He rubbed his lip that was nearly healed. “I believe you.”
Delight suffused her face. “What a relief that you don’t lecture me. Do you know . . . I like you. You’re smarter than most humans.”
Vitor’s throat was too tight to speak. He bowed.
With a last candid grin, she disappeared below.
SHE HAD FORGOTTEN to tell him about the thumbprint in the wax seal. Her steps faltered in the middle of the great hall. But she continued even quicker. Nothing would be accomplished by sharing her suspicions now. It could wait until later. And she was not at all certain she could maintain the facade of nonchalance that she had forced upon herself the moment he called her pretty and followed that up with the assurance that his interest in her behind the armor screen had been entirely—even predictably—momentary.
She wanted to believe that he was an honest person. No man, however, had ever called her pretty. Not even her father. Petti occasionally called her a “pretty minx” and encouraged her to dress more befitting her station. But pretty?
In a distracted haze she shuffled through the icy slush toward the stable and nearly collided with Cecilia Anders.
“Hello, Miss Caulfield. What a surprise to see your head in the clouds. Are you dreaming of a princely husband, perhaps?”
Ravenna blinked. “No.”
“He favors you, you know.” Miss Anders’s hazel eyes were direct, her handsome face without any trace of rancor.
“The prince? I don’t think—”
“He does. You must become accustomed to the idea. You will see. This afternoon when he announces the lady that will play Juliet opposite his Romeo, it will be you.”
“But I’m not even in the play.”
Miss Anders laughed. “How true. You are the reason for it!”
“And yet you seem entirely unperturbed by this.”
“Do not mistake me for those vapid twins, Miss Caulfield. I haven’t any intention of throwing myself at the head of a prince.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Sir Henry, of course.”
Ravenna’s imagination instantly conjured an image of Sir Henry and Cecilia Anders disposed as Lord Whitebarrow and Iona had been in the turret. This could only mean her wits were addled by pretty more than she liked. “What— That is, what is your interest in him?”
“His stables, of course. Do you know, Miss Caulfield, that Sir Henry’s stallion, Titus, is the most sought after Thoroughbred stud in Britain. Not England, Miss Caulfield. Britain.”
“Is he?”
“With that stallion, my father and Sir Henry could own the racing industry.”
“Your father? Has he an interest in horse racing? I’d thought his scholarship was—”
“Esoteric? Theoretical? It is. He likes a spirited debate over Aristotle’s De Generationum Animalium as much as the next man. But, Miss Caulfield, he is far too brilliant to confine his studies to the theoretical realm. Last summer upon a lark I set the racing schedule before him and bid him draw a genealogical table of the animals currently active at Ascot, Catterick Bridge, Beverley, and the Newmarket gallop.” She bounced on her toes. Ravenna had spent years in the company of men devoted to horses yet she had never seen one bounce on his toes.
“Did your father make the table?”
“Not a table. An entire graph. With every pertinent detail of each horse figured upon the vertical and horizontal axes.”
“Oh.” Ravenna had never heard of such a thing. It was clearly far more sophisticated than the sort of bets Taliesin used to make on the races at the Gypsy fair each summer, for which her father predictably scolded him. “Interesting.”
“I hope to encourage Sir Henry to take on my father as a partner,” Cecilia said.
“I see. But you needn’t have come all the way to France to meet with Sir Henry.”
“I wished to meet Prince Raynaldo too. His son has no interest in horses, but Raynaldo is one of Portugal’s most renowned horsemen. Discovering that he was not to attend was a sore disappointment to me, Miss Caulfield.”
“Miss Anders, did you engineer your invitation to this gathering?” As Arabella had engineered hers.
“My godmother is the Duchess of Hammershire. She is an old termagant, but in devotion to racing we are well suited. She wrote to Prinny and he wrote to Prince Raynaldo on my behalf.”
Lord Prunesly’s family had been invited to Chevriot upon a recommendation from the Prince Regent? The layers of privilege and connection and influence among England’s elite seemed infinite.
“I must see to Sir Henry’s horse now,” she mumbled.
“Of course. But first, Miss Caulfield, I wish to congratulate you.”
“About what?”
“For telling off my brother.”
“Telling him off?”
“I saw you reject him in the corridor before your chamber two nights ago. My compliments.”
And yet Ravenna had not known at the time that she was being watched, like Lord Whitebarrow in the tower parlor. “I didn’t cause him permanent damage.”
Lady Cecilia chuckled, but her eyes were fierce. “I wish you had. However much I adore my brother, he often needs a mighty kick in the pantaloons.” Her brow pleated. “I . . .”
“Yes?”
“I worry about his foolishness, Miss Caulfield. I worry that he will hurl himself into danger and I will not be able to help him.” She drew a decisive breath. “But that isn’t your concern, of course. The prince is. I shall see you indoors.”
In the stable, Ravenna changed the hoof dressing on Sir Henry’s prized stud. After that, a quarter hour spent with the bitch and her four remaining pups restored her peace of mind. Seeking out Sir Henry’s head groom, the only person in the stables with whom she could speak English, she asked after the fifth pup.
“Followed his lordship out riding this morning, miss.”
“His lordship?”
“Lord Vitor, miss.”
He’d kept the puppy. Or else he’d gone up the mountain to set it loose.
When she entered the castle, luncheon had already been served. All the guests were present except Lady Iona and Lord Vitor. She avoided looking at Lord Whitebarrow and poked at her food. She had never cared before what titled ladies and gentlemen did, the parties they attended, or their scandals. Petti’s stories about society had always amused her, but they meant nothing to her. And she had never, ever before cared what a nobleman thought of her.
Why had he not come to luncheon? Where had he gone without telling her? Was she a fool to trust him when no one else in the house was proving trustworthy? Their secrets and schemes seemed infinite.
Monsieur Sepic had departed for the afternoon and Prince Sebastiao announced that in his absence they would rehearse in preparation for staging the play on the morrow. The party adjourned to the drawing room.
At the door to the drawing room, Sir Beverley paused beside her. “Will you keep a hawk’s eyes upon the door here too, as you did at luncheon, all the while pretending that you are not?” he asked.
“I am waiting for Lady Iona. I must speak with her about a matter of importance.” She dreaded speaking with Iona. What were they to say to each other? All had already been said in a single horrified stare.
“My dear girl,” murmured the man who within moments of knowing her had understood her. “You are a remarkably poor liar. I hope you do not attempt it with him.”
Miss Feathers stood alone by a window, nearly part of the shadow of the drapery. Ravenna shook her head at Sir Beverley and went to her.