The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) by Miranda Davis

pace over the low rise of an overgrown pasture where Elizabeth was calming a cow in order to milk her. The cow kept moving away, forcing her to scramble around to coax the beast to stand still.  
    When Mr. Tyler caught sight of her, he reined in Algernon, stood up in his stirrups to look over the rise some distance then wheeled abruptly to charge straight down hill at a gallop.
    “Get down!” He ordered and waved an arm wildly at her. “On the ground. Now!”  
    The startled cow trotted away, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin. She shaded her eyes to look past Mr. Tyler.  
    Again he called out, “The baron’s out for a ride. Get down. Now!”
    Elizabeth shrieked and dove face down, tucking her chipped pitcher under her arm. She could only hope the tall grass and scrub would provide sufficient cover.  
    Mr. Tyler’s horse danced in circles and he called out loudly, “Good day to you, my lord.” To her, he growled, “Don’t move, my lady.” He muttered, “I say, his lordship can’t even be bothered to say hello, eh? A mere wave of his pale, little hand.” He tsk-tsked to himself. “Got hands like an albino monkey,” Mr. Tyler drawled. “Or it’s his lace flapping in the breeze.” He reined in Algernon, sat at his ease in the saddle, still keeping his eyes pinned on some distant point. Elizabeth dared do nothing more than peek up at him. Mr. Tyler explained under his breath, “He favors great spills of lace at his cuffs. A bit old fashioned, but then, so is he.”
    “Is he gone, Mr. Tyler?” She asked, growing cold and itchy where she lay sprawled on bent stalks and hard ground. The pitcher gouged her armpit, too.
    He glanced down and warned, “Not quite. He can’t trot, canter or gallop, what with his chilblains and gout.”
    Minutes passed while Elizabeth lay face down.
    “All’s clear. He’s gone, Lady Elizabeth,” Mr. Tyler finally said. “Must say, you’ve the Devil’s own luck to have twice escaped his notice. I’d best be off now,” he said with a hearty laugh. “Good day!” And away he rode at a gallop.

Chapter 4
    In which our hero is no longer the lord of a ring.

    S till in his shirtsleeves the next morning, Lord Clun almost tore through the lining of the watch pocket in the waistcoat he’d worn the day he met his betrothed. As one does when something too dear to lose is lost, he poked two fingers into the small pocket over and over, finding nothing the fifth time, just as he found nothing the very first. Despite his state of undress, he strode down the long hall to the staircase. He clutched the waistcoat in one hand and ran the other down the walnut banister as he descended the stairs to hail the head butler.
    “Penfold, I need you!” He threw on the waistcoat as he paced up and down the first floor hallway peering into the various saloons.  
    “Yes, my lord?” Penfold said. He blinked at his master’s dishabille, but remained otherwise unperturbed.
    “Where is the greatcoat I had on the other day, the dark gray one I wore from Town?”
    “I’ll fetch it directly, my lord,” Penfold replied.
    “Bring it to me in the library, if you will.”
    “Of course, my lord.” He hurried as much as a head butler could without compromising his dignity. Clun stalked into his bookroom and flung himself into his desk chair. Unaware, his fingers stole once again to the empty watch pocket.
    I’ve lost it. Hell and damnation.
    Penfold brought the baron’s greatcoat to him. He snatched it up and delved into each deep, flannel lined outer pocket. Nothing. The inside chest pocket perhaps, he thought, now feeling panic congeal into a hard clot of despair. Nothing.
    It’s gone.
    The weight of the signet ring alone would’ve announced its presence in the waistcoat where he knew he’d tucked it or in the greatcoat where he hoped he’d moved it and forgotten. But no. It was gone. His father’s father’s father’s etc., heavy, gold signet ring had somehow slipped from the watch pocket