Black Diaries

52. The Wicked Lord's Lordliness

"Excuse me?" Eyes flashing, I shot to my feet. "What kind of airheaded, donkey-punching asshole are you?"

His eyes narrowed a bit further. "Not just a female—a colonial female! Brilliant! When I get my hands on Melville I'll..."

"Colonial?" My eyes almost bugged out of my head. "Excuse me, but what century do you think you're living in? Perhaps you haven't noticed but we won the Revolutionary War!"

He raised an arrogant eyebrow. "I have indeed noticed that sad fact. I do my best not to dwell on it too much."

"We've been a free country for over two-hundred years!"

"And what miserable years they have been. If we still had the Empire, the world wouldn't be in such a despicable state. But what can you expect, with people in charge who rebelled against their rightful king because of a tax on tea leaves."

"Now listen here, you fossil!" Eyes flashing, I marched towards him, until only a few inches separated me from him. I couldn't help noticing that I only reached up to his chin, and cursed the fact that I hadn't put on heels that morning. "Nothing gives you the right to come in here and talk to me like that! Either you tell me this minute who the hell you think you are and what you are doing here, or I'm going to kick you out of here! This stable is private property, you know!"

"Oh, I know." He bent forward an inch or two, so his sharp, steel-blue eyes could look directly into mine. "It's my private property. I am Lord Christopher Conrad Alexander Edward Malcom Farleigh, 7th Baron Farleigh. And pray, what is your name?"

I swallowed. His steel-blue eyes were rather unsettling. "Lord...? You're the one who owns Silver Star?"

"Indeed I am."

Raising my chin, I returned his glare. "You'll have to excuse me for being surprised. Judging by the manners of your horse, I expected someone a lot better behaved."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I asked you a question. Your name?"

"Cassy."

"Your last name, Miss."

Good God! Why was I suddenly having trouble opening my mouth? It was those eyes of his! They were drilling right through my self-confidence.

"McKinney," I managed. "Cassy McKinney."

"Very well, Miss McKinney." He rose to his full height again, towering above me. "Since Melville chose to bring you here, and he is no fool even if he may look like one, I assume that you are at least moderately competent and have succeeded in not further damaging my horse. Have you by any chance been able to determine what is the problem?"

My hand twitched, itching to slap him. I didn't though. This was, after all, still a monarchy. What would the punishment for slapping a lord be? I had no idea if you could get still get hanged, drawn and quartered in this day and age, but I didn't want to find out.

Besides, it wasn't Silver Star's fault that he had an anachronistic ass for a master. I could make sure that the stallion got back on his feet again, and then give his owner the slap he deserved.

"It's a mild case of cellulitis," I told him, folding my hands behind my back, just to be sure. "That's a skin infection which—"

"I know what cellulitis is," he cut across me. "And do you know what to do or should I call in a real professional?"

"Pardon? I am a real professional!"

"Indeed? In my experience, professionals do not usually tour the racecourses like some amusement park quack. Why don't you have a practice of your own?"