Page 66 of The Secret Life of the Elusive Governess
And this is even more curious. Why is that decidedly smug smirk on his face? What does he know? And why is Her Grace getting even paler?
She barely managed to twist her head back to the field below before the man glanced at her.
“Really,” The man said, with a wicked glimmer, “I had thought you would remember me.”
“I am truly sorry, could you remind me of who you are?” the Duchess’ words were forced, “I do not recall meeting you before. Where have we been acquainted?”
“It was a long time ago,” the man replied, “Near ten years, if I recall. You attended Dame Walworth's coming out party in Kent.”
Caroline watched at the Duchess liberally swallowed, “I…faintly recall such an engagement. Lady Amelia, I presume?”
“Yes, Your Grace, she is now Lady Ainsworth,” the man said, still with that sly smile on his face, “Forgive me for intruding on your family’s outing.”
He bowed to take her hand and used the motion to say in the Duchess’s ear, “Sebastian sends his regards.”
The governess was dumbfounded. Who was this man, to be so casual with the Duchess, and why did she look as though she was about to faint?
* * *
The main stables, Dalton Park
The door to the main stable was closed, as only the jockeys had a free pass to enter. A guard was standing there and bowed seeing him.
“Welcome, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, my good man,” Moses replied with a hand clasped on Nicholas’ shoulder. The boy was brimming with eagerness to go see the horses and Moses had to have a hand on him to prevent him from darting off.
As the doors were unlocked, the smell of dry, crisp hay met their noses. Facing them was a long walkway and to the left were ten or twelve stalls. Heads of dark brown, palomino, and coal black lifted up periodically, paired with small shuffles, snorts, and neighs. Two stable boys were at the end of the row and a gentleman, probably the owner of a horse, was there, too.
Moses frowned at the loud, flamboyant light blue coat and faint remembrance came to him of who that could be. “Lord Kelley?”
The man spun and a bright smile crossed his face, “My God, if it isn’t the Duke of Barley. How are you, Barley?”
Lord Evan Kelley was the son of the Marquess of Heverton, a shire that was nearby Shropshire. They had met only twice at functions in London but the man’s dandy displays had never left Moses. Evan had on a blue powdered wig, a colorful great coat, and pants so tight they almost ranked as inexpressibles.
“I didn’t know you partner with Lord Dalton.”
“Eh,” Kelley shrugged, “My sire had pressed upon me to diversify my assets, so I got into stud breeding. Is this your son, I presume?”
“Yes,” Moses said. “Nicholas, this is Lord Kelley.”
The boy bowed gracefully, “A pleasure to meet you, My Lord.”
Kelley smiled and beckoned, “Come, let me show you my horse, Fleet.”
Moses chuckled, “I thought you would have a rather… a colorful name for him, one matching your style.”
“Eh, I was going to name him Fleet-foot Flyaway Fortune-Maker but I had to cut it short,” Kelley sighed overdramatically, “So Fleet it is.”
Moses nudged Nicholas forward and the boy shot an apprehensive look over his shoulder before approaching Kelley and entering the stall. Inside was a thoroughbred, about 16 or 17 hands, with dark brown hide and a cropped mane.
“Go on, touch him, son,” Moses prodded.
Nicholas reached up and laid his hand on the horse’s nose with obvious hesitation and jerked back as the steed’s nostrils flared under his palm. Moses smiled when the boy set his jaw and reached up again, this time his hold was sure.
That’s my boy. Fear is not a part of the Hayward bloodline.
* * *
