“So we have some amorous neighbors or servants.”
Fitz looked clearly shocked.
Mrs. Beete turned red. “Nonsense, my lord. Our neighbors or servants are never amorous, particularly in your lordship’s gardens.”
Rohan wondered what his fond mama would have to say to that. He would have to remember to tell her when she returned from Italy. He hoped she would come to Mountvale. She preferred London, truth be told, although she occasionally yielded to the call of a handsome country footman. Ro-han looked at the footmen in their crimson and ivory uniforms. Ah, that man—Augustus, from Wales—he just might bring his mama on a visit to Mountvale. He was dark as a sinner, his eyes a wicked dark brown. He looked strong, muscular, and was certainly not over thirty. Rohan could only shake his head. No blaming her. He was her son, as she had reminded him often enough, giving him one of her brilliant smiles. His papa had reminded him often enough too, slapping him on the back from the time he’d been only fourteen years old and nearly sending him into the wainscoting.
Rohan needed Pulver. He also needed his valet. He penned a quick letter to his secretary and sent Augustus off to London to fetch both of them. He was chewing on the nib of his quill pen when he remembered his Aunt Miranda, who lived in Brighton. An answer to prayer. Of course she would be delighted to come to Mountvale and play chaperon. After all, he supported her. He only hoped she was still alive.
She was leaning over a plot of primroses, red, pink, blue, gold, and white flowers all spilling over each other. He saw her lightly touch one of the crinkly light green leaves. He himself was particularly fond of primroses, not of course that he had ever remarked on it when with his friends in London. But, truth be told, their vivid colors warmed him to his toes.
On either side of her were two of his gardeners, Ozzie and Tom Harker, brothers who had been in his family’s service for more years than Rohan had been on the earth. They were both very tall, very thin, and nearly bald. All three of them were talking with a good deal of animation. If he wasn’t mistaken, Ozzie looked rather pained. As for Tom, he was grinning from ear to ear. He wondered what was going on.
“Good morning,” Rohan called out.
The men straightened, but she didn’t. He heard her begin to whistle. He nodded to Ozzie and Tom and watched them take their rakes and trowels off to a distant plot of stocks.
“Did you know,” Rohan said not one foot from her ear, “that fairies take shelter under primrose leaves during rainstorms?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, not turning to look at him. “Did you know that when Saint Peter dropped the keys to heaven they became primroses wherever they landed on earth?”
“Ah, but I can top that one, Susannah. Did you know that the primrose is a symbol for wantonness?”
She did turn to face him then. She didn’t look at all shocked or offended. Instead she was grinning. “I should have expected you to know that. Indeed, that’s the only reason you know anything about primroses at all, am I not right?”
He said, his eyes clear and calm, “Did you love George?”
“You think to take me off balance? To make me spill out my innards without thinking?”
“I am accounted to be rather good at it. I would appreciate it if you would begin to spill.”
“I will tell you the truth, my lord. There is no reason not to. In the beginning, yes, of course I loved George. Later, well, he made it difficult. He came rarely to Mulberry House.”
“You will tell me about how difficult he made things for you later. I’ve been thinking about our adventure last night. Let’s say that the fellow who searched Mulberry House three times managed to follow us here to Mountvale. Let’s say he somehow discovered which room you were in, managed to slither his way into the house without a soul observing him, cajoled Marianne so that she’d be quiet. Then, I fear, Toby must have come into your bedchamber. He didn’t see the man. He must have been hiding behind the door. Toby runs out to get us. The man again manages to slither out of the house with no one observing him, but he does rip his coat on a tree limb near the stables.” Rohan pulled the swatch of dark blue wool out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. “Ben, one of the stable lads, found this early this morning. I don’t suppose you recognize it?”
“No, I don’t. It appears he didn’t have time to do anything. There was no mess, no ripped up valises, no papers tossed to the floor. Oh, God, what if he had hurt Toby?”
“He didn’t. Forget it.”
