Chapter Sixteen
Icarus reached Whiteoaks a little after two. The big gray he’d hired was a handsome Roman-nosed beast, but it had a hard mouth and recalcitrant nature and had already tried to unseat him twice.
Whiteoaks was built in the style of Palladio, with white marble and tall columns and perfect symmetry. Icarus didn’t particularly care for it. He preferred rambling, red brick manors with ivy growing up their walls and odd turrets and strange staircases and no symmetry at all—buildings that looked as if they’d grown, not shining, hard-edged, white monoliths.
“Major Reid!” someone called cheerfully, as he trotted into the stableyard.
Icarus swung down from the saddle. “Matlock. How do you do?”
Matlock strode over, grinning.
They shook hands. Matlock’s grip was strong. “Lord, Maj
