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Authors: Stefanie Sloane
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may,” Dixon interrupted, his gaze narrowing in on Marcus with barely concealed suspicion. “I can hardly allow a family with whom I hope to be intimatelyconnected to take such chances. Surely you can part with a bottle or two for the earl?”
Sir Arthur understood the simplicity of the matter, answering in the affirmative and turning to retrieve a bottle of the brandy from the cabinet behind him.
Did Dixon think Marcus so inept that he’d not seen something was amiss? The question was, which of the men was suspect? The amiable and intelligent Sir Arthur or the arrogant Dixon?
Marcus was inclined to assume it was Dixon, but he could not be sure so early in the investigation.
“It cannot be easy to part with such drink,” Marcus said as Sir Arthur handed him the bottle.
He nodded in the affirmative, though his lips spread into a smile. “Let it be in honor of our new friendship, my lord.”
“Yes,” Dixon added, “to friendship.”
That broadsword came to Marcus’s mind yet again as he downed the last of his brandy in reply.
“Within reason, my arse,” Sarah said to Percival. The peacock eyed her with a weary look, as though he completely disapproved of her language. The bird had found his way to Tisdale Manor after the death of his mate. Well, in all honesty, it was not the death of his dear Penelope but rather Percival’s grieving—which had taken the form of endless crowing without regard to either time or day—that had landed him in his current situation.
His owner, Lord Such and Such from two counties beyond Dorset, threatened to turn him loose—a death sentence, to be sure. Which was when Sarah had stepped in. Percival had been transported to Tisdale House posthaste, where he’d settled in quite comfortably, though the lack of a peahen did trouble him now and again.
Sarah sighed deeply and looked about the wood, the roof of the manor house visible between the trees. “I promised to give up the use of such colorful language when I married, did I not?” she asked the bird, careful to keep her distance. She adored Percival in all of his sumptuous finery, but he could be a bit testy at times.
Percival looked off to the right, his exquisite blue breast and head shining with brilliant color, even in the shadows of the forest.
“And I am, to the best of my knowledge, not as yet married,” Sarah added succinctly.
Percival let out a plaintive caw, and then looked back at Sarah.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew near and Sarah looked to the section of the drive visible from her hidden vantage point. Mr. Dixon trotted by on his bay, not bothering to lift his mount into a canter, but rather digging his spurs into the horse to force the gait.
Sarah very nearly cried out for him to stop, the bay visibly flinching at the act. But she held her tongue, knowing that it would, in the end, be of no use.
Mr. Dixon never abused his animals in a way that his peers would find objectionable. He was gifted in the art of nuanced cruelty, as the bay could attest. There were many aspects of Mr. Dixon’s personality that made him utterly repellant as a suitor or potential husband, but his treatment of his animals was the worst by far.
She’d endured his attention all these years for one reason and one reason alone: She’d made Mr. Dixon promise that she could give his animals a home once they’d reached the end of their usefulness to him.
It had been easy enough to convince such a vain man to release a five-year-old Thoroughbred based on his coloring or a two-year-old mastiff due to his slobber. One word from John Fairweather, Dixon’s farm manager and Sarah’s true friend, and the man was convincedthe animals had reached a shocking level of unworthiness.
“I do believe that it appears bay horses are frightfully out of fashion this season, Percival,” Sarah said to the bird, getting to her feet. “I’m sure that Mr. Fairweather will agree.”
“Caw,” Percival offered in return, his gorgeous
Sir Arthur understood the simplicity of the matter, answering in the affirmative and turning to retrieve a bottle of the brandy from the cabinet behind him.
Did Dixon think Marcus so inept that he’d not seen something was amiss? The question was, which of the men was suspect? The amiable and intelligent Sir Arthur or the arrogant Dixon?
Marcus was inclined to assume it was Dixon, but he could not be sure so early in the investigation.
“It cannot be easy to part with such drink,” Marcus said as Sir Arthur handed him the bottle.
He nodded in the affirmative, though his lips spread into a smile. “Let it be in honor of our new friendship, my lord.”
“Yes,” Dixon added, “to friendship.”
That broadsword came to Marcus’s mind yet again as he downed the last of his brandy in reply.
“Within reason, my arse,” Sarah said to Percival. The peacock eyed her with a weary look, as though he completely disapproved of her language. The bird had found his way to Tisdale Manor after the death of his mate. Well, in all honesty, it was not the death of his dear Penelope but rather Percival’s grieving—which had taken the form of endless crowing without regard to either time or day—that had landed him in his current situation.
His owner, Lord Such and Such from two counties beyond Dorset, threatened to turn him loose—a death sentence, to be sure. Which was when Sarah had stepped in. Percival had been transported to Tisdale House posthaste, where he’d settled in quite comfortably, though the lack of a peahen did trouble him now and again.
Sarah sighed deeply and looked about the wood, the roof of the manor house visible between the trees. “I promised to give up the use of such colorful language when I married, did I not?” she asked the bird, careful to keep her distance. She adored Percival in all of his sumptuous finery, but he could be a bit testy at times.
Percival looked off to the right, his exquisite blue breast and head shining with brilliant color, even in the shadows of the forest.
“And I am, to the best of my knowledge, not as yet married,” Sarah added succinctly.
Percival let out a plaintive caw, and then looked back at Sarah.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew near and Sarah looked to the section of the drive visible from her hidden vantage point. Mr. Dixon trotted by on his bay, not bothering to lift his mount into a canter, but rather digging his spurs into the horse to force the gait.
Sarah very nearly cried out for him to stop, the bay visibly flinching at the act. But she held her tongue, knowing that it would, in the end, be of no use.
Mr. Dixon never abused his animals in a way that his peers would find objectionable. He was gifted in the art of nuanced cruelty, as the bay could attest. There were many aspects of Mr. Dixon’s personality that made him utterly repellant as a suitor or potential husband, but his treatment of his animals was the worst by far.
She’d endured his attention all these years for one reason and one reason alone: She’d made Mr. Dixon promise that she could give his animals a home once they’d reached the end of their usefulness to him.
It had been easy enough to convince such a vain man to release a five-year-old Thoroughbred based on his coloring or a two-year-old mastiff due to his slobber. One word from John Fairweather, Dixon’s farm manager and Sarah’s true friend, and the man was convincedthe animals had reached a shocking level of unworthiness.
“I do believe that it appears bay horses are frightfully out of fashion this season, Percival,” Sarah said to the bird, getting to her feet. “I’m sure that Mr. Fairweather will agree.”
“Caw,” Percival offered in return, his gorgeous
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