Page 4 of Master of Games
She’d read, perhaps have a bit of wine.
When she’d given up courting, and as her mother was gone, she’d become a mistress of sorts, running the house, and keeping her father’s social calendar.
But perhaps it was time to find more. A hobby? She wasn’t much for needlepoint. She’d never been that sort of domestic creature.
She was dreadful at painting, and her piano skills were fair at best.
This past winter, she’d been embroiled in Sophie’s life, which had been terribly exciting. Max and Ironheart had some club they belonged to and a lord by the name of Whitehouse had been attacking them. They’d been on the hunt for this man and the danger and intrigue had been the most excitement she’d experienced in her entire life.
So perhaps the season, and even Ironheart, hadn’t been all bad.
Maybe that’s why she couldn’t stop thinking about Ironheart. Despite all his flaws—and there were many—he’d been brave in the face of danger… she’d seen it.
Opening her book, she tried to read, but Jane Austen held little appeal. Setting it aside, she picked up a new book she’d acquired by Mary Shelley.
Perhaps Tabbie could try her hand at writing…
Her head cocked to the side as she considered. She liked a busy mind, enjoyed stories. And lord knew she needed a distraction.
She’d had a few real-life adventures from which to draw inspiration.
But that was when she caught the distant sound of horse’s hooves coming up the drive.
Her father wasn’t due back for days, and she rarely had visitors. Was something amiss in the village?
Rising, she set her book aside and moved to the window, lifting the silk curtain to better see the front lawn.
A lone rider made his way up the wide dirt pathway, his horse moving at a slow cant through the shade of the trees that lined either side.
He slumped slightly to the left, but even from here, she could see the fine cut of his jacket.
There was something so familiar about the set of his shoulders…
“Ironheart?” she said to the room as though it would answer.
Dropping the curtain, she walked to the door with purposeful strides. Was something the matter with Sophie? Max? Sophie’s sister Abigail? Her heart pounded in her chest as, not waiting for the butler, she threw open the door, stepping out onto the granite stairs. “Ironheart?”
He stopped, several yards away, his body swaying. “Lady Tabetha,” he slurred back. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
For a moment she stared and then she pursed her lips. The man was drunk. Adjusting her neckline to make certain it fully covered her chest, she lifted her skirts and started down the stairs. “What are you doing here?”
He started his horse forward again, meeting her at the bottom of the steps. Her shoulders snapped back as she stared up at him, her glare hopefully enough to permeate his drunken fog.
But something wasn’t right. His face was ashen, dark circles under his eyes. And then she noted the blood.
Soaking his jacket all down his right side, his arm hung limply at his side.
“Ironheart?” she asked again, this time her voice just above a whisper and laced with fear.
“I need help, Tabbie,” he replied, sounding tired. “I didn’t know where else to go and you…” he leaned down, “are the most capable person I know.”
“I doubt that,” she answered. “Any number of?—”
But her words were cut short as he tried to climb from his saddle, but didn’t quite get his leg over the animal and promptly fell to the ground.
With a cry she took the two steps to his side, dropping to her knees and reaching for him. “Ironheart?”
He didn’t answer.
