The Gilded Cage by Lucinda Gray Read Free Book Online Page B

went by a different route.”
    â€œNo coaches today at all,” he says. “It would be madness in these conditions.”
    â€œYou’re sure my brother’s horse is not stabled here? His name is Croxley. The horse, that is. A mahogany stallion.”
    He glares at me above his eyeglasses, causing his chins to squash together impressively. “Quite sure, young lady. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He goes back to his ledger, paying me no further mind.
    I leave the room, more troubled than before. If George isn’t in London, where can he be? What if he went out to paint and got lost in the woods? What if his horse slipped and … I shake my head sharply. I won’t let myself get carried away. He’s probably back at the house already, feet up, snug and warm. He’s going to laugh at me when I get home, blue with cold. You should have left a note , I’ll tell him. That will only make him laugh more.
    I’m walking back to my carriage when a man beside a piebald stallion catches my eye. His shoulders are broad beneath a crisp black coat, and the wind has ruffled his dark hair into disarray. He says something I can’t hear to the steward beside him, and they both laugh.
    With a start of recognition, I realize that it’s William Simpson—a man I hardly imagined capable of laughter. Beneath his open coat, he wears a dark suit with a buttoned waistcoat. When our eyes meet, I raise a gloved hand to greet him. His smile falters, and he gazes at me with surprise, and something else. Disappointment? Red color rushes into his pale cheeks as I walk determinedly toward him.
    â€œLady Katherine,” he says, with a small bow. “What are you doing here?”
    His tone is faintly accusing.
    â€œMr. Simpson. How lovely to see you, too. I was looking for my brother.”
    He lifts an eyebrow. “That makes two of us.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    Mr. Simpson clutches a document case in one hand, and gestures to the coaching house with the other. “We were supposed to travel together to London,” he says.
    â€œ You were going with him?”
    Mr. Simpson nods briskly. “He wanted someone to find him an agent in London, to arrange the sale of his paintings.”
    â€œGeorge never told me that,” I say, in a more accusing tone than I intended.
    He bristles. “That is between you and your brother,” he says.
    â€œAnd why didn’t you say anything last night?” I ask him playfully. “As I recall, we were looking at a painting together at Walthingham Hall.” I want to make him smile again, the way he did for the steward.
    â€œThere was no opportunity,” he says, and judging from his pained expression, I know he is remembering his hurried exit. This isn’t going well at all. “Perhaps you think I’m ill suited to the task?” he persists. “Though I may be just a lawyer, I’m not entirely unschooled in the sale of art.”
    â€œNo, of course not. That isn’t what I—”
    â€œNo matter,” says Mr. Simpson. “The coach was canceled in any case, and Lord Walthingham never arrived. When you see him next, do tell him that I’ll be waiting on him here until the roads clear.”
    He nods to the steward, and walks back toward the coaching house.
    *   *   *
    The snow thickens as we make our way back through the countryside, and my unhappiness deepens with it. It’s too cold to sit up beside John, and he answers my misery with a tactful silence.
    My anger at George for being so inconsiderate mixes in my mind with frustration at Mr. Simpson’s paranoid sensitivity. He must have a sense of humor, however deeply buried.
    It’s not long before we’re cresting the final ridge before the estate’s borders, and Walthingham’s great facade becomes visible in the distance. Though it’s beautiful, its pale stone and glass illuminated in