He frowned when a twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. Perhaps if he had come earlier…
He closed his eyes, trying to conjure a memory of the attractive Countess Farnworth in an effort to think of more pleasant things. Her image proved to be elusive. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the infernal bluestocking and the anger blazing in her gray eyes. “Mind you,” he chuckled, “she was rather attractive, for a brunette. Tempting tits, too.”
He vaguely remembered Matthew Crompton as a stickler for following rules. His sister had the same olive complexion but, clearly, she wasn’t the sort who obeyed the rules of behavior that applied to ladies of good breeding.
He’d wager she’d be a firebrand in bed. He laughed out loud. She’d likely faint dead away if a man even suggested sexual congress.
*
“Don’t let himbother you,” Emma advised as the Farnworth carriage began the journey back to Thicketford Manor.
Susan nodded her agreement. “At least I got a cheer from the crowd outside the court. Not that I managed to do anything to help those poor men.”
Emma reached for her hand. “Perhaps if Gabriel has a word with the Earl of Pendlebury, you know, one earl to another.”
Susan snorted. “Your husband is a reasonable and persuasive man but I don’t have high hopes for Lord Pendlebury. He’ll head back to London right away. He doesn’t care.”
“You may be right. Apparently, he operates a successful horse breeding stable near the city.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “As if he couldn’t breed horses here in Lancashire.”
Emma shook her head. “Something to do with proximity to Tattersalls, I believe. Gabriel said Pendlebury’s one topic of conversation is an Arabian horse he hopes to purchase. A thoroughbred, whatever that means.”
“Thoroughbreds apparently make excellent racehorses,” Susan explained. “Pendlebury will spend an incredible amount of money on an expensive horse, but nothing on improving his tenants’ lives.”
“I suppose horses that win races earn monetary prizes,” Emma said.
Susan closed her eyes, too exhausted and sick at heart to even reply. Until a thought occurred. “I wonder how much it costs?”
“What?”
“To buy an Arabian.”
Clifton Heights
When Griff finallyarrived at Clifton Heights later in the afternoon, the musty odor that greeted him in the foyer aggravated his bad mood. “What is that smell?” he asked the butler.
The fellow eyed him as if he’d spoken Greek. “Smell, sir?”
Griff let out an exasperated sigh. Clearly, his butler, and probably the rest of the staff, had become used to the odor of damp and didn’t notice it. “Where’s Fothersgill?” he asked, handing his hat and gloves to the servant he didn’t recall meeting before. It seemed no one stayed long in service at Clifton Heights.
“Andrews, my lord,” the butler replied, evidently sensing Griff’s confusion. “I believe he’s gone to the village,” he continued in a nasal monotone.
Griff suspected that meant his steward was at the local inn. “This whole place needs a good scrub,” he lamented, knowing it was a waste of time to complain to this man—butlers weren’t responsible for the upkeep of the house. “I hope my chamber smells sweeter.”
“I’ll speak to Mrs. Brass, sir,” Andrews replied with a sigh, as if he were dealing with a whining child.
Since he couldn’t remember hearing the name before, Griff supposed Mrs. Brass was the latest housekeeper. “See that you do.”
Andrews bowed and left. Griff doubted the man would report his wishes to the housekeeper and, if he did, the woman was likely as bold as her name suggested. Fothersgill seemed to have done a piss poor job of hiring and supervising staff.
He wandered into the drawing room. The hearth looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. No hearty fire blazed in the sooty grate. No wonder a damp chill hung in the air. Griff hadn’t laid eyes on a maid or footman since his arrival. It was as well he’d brought Frederick with him from London.
Clifton Heights had definitely seen better days, a reality that produced a twinge of guilt. His mother must be turning over in her grave. She’d taken immense pride in the ancestral home of the Earls of Pendlebury. Griff had neither the time nor the inclination to take care of it.
He’d hated the loneliness of the immense place after a tragic road accident had taken the lives of his parents three years before. The emptiness only served to intensify the enormity of his loss. A visit to an old family friend in London had opened up a whole new world—balls, musicales, loose women, coffee houses, gentlemen’s clubs, gaming halls. He’d never come back to Clifton Heights, lodging funds with Rowbotham for its upkeep and management.
Admittedly, he’d acquired some bad habits in London, but nothing he couldn’t control. He’d fallen in love with horse racing and invested the inheritance money from his parents wisely. The breeding stables were on the cusp of reaping huge rewards. A lot was riding on the Arabian.