“I did it.” Jeremiah said again, closing his eyes and laying his head on his father’s shoulder. “I fell off.”

“Splendidly,” Ethan assured him. The pony spoiled the moment, pony fashion, by butting Ethan’s shoulder, nearly pushing man and boy onto their arses in the dirt.

“Wretched beast,” Ethan murmured, still holding his son. “Shall we see how your brother fares?”

“He’ll be fine,” Jeremiah said as Ethan set him on his feet. “He’s little.”

“I know what you mean. He seems to bounce through life.”

“Is that bad?” Jeremiah watched as, at the halt, Joshua slid off his pony.

“No,” Ethan said, thinking of another little brother who seemed to bounce through life. “But he didn’t bounce just then, did he?”

“No.” Jeremiah grinned. “You don’t bounce either.”

“And neither do you, Jeremiah.” Ethan smiled back. “But you fall beautifully.”

* * *

Ethan sent his sons up to the house, and off they went at a dead run. He turned toward the stables, intent on retrieving his waistcoat, knowing that hours of ledgers and correspondence awaited him in the library.

A cheering thought intruded: he and Alice had never quite gotten around to a discussion of the boys’ curriculum.

And then the cheering thought was interrupted by the sight of a groom who had Joshua’s pony, Thunder, trailing on a lead behind him. Thunder was rearing and propping, and for good cause. The groom was using the end of the leather lead shank to whack at the pony’s neck and shoulders.

“Step on me, will ye?” the man shouted. “I’ll show ye who ye can step on, ye hairy little shite. No damned manners, and getting fussed all day has ye spoilt rotten. The knacker would love to take a knife to yer tough little hide.”

“Hold,” Ethan said quite loudly as he approached the man, “and I do mean now.”

The man nodded. “G’day to ye, guv. Little monster thought to stomp me good.”

The little monster was still kiting around on the end of his lead line, eyes rolling at the potential new threat Ethan posed.

“Give him to me.” Ethan held out a hand for the lead shank, keeping his voice quiet. “When did he attempt this violence?”

The man gestured to the stables, fifty yards distant. “In the barn. Just up and tromped on me boot.”

Sturdy, if worn, heavy boots, Ethan noted. And the groom himself had the thick, muscular physique and dusty, worn attire of a typical plowboy.

Thunder, by contrast, was a Welsh pony, an elegant little equine standing about twelve hands. He was small enough to work the mines, about as small as a riding mount could be, even for a child.

“So you thought to discipline him here.” Ethan stroked a hand down the pony’s coarse mane. “To impress upon him the error of his ways, what, a quarter mile and ten minutes after the crime?”

“He’s stubborn, that one.” The groom eyed the pony balefully. “Takes a firm hand.”

Miller came puffing out from the stables, just as Ethan would have bellowed for him.

“Problem, Mr. Grey?” Miller asked, using deferential address before an inferior.

“Did Thunder act up in the barn? Perhaps misbehave in hand or take advantage of Mr. Thatcher here?”

“Thunder?” Miller snorted and glanced at the now-quiet pony. “That beast doesn’t know how to misbehave, unless it’s to snitch a mouthful of grass. He dodged a little when a cat jumped up the ladder beside him, but it weren’t mischief.”

“A misunderstanding then,” Ethan said. “Easily explained. Miller, you will see Thunder to his paddock, please?” Ethan gave the pony a final pat and passed the lead shank to Miller.

Thunder—a good boy of the equine persuasion—followed docilely.

“Mr. Thatcher.” Ethan eyed the man coolly. “I trust Miller’s judgment more than my own when it comes to horses. What have you to say for yourself?”

“Miller weren’t leading the damned pony.” Thatcher’s chest heaved with indignation. “Them’s dangerous, ponies are. Them’s quick and mean and belongs in the mines with both eyes put out.”

“How did you come to work in the stables?”

“Came to help with the last harvest in the fall,” Thatcher said. “Miller took sick in the winter. I stayed on.”

And Ethan had trusted Miller to sort out the bad apples that had come in with the harvest.

“Stay away from the ponies, Thatcher. Another such misunderstanding, and I will turn you off. Ponies can easily be made mean, but that pony belongs to my son and is none of yours to make mistakes with. Do we understand each other?”

Clearly, Ethan was making an enemy. The man’s eyes narrowed, his expression closed, and his gaze went to where Miller was turning the pony out with Lightning, who bucked and cantered up to his mate in welcome.

