Never Deceive a Duke by Liz Carlyle

Author:Liz Carlyle [Carlyle, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Romance, General, Man-Woman Relationships, Love Stories, Historical, Regency, Nobility, London (England), Regency Fiction, Historical Romance
ISBN: 9781416527152
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2006-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

G abriel hunkered behind the gravestone, sitting as motionless as he possibly could. The sun was hot on his shoulders, the air deathly still. Behind him, a honeybee droned. He could hear Cyril rushing across the grass, his breathing heavy. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shrink.“Found you! Found you!” Cyril’s voice rang out some yards away.

There was a momentary scuffle in the grass. “Cyril, you cheated!” Jeremy’s voice trembled with anger. “You were to count a hundred.”

“I did!” said Cyril. “I did count a hundred!”

“Cyril? Lord Litting?” A man’s voice boomed across the churchyard.

“Oh, bugger it!” Jeremy whispered.

Gabriel peered around the gravestone to see a man in a cleric’s frock striding across the stubbled grass. Jeremy looked up at him defiantly and thrust out an arm. “There’s another over there,” he said, pointing. “It’s not just us.”

The priest turned around and scowled. Chin down, Gabriel came out to join them.

“I think the three of you know this is not a place for playing,” the priest chided. “Lord Litting, you are the eldest. These boys look to you for an example.”

“We’re sorry, sir.” Cyril, at least, looked truly contrite. “It shan’t happen again.”

“Kindly see that it does not,” said the priest. Then he turned to Gabriel and smiled. “You must be Gabriel Ventnor. Welcome to the village. Shall we see you at St. Alban’s on Sunday?”

Jeremy’s mouth turned down in a sneer. “He cannot come with us,” the boy spat. “My mamma says he’s just a godless Jew.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Jeremy,” said Cyril.

The priest set a warm hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “God welcomes everyone into his house, Lord Litting. I hope young Gabriel here will always remember that?”

Gareth waited a little impatiently at the foot of the steps. He held his horse’s head, while Statton, one of Sels don’s pensioners, held the reins of the small but beautiful gray gelding which Antonia always favored. Vaguely, Gareth wondered if the wizened old servant remembered him. He did not recall the groom, but that meant very little.

“It looks a good day for a ride,” said Gareth conversationally.

Statton spat into the gravel. “Fine, but turning,” he said in his raspy voice. “We’ll ’ave rain, belike, by supper.”

Gareth surveyed the sky. “Yes, I daresay.” He turned to face the former groom. “Listen, Statton, I appreciate your coming up from the village. This illness going round is the devil—just be sure you don’t take it yourself, all right?”

The old man drew a leather cord from beneath his worn leather jerkin. “Horseradish and cloves,” he said, flashing a near-toothless grin. “Wards it off.”

“I trust it will work for you,” said Gareth doubtfully. The man was taciturn, but Gareth pressed on, having nothing better to do while cooling his heels. The gray, too, seemed impatient, and was wheeling about, kicking up dust and gravel. “That’s a prime goer the duchess rides,” he commented. “Bred here at Selsdon, was he?”

The old man laughed, but it sounded bitter. “Weren’t nought bred here, Your Grace,” said Statton just as Kemble came down the stairs, a basket over his arm.

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