“Yes, we can. If enough ladies swoon at the mere sight of me, then I will continue to enjoy the privacy due the neighborhood eccentric. I’m considering having Granny Dewar curse me on market day. I could gallop past the village just as some foul weather moves in, and she could consign me to the devil.”

Treegum opened the gate, setting off a squeak loud enough to rouse the napping hogs. “Granny will want a fair bit of coin for a public curse, sir.”

“She’s partial to my elderberry cordial.” Nathaniel vaulted the wall one-handed. “Maybe we should leave the gate open.” The entire herd had settled on the grass and damned if the largest of the lot—a vast expanse of pink pork—appeared to smile at him.

“They won’t find their way home, sir. Pigs like to wander, and sows that size go where they please.”

Running pigs through an orchard was an old Yorkshire custom, one usually reserved for autumn rather than the brisk, sunny days of early spring. The hogs consumed the dropped fruit, fertilized the soil, and with their rooting, helped the ground absorb water for the next growing season.

“Perhaps I should saddle up that fine beast on the end,” Nathaniel said, considering a quarter ton of livestock where livestock ought not to be. “Give the village something truly worth gossiping about.”

Treegum closed and latched the gate. “Hard to steer though, sir, and you do so pride yourself on being an intimidating sort of eccentric rather than the other kind.”

“Apparently not intimidating enough. Don’t wait supper for me and be sure the hogs of hell have a good supply of water. They have to be thirsty after coming such a distance, and even the neighborhood recluse ought to offer some hospitality to ladies who’ve wandered so far from home.”

*  *  *

Althea Wentworth heard her guest before she saw him. Rothhaven’s arrival was presaged by a rapid beat of hooves pounding not up her drive, but rather, directly across the park that surrounded Lynley Vale manor.

A large horse created that kind of thunder, one disdaining the genteel canter for a hellbent gallop. She could see its approach from her parlor window, and her first thought was that only a terrified animal traveled at such a speed.

But no. Horse and rider cleared the wall beside the drive in perfect rhythm, swerved onto the verge, and continued right up—good God, they aimed straight for the fountain. Althea looked on in horror as the black horse drew closer and closer to unforgiving marble and splashing water.

“Mary Mother of God.”

Another smooth leap—the fountain was five feet if it was an inch—and a foot perfect landing, followed by an immediate check of the horse’s speed. The gelding came down to a frisking, capering trot, clearly proud of itself and ready for even greater challenges.