Under a Gilded Moon(98)

Lilli looked up and managed a smile for her friend. “The society pages would appear to know more about my life than I do.”

Trotting up to join them, Cabot swung down from his mount. “Remarkably fine horses Vanderbilt keeps.”

“Doesn’t he, though.” Lilli squinted toward the base of the next hill. “I suppose that’s the forestry crew gathered there by the river.”

Cabot gestured with a bob of his head. “Black and white men together. Working side by side as one crew. You don’t see that too often down here.”

“Or in New York, ever,” Emily pointed out.

A chill ran down Lilli’s arms. The burly Dearg Tate, off to one side in the farthest cluster of white men, sat staring at her. She’d heard somewhere that he no longer worked for Biltmore and had finally sold George his farm. Yet here he was on the estate.

Leading his horse up to the three of them, Grant ran a hand across his jaw. “That man appears to be looking at you, Miss Barthélemy. Rather intently.”

Given what she’d seen near the gym of Grant pursuing the maid, he wouldn’t dare expose Lilli in front of the others. She tilted her head at him. “Is a man staring at me so very hard to understand?”

“Ah. You make a splendid point.”

She was desperate to change the subject. “Mr. Cabot, you are awfully quiet today. I wonder if your in-depth study of the mountain people has you distracted.”

“No doubt,” he said. And looked back at her impassively.

“Kerry MacGregor in particular must prove a challenging case. Part refined lady. Part tanner of hides and slopper of hogs. Part scullery maid. Part wildcat.”

Emily sucked a breath in. “Really, Lils.”

“I agree,” Cabot said at last. “She is indeed a young woman of many gifts.”

George Vanderbilt was cantering now up the hill.

“Perhaps,” Lilli murmured to Emily, “I might entice George away from the group. Temporarily only, of course.”

“And risk his feeling pursued?” Emily looked skeptical.

“The real art of the thing, of course, is convincing the fox that he’s really the hound.”

Lilli urged her mare into a gallop. Reaching George, she reined in her horse. “You’ll be glad to know we delayed all scintillating conversation till your arrival.”

He smiled—those good, friendly brown eyes. Much like his Saint Bernard’s, really. “Forgive my delay in coming. I was attending to business at the stables. We’re a bit shorthanded.”

She’d not meant to broach the subject, but then, she’d not expected him to mention the stables. The question shot out of her mouth: “I wonder about where that Italian, your stablehand, has gone.”

“Of course . . . Bergamini.”

Lilli heard the hesitation. As if George knew for certain that wasn’t his name.

Salvatore, Lilli thought, hearing the name in her head that he’d confided to her. Confided, and then looked the next instant—for only a flash, but she’d seen it, nevertheless—as if he wondered if he could trust her fully. She could feel the rough of his cheek against hers as she’d whispered his name the last time she’d been alone with him. His hand at the small of her back. That last time they were together was the first time he’d not kept his arms full of tack and hay bales. Even that had only been moments.

George’s brow furrowed, a screen of apprehension dropping over his face. “Being from New Orleans, you would naturally be concerned about him.”

She could see he mostly believed that was true, that her motives were pure as the frost that tipped the fields that morning. That even if he’d caught a glance exchanged between her and Sal, he would’ve already convinced himself he’d been only imagining things. Mostly.

“I am, yes. We are a loyal lot, from New Orleans.” With pressure from her left leg, she turned her mare so George could no longer see her face. She’d overstepped. Time now to change course. “I wonder which of these two hunters we’re riding is more fleet of foot.”

“Well . . . ,” he began.

“And I wonder how we might prove it.” Snapping back her head to smile at him, she shifted her weight forward in the sidesaddle and gripped the upper pommel with her right leg. She and the mare shot away from him.

Glancing back, she saw George posting in a half circle, unsure. Another glance, and he was urging his own horse to full speed in pursuit.

Lilli bent low over her horse and aimed the mare’s head toward a split rail fence she hoped—but was not entirely sure—they both could clear.

It was George Vanderbilt who was chasing her now. Quite literally.

Her pulse dropped as she neared the fence, its crisscrossed rails like big wooden stitches across the field. Lilli felt the mare gather her body, the power centralized in her back legs as she launched. Up. And up. That moment when they were no longer tethered to earth. No longer subject to its laws and constraints.

That moment when it remained to be seen how they would land.

Which, if John Cabot and his Kodak had been poised to photograph this moment, would be the perfect image for her life right now. Impeccably dressed and well strategized. Graceful and soaring.

And, depending on what secrets came to light, perhaps about to land in a shattered heap.

Absorbing the jolt of the mare’s front legs as they made contact again with the ground, Lilli glanced back only once more—and found George Vanderbilt close at her heels.