit affaire in Sir Vernon Parkhurst's library.
"I think I'll remove my hat," Charlotte said, unpinning her pert riding hat and making a show of basking in the sun. "Oh, the sunshine feels divine. Wouldn't you like to remove your bonnet?"
Mrs. White smiled. "I freckle most dreadfully."
"Just tip it back for a moment," Charlotte urged. "Truly, the sun feels so delicious. You won't freckle that quickly."
The widow seemed to consider it, tilting her head skyward.
The sun promptly moved behind a cloud.
"Perhaps later," she said.
Charlotte sighed. She began hoping for a strong gust of wind to catch that bonnet like a sail and pull it back. Even a stiff breeze would suffice, if it could tug loose a small wisp of hair. She wasn't asking for much.
"Do let's take a turn about the hill." Charlotte linked arms with the woman. "I'd be so grateful if you could point out the local landmarks."
The widow didn't seem especially eager, but Charlotte hadn't left her any polite way to refuse.
"I wish we'd had more opportunity to talk the other night," Charlotte forged on, once they'd left the earshot of the others. "I could tell at once we'd have so much in common."
"Truly?"
Mrs. White sounded skeptical, and Charlotte couldn't blame her. The woman was at least ten years her senior, and, it was becoming increasingly apparent, not terribly vivacious. It was difficult to imagine what they would have in common.
It was also difficult to imagine Mrs. White wearing a scarlet garter, dousing herself in rich perfume, and shrieking her carnal pleasure atop a desk.
But it had to have been her. Charlotte's deductions left no other option.
"Appearances," Charlotte said, taking another approach, "can frequently be deceiving. Don't you agree? The heart has so many secrets."
The widow pointed. "There's Oxton, over there. And to the north, all that green is Sherwood Forest."
They'd completed their circle of the hill. Soon they'd be heading back to join the others.
She looked askance at her companion. She'd yet to spy even a stray lock at her nape or temple. What sort of hair preparation did the woman use? Plaster of Paris?
She had to do something. Something rash. She might not have another chance.
She gave a dramatic gasp. "Mrs. White, do be still. There's a spider."
"A spider?"
"A large spider. On your bonnet. Don't startle, or you'll tip it down your neck." Charlotte moved close and slowly reached for the ribbons tied beneath the woman's chin. "I'll just unlace this very cautiously and then I'll shake it out on the grass."
"There's no need."
"But there is! Believe me, Mrs. White, this is a very nasty spider. It's . . . it's hairy. And fanged."
Mrs. White put her hands over Charlotte's, stopping her. "My dear girl, let us do away with pretense."
"Pretense?"
"There's no spider, and I know it."
Charlotte's shoulders sank. "You do?"
Mrs. White smiled. "My dear, you were correct. We do have something in common. I, too, know what it is to be young and confused. Wondering if you'll ever meet a soul who understands the desires in your heart."
"Really?"
Charlotte held her breath. Never mind the bonnet or the hair. Perhaps the woman was going to confess. This was going better than she'd dared to hope.
"There are many like us," Mrs. White continued. "So many more than you'd think. You needn't feel alone. I can't say it will be easy, but there are ways to follow your heart."
"What ways?"
"You could follow my example, marry an older man. Just a few years of submitting to his"--she cleared her throat--"attentions gave me a lifetime of security and freedom. My darling Emmeline, on the other hand . . . Well, the dear thing couldn't countenance the prospect of marriage. She went straight i
nto service. We took different paths, but somehow we found each other."
Charlotte frowned in confusion. "But Mrs. White--"
"Oh, we can't attend balls and picnics together. But in our own home, no one troubles us. We're happy. You will find that happiness, too." The widow pressed a fingertip over Charlotte's lips. "You are a lovely young lady. So pretty and lively. There will come a day when you needn't resort to imaginary spiders. Save your kisses for someone else."
Save her kisses?
Her kisses.
"Oh, dear." She forced a little laugh. "Mrs. White, I do beg your pardon. I think I've been misunderstood."
"It's all right. I'm rather flattered, truly. And I'd never dream of telling a soul."
With a genuine, sympathetic smile, Nellie White turned and walked back toward the picnic gathering.
