She nodded and smiled, able to sympathize even in her agitated state of mind with his pride in his horse. He rode on toward the stables and she resigned herself to a prolonged wait while he saw the noble animal properly rubbed down and bestowed.
Twenty minutes later he came striding into the house, and laying down his hat and whip on the table in the hall, said in an undervoice vibrant with excitement, “Where is Cheviot?”
“In his bedchamber with the blinds drawn and Crawley chafing his feet. Oh, Nicky—”
“Hush! Come into the bookroom, Cousin: we must not be talking here, where we might be overheard.”
“Oh, no!” she agreed, going toward the bookroom obediently. “But indeed I think he is in truth laid down upon his bed. He is suffering the greatest irritation of nerves. I cannot allow that to be called in question.”
“Lord, yes, don’t I know it!” he said, shutting the door securely and treading over to the fire to cast another log on to it. “Sick as a horse! He told you that Louis de Castres has been murdered?”
“Yes, and the reflections this shocking event conjures up are so horrid that my own nerves are in a sad way. Where is your brother? I had hoped he might have come back here with you!”
“No, no, you will not be seeing Ned today!” Nicky replied. “He has gone up to London—driving post, you know, and taking his own bays over the first two stages! Prime goers, those bays of his! Beautiful J steppers!”
“Gone up to London!” she exclaimed in a stupefied tone.
“Yes. He said he would come back as fast as he could, but—”