Page 43 of The Lord Meets His Lady
A breeze stirred the frocked layers on Samuel’s shoulders. “I’ll have to get better at this…this asking for things.”
“Because you can’t always force your way into getting what you want.”
Tense lines framed Samuel’s mouth. “I’ve a man in Lowick and another in Flodden, both willing to sell their horses well below the going rate. Mares, geldings. Some mares ready to foal this spring.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“A few with bowed tendons and bad knees. Nothing you couldn’t solve.”
“The better question is how do we buy these herds?”
Staring at the horizon, Samuel pulled a missive from inside his coat. “With this.”
A gust riffled the paper. An elaborate red wax seal had already been broken, but Marcus recognized the mark. “Baron Atal.”
“Just read it.”
He took the invitation and scanned the ornate script before jamming it against Samuel’s arm. “No.”
“Why not? This is perfect. A house party at Castle Atal filled with wealthy people who have nothing better to do than throw their money away.”
“No.”
“Not even if theywantto throw it away?”
“I don’t—” He started but cut himself short, taking a deep breath. “Iwon’tgamble for our funds.”
“We’ll get what we need.” Samuel stuffed the invitation inside his coat. “It’s the quickest solution.”
“That’s assuming I win. You haven’t kept up with current events. I was tossed out of the Cocoa Treebecauseof my gambling trouble.”
“Because you drank too much. If you keep your wits about you, you’ll win.”
Marcus chuckled drily. “Your faith in me is misguided. I don’t have that kind of focus anymore.”
“I’d be there to support you. Come now, Marcus. A chance like this? To buy thirty horses for the prices I negotiated?”
“At best, you’re hoping I’ll fleece our neighbor’s guests.”
“Gamble fairly for the winnings,” Samuel corrected.
“At worst, you’re asking me to dive back into a vice that divided my family.”
“They won’t know—and I’m sure won’t care—how you pass the time with the esteemed Baron Atal and his guests. Ought to restore your reputation, being in their company.”
“No.”
“Stay away from the whiskey,” Samuel chided. “You’ll do fine.”
“Have you not heard me? And since when did you start dancing on the fine edge of morals?”
Blunt sharpness lit Samuel’s eyes. “Ambition and need have forced my hand. When your brother’s wed, you’ll return to London and live as you please. I cannot.”
“Perhaps I want to stay longer.” He took in the cottage and the red-hooded woman walking through the garden toward the woods. “What makes you so sure I’ll leave?”
“Because that’s what you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus pulled his hat low. Right about now, a swallow of whiskey would be good. The dry sensation came back, creeping up his throat, promising calm.
