settled onto the high bench and accepted the reins from Teddy. “You won’t. I’ll be in touch. Good day, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
She followed his curricle’s breakneck progress down the lane, while smoothing her fingers over her aching throat.
“Gypsy’s saddled and ready for a nice trot, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“Thank you, Teddy.” Using the mounting block, she settled onto the saddle and arranged her skirts before taking the reins. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Catherine kicked Gypsy into motion, her mind a constant stream of ifs, buts, hows, and whens. She must set aside this issue of Lord Somerton’s list of agents for the next couple hours and focus on Meghan McCarthy. The girl’s situation needed her full attention.
But her good intentions ground to a halt the moment her gaze swept westward. On a low rise separating their two properties, the earl sat astride a monstrous black horse. Apprehension stiffened her spine. She peered down the lane and was relieved to find it empty.
However, her perceptive mare sensed her rider’s anxiety and became agitated, forcing Catherine’s attention away. Once she had regained control of Gypsy, she squinted up at the hill. Nothing but undulating grass met her gaze.
A breeze whipped by, ruffling Gypsy’s mane and chilling Catherine’s heated flesh.
She shivered.
Eight
August 12
“Mama, I have to go.”
Sophie’s indelicate comment took a moment to penetrate the dark layer of Catherine’s thoughts. She had not been able to focus on anything since her disturbing discussion with Cochran yesterday and Lord Somerton’s unexpected—although brief—appearance at Winter’s Hollow. As a result, her talk with Meghan McCarthy had the same dismal results as previous attempts they’d made to discover her lover’s identity.
“Mama?” Sophie squirmed at her side.
“Five more minutes, dear.”
“You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” the vicar quoted. “Jesus went on to say that we should love one another as he loves us.”
Catherine’s brows rose, and she wondered if Mr. Foster’s sermon had anything to do with Lord Somerton’s return or Mr. Blake’s mismanagement.
Sophie crowded into Catherine’s side and tugged at her sleeve. “Mama, I can’t wait.”
Catherine caught the note of panic in her daughter’s voice. She glanced down and saw Sophie’s big blue eyes round with alarm. She sighed and started collecting their personal belongings. In her severest voice, she whispered a warning in her daughter’s ear. “You will follow me from the church like a civilized young lady. Is that understood?”
Her six-year-old nodded and scooted to the edge of her seat. “Yes, Mama.”
They marched toward the open entrance door, and Catherine smiled apologetically to the other parishioners as they passed. When she neared the last pew, the Earl of Somerton’s penetrating gaze caught hers. He neither smiled nor nodded, simply followed her approach with gray eyes that glowed with a moonlit iridescence.
Her determined stride faltered, and an embarrassing staccato of anticipation vibrated through her veins, warming her skin. He was dressed in his London finery, and the earl’s tailored coat and dazzling white neckcloth stood out in stark contrast to the more loose-fitting and somber-colored garments of most of Showbury’s denizens. Why Lord Somerton chose to sit on a hard wooden pew in the back of the church when his family’s cushioned seat sat empty at the front, Catherine didn’t know.
She would have to mull over his lordship’s seating arrangements another time. Because at that precise moment, her daughter’s small hand pressed against Catherine’s lower back, propelling her forward in a frantic attempt to get outside. Catherine’s toe stubbed against the doorsill, causing her to stumble down the two front steps. In a drunken dance of cartwheeling arms and churning feet, Catherine somehow regained her footing at the last minute and skidded to an undignified halt.
For several disbelieving seconds, Catherine heard nothing except the thundering of her heart. She pulled in a calming breath and tapped her hand against her chest in a feeble attempt to soothe her nerves. Even though she had saved her backside, the same could not be said of her pride.
“Sorry, Mama,” Sophie yelled over her shoulder. Her little feet tore across the churchyard until she reached the privy, the door slamming shut behind her.
If Catherine didn’t know her daughter any better, she would be tempted to thrash the little vixen for breaking her promise. Her temper did not last long, though. It never did when it came to her wild child. Although rash at times, Sophie had a heart that was sweet and pure, especially when compared to other children her age. Rather than pull the legs off a grasshopper, Sophie