My Lady's Honor. Julia Justiss

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      “I think it’s a terrible idea,” Gilen de Mowbry, Viscount St. Abrams muttered to his brother, frowning at the noisy group of friends preparing to ride out.

      Alden de Mowbry grinned at his sibling. “Don’t be a dead bore, Gil. Chase tells me the gypsies camp here every year, and ’tis very amusing to have one’s fortune read, or dice with their pretty wenches. Half the town comes out, as well as nearly all Lord DeLacey’s servants. The masculine contingent, anyway.”

      “The females have more sense,” Gilen retorted. “Certainly, visit the gypsy camp—if you wish to have the watch nabbed from your pocket while some dark-eyed charmer tells lies about your future.”

      “Come on, Gil!” Alden coaxed. “Remember, you’re bound soon for Harrogate. No amusement to be had in that rubbishing town full of half-pay soldiers and octogenarians. Best find some enjoyment while you can.”

      “Perhaps you’re right,” Gilen said with a sigh. “Jeffrey nursing a broken heart is devilish grim, and dancing attendance on his sick grandfather will scarcely be more entertaining.”

      Alden shuddered. “Sounds appalling! Why go at all? Stay here a while longer. Between billiards and cards, Chase has gone down to you by nearly five hundred pounds. I’m sure our host’s son would welcome the opportunity to win back some of his blunt.”

      Gilen chuckled. “Given his level of skill, he’d likely only lose more. And I really must go lend poor Jeff my support. Damn that Battersley chit! I tell you, Alden, there’s nothing so perfidious as a woman! Leading Jeffrey to a declaration, when all the time what she really wanted was to make the Earl of Farleigh’s chinless cub jealous enough to pop the question himself.”

      “Abandon old Jeff after he did, eh?”

      “As fast as it took to slip Farleigh’s emerald on her deceitful finger.”

      “You know Jeffrey, though,” Alden countered, “Ten to one, by the time you arrive he’ll have fallen for someone else. Too easygoing by half, and always fancying himself in love with some chit or other.”

      “Who’s he to fall in love with in Harrogate?”

      Alden nodded. “Point taken. I suppose you shall have to go cheer him up. Best friend since Eton, and such. Which,” he added, pushing his brother toward the door, “is all the more reason for you to come along with us and enjoy yourself tonight. Mayhap you’ll catch the eye of some fetching gypsy wench.”

      “And then catch the edge of her father or brother’s blade? Thank you, no!” he replied, laughing as he gave up his resistance and followed Alden.

      Lacey’s Retreat was only a day’s ride from Harrogate, but Gilen had broken his journey here with the ostensible excuse of spending time with his brother before Alden, Chase and their Oxford classmates returned to school. He had, he knew, been putting off the moment when he must confront Jeffrey’s sorrowful face—a sight which would only further inflame his temper against Davinia Battersley in particular and matchmaking females in general.

      Thank heaven that, not yet ready himself to become a tenant for life, Gilen confined his attentions to bits of muslin who performed zealously for the high wages he paid them. No fraudulent shows of devotion, no false sighing over his wit, strength, masculinity—just an honest exchange of mutual passion that left each party satisfied. And if the parting was sometimes a bit…tempestuous, he mused, recalling the shrieks and breaking of glass that had accompanied his giving that delectable but fiery-tempered opera singer her congé, such uproar occurred infrequently.

      Perhaps the gypsies also provided a straightforward bargain, he thought as he rode his skittish stallion behind the others. After all, if a man wished to throw away his coins listening to a pretty lass spout nonsense, that was his affair. In any event, observing the interplay should prove more amusing than the alternative—challenging himself to a solitary game of billiards while the rest of the party went off to the gypsy camp.

      His doubts about the excursion returned after they arrived, however. Chase, Alden and their other friends turned their mounts over to some gypsy youths, who herded them into a brushwork enclosure already containing a number of other horses. His temperamental stallion Raven, however, could not be closeted with other beasts and would have to be kept separately.

      While he hesitated, a tall gypsy lad approached. Before Gilen could warn him away, he came to Raven’s head, crooning softly. Instead of snorting, shying or baring his teeth at the intruder as Gilen expected, the stallion grew still, watching the boy, who continued to speak to him in a low, singsong voice. To Gilen’s surprise, Raven nickered and allowed the boy to stroke his velvet muzzle.

      “He’ll come with me now, sir,” the boy said.

      “You mustn’t put him in with the others,” Gilen advised as he dismounted.

      “I won’t,” the lad replied. Then, while Gilen watched in astonishment, instead of leading the stallion by the bridle, the boy merely walked away, still murmuring, Raven following him docilely like a chick after its mother hen.

      Shaking his head in wonderment at the spectacle, Gilen wandered into the encampment.

      Brightly dressed gypsy girls rolled dice, or shuffled cards, or traced their fingers along the palms of eagerly waiting men. A large bonfire burned in the center of the circle of wagons, and at its edge the gypsy men stood looking on, one of them idly playing on a violin.

      Gilen’s attention was drawn СКАЧАТЬ