Lonelord: Blood Brothers, #2

By Cali Moore

          Trainer Baintree was a nobleman in two worlds. A future earl to one and a warrior who couldn't fight to another. The white man listened to Trainer and the red one to Lonelord. Those things did not make his life easy. On the contrary, they made his life very difficult.

          He was not prepared to fall in love. Like most things in his life, such a state was a dream. But the dowager duchess was no dream. She was, quite simply, everything he'd ever wanted in a woman and he was determined to have her. And she was determined not to be had.

          It wasn't that she didn't love Trainer. She fell fast and hard. It was his life. The incredible burdens placed on his shoulders by his ancestors. He couldn't walk away from his purpose and she couldn't see herself walking toward it beside him.

          Nor could she herself walking away from him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cali Moore
• Release date: Apr 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393925040

Book preview

Prologue

Dear God, not now!

Trainer crumpled the letter in his hand and dropped it on the table as if it were poison. Without a word, he pushed back his chair, rose, and walked outside, his mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts, his heart torn apart from conflicting emotions. And responsibilities.

Abby and Jeff looked at Hunter. He shrugged and lifted the crumpled ball from the table, straightening it out to read the words upon it. Trainer would not have left it if he didn’t want it read. Hunter frowned as the meaning of the words sunk in. Eyes squeezed shut, he offered up a prayer for his friend. Not to God, but to the Indian spirits. Then he prayed to the Christian God.

Trainer is now the earl of Shetrock, he told his wife and brother-in-law flatly.

Abby wrinkled her nose. He was just there. He didn’t say anything about his father being ill.

He wasn’t, Hunter admitted. He stood and walked to the window. He could see Trainer standing on the front steps, looking out over the rolling pastures of Stallion’s Pleasure, Abby and Jeff’s stud in Maryland. According to the solicitor, the earl was thrown from his horse.

You sound like you don’t believe that, Jeff accused his brother-in-law.

Hunter turned back to them. I don’t. The earl rode as well as any man. He wouldn’t get thrown from his own mount.

Murder? Abby asked, incredulously. Why?

Very good question.

He has to go back, Abby realized. Hunter...

He held up his hand. I know, Ab. He can’t be in two places at one time. What does a man do? He swore viciously. Torn, always torn in two. He may not be able to become whole again after this decision. Does he avenge his father and take his rightful place among the English? Or does he turn his back on that and do what he can for his mother’s people? Has the time arrived when he must chose between his own blood?

Can you tell me? Trainer asked from the doorway. His face was a mask of non-emotion. Dark, chiseled, all but hairless, Trainer’s cold eyes simply waited for an answer while his soul struggled to remain whole.

Hunter turned to face his friend and brother. The just-shed tears were still visible only in the faint streaks on his high-boned cheeks. He wondered if they were for his father or for himself. Hunter hoped for Trainer’s sake, they were for both. Grandson of a great Sioux shaman, son of an English earl, Trainer’s life was never meant to be his own. Hunter wouldn’t trade places with him for anything in the world.

You must go back, Abby answered. Trainer, do you agree your father was murdered?

He wasn’t thrown from his bloody horse without help. Trainer took a deep breath. Jesus, he was so...alive. Laughing, happy. Even at sixty, he still acted like a young man. I never doubted he would make eighty.

Go to England, Trainer, Abby continued. Hunter and I will go to the Dakota Territory.

No, Trainer snapped.

Abby, you have no idea what you’d be letting yourself in for, Hunter argued.

We can hardly go to England and investigate, she argued. Who would talk to us? An American farmer and his wife? She snorted. Now that would be a waste of time. But you, Hunter, will be listened to by the Indians. They accept you. You’re one of them in spirit. You know how Trainer feels and agree with him. You can talk and record events as well as Trainer.

The army won’t listen to me.

They won’t listen to me either, Trainer admitted. Not anymore. What is Washington thinking?

They’re not, Hunter admitted. They’re reacting to hysteria and greed.

Trainer sighed. It’ll be over soon. Hell, it already is. Life for the Indians will never be free again. It’s just a matter of time before they are forced to acknowledge it. Time and deaths. How many more must die?

I’ll go, Hunter said. Abby’s right. I can do just as much as you can at this point. Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull will talk to me. I may not be able to stop anything, but I can record what happens. Abby can stay here with Jeff.

You’re not going anywhere without me, Hunter, she snapped. We decided that long ago. Married for seven years, Hunter had only traveled once without his wife. They had agreed he would never do so again.

