An Innocent Deceit. Gail Whitiker

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      ‘But surely the Earl will at least wish to see the applicants before the final selection is made,’ Catherine objected. ‘He would hardly commit his daughter to the care of someone he hasn’t even met.’

      ‘Why not? He was not around much for the first six years of Clara’s life, why would he feel compelled to be around for the next few?’ Antonia argued. ‘All Lord Carlyle requires of a riding master is that he be able to teach his daughter to sit a horse competently and to look good into the bargain. I have no doubt that I can do that as well, or better, than any old riding master from London.’

      ‘And what about Lord Carlyle’s refusal to employ women?’

      ‘Ah, now that did give me some cause for concern,’ Antonia confessed, ‘but I do believe I have come up with a rather brilliant idea for circumventing the problem.’

      Catherine saw the twinkle in her friend’s eye and warily shook her head. ‘Toni, what scheme are you concocting now? I know that look, and I know that it bodes no good!’

      ‘Tosh, it is a perfectly splendid idea, and one which will work very well if, as I suspect, Lord Carlyle will not be present for the interviews.’

      ‘Are you going to tell me what this perfectly splendid idea is?’

      ‘Not just at the moment. I still have a few more details to work out.’

      Clearly disappointed, Catherine’s pretty mouth turned downward. ‘I think you might at least have given me a hint, Toni. After all, I am your closest friend. But what if Lord Carlyle still finds out the truth of your identity, despite your splendid idea?’

      Antonia reached towards the tray and took a plain biscuit. ‘I am hoping that by that time, I will have been able to persuade his steward that I am more than capable of filling the position, and that the steward, in turn, will have been able to convince the Earl of the same. Lord Carlyle will not be looking for complications in his life, Kitty. Consequently, it only follows that if matters are proceeding according to plan, and his daughter is happy, it should not matter that the person teaching her how to ride is a woman. Besides which, he is only here for a few days each year.’

      ‘But what if he chances to see you on one of those days?’

      Antonia waved aside her friend’s objection. ‘I shall simply feign an illness and stay at home.’

      ‘That is all very well, but if the Earl does decide to spend more time in the area, I fear that your carefully formulated plan—whatever it is—will go for nought. Lord Carlyle will be none too pleased when he discovers that he has been the object of a clever little deceit.’

      ‘Kitty, we are only talking about the enactment of a simple deception, not a plot to overthrow the King,’ Antonia assured her. ‘Personally, I do not think his lordship will mind who teaches his daughter to ride so long as he does not have to be bothered about it. From what you say, he is much more addicted to Town pleasures anyway and, knowing that, I cannot think of any reason why a non pareil like Carlyle would suddenly decide to turn feather and retire to the bucolic tranquillity of Upper Tipping!’

      Chapter Two

      A suffocating yellow fog had descended upon London, blanketing the City, all but immobilising the steady flow of traffic through the already crowded streets. It hung in the night air like a shroud; stinging the eyes of those foolhardy enough to venture outside without suitable covering and making it nearly impossible for anyone to see more than two feet in front of them.

      Standing before the drawing-room window of the elegant house in Park Lane, Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Carlyle, stared out into the murky darkness of the night and felt as though the cursed fog had penetrated into the very room in which he stood. Its silence was oppressive; its heaviness permeating into even the most far-flung corners of the house, causing his head to ache, and his already sagging spirits to plummet like a stone.

      God, how he hated this house. Hated the unhappy memories associated with it and the wretched way it made him feel. He grew increasingly restless when forced to reside in it for any length of time; assailed by a boredom that was totally out of keeping with his normally ebullient spirits—which was why he endeavoured to spend as much of his time away from it as possible.

      But even that did him no good of late, for the moment he stepped through the front door, he felt the familiar malaise begin to return, settling on him much the same way the cursed fog had settled on London. And the most frustrating part of all was that he had absolutely no idea how to go about ridding himself of it.

      Turning away from the window, Sebastian walked towards the elegant sideboard situated between the pink and white marble fireplace and the ornate boule cabinet, and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He swirled the golden liquid in the bowl, impressed neither by the quality of the Venetian crystal nor by the excellent vintage of the wine. These things he took for granted, as he did everything else about the elegant town house in which he lived; a house which meant so little to him, yet which had meant everything to his late wife; the beautiful and desirable Violet, Countess of Carlyle.

      At the thought of the woman to whom he had been married, Sebastian tilted the glass to his lips and drank deeply, feeling the fiery spirit burn a path down his throat. Violet. It was hard to believe that she had been dead over two years. At times, he felt like she was still here, her spirit lingering on in the dark corridors of the vast house like a physical presence.

      And why would it not linger? Sebastian acknowledged wryly. There was far more of her here than there was of him. The Ming bowls and the other priceless knick-knacks she had been so fond of collecting—indeed, the house itself, with its Italian marble, and its magnificent crystal chandeliers—meant nothing to him. As Sebastian glanced around the opulent drawing room which had been embellished with nearly as much chinoiserie as the Regent’s pavilion in Brighton, all he could see were the suffocating crowds Violet had filled it with in her endless quest to become London’s most popular and accomplished hostess.

      And eventually, she had. But at what cost to him, and to their marriage?

      Still, all that was of little consequence now. Sebastian had married the beautiful, but shallow, Lady Violet Pelham, and had elevated her upon his father’s death to the exalted rank of Countess, whereupon she had set out to more than make up for the lack of regard her husband seemed to have for the title. And, in doing so, she had lost him.

      Perhaps that’s what this was all about, he reflected sadly. Perhaps regret was the cause of this…malaise which plagued him; dogging his steps, and causing the mouth which had once moved so easily to laughter to twist so cynically. God knew, he had been living a lie for more years than he cared to admit. A lie which had begun shortly after his marriage…and a marriage which had died shortly after it had begun…

      ‘My lord?’

      Sebastian raised the glass to his lips, but he did not turn around. ‘What is it, Royce?’

      ‘Mr Bingham asks if you might be able to see him.’

      Sebastian’s brow furrowed in annoyance. Damn. He wasn’t in a mood to see anyone right now, and certainly not the steward of Ashdean. The man knew him too well. He was one of the few people who could see beyond the barricades Sebastian erected, and who could touch on areas, on emotions, that were best left undiscovered.

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