you,” she said crisply, “but I should be grateful if you will confine your attention to my horse, and perhaps be so kind as to lend me another to ride home.”
“As you wish,” he responded, unoffended. “You will then, all of you, return tomorrow?”
“We shall,” she said firmly. “Thank you.”
“Are you daft, Caro?” Brandon demanded when she was mounted again and they had ridden some distance from the camp. “You don’t want to have anything more to do with those fellows.”
“Oh, but I do,” she said, grinning at him. “I have the most delightful plan for that beautiful man.”
“Look here, my girl, if you think for one minute that I’ll let you make a cake of yourself over some damned gypsy—”
“Don’t be nonsensical,” she said, laughing. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she added, “Fall back a bit, Cleves. Mr. Manningford and I wish to speak privately.”
“Very well, miss, but beggin’ yer pardon, am I to tell anyone you’ve gone and left that black with them gypsies?”
“Good gracious, I never thought about that! And we’ve this horse to explain as well,” she added, patting the bay she rode. “What can we tell them, Brandon? It won’t do for Sydney to discover we’ve been to the gypsy camp.”
“What, running scared?” he said. “Serves you right. It’s his nag, after all, not yours as you told those fellows. And since Shadow’s better bred than that slug you’re riding now, Saint-Denis might not have any more confidence in their returning him than I have. I think you’ll come a cropper this time.”
“No, I won’t. They won’t wish to offend him, after all, if they are camped on his land, so I doubt that they will steal Shadow. Salas looked much too gentle to do such a thing.”
“Well, I wouldn’t count on that. Just what do you think you can tell Saint-Denis, or his stable man, for that matter?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon,” Cleves said, “but I could say as I’d left ’im at one o’ the tenant farms ’n borried that nag in ’is place, ’n that I’ll trade ’em round again come mornin’.”
“Good enough,” Brandon said. “You do that. But you,” he added to Carolyn when the groom had fallen behind, “will leave well enough alone. Cleves can fetch the nag without us.”
“Oh, no, he cannot,” Carolyn said. “That would not suit me at all, Brandon, and I’ll need you there to help me.”
He looked suspiciously at her. “Help you with what?”
“Salas is a perfect foreign count,” she declared, twinkling.
Brandon’s eyes widened. “You’re daft.”
“No, I’m not. Sydney will never guess Salas is a gypsy if we dress him suitably and tell him not to talk very much. Can’t you just imagine what he will look like in evening breeches and a snugly fitting coat?”
“And where,” Brandon demanded grimly, “does your fruitful imagination suggest he’s going to get such stuff, if you please? No, don’t tell me. I am to manufacture it out of whole cloth.”
“I don’t think you will have to do that,” she said. “Surely you must know someone of his size who would lend you a coat and a decent pair of breeches.”
“Well, I don’t,” he said flatly.
“Brandon, don’t be difficult. I am doing this on your account as well as my own.” Faced with his blatant disbelief, she flushed and said, “Well, nearly, anyway. It was when I said I had no reason not to trust you to take me into the gardens that Sydney said I was a poor judge of men and must trust his judgment above my own. Now, I ask you, was that fair of him? All I want to do,” she added hastily when he did not at once reply, “is to give him back a bit of his own, to prove to him that he doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does.”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “A canny fellow, Saint-Denis. I doubt you can fool him so easily as that.”
“Well, I can. You wait. I saw how Salas moves and how he carries himself. In his way, he’s as puffed up
“As you wish,” he responded, unoffended. “You will then, all of you, return tomorrow?”
“We shall,” she said firmly. “Thank you.”
“Are you daft, Caro?” Brandon demanded when she was mounted again and they had ridden some distance from the camp. “You don’t want to have anything more to do with those fellows.”
“Oh, but I do,” she said, grinning at him. “I have the most delightful plan for that beautiful man.”
“Look here, my girl, if you think for one minute that I’ll let you make a cake of yourself over some damned gypsy—”
“Don’t be nonsensical,” she said, laughing. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she added, “Fall back a bit, Cleves. Mr. Manningford and I wish to speak privately.”
“Very well, miss, but beggin’ yer pardon, am I to tell anyone you’ve gone and left that black with them gypsies?”
“Good gracious, I never thought about that! And we’ve this horse to explain as well,” she added, patting the bay she rode. “What can we tell them, Brandon? It won’t do for Sydney to discover we’ve been to the gypsy camp.”
“What, running scared?” he said. “Serves you right. It’s his nag, after all, not yours as you told those fellows. And since Shadow’s better bred than that slug you’re riding now, Saint-Denis might not have any more confidence in their returning him than I have. I think you’ll come a cropper this time.”
“No, I won’t. They won’t wish to offend him, after all, if they are camped on his land, so I doubt that they will steal Shadow. Salas looked much too gentle to do such a thing.”
“Well, I wouldn’t count on that. Just what do you think you can tell Saint-Denis, or his stable man, for that matter?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon,” Cleves said, “but I could say as I’d left ’im at one o’ the tenant farms ’n borried that nag in ’is place, ’n that I’ll trade ’em round again come mornin’.”
“Good enough,” Brandon said. “You do that. But you,” he added to Carolyn when the groom had fallen behind, “will leave well enough alone. Cleves can fetch the nag without us.”
“Oh, no, he cannot,” Carolyn said. “That would not suit me at all, Brandon, and I’ll need you there to help me.”
He looked suspiciously at her. “Help you with what?”
“Salas is a perfect foreign count,” she declared, twinkling.
Brandon’s eyes widened. “You’re daft.”
“No, I’m not. Sydney will never guess Salas is a gypsy if we dress him suitably and tell him not to talk very much. Can’t you just imagine what he will look like in evening breeches and a snugly fitting coat?”
“And where,” Brandon demanded grimly, “does your fruitful imagination suggest he’s going to get such stuff, if you please? No, don’t tell me. I am to manufacture it out of whole cloth.”
“I don’t think you will have to do that,” she said. “Surely you must know someone of his size who would lend you a coat and a decent pair of breeches.”
“Well, I don’t,” he said flatly.
“Brandon, don’t be difficult. I am doing this on your account as well as my own.” Faced with his blatant disbelief, she flushed and said, “Well, nearly, anyway. It was when I said I had no reason not to trust you to take me into the gardens that Sydney said I was a poor judge of men and must trust his judgment above my own. Now, I ask you, was that fair of him? All I want to do,” she added hastily when he did not at once reply, “is to give him back a bit of his own, to prove to him that he doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does.”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “A canny fellow, Saint-Denis. I doubt you can fool him so easily as that.”
“Well, I can. You wait. I saw how Salas moves and how he carries himself. In his way, he’s as puffed up
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