Page 37 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“He’s a beauty,” Bobby said, his eyes round with awe. Thomas could not help but be amused. Bobby had been mad for horses since before he could walk. Thomas had always thought he’d end up hiring him to run the Belgrave stables some day.

“I’m rather fond of him myself,” Audley said. “Saved my life once or twice.”

Bobby’s eyes went round as saucers. “Really?”

“Really. Napoleon doesn’t stand a chance against a fine British horse like that.” Audley glanced over toward the stables. “He’s well?”

“Watered and brushed. I did it myself.”

While Audley made arrangements to have his ridiculously named gelding readied for the ride home, Thomas headed over to the taproom. He supposed he disliked Audley slightly less than before—one had to respect a man who had so much respect for a horse—but still, a pint of ale could not possibly be out of place on a day like this.

He knew the innkeeper well. Harry Gladdish had grown up at Belgrave, the son of the assistant to the stable master. Thomas’s father had judged him to be an acceptable companion—he was so far below Thomas in rank that there could be no arguing who was in charge. “Better a stable hand than a cit,” Thomas’s father had often said.

Usually in front of Thomas’s mother, who was the daughter of a cit.

Harry and Thomas did, however, argue about who was in charge, and quite frequently, too. As a result, they’d become fast friends. The years had sent them their separate ways—Thomas’s father let Harry share in Thomas’s lessons at Belgrave, but he wasn’t about to sponsor his education any further than that. Thomas had gone off to Eton and Cambridge, and then to the glittering excesses of London. Harry had stayed in Lincolnshire, eventually taking over the inn his father had bought when his wife had come into an unexpected inheritance. And while they were perhaps a bit more aware of the differences in their rank than they had been as children, the easygoing friendship of their youth had proven remarkably enduring.

“Harry,” Thomas said, sliding onto a stool near the bar.

“Your grace,” Harry said, with that wicked smile he always used when using an honorific.

Thomas started to scowl at him for his cheek, then almost laughed. If he only knew.

“Pretty eye, there,” Harry said, quite conversationally. “Always did like the royal purple.”

Thomas thought of ten different retorts, but in the end lacked the energy to bother with any of them.

“A pint?” Harry asked.

“Of your best.”

Harry pulled the pint, then set it down on the bar. “You look like hell,” he said baldly.

“Warmed over?”

“Not even that,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Your grandmother?”

Harry knew his grandmother well.

“Among other things,” Thomas said vaguely.

“Your fiancée?”

Thomas blinked. He hadn’t given Amelia much thought that afternoon, which was remarkable, considering that he’d nearly tupped her in a meadow just six hours earlier.

“You have one,” Harry reminded him. “About this high…” He made an indication in the air.

She was taller than that, Thomas thought absently.

“Blond,” Harry continued, “not too buxom, but—”

“Enough,” Thomas snapped.

Harry grinned. “It is your fiancée, then.”

Thomas took a swig of his ale and decided to let him believe it. “It’s complicated,” he finally said.

Harry immediately leaned against the bar with a sympathetic nod. Truly, he was born to the job. “It always is.”

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