The woman’s eyes grew rounder with each word Lucinda spoke. “Well, I never. It’s all that there vicar’s doin’. I said to my Dick, he’s a good man.” She cocked her head on one side. “Needs a wife, he do. ’Tain’t right for a vicar to live alone.”
Others had made similar suggestions. Mrs. Dawson, the squire’s wife, in particular. Lucinda had simply ignored the hints and retained her half-mourning attire as a form of defense.
She glanced from the smoking hearth to the Drabet boy eyeing the bread and cheese with his hands clasped at his chin and looking like a hungry squirrel. “Do you have more fuel for the fire? It really is chilly in here for the baby.”
“There’s some peat at the back door,” Mrs. Drabet said, “But it’s got to last us through the winter. I shouldn’t be having a fire, ’ceptin’ the baby looked chilled first thing this mornin’, poor little mite.”
Poor little mite indeed. The blanket would help, and so would the food. “Send your boy down to the Briars tomorrow,” Lucinda said on a whim. “I have some chores he can do in exchange for some kindling and a bucket of coal. In the meantime, young man, stoke up this fire.”
After a longing glance at the items on the table, the boy knuckled his forehead and shot off.
Oh, heavens, by tomorrow she would have to think of something for the lad to do. She glared at the dark trail of moisture winding down the stone wall. Or Lord Wanstead would have to find the boy’s father employment. Now that was an interesting thought.
“I’ll bid you good day, Mrs. Drabet,” Lucinda said. “Please do not forget to send the boy down tomorrow. Come along, Sophia. We have another call to make.”
She stepped out, careful to close the door quickly to retain the fragile heat. Next they were going to call on an unthinking landlord who allowed his people to live at the edge of starvation. Just the image of the blue-lipped baby started her blood boiling all over again.
By the time they reached the Grange, the drizzle had ceased, but Lucinda’s mood was as black as the clouds rushing toward the horizon.
They met Albert crossing the stable yard. He raised a set of grizzled brows, the wrinkles in his forehead joining with those on his weathered bald head to form what looked like a miniature plowed field above two curiosity-filled black eyes. “Good day, Mrs. Graham. Miss Sophia. How be you this day?”
“Good afternoon, Albert. We are well, thank you. Is his lordship at home?”
“Got back from Maidstone an hour ago, he did. None too happy, if you ask me.”
Lucinda winced. Could she put off her visit for a day when she might find his lordship in a better mood? Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today—the gospel according to Mother. “I’m glad to find him in.”
“Aaah. Well, there you’ll be lucky most times. He don’t go much beyond the estate. Would you like me to take care of the little lady here while you visits his lordship? Take her to see the horses?”
Sophia, who was flagging after their protracted walk, gave a little hop. “Horsy.”
So much hope blossomed in the child’s face that Lucinda didn’t have the heart to say no. Besides, it would be easier to talk to his lordship if she did not also have to keep an eye on a bundle of mischief. “If you are sure you have time?”
Sophia grasped the gnarled hand held out to her. “Naught else to do, Mrs. Graham, except watch the hay settle in the manger, so to speak. Not ’til the rest of the master’s horses arrive.”
And no doubt the horses would be better kept than the people who lived on his land. The thought stiffened her spine and propelled her toward the iron-studded front door. She lifted the circular knocker and banged twice.
A few moments passed before the door swung in to reveal an aged butler who peered at her through pale rheumy eyes. “Mrs. Graham,” he said.
Everyone knew everyone in Blendon. “Mr. Jevens,” she replied. “I’m here to see Lord Wanstead.”
“His lordship is not at home,” the butler said without a great deal of conviction.
“Nonsense. Albert informed me he returned from Maidstone an hour ago.”
The sagging skin on the butler’s red-veined face flushed. “I mean he is not at home to visitors, Mrs. Graham.”
It was all the excuse she needed to turn tail and run. “Is he ever home, Jevens?”
The faded eyes warmed to a faint twinkle. “No, Mrs. Graham. Never.”
“Then let us consider this a business call, shall we?” She stepped forward and into the hall, brushing past the old gentleman, who tottered backward. Now he would be quite truthful in saying that she pushed her way in, should his lordship think to enquire.
“Where is he?”
“In his study.” Jevens nodded at an oak-paneled door leading off what had once been a medieval great hall. The stone fireplace at one end was big enough for a man to stand up in. A suit of Cromwellian armor guarded the bottom of a great carved staircase blackened by age, and an enormous iron chandelier hung from the hammer beams overhead. Magnificent and draughty and . . . she raised a brow . . . exceedingly grimy. Why, she couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror for the layer of dust on its face.
Jevens made no move to announce her.
If that was the way the wind blew, she would announce herself. Her footsteps rang out on the flagstones as she approached the door. Pausing to run her hands down the front of her gown, she composed her expression into pleasant but firm friendliness. The last time she had smoothed her skirts outside a door had been the last time Denbigh raked her over the coals. The recollection struck like a slap to the face. She drew in a quick breath. In those days, she had been nervous, afraid of saying the wrong thing. Since then, she had taken her life into her own hands. The coming interview might not be pleasant, but she wasn’t afraid, even if her knees did feel a little weak and her heart pounded. Good gracious, you’d think she was about to beard a real bear in its cave.
