“You are torturing yourself.” the Earl pointed out. “There is every likelihood that a gentleman will buy him. He could be ridden by a Lady of Quality. Perhaps he will go to the stables of someone who understands horses.”
“But how can I be – sure?”
It was only a whisper.
“It will not help you or Mercury to anticipate the worst,” the Earl said. “It is weak and perhaps a little cowardly.”
There was a long pause before the girl answered.
“You are – right. I am wrong to be so despondent and I am thinking only of – myself. Mama would be – ashamed of me.”
“What is your name?” the Earl asked.
“Syringa,” she answered almost indifferently as if she was not attending to his question. “My father is Sir Hugh Melton and we live at the Manor House in the village.”
She paused again as though she w
