Suitors and Sabotage by Cindy Anstey
For my cheering committee, aka my family
chapter 1
In which Miss Imogene Chively prays for a sudden rainstorm or a stampede of goats
GRACEBRIDGE MANOR, FOTHERINGHAM, KENT—
EARLY JULY 1817
“Jasper!” Imogene Chively shouted as she jumped to her feet, flinging her sketch into the grass. “Don’t move! Stay. Stay exactly where you are!” Grabbing her skirts ankle-height with one hand and desperately waving the other, she raced across the courtyard of the old castle. “Emily, help!” she shouted over her shoulder without a backward glance.
She couldn’t look away; Imogene’s eyes were glued to those of Jasper. If she looked away, he might try to leap off the crumbling wall. And he couldn’t.… Shouldn’t. It was too high. There was no doubt of an injury—a broken leg or, worse yet, a snapped neck or a blow to the head. “Stay,” she said again but in a softer, crooning tone, almost a prayer.
Having reached the wall, Imogene found Jasper two feet above her reach—even on tip-tip toes. He stared down at her, pleased with all the attention, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
“Oh, Jasper,” Emily Beeswanger said behind her. “You silly dog, what have you done now?” Emily, Imogene’s fast friend for all their eighteen years, was well versed in Jasper’s antics.
The St. John’s water dog continued to wag.
“Can you keep him from jumping, Emily? Yes, hold your hands up like a barrier. Exactly. I will go around behind him.”
“You can’t climb the wall, Imogene. It’s too fragile. It will fall down, taking you with it.”
“Yes, I know. But I need to get higher. I have to encourage him to back up—he doesn’t have room to turn,” she said, looking up at the narrow ledge of the ruins. Frowning, she glanced across the courtyard to where they had lain a coverlet on the grass beside the moat. “Or,” she said, her eyes settling on the basket atop the blanket. “I have a better idea; I know what always encourages obedience.”
“Food,” Emily said knowingly.
“Indeed.” Imogene turned and sauntered back across the cobblestone. She would have preferred to run, but doing so would have fueled Jasper’s excitable nature and encouraged him to leap over Emily’s outstretched arms to join her. She had just reached into the basket when a nearby voice startled her. Spinning around, Imogene locked eyes with a young gentleman standing on the arch of the moat bridge.
Imogene gasped in dismay. Ernest Steeple? Surely not. Her suitor was not due until the next day.
“Can I help?” he asked again when Imogene did not answer.
Gulping, Imogene tried to calm her panicked thoughts. She could feel the burn of embarrassment flaring up her cheeks as soon as she realized that the stranger was not Ernest but Benjamin Steeple, her suitor’s younger brother.
Suddenly the air was filled with a cacophony of barking, whining, and yipping. Imogene turned to see Jasper’s body undulating in serpentine waves as his excitement grew to a fevered pitch. He was staring at the new arrival.
“No!” Imogene shouted as the dog crouched. “Stay!”
Even as she called out, Mr. Steeple moved. In a flash, he was across the courtyard and almost to the wall when Jasper launched himself into the air. Emily jumped up to catch him, but Jasper sailed over her head with ease.
Imogene screamed as time slowed to a crawl. Jasper seemed to fall forever, but in those seconds, Mr. Steeple must have known he would not reach the dog. He flung himself under the dog’s path in a spectacular sprawl, sliding across the ground on his back. The dog landed with a heavy thump on the poor gentleman’s gut, eliciting a sharp gasp as they tumbled together. The tangled mess of dog and man finally came to a rest at the base of the wall.
Naturally, Jasper was the first on his feet. Bouncing with excitement, showing no injury or awareness of his peril, the dog licked Mr. Steeple’s face with abandon. The poor gentleman tried to fend off the affection to no avail; he finally succumbed to the wash and laughed as he struggled to his feet.
Imogene wanted to ask if he was hurt, but her tongue would not cooperate.
“Are you all right?” Emily asked in an easy manner that Imogene wished she could emulate.
“Oh yes, indeed. Just a little dirt here and there,” he said as he swiped pointlessly at the ingrained dirt on the elbows of his well-cut coat. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“That was quite impressive. I’m certain Jasper would have done himself an injury had you not caught him.”
Mr. Steeple laughed again. “I’m not certain I would call that a catch.”
“It was impressive nonetheless.” Emily smiled up at him as he smiled down.
It was a charming tableau: Emily, with her pretty, round face framed by cascades of brown curls peeking out from her bonnet, staring up at the handsome visage of Benjamin Steeple, with the old castle ruins behind them. The smell of flora wafted through the air while cattle lowed in the nearby fields. Yes, indeed, a lovely tableau.
Imogene huffed a sigh. This was dreadful.
Mr. Benjamin’s presence had only one possible meaning—disaster was about to befall them. Mr. Ernest Steeple had arrived early. There would be no meandering through the estate, sketching and chatting with Emily about their London Season. No relaxing at the old castle, chasing butterflies or picking wildflowers today. Guests were about to descend upon Gracebridge Manor en masse.