by Julia Quinn
Ridding herself of Dunford, Henry reflected, was not going to take as long as she had originally anticipated.
Going without a bath was not going to be fun, Henry had always been quite fastidious. But it was not too great a sacrifice for Stannage Park, and besides, she had a feeling that her lack of cleanliness was going to be harder on Dunford than on her.
She made her way down to the small dining room. Breakfast had not yet been laid on the table, so she headed into the kitchen. Mrs. Simpson was standing in front of the stove, sliding sausages around on a skillet so as not to burn them.
“Hello, Simpy.”
The housekeeper turned around. “Henry! What are you doing here? I would have thought you’d be busy with our new guest.”
Henry rolled her eyes. “He isn’t our guest, Simpy. We’re his guests. Or at least I am. You have an official position.”
“I know this has been difficult for you.”
Henry just smiled, judging it imprudent to let Mrs. Simpson know she had actually been enjoying herself this morning. After a long pause she said, “Breakfast smells lovely, Simpy.”
The housekeeper shot her an odd look. “Same food as every day.”
“Perhaps I am hungrier than usual. And I shall have to eat my fill, because the new Lord Stannage is somewhat—shall we say—austere.”
Mrs. Simpson slowly turned around. “Henry, what on earth are you trying to tell me?”
Henry shrugged helplessly. “He wants porridge for lunch.”
“Porridge! Henry, if this is one of your crazy schemes—”
“Really, Simpy, do you think I’d go that far? You know how much I detest porridge.”
“I suppose we could have porridge. I shall have to make something special for dinner, though.”
“Mutton.”
“Mutton?” Mrs. Simpson’s eyes widened in dis- belief.
Henry let her shoulders rise and fall in another expressive shrug. “He likes mutton.”
“I do not believe you for one second, Miss Henrietta Barrett.”
“Oh, all right. The mutton was my idea. No need for him to know how well he can eat here.”
“Your little plans are going to be the death of you.”
Henry leaned closer to the housekeeper. “Do you want to be turned out on your ear?”
“I don’t see—”
“He can do that, you know. He can turn every last one of us out. Better to be rid of him before he can be rid of us.”
There was a long pause before Mrs. Simpson said, “Mutton it is, then.”
Henry paused before she opened the door leading out to the rest of the house. “And don’t cook it too well. A little dry perhaps. Or make the sauce just a touch too salty.”
“I draw the line at—”
“All right, all right,” Henry said quickly. Getting Mrs. Simpson to prepare mutton when she had beef, lamb, and ham at her disposal had been enough of a battle. She was never going to succeed in getting her to prepare it badly.
Dunford was waiting for her in the small dining room. He was standing in front of a window, staring out over the fields. He obviously didn’t hear her come in, for he started when Henry cleared her throat.
He turned around, smiled, motioned to the window with a tilt of his head, and said, “The land is lovely. You have done an excellent job in your management.”
Henry flushed at the unexpected compliment. “Thank you. Stannage Park means a great deal to me.” She allowed him to pull a chair out for her and sat down just as a footman brought in breakfast.
They ate in near silence. Henry was aware that she needed to eat as much as possible—the noonday meal was sure to be a dismal affair. She glanced over at Dunford, who was eating with similar desperation. Good. He wasn’t looking forward to porridge either.
Henry speared her last sausage with her fork and forced herself to pause in her virtual inhalation of food. “I thought I might show you ’round Stannage Park this morning.”
Dunford could not give an immediate reply, as his mouth was full of eggs. After a moment he said, “An excellent idea.”
“I thought you’d want to become better acquainted with your new estate. There is much to learn if you want to manage it properly.”
“Is that so?”
This time Henry was the one who had to pause as she finished chewing the last of her sausage. “Oh, yes. I’m sure you realize that one has to keep abreast of rents and crops and tenants’ needs, but if one wants real success, one really must go the extra mile.”
“I’m not certain I want to know what this ‘extra mile’ entails.”
“Oh, this and that.” Henry smiled. She looked down at Dunford’s empty plate. “Shall we be off?”
“By all means.” He stood as soon as she did and let her lead the way out of the house.
“I thought we might begin with the animals,” Henry said.
“I suppose you know them all by name,” he said, only half-joking.
She turned around, her face lit up with a brilliant smile. “But of course!” Really, this man was making it easy. He kept handing her the loveliest opportunities. “A happy animal is a productive animal.”
“I’m not familiar with that particular axiom,” Dunford muttered.
Henry pushed open a wooden gate that led into a large, hedgerow-lined field. “You’ve obviously spent too much time in London. It is a commonly expressed sentiment around here.”
“Does it also apply to humans?”
She turned around to face him. “Excuse me?”
He smiled innocently. “Oh, nothing.” He rocked back on his heels, trying to figure out this oddest of females. Was it possible she had names for all the animals? There had to be at least thirty sheep in this field alone. He smiled again and pointed off to the left. “What is that one called?”
Henry looked a little startled by his question. “Her? Oh, Margaret.”