“I understand ye clear enough.” In a cavalier display of rudeness, Thatcher spat his words, turned his back on his employer, and stomped off. Which confirmed to Ethan he should have fired the man, plain and simple. He’d have Miller find a pretext for doing same, but leave it in his stable master’s hands. Some of the joy of the morning was tarnished, but not all.

He could find Alice and interrogate her regarding Latin primers and whatever else she’d been prosing on about before more important matters had come under discussion.

He smiled as he turned back toward the house, but paused before the peach tree, not intending to grab a snack but merely to assess the ripening crop. As he stood in the tree’s shade, he spied Alice walking hand in hand with a tall, dark-haired man in riding attire. It wasn’t anybody Ethan recognized, and Alice was a fair distance from the house. As he debated intruding—a gentleman did not spy—Alice stopped and wrapped her arms around the man, holding him in a fiercely close embrace.

Seven

Ethan left his chambers for the lower floors of the house, his toilet repaired sufficiently for the noonday meal.

His mood, however, was not in good repair at all. He caught the eye of the footman at the end of the corridor. Tall, blond, handsome—like Nick, of course. “It’s Davey, isn’t it?”

The fellow smiled, revealing surprisingly good teeth. “That would be me, Mr. Grey.”

“Be warned. The boys like you.” Ethan hurried off, stomach growling, mood deteriorating apace. If Alice Portman had a gentleman caller, she would in nowise be hanging about Tydings for even her probationary period. No woman in her right mind chose governessing over matrimony.

Where was Ethan supposed to find another governess, and how was he supposed to explain it to the boys?

“Mr. Grey?” Mrs. Buxton stopped him at the foot of the steps. “We’ve set lunch in the dining room. Miss Portman said there’s to be a gentleman for company. She’s in the family parlor with the gentleman, and she asked the boys to join the adults at table.”

Ethan’s eyebrows rose, as this was presumption upon presumption. “She did?”

“She certainly did,” Mrs. Buxton nodded, sails filling with righteousness.

“Then she must have had good reasons,” Ethan said before the housekeeper could launch her first volley. “You will tell the kitchen I’m sure lunch will be exemplary, particularly the vegetable dishes.”

“Aye, sir.” Mrs. Buxton looked confused, but bobbed her curtsy and disappeared, no doubt to inform the kitchen they were in Ethan’s crosshairs.

His mood sank further when he heard genuine, hearty laughter as he approached the family parlor. Alice’s suitor was apparently a charming bastard, making Ethan realize he hadn’t heard her laugh yet—not like that. Alice Portman was overstepping, and—to take a maliciously appropriate leaf from her own book—she could have done Ethan the courtesy of asking.

He swept into the family parlor without knocking, as it was his goddamned house, and Alice was practically sitting in the man’s lap.

“Miss Portman.” Ethan barely nodded. “I see you have an unanticipated guest.”

“Grey.” The man rose, and Ethan saw his face for the first time. “A pleasure to see you again. My sister has said only nice things about you, so I know you’re hiding something.”

God above. Ethan stuck out his hand on reflex, as he did indeed know the man.

“Alice is your sister?” Ethan managed, mental gears whizzing. If Benjamin Hazlit was Alice Portman’s brother, then why weren’t their last names the same? By God, if Alice were married. His mood halted mid-plunge and reversed itself: she might be widowed…

“My younger sister.” Hazlit’s smile was faintly mocking. “I am reporting for inspection, because we haven’t seen each other for some weeks. My apologies for not sending word in advance, but I was in the neighborhood. You have a lovely estate, at least what I’ve seen of it, and Alice says the house is just as pretty.”

“My thanks,” Ethan said, recovering a few of his wits. “Has Al—Miss Portman offered you something to drink?”

Alice smiled at him, and this Alice—who laughed, who welcomed a brother much respected in Polite Society—bore little resemblance to the woman who’d clung to Ethan beneath the maple tree.

“We were waiting for you, Mr. Grey,” she said. “I apologize for not warning you, but Benjamin tends to show up for an unannounced call whenever I change positions. It’s always a pleasant surprise to see him.”

There was a plea in her smile, for forbearance, maybe. She hadn’t invited her brother here and probably wasn’t entirely glad to see the man. And for Alice—Ethan knew this about her—there would always be something unpleasant about any surprise.

“Family should always be welcome,” Ethan said. “Let me ring for drinks. Something chilled might do. Lemonade?”