It’s too dangerous, Abby, Hunter argued. Not only would you be a prize to a renegade warrior, but the cavalry men are an even bigger concern. Too many of them are worthless human beings.

Most men are worthless human beings, she stated seriously. With very few exceptions, you’re a rotten lot. You’ll just have to protect me.

Hunter looked pleadingly at Trainer. Help me.

He’s right, waif. The Black Hills are no place for any woman at this time.

Abby slammed her first on the table, causing her brother to start in his chair. Her eyes blazed with fury and frustration. I owe Trainer as much as you do, Caleb Hunter. He may have saved your life, but he gave me and Jeff back ours by giving us you. We will go together! She strode out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. Men!

Let her go, Jeff said quietly when Hunter started to rise. Abby’s no fool and, like a man, likes to pay her debts. You keep her out of this, Hunter, and you may never know peace with your wife again.

Hunter sighed and rubbed his eyes. Jeff was right and he knew it. But Christ, the danger. So many things could happen and she’d been through so much already. He knew Abby had been depressed lately. Not with him or their marriage, but for him. Seven years. Seven years and no babe. Never even conception. Hunter had accepted years ago that whatever her ‘protector’ had given her to prevent conception for five long years had left her barren and there would be no progeny from their union. He could live with that. He loved Abby too much not to. It was much harder on her.

Trainer? What do you think?

I think you should both stay away from there. And he did. It was not safe for a man either. Tempers were too raw, hostilities were escalating at a frightening pace. Many warriors were ignoring their elders and fighting their own battles. Hotheads, renegades. The army was no better. As so often in times of war, men forgot they were men and became little more than beasts. The most vicious of beasts on Earth.

It was all so bloody hopeless.

Abby’s right, Hunter said quietly. You can’t ignore your father’s death. Or Shetrock. I know you don’t want it, Trainer. I know you never have, but your father didn’t remarry and let you off the hook by begetting another son. You are now the earl and you must accept that. Go, find out what happened to him and get your estates in order. Find a good man to run them and eventually you won’t have to stay there and can come home.

Home, Trainer thought sadly. His Indian home was already no more. Soon, all he would have to call home with his mother’s people would be on a reservation. All but penned and caged like wild beasts. For fighting to protect what had been theirs for thousands of years.

There were times he hated the white blood that flowed in his veins.

The white blood that also made Shetrock his home. He’d spent a lot of time there. As a boy, his parents had traveled between the two countries yearly, giving him the chance to know both of his heritages. As a young man, he’d spent years in England, first at Eton, then at Oxford. And, of course, at Shetrock, learning how to manage the vast estate. He had been, after all, the heir. From Oxford, he’d returned to America to live, only visiting England once a year. His life held more value here. As an educated ‘breed with blue blood he’d been able to have a voice few could between the races.

He had done his best always knowing it would not be enough.

But he had recorded everything. Honestly, accurately, with a viewpoint few men could give. What had happened in this land, and what still would, was not going to be lost or distorted. The words of Trainer Baintree, earl of Shetrock, and Lonelord, peaceful warrior, would one day be read by all.

He wanted to finish what he hadn’t started, but what had been started for him.

He needed to finish it. It was why he’d been granted life.

He also knew that as the circumstances of his early manhood had brought him to America, those that existed now would take him back to England.

Someone had murdered his father.

That someone was going to die.

I’ll return to England.

Hunter nodded. And Abby and I will go to the Black Hills.

No.

Hunter smiled. No? Come now, Train, when have I ever accepted no for an answer?

Trainer didn’t return the smile. Hunter would go and he knew it. He didn’t like it. His friend and brother. The only man who truly understood him. And Abby. The sweet little waif he had rescued and given to Hunter. He’d often wondered why the hell he hadn’t kept her for himself. Barren or not, he’d never met another woman like her. Protect Abby above all else, was all he said.

With my life.

Trainer narrowed his eyes. With hers, he corrected. Death would be preferable to the short life she would have in some hands.

Hunter didn’t respond to that. He doubted he could ever kill Abby. Even to protect her. Instead, he said, Tell me who I can trust.

Chapter One

Trainer barely spoke to anyone on the crossing back to England. He usually had the luxury of traveling with a captain he knew and enjoyed the time at sea. Not this trip. This trip was a time for reflection. And for writing. He spent most of his time recording his thoughts. It was something he had begun to do as a small boy. Not only had it helped with his writing, but it had given him the forum to reconcile the two halves of himself that were not easily reconciled.

