them,” he said gruffly. “There are a number of illustrated volumes in the library that you might also find of interest. I shall have one of the servants put them out for you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Hmmph.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Cluyne blew out his cheeks. “The last two prints of this series are hung on the other side of the curio cabinet. You ought not miss them.” Moving back to rejoin his butler, Cluyne paused and then added, “Simpson, be sure to check under Lady Fenimore’s shawl when she leaves.”
Charlotte wondered whether the wink was merely a flicker of the candelabra. Or did the duke actually possess a sense of humor to go along with his hauteur?
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied the butler without batting an eye.
Cluyne consulted his pocketwatch. “Have Frampton ring the dinner bell in twenty minutes.”
Chapter Eight
Marco reined his stallion to a walk as the graveled drive crested the hill. In the pale half light of early morning, the colonnaded entrance of Cluyne Close appeared an oddly ethereal vision, rising from a sea of pearly mist like a vision from some fanciful dream.
“Hell,” he muttered, wincing slightly as he adjusted the brim of his hat. His mind was half asleep. He had stayed up all night with Vincenzi, talking and drinking far too much brandy from the duke’s excellent wine cellar. And while the ride had cleared most of the fogginess from his brain, the stale taste of spirits and tobacco still lingered in the back of his throat.
Inhaling a lungful of the cool, clean air, Marco swiveled in his saddle and surveyed the deserted grounds. Despite his muzzy state, the decision to ride out at dawn had been a good one. It was always important to know the lay of the land when beginning a mission, and he had been able to spend the last hour exploring the fields and woods of the estate, making a mental map of the area.
Despite the inauspicious start, Lynsley would have no reason to question his professionalism on this assignment.
With a flick of his reins, Marco turned his stallion for the stables. He needed a shave and a bath before appearing at breakfast. Rubbing his hand over his bristled jaw, he imagined that he looked like…
“Hell,” he repeated, watching a horse and rider materialize from the swirling mists.
The flutter of dark-green skirts looked just like a bat winging out from the smoke and brimstone of the Underworld. Then, as the apparition came closer and closer, he could just make out a telltale curl of wheaten hair beneath the stylish shako.
Swearing another oath, Marco swung his mount around and dug his heels into the big stallion’s muscular flanks. “Andiamo, Nero,” he urged, tightening his grip on the reins. In his current condition, he didn’t feel quite up to an encounter with Kate Woodbridge. “Let us fly!”
The horse responded with a foam-flecked snort and a leaping burst of speed.
Bending low, Marco galloped through a stone archway and angled for the open meadows, where silvery tendrils of fog floated up from the long grass. Wind whipping against his face, he headed for the far end of the field, where earlier he had spotted a bridle path that led down to the lake.
As the stallion’s hooves cut through the swaying fescue, kicking up great clods of earth, he ventured a look behind him.
Sure enough, the lady was trying to match his pace but he was leaving her in the dust.
“Va bene, Nero.” Marco shifted his hands and the stallion lengthened its stride. “We have our masculine honor to defend—we can’t allow ourselves to be caught by Miss Woodbridge and her mare.”
They thundered past a copse of beech trees, setting the leaves to dancing wildly in their wake. His blood was now heated, burning the last vestiges of haze from his head. A challenge always served as a spark.
Perhaps in a rowing race she would have a chance. But in riding, he had no doubt that he would claim an easy victory. Smiling to himself, Marco shot another glance over his shoulder.
Damn!
The bay mare was still racing over the turf but its saddle was now empty, its rider nowhere to be seen.
Marco pulled up in a flash and quickly reversed directions. Veering sharply, he cut off the other horse and snagged the dragging reins, aware that his heart was pounding hard enough to crack his ribs. He fisted his hand around the leather and tried to remain calm.
If Kate Woodbridge didn’t know better than