Well.
Charlotte was left to stand there, blinking at the Nottinghamshire landscape and absorbing the enormity of her foolishness.
She still hadn't learned the color of Mrs. White's hair, but apparently it didn't matter. The widow wasn't interested in the company of men.
Her investigation had reached another blind end.
Had she missed someone else on the list of guests? Had the perfume shopkeeper lied about the dark hair? Her deductions must have gone wrong somewhere.
So unspeakably frustrating.
Everything hung in the balance. Her reputation, the Grand Tour with Delia . . . the entirety of her future. And yet, Charlotte was most disappointed simply because she'd gotten it wrong.
Her talents didn't make for impressive exhibitions. She wasn't an artist like Delia, or a scientific scholar like her sister Minerva. Foolish as she imagined it would sound to others--in particular, to Piers--solving this mystery had taken on deeper meaning for her. It was her chance to claim an accomplishment. With each suspect she'd crossed off her list, she'd felt herself closer to the moment where she could stand back and say, "I did that."
And now, it seemed, she hadn't done anything. Except waste a great deal of effort and time, and further damage a treasured friendship. Her entire visit in Nottinghamshire had been one mistake heaped on another.
For the first time all fortnight, a sense of true despair came over her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
In a week's time, all her foolish errors would be exposed to the world. She had only a few days remaining.
What was she even doing here? She should return to spend the afternoon with Delia, before Delia stopped speaking with her at all.
Chapter Thirteen
After completing what seemed like an hour-long, painfully audible stream of urination, Sir Vernon buttoned his falls and stepped out from behind the tree, tugging on his tweed waistcoat.
"Nothing like a good ride to hounds to get the bodily humours flowing. Eh, Granville?"
Piers completed his unnecessary inspection of his gelding's girth and saddle. "Pity the hunt was for naught."
"Oh, it's never for naught. No, no. It's not the fox we're after. It's the chase. The thrill. We sportsmen can't live without it, can we? Feeds one appetite as surely as it works up another." He gave Piers an elbow in the ribs. "Now let's turn our sights to prettier quarry, shall we? The ladies will be waiting for us on the hill. There's a vixen there you should be chasing. I understand Miss Highwood made the ride out, even though Delia wouldn't. She must want to share a picnic with a certain gentleman."
Piers thought about Charlotte waiting with the ladies on the hill. Her golden hair coming loose, her cheeks pink from exercise, and her eyes the same bright, clear blue as the sky. He thought about sitting next to her, accepting morsels of cheese and meat from her fingertips, and watching her suck the juice from a ripe, red berry.
He thought about pushing her back on that picnic blanket to taste those berry-stained lips.
And then he thought better of the entire plan.
Even though Sir Vernon saw him as a fellow gentleman of leisure, Piers had a task to complete. He couldn't let pass the opportunity to have Parkhurst Manor to himself for a period of some hours. At last, he could get to opening those locked drawers in the library.
In the grand scheme of his career, this was an insignificant assignment. But to Piers, it had become vital. He needed to prove to himself that he could still carry out his role. Because if he couldn't . . . ? All the shame and guilt he'd been outrunning for the past twenty years would catch up to him.
He would die inside.
"Thank you," he said, "but I'll ride back to the manor. I must see to some correspondence. If I mean to announce the engagement before the end of my visit, the betrothal contracts need to be settled."
Sir Vernon gave a deep belly laugh. "I never met the female mind what was wooed by contracts. You need to pass some time with the girl, Granville. Our fox might have run to ground today, but you can't have Miss Highwood doing the same."
Piers began to reply, but the older man interrupted.
"Now, now," he said, in a manner of confidentiality. "You're a man of tremendous achievement. No one can dispute that. But if Miss Highwood changed her mind about the wedding, we both know that wouldn't be without precedent. Your previous would-be bride slipped away."
Piers bristled at Sir Vernon's implication. Clio had not "slipped away." Piers had stayed away from her, and for good reason. Her safety had depended on Piers keeping his distance, and who could have known the war would drag on so long? In any event, their betrothal had been a friendly arrangement between families, not a love match. He didn't blame her for seizing happiness with Rafe.