That wasn’t his purpose now. Now, he needed to clear his head of the situation in America, not only with the Indians, but his worries for Hunter and Abby as well. He wasn’t sure he could handle it if anything happened to either of them while they were tending his business. Hunter had finally found peace. A life he was happy with and a wonderful woman to share it. They traveled extensively, which was something Hunter had always dreamed of doing. He owned a farm in Indiana, Abby owned half the stud in Maryland. There were also interests in California and Colorado. They spent time in all those places and went somewhere new at least once a year.

They both deserved all of it. Of all the people Trainer had known in his diverse life, no one even came close to the way he felt about Caleb and Abby Hunter. Even Jeff, now twenty-two, was held close in his heart. A young man with a crooked leg, a missing hand, and a face that was half-scarred by fire, was a man Trainer would choose over many others to spend time with. For those three people were the only ones that simply loved him, without placing demands on that love.

At least Jeff was safe at the stud. And the stud was safe in his very capable hand. He and Hunter had seen to that.

Trainer knew nothing he could do would make him stop worrying about Hunter and Abby. Nor was there a damned thing he could do to prevent war between the army and the Indians. The only question there was when, and just how bad it would be for the Indians.

No, the only thing he could do was find the man who had killed his father. Or woman. He hoped Cynthia had nothing to do with his death. He couldn’t imagine it, but she was closer to his father than anyone, and as his father’s mistress of almost ten years, Trainer had grown quite fond of her.

If only she had convinced him to marry her and make more children.

Trainer groaned.

He was a bloody earl!

Cynthia Robinson glanced up at the sound of the door opening. Her lovely gray eyes were puffy and moist from a recent bout with tears. Trainer, she whispered and rose to embrace him. Oh, God, I’m going to cry again!

Trainer held her close. Hush. Cry if you want, but make no excuses for it. He held her through the next round of tears. Surely you haven’t been doing this for eight weeks?

Cynthia leaned back and gave him a watery smile. No. She stepped away from him and walked to the hearth where a low fire was burning. On the Cornish coast, a low fire was often burning in the hearths. The fierce winds sometimes forgot that it was supposed to be warm, even in summer. I met your father eleven years ago today.

I didn’t realize, Trainer said lamely. I am sorry.

So am I. She sighed and turned to face him again. You’re the earl.

Don’t remind me, he said sourly.

Is it so bad?

Yes. Trainer moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. You’ve never been to America, Cynthia. If you had, you’d realize how very...stifling England is. I can not see myself living my life here, as beautiful as it is. I need more space. I need vast spaces of nothing but nature. You won’t understand, not many women do.

Does your Abby?

She’s Hunter’s Abby. And yes, I think perhaps she does.

You should have married her.

Trainer smiled. I often think that, but the truth of the matter is I don’t love her as Hunter does. The lust I originally felt never arises any longer. As much as I love and admire her, she’s too like a sister.

A role you forced.

No. Trainer drained his glass. Not really. I think I felt too much sympathy for that sort of love to develop. Hunter was too busy satisfying his own needs to allow hers to interfere in their relationship.

What do you want in a woman?

Trainer grinned. Since when do you care about my love life?

You’re the earl now, Trainer, and well past the age most men wed. You will have to marry and provide an heir.

He frowned at his empty glass. You offering?

Cynthia laughed. Me? With you? Not bloody likely. I don’t like men who brood.

I don’t brood.

Of course you do. You take life much too seriously.

Life is serious, he argued.

She shrugged. It shouldn’t always be, Trainer. Even you know that. Will you answer the question?

Trainer refilled his glass and took a seat in one of the chairs near the hearth. He stretched out his long legs. His boots were dusty and the hems of his pants muddy from the ride from the port. His shiny black hair, as always, was overlong, hanging well below his shoulder blades. His narrow eyes, equally black, were, as always, unreadable. His nose was on the hawkish side, his chin, though not square, was harsh and stubborn looking. Also typical was the lack of stubble on his face. She had never seen him in need of a shave.

Trainer had never thought to list his requirements in a wife. As he had told Abby so long ago, he would know her when he met her. He believed that, just as he had known the moment he had met Abby that she was the woman for Hunter. He’d been right.

Warmth, definitely, he finally answered. And humor. Strength. A weak woman would never know happiness with me. I like to think I would make my wife happy. Intelligent. I can’t abide stupid women.