“Margaret?” He raised his brows. “What a delightfully English name.”
“She’s an English ewe,” Henry said peevishly.
“And that one?” He pointed to the right.
“Thomasina.”
“And that one? And that one? And that one?”
“Sally, uh, Esther, uh, uh . . .”
Dunford cocked his head to the side, enjoying watching her trip over her tongue.
“Isosceles!” she finished triumphantly.
He blinked. “I suppose that one over there is called Equilateral.”
“No,” she said smugly, pointing across the field. “That one is.” She crossed her arms. “I have always enjoyed the study of geometry.”
Dunford was silent for a moment, a fact for which Henry was extremely grateful. It hadn’t been easy coming up with names at the drop of a hat. He’d been trying to trip her up, asking for the names of all those sheep. Was he on to her?
“You didn’t believe I knew all of the names,” she said, hoping her direct confrontation of the issue would diffuse any suspicious thoughts he was harboring.
“No,” he admitted.
She smiled loftily. “Have you been listening?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Which one is Margaret?”
His mouth fell open.
“If you’re to run Stannage Park, you must know which is which.” She tried very hard to keep any trace of snideness from her voice. She rather thought she succeeded. To her ear she sounded just like someone whose only concern was the success of the farm.
After a moment’s concentration Dunford pointed to a sheep and said, “That one.”
Drat! He was right. “And Thomasina?”
He was obviously warming to the exercise because he looked rather jovial as he pointed his finger and said, “That one.”
Henry was just about to say, “Wrong,” when she realized that she had no idea if he was wro
ng or not. Which one had she called Thomasina? She’d thought it was the one by the tree, but they were all moving about, and—
“Was I correct?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is that sheep or is that sheep not Thomasina?”
“No, it isn’t,” Henry said decisively. If she couldn’t recall which one was Thomasina, she doubted very much that he could.
“I really think that’s Thomasina.” He leaned back against the gate, looking very confident and very male.
“That one is Thomasina,” she snapped, pointing at random.
He broke out into a very wide grin. “No, that one is Isosceles. I’m sure of it.”
Henry swallowed convulsively. “No, no. It’s Thomasina. I’m certain of it,” she said. “But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll learn all of the names soon. You need only put your mind to it. Now, why don’t we continue our tour?”
Dunford pushed off against the gate. “I cannot wait.”
He was whistling to himself as he followed her out of the field. This was going to be a most interesting morning.
Interesting, he later reflected, was perhaps not the correct word.
By the time he and Henry arrived back at the house for their midday meal—a scrumptious bowl of hot, sticky porridge—he had mucked out the stable stalls, milked a cow, been pecked by three separate hens, weeded a vegetable garden, and fallen into a trough.
And if the trough accident just happened to be the result of Henry’s tripping over a tree root and bumping into him—well, there was no way to prove it, was there? Considering that the dunking was the closest thing he was going to get to a bath anytime soon, he decided not to get angry about it just yet.
Henry was up to something, and it was damned intriguing watching her, even if he didn’t yet know what she was trying to achieve.
As they sat down to eat, Mrs. Simpson brought in two steaming bowls of porridge. She set the larger one down in front of Dunford, saying, “I filled it right to the top, this being your favorite and all.”
Dunford tilted his head slowly and looked at Henry, one eyebrow raised in a most questioning manner.
Henry looked pointedly at Mrs. Simpson, waited for the housekeeper to leave, and then whispered, “She felt dreadful that we have to serve you porridge. I’m afraid I fibbed just a bit and told her you adore it. It made her feel so much better. Surely a little white lie is justified if it is for the greater good of mankind.”
He dipped his spoon into the unappetizing cereal. “Somehow, Henry, I have a feeling you’ve taken that sentiment to heart.”
The day, Henry reflected as she brushed out her hair later that evening before going to bed, had been an unqualified success. Almost.
She didn’t think he realized she had tripped over that tree root and pushed him into the trough on purpose, and the entire porridge episode had been, in her opinion, nothing short of brilliant.
But Dunford was shrewd. One couldn’t spend an entire day with the man without realizing that fact. And as if that weren’t enough, he’d been acting so bloody nice to her. At their evening meal he’d been a lovely companion, asking so attentively about her childhood and laughing at her anecdotes of growing up on a farm.
If he didn’t have so many redeeming qualities, it would be ever so much easier to scheme to get rid of him.
But, Henry reminded herself sternly, the fact that he seemed to be a nice person in no way detracted from the even more pressing fact that he had the power to remove her from Stannage Park. She shuddered. What would she do away from her beloved home? She knew nothing else, had no idea how to go about in the world at large.
No, she had to find a way to make him leave Cornwall. She had to.
Her resolve once again firm, she set down the hairbrush and stood up. She started to make her way over to the bed but was stopped mid-stride by the pathetic grumblings of her stomach.
Lord, she was hungry.
It had seemed an inspired plan that morning to starve him out of residence, but she’d neglected the quite pertinent fact that she’d be starving herself as well.