She looked at him. It was odd, but she really looked at him for the first time. She was still so afraid that her brain was barely working, but yet she was staring at him, recognizing that he was beautiful. He was tall, but he wasn’t massively built. Rather he was lean, well formed, she could see that clearly what with him wearing tight buckskin breeches. His face was well sculpted, almost too perfect a face for its own good. And those eyes of his—Susannah imagined that if he turned those eyes on a woman, she would have little resistance. They were a dark green, as cold as a winter sky if he was displeased or as hot as the roiling sea if he was laughing. Or doing other things. Interesting other things. With her, perhaps. She shook herself. This was ridiculous. He was a womanizer. It was his stock-in-trade.
“Would you care to tell me why you’re staring at me?”
She shook her head.
“Ah, then perhaps you’d care to tell me what you’re thinking?”
Why not? “I was thinking it’s a good thing you’re beautiful. Surely a man who was also a womanizer wouldn’t be all that successful at it if he looked like a toad.”
“Beautiful? Me?” He began to laugh. He laughed louder. Mrs. Beete called down from an open upstairs window, “My lord! Are you feeling just the thing? Perhaps cook’s breakfast kidneys made you a bit liverish?”
He’d laughed again. He’d even laughed loudly. No wonder Mrs. Beete thought he was sick. He called up to her, “I am liverish. There is no other explanation.”
“Why,” Susannah said, “does Mrs. Beete think you’re ill? You look perfectly fit to me. You’re grinning, not attending at all. Very well, then. Did you know that the Harker brothers want to give me a racing kitten? They say they will teach me how to train it, but the training process must be kept secret. I have never heard of racing cats before, but perhaps it could prove interesting. What do you think?”
And he laughed again. Then, quite suddenly, he was quite serious. “A racing kitten? No, surely you have misunderstood them.”
“No, that is what they’re giving me.”
“It isn’t fair,” he said, kicking a rock with the toe of his boot. “They never offered me a racing kitten. Why did they offer you one? They only just met you. How can they possibly know that you can deal with one of their racing kittens? You could bungle the whole thing.”
“I will let you train the kitten with me, if you like.”
It was half a bone. He took it, but he didn’t like it. “Very well,” he said finally, his voice all grudging, “but I still wanted my very own. Curse them.”
7
ROHAN SAT BACK IN HIS VERY COMFORTABLE LEATHER chair behind the huge mahogany desk in the library. He’d done all he could for the moment. There was a quiet knock on the door.
“Come,” he called out.
It was Fitz, standing taller than he had in at least five years. He looked as arrogant as a peer of the realm on his worst days, but today he could be the king. He said with grave formality, “I’ve got all the men together, my lord. They await you on the east lawn.”
There were men from Mountvale village, many tenant farmers on the estate, and all his people as well. Even Mrs. Beete was standing beneath an apple tree, her arms folded over her massive bosom. Ozzie Harker was holding one of Rohan’s best mousers in his arms, rubbing its chin. The brindle cat looked blissful. The brindle cat was also supposedly half wild.
At least seventy-five men and a sprinkling of women stood there. He saw Susannah standing near the back, holding Marianne in her arms, Toby
beside her.
They all looked grim.
“Thank you for coming,” Rohan began. “You all know by now that a man broke into the house last night. He tried to search Mrs. Carrington’s bedchamber, but Toby chased him off. How he managed to get in, how he knew which bedchamber belonged to Mrs. Carrington, I don’t know. Ben found a piece of wool on a tree branch near the stables this morning.” Rohan motioned for the men to pass it around. “I want you to keep your eyes open. If you see any stranger, anyone wearing clothing of this blue, immediately inform Mr. Fitz.”
He offered a reward, which was well received, then offered all the men Mrs. Horsely’s famous cider, but only a single glass. More than one glass and the drinker would take off his clothes and dance while singing a bawdy song.
To no one’s surprise, the men cheered the cider louder than they did the reward.
Later, Rohan handed Fitz the sealed letter. “Post it, please, Fitz. It’s very important.”
“London, I see, my lord.”
“Yes, to a gentleman I can trust. Phillip Mercerault, Viscount Derencourt.”