She rapped on the door.
“Come.” The voice on the other side was deep, pleasantly so, resonant, and very male.
She inhaled a quick breath and strode in.
Little outdoor light penetrated the room despite the open shutters. A candlestick lit the seated figure at the desk. With his head bent over a scattering of papers, the flame casting gold highlights among the dark brown of his hair, Lord Wanstead continued writing.
Lucinda closed the door.
“Yes?” Lord Wanstead said. He raised his head, blinked, and rose slowly to his feet. The pen slipped from his hand. His glance traveled from the hem of her waterlogged gown to her head in one swift pass, stopping when their gazes clashed. Heavy brows slowly lifted in question. Green eyes splashed with brown, eyes the color of cool summer forests, stared. The expression in their depths really did remind her of a bear. The one she had seen as a child at Astley’s amphitheater, puzzled and wary, as if waiting to see what trick the world would play next.
The gaze hardened and darkened to the color of evergreens in winter. Lucinda’s heart thumped against her chest as if it would prefer to be anywhere but in this room with this apparently angry male. “What the blazes—”
“Mrs. Graham, my lord,” she said, annoyed at the quaver in her voice. “We met in the woods some two weeks ago. I am the tenant—”
“I know who you are, Mrs. Graham. What I don’t understand is how you found your way in here.” He left the desk, heading for the fireplace and the bell pull, no doubt intending to have her thrown out. An enormous gray dog emerged from behind the desk, hard on his heels. Its white-fanged smile and lolling pink tongue looked far more welcoming than its master’s expression.
“Belderone,” Wanstead said. “Sit.”
The dog sank to its haunches.
“If I could beg your indulgence, my lord. There is a matter of some importance I must address with you.”
He stopped and turned, his dark brows lowered in a frown, his full lips a straight uncompromising line. “What is it, Mrs. Graham. A mouse in your pantry? Some shelves you
wish installed in the D—at the Briars? Mr. Brown handles those requests.”
She stripped off her gloves and removed her bonnet. “Perhaps if we could be seated, we could have a civilized conversation.” Dash it. Not the right thing to say to a man in his own home, a home that looked as dark and dingy as a medieval castle. She inhaled a steadying breath and made for the chair in front of the desk, keeping a wary eye on the dog. When neither master nor dog indicated any objection, she sat down.
Wanstead stumped back to his large padded armchair. The dog rested its head on his thigh, while he picked up the pen and ran the feather through strong, square fingers. A shiver ran down her spine, as if the delicate fronds had touched her skin. “Do you require tea, Mrs. Graham?” he asked.
After tramping about in the rain in sodden skirts for half the afternoon, the thought of a cup of tea sounded lovely, but the edge in his tone warned her off. “No, thank you. I’m here in regard to the farm worker and his family who live in the cottage on Mile Lane.”
“What business are they of yours, may I ask?” The growl in his voice and the lowering of his head made him seem more bear-like than ever, a somewhat confused bear.
Tall as she was, large as she was, this powerful male made her feel tiny and vulnerable and just a little bit breathless in a strange fluttering kind of way.
“The vicar asked me to visit Mrs. Drabet this afternoon with some things from the ladies of the church for the new baby.”
“Drabet,” he said. “Dick Drabet? Good lord. I haven’t thought about old Dick for years.”
“That much is apparent, my lord.”
A flicker of shame darkened his eyes, and he glanced down at the papers on the desk. “I am a very busy man, Mrs. Graham. Please get to the point.”
A rude, overbearing, busy man. “My lord, the Drabet family is living in conditions not fit for animals, let alone humans, and especially not a baby.”
The stiffening of his shoulders, the flush high on his cheekbones, along with a spasm of fingers around the pen, signaled she had gone too far. Hadn’t she learned not to point out to any male his shortcomings? Apparently not.
She cringed inside, shriveling against the chair back as if somehow she could make herself small enough to disappear beneath the rug and creep away like a mouse. An apology sprang to her lips, but her dry throat refused to utter a word.
A lump of granite would not have looked more impenetrable than Lord Wanstead’s expression at that moment. She found it disconcerting, nerve-wracking.
“You are here to tell me that a building on my property needs attention?”
“Y-yes.” Put like that, it sounded dreadfully impertinent.
“I had no idea,” he said.
“Well, you wouldn’t. You have barely left your house since your return. Did you know that the other two cottages in that row are empty, and if you do not do something soon, they will fall down?” Amazed at her temerity, a pulse beating heavily at her temple, she waited for his roar of outrage, for the threats men used to keep women in their place. Bluster, she reminded herself, posturing.
He shook his head, tossing off her baiting words. “I have been busy.” Once more his gaze flicked to his papers. “I haven’t had time . . .”
Time? What did he do for the hours he spent locked up alone in this mausoleum of a house? It, too, needed attention. For once, her questions remained where they belonged, behind her teeth. She pressed her lips together just to make sure.
