Read Online The Nightingale Legacy by Catherine Coulter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Coulter
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father’s come?”
“It seems,” North said, leaning forward, all confidences, “that Mr. Ffalkes’s wife, Mathilda, eloped with a German footman. The daughter took the mother’s part and ran away too, the brother coming with her. She dislikes the father thoroughly. You’ll see he’s rather a nasty sort.”
“Ah,” said Tewksberry. “Ah, so that’s the way of it. A footman, eh? German, you say? Poor little mite.”
North nodded solemnly, paid his own bill, nodded to Mr. Tewksberry, and left the inn. He walked out into the inn yard, lightly slapping his riding crop against his thigh. The morning was overcast and would prove to be warm.
Rain threatened, but then again, rain always threatened in England, particularly here on the southwest coast. He called to one of the stable lads to bring out Treetop, who was probably so bored with his inactivity he’d race like the wind. He had to catch up with her and he doubted it would take him very long at all. Treetop was a magnificent beast, fleet and strong.
The boy saluted and bobbed, then ran into the large ramshackle stable set off to the side of the inn. He returned in very short order, red in the face, his eyes darting about frantically in search of help, of which there was none.
“Yer ’orse is gone, milord.”
“I beg your pardon? It’s the bay gelding with the two white socks.”
“I know, milord, but Sparkie says the young lady took Treetop and left ’er own ’orse fer ye—a brave old mare, full in the shoulders, but not a goer, milord, iffen ye ken what I mean.”
He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought, this time curses rather than amusement bubbling up. She’d done in Mr. Ffalkes and now she’d done him in as well, and with little effort on her part. She’d doubtless eyed Treetop and known she’d make better time with that superb beast carrying her than her own mare, who looked like she’d been eating her head off since they’d arrived here. She looked sleepy and lazy.
“Well, you old nag, what do you say?”
The old nag gave him a bored look.
“That bad, is it? No choice, sorry. Shall we find your mistress? It seems she’s misplaced herself along with my horse.”
Within minutes he’d found the note scribbled on a small bit of foolscap stuck in one of the leather saddle folds. He read:
Lord Chilton:
Do forgive me for taking your horse, but I don’t want Mr. Ffalkes to catch up with me. I would have to shoot him this time. I will return your horse to you, I swear. Wherever I go I will ask about Goonbell.
yr. servant
Caroline Derwent-Jones
Within five more minutes he was on his way back to Cornwall. So much for London, his man of business, his charming mistress, Judith, who was also an actress, who wouldn’t remain faithful to him or any other man if memorizing her lines depended on it. He sighed. Well, Judith was a bit slow in her thinking even if she chattered all the time. He remembered one evening he’d just crested in his pleasure when she’d said in a chirpy voice, “How I would love to play Desdemona, my lord. Can’t you just see me in a long blond wig—yellow blond—and Iago would do me in and my handsome Moor would strangle me and then regret it so deeply that he would arrange my lovely self against the covers and the pillow and then kill himself in his anguish and—”
He’d groaned, his fingers itching to go around her damned throat. He realized now that he was perilously close to laughing aloud remembering the ridiculous matter. He’d believed Judith incredibly skilled, which she was, but stupid, which hadn’t mattered. Her incessant chatter had grated, but somehow it paled when she caressed him and kissed him and… Damnation, now he was riding after that damned chit who had stolen his horse. Treetop had never known a sidesaddle before. He hoped he wouldn’t find her in a ditch somewhere with a broken neck.
He didn’t find her at all. She must be an excellent rider,for Treetop could be a
“It seems,” North said, leaning forward, all confidences, “that Mr. Ffalkes’s wife, Mathilda, eloped with a German footman. The daughter took the mother’s part and ran away too, the brother coming with her. She dislikes the father thoroughly. You’ll see he’s rather a nasty sort.”
“Ah,” said Tewksberry. “Ah, so that’s the way of it. A footman, eh? German, you say? Poor little mite.”
North nodded solemnly, paid his own bill, nodded to Mr. Tewksberry, and left the inn. He walked out into the inn yard, lightly slapping his riding crop against his thigh. The morning was overcast and would prove to be warm.
Rain threatened, but then again, rain always threatened in England, particularly here on the southwest coast. He called to one of the stable lads to bring out Treetop, who was probably so bored with his inactivity he’d race like the wind. He had to catch up with her and he doubted it would take him very long at all. Treetop was a magnificent beast, fleet and strong.
The boy saluted and bobbed, then ran into the large ramshackle stable set off to the side of the inn. He returned in very short order, red in the face, his eyes darting about frantically in search of help, of which there was none.
“Yer ’orse is gone, milord.”
“I beg your pardon? It’s the bay gelding with the two white socks.”
“I know, milord, but Sparkie says the young lady took Treetop and left ’er own ’orse fer ye—a brave old mare, full in the shoulders, but not a goer, milord, iffen ye ken what I mean.”
He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought, this time curses rather than amusement bubbling up. She’d done in Mr. Ffalkes and now she’d done him in as well, and with little effort on her part. She’d doubtless eyed Treetop and known she’d make better time with that superb beast carrying her than her own mare, who looked like she’d been eating her head off since they’d arrived here. She looked sleepy and lazy.
“Well, you old nag, what do you say?”
The old nag gave him a bored look.
“That bad, is it? No choice, sorry. Shall we find your mistress? It seems she’s misplaced herself along with my horse.”
Within minutes he’d found the note scribbled on a small bit of foolscap stuck in one of the leather saddle folds. He read:
Lord Chilton:
Do forgive me for taking your horse, but I don’t want Mr. Ffalkes to catch up with me. I would have to shoot him this time. I will return your horse to you, I swear. Wherever I go I will ask about Goonbell.
yr. servant
Caroline Derwent-Jones
Within five more minutes he was on his way back to Cornwall. So much for London, his man of business, his charming mistress, Judith, who was also an actress, who wouldn’t remain faithful to him or any other man if memorizing her lines depended on it. He sighed. Well, Judith was a bit slow in her thinking even if she chattered all the time. He remembered one evening he’d just crested in his pleasure when she’d said in a chirpy voice, “How I would love to play Desdemona, my lord. Can’t you just see me in a long blond wig—yellow blond—and Iago would do me in and my handsome Moor would strangle me and then regret it so deeply that he would arrange my lovely self against the covers and the pillow and then kill himself in his anguish and—”
He’d groaned, his fingers itching to go around her damned throat. He realized now that he was perilously close to laughing aloud remembering the ridiculous matter. He’d believed Judith incredibly skilled, which she was, but stupid, which hadn’t mattered. Her incessant chatter had grated, but somehow it paled when she caressed him and kissed him and… Damnation, now he was riding after that damned chit who had stolen his horse. Treetop had never known a sidesaddle before. He hoped he wouldn’t find her in a ditch somewhere with a broken neck.
He didn’t find her at all. She must be an excellent rider,for Treetop could be a
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