To be sure, Piers hadn't rushed to find a bride that first season back in London. Nor the second. He'd been occupied. Much too busy for courtship, or even for casual affaires. If he had wished to marry, however, he would have had his choice.
"Miss Highwood," he said, "will not be slipping away."
"Good. Good. I hope you won't fault me for asking, Granville. Deserved or not, the girl has a bit of a reputation. You did an honorable thing in offering for her. I'd merely like to be assured that you'll have this settled by fortnight's end. I've my own daughters to think about, and I wouldn't want any hint of scandal landing on them."
This struck Piers as a strange concern, coming from a man who was, by all available evidence, embroiled in a scandal of his own making.
"I give you my word," Piers said tightly. "The engagement will be secured."
"Just don't neglect her. The ladies like a bit of chasing." Sir Vernon clapped him on the back. "That's a sport."
As he headed back to Parkhurst Manor, Piers was met by an arresting sight.
Charlotte, riding overland toward him on horseback. Just as he'd imagined her in his fantasy--her golden hair streaming behind her, her complexion bright, her blue eyes . . .
Closed?
As he got a better look, he noticed her desperate grip on the horse's mane. Her terrified expression. No doubt as to why.
The mare was headed directly for the stream. The stream that was nearly a river this time of year, with high, mossy banks on either side.
It was a jump that would have challenged even a seasoned horseman, and nothing about Charlotte's white-knuckled, eyes-closed, breakneck approach to the obstacle said "seasoned."
It said "inexperienced" and "idiotic" and "dangerous as hell."
"Miss Highwood!" he called, nudging his own gelding into a trot--and then, as soon as possible, a full-speed gallop.
But it wasn't any use.
There simply wasn't enough ground between her and the stream.
He wouldn't reach her in time. He couldn't.
There was nothing he could do.
His heart thudded in his chest, drumming even louder than the hoofbeats pounding the mud.
"Charlotte!" Even his shout died in his throat, ineffectual.
It was rare that he experienced the sensation of true helplessness. In fact, he couldn't recall feeling it since he'd been a boy of seven years old.
He'd kn
own even then, he didn't like it.
He'd resolved to never, ever feel that way again.
And here he was, watching Charlotte Highwood race toward disaster, powerless to do anything but watch.
The mare, it turned out, didn't want to make the jump any more than Charlotte did.
The horse skidded to a halt on the far bank. Charlotte, however, kept moving. The momentum catapulted her over the horse's head in a cartwheel of dark velvet and golden hair. She landed headfirst in the stream, making a prodigious splash.
Piers pulled his gelding to a halt. He held his breath, waiting for her to emerge onto the bank.
An eternity passed in every heartbeat. Emotions exploded inside him like buried grenades. Anger, confusion, fear, despair. Everything he'd sworn to never feel again.
His mind shattered into bleak fragments, and each one was edged in blood.
She's hit her head on a rock. She's broken her neck. She's drowned.
She's gone, she's gone.
You can't do anything.
She's gone.
A few moments ago, Charlotte would have said she'd rather be anywhere other than on the back of that dratted horse.
She would have been wrong.
Being on the dratted horse was better--marginally--than hurtling through the air like a cannonball.
And both those things were better--considerably--than being plunged headfirst into a swift, icy stream.
The water helped break her fall, and she was lucky enough to avoid striking her head--but she banged her shoulder hard against the rocky bank. The emerald-green velvet riding habit she'd been so enamored with in the London dressmaker's shop acted like a sponge, soaking up all the water in Nottinghamshire, it seemed.
Within the space of a moment, she was disoriented, chilled, swollen to twice her size, and generally feeling like a drunken whale.
Eventually she managed to get a foot under her, brace it against a stone, and flex her leg muscles enough to stand.
She drew a gasping breath.
Then the moss made her slip, and she lost all the ground she'd gained, finding herself submerged to her ears once again.
The rushing water carried her downstream, introducing her to a boulder with a helpful smack.
Ouch.
In retaliation, she clung to the rock with both hands, using it to catch her breath. She'd stopped drifting, but she wasn't gaining any ground, either. And the water was chilling her further by the second. Her fingers began to numb, and her legs felt heavy.