Looks?

I have known and enjoyed every combination you could dream up, Cynthia. Looks are irrelevant.

No man wants an ugly wife.

Unless he falls in love with her.

Cynthia’s eyes widened. You’re serious.

According to you, I always am.

What do you mean by warmth?

Compassionate.

Intelligent?

Common sense.

Not formal education?

Common sense is more important.

Age?

He glared at her. You will not be my matchmaker.

She smiled. No, I know better than to try that.

Trainer rose. I need a bath. Forget the matchmaking, Cynthia. I’m thirty-seven years old, half Indian, mostly American. I will not wed just to give Shetrock a damned heir. Father knew that.

That doesn’t mean he liked it.

That was his problem and it no longer matters, now does it? If he was so worried about this bloody place he’d have married you ten years ago and made babies.

Cynthia didn’t think she should tell Trainer that he was the reason they hadn’t. His father had been convinced England was where Trainer would find happiness. There was no place he could go in America that his mixed blood wasn’t an issue for him. In England, it was not quite so important. Jason Trainer Baintree, the eleventh earl of Shetrock, had been a widely respected man. Even returning from America with an Indian bride hadn’t changed that. Jason had not allowed the society’s curiosity and small-mindedness to affect his life in any way and though his wife, Night Song, had never been entirely accepted, after her death, Jason had been treated as he always had been.

Society, in its unreasonable way, was fascinated by Trainer. Referred to by most as the savage earl, few dared call him that to his face. When in England he was bombarded with invitations. Some were sincere since he had made good friends in his school years, and despite his blood he was still considered a catch by many eager mamas. Others were simply curiosity. Trainer avoided most of those unless his friends badgered him into it. He usually caused some sort of a scene. Most of society was oblivious to the fact that he mocked them with his small scandals.

What are your plans?

A few days here to study the state of affairs, then to London for a bit. Few will be there now but it’s where father was murdered.

Cynthia stared at him. Murdered?

Without a doubt.

Trainer, it was an accident. He was thrown from his horse.

He grunted. And I’ve grown wings. With that, he left the room.

Shetrock was in great shape. Trainer was not surprised. His father had loved this place and had done well by it. He risked walking through the fields where workers were picking flowers. There were flowers everywhere. They were not sold as flowers. The flowers of Shetrock were grown for the sole purpose of making perfumes from them. There was a wide variety and what couldn’t be grown outdoors because of the cold winters, was grown in the dozens of hothouses that sprouted on the property like trees. Others were imported in the form of the oils extracted from their petals.

Shetrock employed hundreds of people. From the gardeners, to the pickers, to the many hands it took to get the oils from the flowers, to the perfumers who were responsible for the quality of the final product. By necessity they all worked closely together.

Standing in a field of early roses, Trainer took a deep breath, his eyes closed to enjoy the unspoiled aroma. He had to be careful where he stood. Trainer’s nose was the most sensitive on the place and always had been. He couldn’t even go into a hot house that grew more than one type of flower. As noise gave some a headache, too many aromas gave him one. Plus a stomachache. He couldn’t stay in the perfumery for more than a few minutes without feeling nauseous.

Despite the obvious drawbacks, there were some advantages to his nose. He could tell with one sniff every ingredient in a perfume. He could also tell if one was discordant and should be dropped from the formula. He knew instinctively which aromas melded well and which didn’t. If one would fade faster than another, so that mixing them would actually change the scent as the day wore on.

He did not have the chemical knowledge to solve those problems, but he learned more every year. Those sorts of issues were the Master Perfumer’s domain. He simply told them if they would crop up in a new formula. They had stopped trying to prove him wrong and now mentioned the oils they were considering blending and waited for his opinion before beginning to mix them. It took many flowers for a small amount of oil and waste was to be avoided at all costs. Trainer had saved many petals with his nose.

Good crop this year.

Trainer opened his eyes and surveyed the field with a critical eye. Yes, it is. As is the lilac.

Old Ed rocked back on his heels. He was the Head Gardener and had been for all of Trainer’s life. Trainer didn’t know the man’s age but he was surely in his seventies by now. His lordship would have been pleased.

Very.

My lord?

Yes, Ed?

What’s going to happen?

I don’t know yet, Trainer admitted. I’ll be in England for a while. There are things I need to tend to. After that, I’ll decide. No matter what, Shetrock will continue as it always has, Ed. And you with it.