“We have not had this much excitement since your dear mama fell from that pear tree into Raymond’s arms, not that this is the kind of excitement that leads to a serene and settled state of mind. You remember the footman, Raymond, don’t you, my lord? A very nice young man, of good character and pleasant humor. I will never forget how fortunate it was that he was standing at that particular moment beneath the pear tree.”
Was Fitz indulging in irony? It seemed more than likely.
“No, this is far more exciting. You didn’t see Marianne sitting on the edge of the balcony. Actually, I long for some boredom. This could be dangerous, Fitz.”
“I understand this same man broke into Mrs. Carrington’s house three times?”
How had he known that? Rohan blinked away the question and just raised a brow. Fitz knew everything.
“It appears to be the same man. And that is why I have written to a gentleman I trust in London. Is breakfast ready?”
“Yes, my lord. Miss Marianne is in the nursery with Betty. Master Toby is in the village acquainting himself with the vicar, as you suggested he do.”
“Yes. Mr. Byam gives lessons, as you know. I wish Toby to determine if he would like to tutor with him. I trust Mrs. Carrington isn’t yet occupied training her racing kitten.”
“No, my lord. The racing kitten doesn’t arrive until next week. Mr. Harker doesn’t like to hurry these things. He believes it’s bad for the feline’s mental works. Mrs. Carrington awaits you in the breakfast parlor.”
She chewed on the slice of ham, the slice so thin she could nearly see through it. It was the most delicious ham she’d eaten in her life.
“I have written both to my mother to tell her of her grandmotherhood and to my aunt Miranda, who, if she’s still walking on terra firma rather than lying in it, can come to live here.”
She stopped chewing. She had changed her gown. This one was muslin, a green faded from too many washings, that was banded with a dark strip of green beneath her breasts. The sleeves were short and puffed, the neck high with lace trimming. Her shining brown hair was tied back with a black ribbon and hung halfway down her back.
“You are going to a lot of trouble, my lord. Are you certain that you wish to—”
“Yes. Also, you have very nice hair,” he said, realizing in the same instant that he wanted to slide that thick hair through his fingers, something he hadn’t realized just the day before. He pulled his thoughts up short and helped himself to scrambled eggs. He wanted to pull a curtain of her hair to his face and smell her scent and feel her hair on his cheek. He had to get a hold on himself. This wasn’t at all like him. He cleared his throat, but what came out of his mouth as a prelude wasn’t what he planned. “Your eyes are a nice shade of gray blue. However, your gowns—at least the ones I’ve seen—aren’t worthy enough. They look like you’ve worn them for a decade. They are on the edge. I have decided to have a dressmaker from Eastbourne come to see to things.”
Her fork clattered to her plate. Her face was no longer serene. It was suddenly splotched with color. “My lord, you will not. All you have to do is give me George’s money. I will see to myself, Marianne, and Toby. Truly, you are very kind, but I do not wish you to spend your own money on me, and I do not wish to be indebted to you.”
“I can’t give you the twenty thousand pounds.”
Baldly said, but there it was.
“But you told me—”
“I told you that you had to live as one of the Carringtons, which you are. You are also to be the responsibility of the head of the family, in this particular case, it is I. Aunt Mariam’s will specifies that.”
“But then where does the twenty thousand pounds come in? If I continue to live here, can I not have it?”
“Oh, no, you’re to have an allowance. The inheritance is paid out in small increments each quarter, until you’re a very old lady.”
“That is a very strange bequest. Also, I am a widow, George’s widow. Surely she can’t have meant to foist a widow off on the Carrington family? Surely a widow shouldn’t have to deal with an allowance?”
He shrugged, slowly chewed another bite of bacon—crispy, as he liked it. The ground seemed a bit shaky beneath his feet, but he persevered. “Sorry,” he said. “There’s no way around it. You’re a Carrington. The will states that you are my responsibility. However, you don’t have to live here. If you would prefer to live with Tibolt at the vicarage, it’s about twenty miles east of here in Edgeton-on-Hough. But it is very small. I doubt Toby would fit in. Besides, Tibolt will have to marry in the near future. Surely you wouldn’t want to intrude on newly married persons?”
“You are saying you are the only Carrington?”
