The Deception Read Online Free PDF

skepticism in the earl’s eyes as he scanned my face. “It sounded a hasty scheme to me too, my lord,” I admitted, “but my uncle was quite concerned that this other buyer would beat you out of the sword.”
    Silence.
    “I promise I will be no trouble,” I said, and bit my lip as I heard the pleading note in my own voice.
    He looked at me with hard gray eyes, then he shrugged. “Very well,” he said. Pause. “You do realize that this is a five-hour drive, Miss Fitzgerald?”
    “I am not a hothouse flower, my lord,” I said with dignity. “I can withstand a five-hour drive in fine weather.”
    For the first time I saw the hint of a smile in his eyes. “Very well.” He glanced significantly toward the street. “I would prefer not to keep my horses waiting.”
    “It will take me but a moment to get my pelisse and bonnet,” I promised, and ran out of the room.
    * * * *
    I am not usually shy with people, but as we drove westward out of London I definitely felt shy with Greystone. It was not his looks that overset me—after all, I had spent most of my life looking at Papa—it was his reputation as a war hero that did it. He had had three horses shot out from under him at Waterloo, and then, even though he was injured, he had led some sort of cavalry charge that everyone talked about for months.
    It was hard to think of war on such a beautiful May morning, however, and by the time we were clear of the city traffic my unusual attack of reticence had disappeared. I have always found the best way to make friends with people is to ask them about the things that they like, so I asked him about his interest in King Alfred.
    He replied easily, “My principal seat is near the Berkshire Downs—Alfred’s own country—and I developed an interest in him when I was a boy. It was my mother who got me started actually collecting. She had a great interest in our Saxon heritage.”
    I knew very little about King Alfred myself and asked him a dozen more questions, all of which he answered with perfect good humor. It was just lovely to be out of London in the spring sunshine, and, defying convention, I took off my bonnet so I could feel the sun’s warmth on my face. The road we were driving along was flanked by stretching fields of corn, and I admired the flush of green wheat that waved gently in the soft breeze. The grassy verge at the roadside was sprinkled with brilliant patches of lady’s grove, blue speedwell, and yellow primroses. I was glad that I had made Greystone take me.
    After we had finished with King Alfred as a subject, I asked him how France was recovering from the war. While he talked, I inhaled the fresh air, watching the way the sun shone on his uncovered hair, and forgot about my uncle.
    Then he said, “Now it is your turn to tell me about yourself, Miss Fitzgerald. I have heard from several sources that your father was an incomparable judge of a horse. Is that indeed so?”
    I was delighted to have an opportunity to talk about Papa. Greystone was such a good listener that I was still talking when we stopped at a posting inn to rest the horses, and I kept on talking while he hired a private parlor for us to partake of a luncheon. Over the cold meat and cheese I found myself telling him about the way Papa had died.
    “It was such a strange thing for him to say— I didn’t think that he suspected I knew. I keep thinking about it, my lord, but it doesn’t make sense. Whom could he have been referring to?”
    “Perhaps he had drifted away in his mind,” Greystone suggested in a surprisingly gentle voice. “I have seen dying men do that, Miss Fitzgerald.”
    I did not think that Papa had drifted away, but I forbore to press the point. I didn’t know what had made me talk about Papa’s words with this man anyway. I certainly had never mentioned them to anyone else.
    After luncheon we returned to the road, driving southward into Hampshire. We were about an hour away from our destination and progressing