Very good, my lord. Ed frowned at a young girl of maybe thirteen. Janie, what are you doin’? You’re bruisin’ them! Easy girl, easy!

Trainer smiled at his retreating figure as he raced to the girl to show her yet again how to pick the flowers without damaging them. Having nothing better to do, Trainer rolled up his sleeves, picked up a basket, and joined the workers in the field.

No one commented on that. There was nothing unusual in it as long as the wind was right. Trainer picked away the afternoon, stopping only when the bell rang, calling an end to the working day.

Cynthia shook her head at him when he came in. His fingers were stained, his boots and pants filthy, and he reeked of roses. You enjoy it more than you like to admit, she accused.

No wind today, he replied. That’s rare enough. I only had to contend with the smell of roses.

You smell like a woman, she teased.

Trainer grinned. So I do. I’ll go do something about that before dinner.

Good idea. Howard wants to see you before you leave for London.

New formula?

Yes.

Trainer nodded. I’ll talk to him after dinner.

Trainer?

Yes? He replied, pausing again in the doorway.

What about me?

You? He frowned. What about you?

Shetrock is yours now. Perhaps I should leave.

Trainer ran his hands through his queued back hair, mussing it even further. My father loved you, Cynthia. Had he been able to forget my mother he would have married you. He smiled slightly. Even I am accustomed to your presence here. You’ve been a good mistress to this place. You may stay as long as you wish. The smile faded. If I find you had something to do with my father’s death, you won’t have to leave. I’ll kill you.

What would I gain? She asked. That’s twice you’ve mentioned murder. Why? No one has even questioned his death but you. The inquest ruled it accidental.

As far as I can figure, you lost more than you could have hoped to gain. I don’t really suspect you, Cynthia. But someone killed my father. I suspected it the moment I read the letter. So did Hunter. As I smell the world around me so very well, Hunter smells evil. It is one of his many talents. My father was murdered, make no mistake about that.

Trainer decided against the train. Normally he would travel by train between the estate and London, but normally time was an issue. Not knowing how long he might be in England and realizing how many years it had been since he’d done the trip on horseback, he decided to ride. Maybe it would quell some of the restlessness in him.

The roads were in good shape. As man became more mobile, no longer tied to the land they had been born on, the masses had taken to traveling and Cornwall was a popular destination. With its many ports and rugged beauty it appealed to many. There were also still numerous large and well-maintained estates. Besides Shetrock, which was second in size only to Lansing, there was also Hawkcliff. Shetrock sat further inland than either of those, which were both closer to Land’s End and the infamous cliffs, and therefore wasn’t subject to the hordes of travelers they were. Lansing was not only an estate, but a village as well, and the travelers were helping to revive the once destitute estate. Shetrock had no village of its own.

Hawkcliff appealed for two reasons. It was close enough to Lansing that travelers had a place to stay, and the original keep, dating back to Norman times, was still standing, albeit not very well. Though it was considered a ruin, it was still an impressive reminder of England’s bloody past.

Tourists could travel alongside Shetrock and gaze at the floral spectacle, but they could not venture onto the property. The crop was simply too fragile to risk their hands and feet on it. Between fences and human patrols, there had been few problems over the years. The fact that the earl of Shetrock had acted as magistrate in the area for countless generations also helped. Punishment for trespassing was stiff and swift and that was a well-known fact.

Trainer reached the border of what was now his and turned his mount to gaze at the many fields and buildings spread out in front of him. For over six hundred years this land had been ruled by Baintrees; some had been good men, some had been utter bastards. They had all cared for the estate and that showed to this day.

The twelfth earl of Shetrock was a bloody Indian.

He grinned and wondered what his ancestors would think of that. More than a few were probably rolling over in their graves. The Baintrees had also spawned their share of bigots over the years.

His dark gaze spanned the landscape one more time. It was beautiful, yes, but it was so very tame. Row upon row of flowers, each variety in its place. Neat, tidy, organized. Like England’s old class system. It still existed, but blurred more as time marched on.

His grin widened.

The Savage Earl was proof of that. For now he was that in truth.

Trainer turned his horse, allowed it to rear, and let out a war cry that would surely scare anyone within earshot. He kicked his mount’s flanks, and they raced off toward London on the toes of the wind.

I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or console you.

Trainer’s hand paused, not finishing the journey that would bring glass to lips. Console, he suggested wryly. Hello, Michael. How are you?

Happier than you, I imagine. Jesus, this certainly was untimely for you. Did you get to speak to anyone before you had to sail right back?