“The only available Carrington. No, there is also my mother. She enjoys traveling a great deal and doesn’t spend all that much time in England. But when she comes for a visit, perhaps she will look at her granddaughter, sigh with grandmotherly delight, and decide to sink roots.” He frowned over that. “However, I wouldn’t count on that happening. In fact, I have a very difficult time picturing such a thing. My mother is fancy-free, you know.”
She laughed at that, throwing up her hands. “Your mother, sir, sounds like an original.”
“Oh, she is. I am quite fond of her. Now, about some new gowns for you—”
“No, I don’t believe so. When will you give me my allowance? I plan to save it.”
How the devil could a will forbid saving the wretched inheritance? All Rohan knew was that he wasn’t about to let her leave Mountvale. Why? Common sense didn’t matter in this case. She wasn’t leaving.
“You could save a bit, I suppose. But you know, I plan to do a bit of entertaining. You will act as my hostess. You cannot be a Carrington hostess in any of the gowns I’ve seen.”
She concentrated on the small pile of eggs at the edge of her plate. “I will think about it,” she said finally, not looking at him.
It was a dark, stormy night, the kind of night that made Rohan itchy and restless. He was pacing his library. He stopped and drank the tea in the bottom of his cup. It was cold.
“My lord.”
He nearly tripped, he turned about so quickly at the sound of her voice. Susannah was standing in the doorway, her rich hair long and loose down her back, wearing a faded light blue nightgown and a dark blue dressing gown, both suitable for a maiden lady of indeterminate years. It had probably belonged to her mother, or to her grandmother. It didn’t matter. She looked altogether delicious. He hadn’t thought she looked delicious at all yesterday or the day before, but he did now. It made no sense. He wouldn’t put up with this. She was a mother, for God’s sake. She was also delicious—no, that was absurd.
He meant his voice to sound unfeeling, and it did. “It is after midnight. What do you want?”
“I remembered something that perhaps could be helpful to us. I saw the candlelight from beneath the d
oor and thought to tell you.”
He pointed to a chair. As she walked in front of the fireplace toward him, the embers suddenly spurted into flame. He saw clearly through the dressing gown, through the nightgown.
He swallowed. He needed to go to London. He needed distance from her. Just a bit of distance and she would return to normal and so would he. Why hadn’t he doused the embers in the fireplace?
He swallowed again. “Sit down,” he said, this time louder. If she didn’t move out of that blasted light, he would find himself in the situation of having to sit quickly behind his desk. Surely she would realize what that meant, particularly if his eyes were glazed over at the same time, he was staring at her breasts, and he had difficulty speaking plainly and clearly.
She moved to stand behind a wing chair, leaning slightly forward. It brought more hair over her shoulder to cascade over her left breast. It was a very seductive pose. Didn’t she realize that? Was she doing this on purpose?
“What did you think might be important?”
She cocked her head at him. His voice was harsh and he wasn’t smiling. “You are in a strange mood tonight, my lord.”
“I am not in any kind of mood and I forbid you to speak of it.”
She grinned at him, unable not to. He was being perverse and, oddly, it was quite charming. He looked harassed. Her smile fell away. It was because she’d brought all this trouble to his door. It was all because of her father’s letter. She prayed that Mrs. Heron was skinning her father at cards, winning every groat he got his hands on. At least if he had nothing to bet with, he would have to remain at Mulberry House. Even now the baron must be cursing both her and her father for the predicament he was in. She looked down at her clasped hands and sighed.
“I’m sorry I have brought you all this misery. It’s all my fault, I well realize it.”
“But you knew the thief just might come here along with you, did you not?”
“Yes, but not really. Well, I hoped he would give up once he saw where we were coming. After all, this is a real house, not like Mulberry House.” She looked down at the soft brocade on the chair and began to pet it as though it were a cat. The material was soft and warm, and he suddenly imagined her hands on him, petting him. He snarled. He would shortly be a candidate for Bedlam. He heard her say, her voice filled with even more misery, even more apology, “It was possible and I knew it. I suppose that means, despite any excuses, that I’m not a very good person.”
The Wild Baron Page 7