Page 9 of His Spirited Lady
Amelia tip-toed to her bed and arranged the pillows under the coverlet until they resembled a sleeping miss. Then she shoved a straw hat on her head and pushed her messy hair back under the brim and into the crown. After drawing the drapes, she left the room and hurried to the back stairs.
Halfway down, she met her maid, Rose. The young woman dropped a quick curtsey, her eyes wide. “Miss. Are you…going out?”
“I’ll be back well before dinner,” Amelia whispered. “Would you please draw a bath for Miss Graves?”
“Yes, miss, but are you certain—”
“I’m not leaving our property. I’m perfectly safe.” The extra money Amelia paid for the maid’s silence couldn’t buy confidence in her decisions.
It also couldn’t buy Amelia more time. She stepped into the servant’s hall, and strode toward the rear door. She’d learned long ago that skulking drew more attention than acting as though she belonged somewhere. In the courtyard, chickens scattered, squawking and scolding, and half-dry laundry slapped in the lavender-scented breeze.
Once in the stable, Amelia buttoned her gloves before tying her hat under her chin. A groom waited with Molly’s reins in hand.
“Thank you, Henry.” Amelia stepped up and looped her knee around the pommel.
A twitch of the reins urged the horse at a sedate pace with a toss of her head. Her large ribs heaved in what could have been a sigh. Amelia stroked her neck as they reached the paddock. “Just a bit longer, girl. I promise.”
On the other side of the paddock, Amelia urged Molly into a trot. After they crested the rise behind the house, Amelia shifted in the saddle, swinging her leg over so that she was astride. She leaned forward, Molly’s mane coarse against her cheek, and pressed her heels into the horse’s ribs. “Let’s run.”
There wasn’t a need to ask twice. Molly’s hooves thudded against the ground, and her mane whipped across Amelia’s face, bringing the scent of sweet hay and sunshine. The wind pushed Amelia’s hat until it tumbled down her back and freed her hair to the warmth of the sun.
They reached the distillery far too soon for Amelia. Molly agreed, given how she pranced in the rough-hewn corral. However, the promise of fresh oats and cool water helped calm her. Amelia dismounted and looped the reins through a ring at the front of the trough. An orange tabby wobbled against her ankles.
“Drunk again, Caspar?” She bent to scratch between his ears. “Someone needs to mop up better.”
The distillery door swung open. “You’re late,Eamon.”
Drake Fletcher was leaning against the threshold, arms crossed over an intricately patterned waistcoat of black and gold. The black matched his shirt, which matched his trousers, which matched his hair, a shock of which dropped over his eyes. Every time Amelia saw him, she imagined him fading into shadows with nothing visible but those eyes, like a wolf in the woods.
Except for the smirk on his face.
“Who knew society earls could be so tenacious?” she said as she brushed past him and entered the distillery.
“Probably every young woman in London.” Drake followed her.
Their steps echoed from the stone floor and walls of the barrel room. The musty smell of cold rock blended with the sweet smoky scent of unused barrels and the freshly cut pine shelves, most of which sat waiting for stock to fill them.
“Thank you for watching things here while I was away,” Amelia said.
“That’s why you pay me,” Drake replied. “But you’re welcome.”
It had been one of the luckiest days in her life when the Duke of Rushford had introduced her to Drake Fletcher in the barnyard at The Galloping Goat. The man was brilliant, loyal, and trustworthy. He used his brain, but he never shied from getting his hands dirty.
Through another door was the bottling room. A long table stood in the middle of the well-lit space, a group of empty honey-colored bottles at one end. A box of corks and mallets were in the middle.
Two desks sat on the opposite wall. “It’s good to see they’ve arrived,” she said.
“It took all the boys to bring them in, but Sara appreciates them,” Drake said. He pointed to the gas lanterns resting on the desktops. “Especially those. Her writing is already better.”
Amelia plucked a neatly printed label from the box on the nearest end of the table.Fine whiskey made and bottled by Eamon Brewer in Norfolk.
A shiver of pride shot down Amelia’s spine.
“And Florence?” She’d sent the village girl to Drake after Reverend Carson had mentioned her affinity for mathematics.
“Carson was right. She’s quick with numbers. She’s very shy. I had to have Sara in the room with us before Florence would speak to me in more than one word sentences.” Drake chuckled as he produced a ledger. “But that just means she’ll be discreet.”
The figures were straight and even, and the mechanics weren’t visible on the page—something Amelia had never managed. But the balances were dwindling.