Ignore it, Henry, she told herself.
Her stomach roared.
She glanced at the clock. Midnight. The house would be quiet. She could creep down to the kitchen, grab some food, and consume it back here in her room. She could be in and out within minutes.
Not bothering to don a wrapper, she tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs.
* * *
Damn, he was hungry! Dunford lay in bed, unable to sleep. His stomach was making the most hideous noises. Henry had dragged him all over the countryside that day in a route tailor-made to exhaust him, and then she’d had the gall to smile as she fed him porridge and cold mutton.
Cold mutton? Blech! And if it didn’t taste bad enough, there hadn’t been enough of it.
Surely there had to be something in the house he could eat that wouldn’t jeopardize her precious animals. A biscuit. A radish. Even a spoonful of sugar.
He hopped out of bed, pulled on a robe to cover his naked form, and slipped out of the room. He tiptoed as he passed Henry’s room—it wouldn’t do to wake the little tyrant. A rather nice and endearing tyrant she was, but nonetheless, he rather thought it behooved him not to alert her to his little sojourn to the kitchens.
He made his way down the stairs, slipped around the corner, and crept through the small dining room to the—wait! Was that a light in the kitchen?
Henry.
The blasted girl was eating.
She was wearing a long, white, cotton nightgown which floated angelically around her.
Henry? An angel?
Ha!
He scooted himself against the wall and peeked around the corner, careful to keep himself in shadows.
“God,” she was muttering, “I hate porridge.” She shoved a biscuit into her mouth, washed it down with a glass of milk, and then picked up a slice of—was that ham?
Dunford’s eyes narrowed. It certainly wasn’t mutton.
Henry took another long and—from the sound of her sigh—satisfying swig of milk before she started to clean up.
Dunford’s first urge was to stomp into the kitchen and demand an explanation, but then his stomach let out another loud rumbling. With a sigh he secreted himself behind an armoire as Henry tiptoed through the small dining room. He waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs, then he ran into the kitchen and finished off the ham.
Chapter 4
“Wake up, Henry.” Maryanne, the upstairs maid, gently shook her shoulders. “Henry, wake up.”
Henry rolled over and mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “go away.”
“But you insisted, Henry. You made me swear I’d get you out of bed at half past five.”
“Mmmph, grmmph . . . didn’t mean it.”
“You said you’d say that, and that I should ignore you.” Maryanne gave Henry a shove. “Wake up!”
Henry, who’d been more than halfway asleep, suddenly bolted wide awake and sat up so quickly she started to shake. “What? Who? What’s going on?”
“It’s just me, Henry. Maryanne.”
Henry blinked. “What the devil are you doing here? It’s still dark out. What time is it?”
“Half past five,” Maryanne explained patiently. “You asked me to wake you up extra early this morning.”
“I did?” Oh, yes . . . Dunford. “I did. Right. Well, thank you, Maryanne. That will be enough.”
“You made me swear I’d stay in the room until you got out of bed.”
She was far too smart for her own good, Henry decided as she realized she had been about to curl back up under the covers. “Right. I see. Well, nothing to it, I guess.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Lots of people get up this—” Yawn.
She stumbled over to her dressing table, where a clean pair
of breeches and white shirt were laid out.
“You might want a jacket, too,” Maryanne said. “It’s chilly outside.”
“It would be,” Henry muttered as she pulled on her clothing. As devoted as she was to country life, she never, ever got out of bed before seven, and even that was an hour to be avoided. But if she was going to convince Dunford that he was not suited to life at Stannage Park, she was going to have to stretch the truth a bit.
She paused as she was buttoning her shirt. She did still want him to go, didn’t she?
Of course she did. She strode over to a basin and splashed cold water on her face, hoping it would make her look more awake. That man had deliberately set out to charm her. It didn’t matter that he’d succeeded, she thought perversely. It only mattered that he had done it deliberately, probably because he wanted something from her.
But then again, what could he possibly want from her? She had absolutely nothing he needed.
Unless of course he had realized she was trying to get rid of him and he was trying to stop her.
Henry pondered this as she pulled her hair back and fastened it like a pony’s tail. He had seemed sincere when he told her he was interested in her upbringing. He was her guardian, after all, if only for a few more months. There was certainly nothing odd about a little guardianlike concern.
But was he concerned about his ward? Or about how he could suck his newfound estate dry?
She groaned. Funny how a little candlelight could make the world seem so innocent and rosy. In the harsh light of morning, she could see things more clearly.
She made a little annoyed sound in the back of her throat. Harsh light of morning, her foot. It was still dark out.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t realize he was up to something—even if she wasn’t quite certain what exactly that was. What if he had a secret agenda of his own? Henry shuddered at the thought.
With fresh determination, she pulled on her boots, grabbed a candle, and strode out into the hall.
Dunford was staying in the master suite, only a few doors down from her own room. She took a deep breath for courage and knocked loudly on his door.