His gaze rose slowly to her face, as if seeing her for the first time that morning, as if until now she had been an annoying insect, not worth a second look. He looked weary, even a little shaken, as if something had cracked through his iron reserve.
She suddenly wished she had been a little less damning. “If there is anything I could do to help . . .”
Eyes shuttered, he straightened. “No. Thank you. I believe you have done quite enough.”
An obvious dismissal. And yet she had the sense that if she could just reach out to him, they would connect on some deeper level. Such nonsense. She shot to her feet. “Well, my lord. I really should not keep you from your urgent affairs. I bid you good day.”
He looked as if he might say something more, then rose and bowed with precise correctness. “Good day, Mrs. Graham.”
The dog’s tail thumped on the carpet, raising a small cloud of dust.
No invitation to call again, she noticed. But she had done her duty. No one could do more. At least, not without hitting the taciturn man over the head with a shovel and making him go and fix the roof himself.
She swept him a deep curtsey, perhaps a little overdone, but it suited her mood. She sauntered out of the room, if not in good order then at least with her dignity intact. Only when she marched up the Briars’ front path with Sophia in tow did her blood cool. Though whether it was meeting Lord Wanstead again or the excitement of standing up for what was right that had it simmering in her veins, she had no idea.
Chapter Four
The Norman church had stood in the village of Blendon since around the time William the Conqueror arrived on England’s shores. Jammed into the front pew in solitary splendor, Hugo felt his shoulder blades tighten. It was as if every gaze in the small congregation bored into his back. He didn’t begrudge them their curiosity. After all, bad landlords ruined their tenants as often as good ones brought prosperity, as Mrs. Graham had so forthrightly pointed out. Damn the woman.
A few rows back, the know-it-all widow sat with her daughter. The hairs on his neck stood at attention just thinking about her calm, steady gaze. He smiled grimly as he recalled her bravery in the face of his gruffness a few mornings before, a mother hen standing up to a fox.
In front of him in the carved oak pulpit, the vicar, a tall reed of a man with a shock of black hair and skin as white as parchment, read the lesson. Rather than the usual noble son suffering through his duty, intensity colored his resonant voice and his soft blue eyes warmed when he glanced at his flock.
Hugo had met this man somewhere before.
The simplicity and the encouraging words of the lesson soaked into his weary heart with a burgeoning sense of hope. Something he barely remembered, if indeed he had experienced it at all.
The congregation rose at the end of the service, and he heaved himself to his feet, wincing at a crippling stab from his thigh. As tradition demanded, he led the exodus, foiling the pain in his leg with a brisk stride. He ran the gauntlet of shy grins on scrubbed shining faces and the bobs and touches of forelocks of those waiting for him to pass. God, sometimes he envied them their simple lives.
He returned their acknowledgments with a nod, including one to the somberly clad Mrs. Graham beside her daughter. Many of the rows were sparsely filled, he noted. Unless someone did something about bringing prosperity to this corner of Kent, soon there would be no one left to work his land. Damn the bank in Maidstone requesting more time to consider a loan and asking all sorts of awkward questions. He might have to go to London, to Coutts for a loan. Damn Father and his quest for another heir.
Squinting against the glare after the filtered light in the nave, he emerged into a perfect summer day with blue sky, fluffy clouds, and birds twittering in the trees. A cool breeze kept the temperature comfortable, unlike Spain in the summer. Yes, on the whole, he was glad to be back in England. A pleasant if surprising realization.
The vicar popped up in front of him with his hand out. “Good to see you again, Lord Wanstead.”
The man must have run all the way from the vestry. Hugo shook the dry, firm hand. He did know this man. He dredged through his memory.
“Pasty,” the vicar said with a deprecating smile. “We met at Eton.”
“By thunder, Pasty Postlethwaite. You were two years behind me. I’ve been wracking my brains all morning trying to remember. I knew it wasn’t the army.”
The younger man nodded. “No. George, the next brother up, had the privilege of that service. I was always destined for the church. Oh, and
I go by Peter now.”
Other members of the congregation poured out of the church, their faces expressing a curiosity Hugo had no wish to satisfy.
“I’m glad you decided to join us today,” Postlethwaite said.
Another person twitting him about his solitude? Hugo decided to let it go. “Call in at the Grange, Peter.” Hugo headed down the steps. “We’ll sink a bottle and chat about the old days.”
Postlethwaite acknowledged the invitation with a nod and turned to greet his flock.
Hugo strode for his gig. A hearty voice called his name. Inwardly Hugo grimaced, but swung around with a smile. “Squire Dawson. How are you?”
He waited for the gray-haired gentleman, rotund and dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat, to catch him up. They shook hands.
“More to the point, how are you, dear boy?” The squire looked Hugo in the eye, the high color in his fat cheeks more noticeable than Hugo recalled. “Heard you were wounded?”
“A scratch,” Hugo said. He tried not to fidget under the piercing gaze of an old family friend. “How are Mrs. