The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet, Katherine Cowley [books successful people read .TXT] 📗

“Miss Mary Bennet,” she said automatically, then realized it might have been better to defer him or give a false name. She reached for more words, something she could ask that might lead him to reveal information, but her mind came up blank. Before she could say anything to prolong the conversation, Mr. Stanley spoke.

“Let me assist you onto your horse, and we can return to Castle Durrington together.”

“Of course.”

They led the horse away from the fence. Unlike the groom, Mr. Stanley did not check the saddle or the girth straps, but Mary had just done so, so it did not matter. She positioned her right hand on the fixed head of the saddle and raised her skirts slightly with her left. She lifted her right foot, placing it on his hands, and he smiled up at her in a way that led her to wonder if he really was a gentleman.

“Ready?” asked Mary.

“Ready.”

She sprang with her left foot and Mr. Stanley lifted up her right foot, but he did it with much greater speed and strength than a groom had ever done. She found herself crying out as she gripped her hand on the saddle head. She tried to land, as she had always done, on the horse, but her posterior never quite connected with the saddle and she felt herself slipping, flying, right over the top of the horse and over the opposite side. She barely had time to register that she was falling before she landed on the dirt on the other side of the horse.

“Miss Bennet! Are you injured?”

The horse made a concerned sort of snort.

For a moment, Mary could not breathe. She blinked, confused by the clouds above her. Finally, she drew in a breath, assessing her situation. She had fallen off the horse and onto her back. Her entire body ached. In particular, her posterior had never been in so much pain in her life, but that was not the sort of injury one mentioned to a gentleman.

In part, she wanted to cry, out of both pain and embarrassment, but she would not betray herself with this sort of expression of emotion. She had already cried once today, and that was more than enough.

Mr. Stanley reached out to grab her hands. “I am ever so sorry,” he said as he attempted to help her to her feet. She wanted to push him away, to say something bitter about his lack of competence at performing a basic task, but she stifled the urge. She needed information, and anger was unlikely to draw it out.

She allowed Mr. Stanley to help her to her feet, though it probably would have been easier to do it on her own. As Mr. Stanley continued to apologize, she brushed the dirt off her gloves and her dress, contemplating what she should say as she attempted to ignore her throbbing posterior. Her cloak had come undone, and as she rebuttoned it, she smiled at him.

“No harm done, Mr. Stanley, I am perfectly fine.” That was the sort of forgiving thing that Jane would say. And now, ideally, she would say something a bit flirtatious, but not silly, maybe what Elizabeth might say to Mr. Darcy, now that they liked each other. “Though you may be in my debt for a very long time. I will need to decide how to extract payment from you.”

“Of course, Miss Bennet. I hope you will give me the opportunity to make it up to you.”

The perfect thing to say came to her, based on the fragment she had heard of Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow’s conversation. “I am sure the opportunity will present itself. After all, we will be working together in London, as partners.”

Some emotion passed over his face, though exactly what, Mary could not tell. “If you are working with us, then you are not a woman to be trifled with.”

She did not understand that comment, so for lack of a better response, Mary smiled again. “You are obviously a man of great strength. Shall we try again?”

He nodded. Mary made a point of checking the saddle. It had shifted slightly, and she fixed it and adjusted the girth straps. Then Mr. Stanley helped her mount, this time without mishap.

Mr. Stanley mounted his own horse—she envied the male saddle—and started his horse at a trot. But that would not do, not at all. She needed to be able to talk, so she could question him.

“Mr. Stanley! I prefer if we keep the horses at a walk. I am feeling a little stiff from my fall.”

“Of course.” He stopped his horse and waited to proceed until Mary was beside him.

“How long will you be staying at Castle Durrington?”

“Probably only a few hours, though I will do as Lady Trafford directs.”

“And then will you return to Arundel?” That was the village Withrow had mentioned.

“No, back home to Chichester, at least until I go to London,” said Mr. Stanley. “What is our assignment? Who are we tracking this time?”

This was the trouble with pretenses: Mary did not have the least idea. Rather than confessing her ignorance she said, “I will let Lady Trafford tell you of it. She will explain it much better than I can.”

Her throat felt almost strangled by the fear that he would discover her. Mr. Stanley, Lady Trafford, and Mr. Withrow were clearly part of a large criminal organization, with agents in London, and in France. If he realized that she was not part of the same group, it might not go well for her. She had told no one of her location and she was completely unchaperoned, with a man who was strong enough to throw her over a horse and likely do much worse physical harm.

To Mary’s relief, he nodded and did not question her answer.

They were silent for a minute, and then Mary’s desire for knowledge overcame her once again. It was like having a book and knowing that it might be dangerous to