Page 7 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
He pointed to the man’s hand where it lay relaxed, palm upward, on the edge of the seat. “See how slack his hand and fingers are?”
Meg stared at the hand. Long-fingered, narrow-palmed, the hand of a musician, it lay apparently lifeless on the leather seat.
Miller came up on the curricle’s other side. “Aye.” He nodded sagely. “Out of it, he is. Sure as eggs are eggs.”
Meg suspected they were right. Frustrated, she blew out a breath, then glanced at Miller and Carter. “Do you know who he is?”
“Oh, aye!” Carter nodded. “It’s his lordship. Heard he was back in the old Vere cottage, which is where he sometimes stays.” Carter stepped away from the curricle and pointed down the lane in the direction from which the curricle had come. “The cottage is just along there a ways, on the corner of the last lane on the right, before you get to the village road.”
Meg drew the image of a two-story cottage from her memory. “Isn’t that where Mrs. Kennedy lives?”
Miller nodded. “That’s the one. His lordship here owns the place, but she keeps it for him, so to speak.”
“I see.” If Mrs. Kennedy kept for the man, then despite current appearances, he couldn’t be all bad. Sadly, the cottage was too far away to ask the woodsmen to walk the horses and carriage—and comatose driver—home, and regardless, she wasn’t comfortable leaving the high-bred horses in their care. She sighed. “I’ll have to drive him back to the cottage.”
Neither Carter nor Miller argued.
She remembered her basket, turned and located it on the verge where she’d dropped it, and pointed to it. “Could one of you take my basket to Mrs. Hambledon at the manor and tell her that once I’ve delivered the gentleman to the cottage, I’ll walk back?”
“Pleased to, miss.” Carter saluted her and loped back to the basket.
Miller looked uncertainly at her, then at the slumped body taking up the bulk of the seat. “Can you manage, miss?”
“Perhaps if you shove him back a little more?”
She watched as Miller came around the curricle and did his best to rearrange the large body and long limbs, ultimately clearing a section of seat sufficient for her to sit.
She turned and wiggled into position. “Thank you.” Expertly, she looped the reins about her hands.
Miller looked unconvinced. “Are you sure you’ll be able to handle ’em, miss?”
“Quite sure.” Meg smiled reassuringly at Miller. “I am, after all, Demon Cynster’s daughter. Although I’m not that fond of horses, I can definitely manage them.”
Her confidence rang in her tone. Miller heard and nodded respectfully. “Right, then.” He stepped back.
“I’ll have to go up to the Bigfield House drive to turn them.” Meg dipped her head Miller’s way. “Thank you and Carter for your help.”
“Thankyou, miss,” Miller called as she flicked the reins and set the horses trotting. “We’d never have managed if you hadn’t come along.”
Meg smiled to herself. Helping others always made her happy. Satisfied and fulfilled.
She glanced at the figure lying boneless beside her. “I suppose I’ll be helping you, too.” Facing forward, she grinned. “My halo will be shining.”
The horses recognized a firm and knowledgeable hand on their reins and responded accordingly. Under her guidance, the pair stepped smartly along to where the road widened at the mouth of the Bigfield House drive. She slowed the horses and executed a neat, smooth, uneventful turn.
Feeling pleased with herself, she straightened curricle and horses and set the lovely grays trotting rapidly back down the road.
CHAPTER2
Meg would never have admitted it to anyone, but she thoroughly enjoyed driving the magnificent grays south to the cottage. The curricle lived up to expectations, too, bowling along with amazing smoothness. Reluctantly resisting the temptation to prolong the drive, she turned down the narrower lane that bordered the small plot on which the two-storied Vere cottage stood.
It was a cheery country cottage with gingham curtains in the windows. The small front garden was a mass of daffodils and jonquils, their bright, bobbing heads softening the lines of the local gray stone, as did the white-painted wood of the windows and doors.
As Meg had expected, just past the cottage, an open gate gave access to a small stable yard. The yard filled the space between the rear of the cottage and a surprisingly large barn big enough to accommodate both horses and carriage.
She slowed the horses and turned them through the gate, and they obediently clopped into the yard and halted.
She looked at the barn. The door was shut. There didn’t seem to be any groom or stableman about. Certainly, no one came running, alerted by the sound of wheels and hoofbeats on the gravel.
