The Scoundrel in Her Bed (Sins for All Seasons #3)(5)

“I’m sorry, so sorry, sweet girl,” she whispered, over and over, with tears welling in her eyes. “I was incredibly stupid, and now you’ll pay the price.”

If she weren’t hampered with a broken arm, she’d saddle Sophie, mount her, and ride away, a fantasy that overlooked the fact she’d never saddled a horse in her life and had no idea how to go about it. The advantage to having servants was that tasks were done, and she didn’t have to bother with learning the intricacies regarding how they were done. Except for the slaughtering of horses. Neville, intrigued by the ways in which London rid itself of its numerous aging and ill equines, had visited a slaughter depot. He’d then returned to regale her with the horrors of the slaughter and aftermath. She’d been all of seven, he sixteen, and she’d awoken with nightmares for an entire month. And now a horrible, ugly, hunchbacked man was coming to do the unthinkable to Sophie, and she hadn’t the ability to save her.

“M’lady?” Johnny, one of the grooms, said quietly at her back. “The slaughterer’s here. We need to retrieve Sophie from her stall.”

With anger, frustration, and grief all warring for dominance, she swung around, and her gaze fell on a stranger, no doubt the slaughterer. Only he wasn’t hideous and old and looking to have a heart made of stone. He was young. Perhaps half a dozen years older than she, if that. Beneath his brown flat-cap, his dark blond hair curled about the collar of his plain brown jacket. His white shirt and brown waistcoat were clean, but wrinkled, and she suspected his labors prevented them from remaining pristine all day. But it was his brown eyes that drew her, eyes that didn’t look to be those of a killer. “How can you do it?” she asked, her voice rough, her throat raw from all the tears that had made their way down it and clogged it. “How can you murder her? She’s not old. She’s not wicked. She didn’t intend to throw me.”

“We do what we’re paid to do.” His voice echoed resignation, as though it wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to address the accusations.

“Surely, you can spare her.”

He nodded toward her arm. “Did she do that?”

“No, the ground did, when I fell.”

“So she tossed you.”

“But it wasn’t her fault. I goaded her into it. Normally she’s a very docile creature.”

“She is that,” Johnny concurred.

“My father is stubborn. He won’t listen.” She took a step nearer. “But surely you will see the truth of things. Spare her.”

“We risk losing our license if we cheat the customer.”

“But you’re not cheating my father if he never learns of it. You’re cheating death. How marvelous that would be.”

“Sorry, m’lady. Now if you’ll be so good as to move aside.” He made to edge past her.

She balled up her good hand and smacked his shoulder, certain she’d injured herself more than she’d hurt him. He was solid rock, but at least he stopped and looked down on her, lording over her by several inches. Were he to hold her in his strong arms—which she most certainly would not allow—the top of her head would come to rest just beneath his collarbone. “She won’t suffer. I’ve a way with horses, so I can see to that. The end comes quick. She won’t even know.”

“You’re a monster! How can you do this?”

“Have you any idea how many horses are in London? Do you think people want to be stepping over rotten and smelling carcasses everywhere they turn? We provide a much-needed service.”

She heard the defensiveness in his tone, which made her feel peevish because she knew the truth of his words, knew something had to be done with the ancient and feeble steeds. “But Sophie is neither rotten, smelly, nor near death.”

“You should have thought of that before you goaded her.”

His words stung more than her hand did after hitting him. “You’re horrid!”

Ignoring her outburst, he strode past her, opened the stall gate, and slipped a noosed rope over Sophie’s head and secured it about her neck, affectionately rubbing the area. “Come on, pretty girl.”

He led her out. Lavinia rushed forward and wound her arms around her mare’s neck. “I’m so sorry, Sophie. So very sorry. I’ll never forget you. I’ll always love you, sweet girl.” Then she looked at the young man. “Please don’t let her be frightened.”

Sympathy and sorrow wove themselves through his brown eyes. “I’ll sing her the sweetest lullaby ever heard.”

“She’ll like that.” After planting a kiss on Sophie’s neck, taking one final deep breath of her fragrance, she stepped back, nearly crying out at the pain tightening her chest.

She watched as he led Sophie toward the wagon with its wooden enclosure, suspecting not all horses were in a position to take themselves where they needed to go, and that traveling in what looked to be a small plain cottage provided them with a bit of dignity. He urged her up the plank and closed the partial door on her. Lavinia’s final look at her beloved horse was her rump and the swishing of her tail as she was being carted off to be summarily executed, like one of Henry the Eighth’s doomed wives.



As the wagon rumbled slowly through the streets toward the slaughter yard, Finn Trewlove shifted his backside over the wooden bench and tightened his hands in frustration on the reins. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called to a posh house to dispose of a horse that appeared perfectly healthy. The nobs didn’t like it when a mare tossed off a precious daughter or a gelding took a nip at their valued heir’s arse. Still, it irritated the devil out of him when good horseflesh had to be put down for stupid reasons.