Michael had been at both Eton and Oxford with Trainer. He was a marquis and would one day be a duke. Trainer was as fond of him as he was any man in England. At times he found him stuffy and too urbane for his liking, but Michael was smart and loyal. The man was also an excellent swordsman and horseman. Hunter.

You didn’t make it into the Dakotas then.

No. I stopped at Stallion’s Pleasure hoping Hunter and Abby would be back. I had only been there a day when the letter arrived. I sailed the next.

Good lord. What about the Indians?

Trainer shrugged. With luck, they’ll still be jockeying for position when I return and I’ll have my say. Michael didn’t know much about Trainer’s life. Only that he had spent most of it trying to find a peaceful solution in America’s west.

Michael grinned. Your blue blood is stronger than you thought. I’m surprised even your inheritance would have brought you back now. Word here is that things are becoming very tense in the colonies.

They haven’t been colonies for a long time, Michael, Trainer said darkly with an arched brow. "In fact, your colonies have defeated you in two wars."

Michael laughed. It was an old argument between them. Second doesn’t count and you know it. We had Napoleon to worry about.

Then you shouldn’t have taunted us.

Touché, my friend.

Trainer was about to respond when the laughter came to his ears. Clear as a bell and merry as an Irish jig, he listened with as much delight as he had felt in months. Perhaps years. It reminded him of Abby as she was now. The girl that had forgotten to smile proved to have the most musical laughter he had ever heard. He and Hunter both did their best to make her succumb to it as often as possible. For in that laughter, they all found a piece of the girl she must have been before the war.

He turned his head to catch a glimpse of the source. It was all he got. The woman was surrounded by people, both ladies and gentlemen. It wasn’t a large soiree, but there were probably about fifty people present. The affair was being hosted by a friend of his father’s to welcome Trainer to his new position. For July in Town, it was a very respectable turnout. Those who could had already fled to their country estates for the warm months of July and August.

The exodus was not what it would have been in the early part of the century when the peerage was not to dirty their lines in trade. As man moved into an industrialized world, life was changing for every one of them. Life may not be any easier for the lower classes, and in some cases, more difficult, but he hoped as the gentry realized what it was to work, to have to work, a little compassion for those less fortunate might come to them.

He was, ever the dreamer.

Who’s the rage? He asked Michael.

That is the Dowager Duchess of Yorkton.

Trainer frowned. Yorkton? Never heard of her. Or him.

Michael shrugged. Not surprising. The Duke was a recluse the last half of his life. The duchess married him when she was fourteen. He was already in his sixties. He died last summer. At eighty-seven.

So, she’s in her thirties?

Yes, thirty-four, I think. She spent the last twenty years of her life buried up in the country with him.

Children?

Step. The duke had five by his first wife, all older than she. It was the present duchess that convinced her to come to London for a while. Her step-children are all fond of her.

That speaks well of her.

Hm, Michael agreed. She’s hard to figure out, though.

In what way?

She appears open, but she’s not. She’s been squired all Season by Timothy Warden.

The viscount?

"Yes. The on dit has them as lovers. Neither has denied it. Nor has there been any proof. They behave impeccably in public and let’s face it, Trainer, Timothy isn’t much of a man."

Trainer happened to like Timothy. He actually liked him quite a lot considering how few times their paths had crossed. Timothy Warden was a small man, barely making it to Trainer’s shoulders. He was also subject to huge variances in weight, his body’s tendency to heaviness being constantly fought by his efforts to not allow it. He wasn’t ugly by any means. Nor was he handsome. He acknowledged both and to make himself worthy of note tended to go for the outrageous whenever he could get away with it.

That appealed to Trainer. But even more, was the man’s talent with his tongue. He knew many men who fancied themselves as storytellers, but none could match the skill of Timothy Warden. More than once, Trainer had gotten sotted with the man. All Timothy needed was a time period and a name and he would weave an unforgettable tale. Sometimes it was moralistic, mostly, just plain fun. One had to pay attention to catch all the subtle humor Timothy threw in at odd moments. There had been many times that Trainer was the only one to laugh at something and Timothy’s wink always assured him it was an appropriate response.

If this duchess caught and appreciated all that subtle humor then she was definitely intelligent.

Humor and intelligence. Was she compassionate and strong?

Thirty-four and childless. Married for twenty years to a man more than fifty years her senior. He discounted greed. The stepchildren wouldn’t like her then. That they did boded well for compassionate.

The laugh came again and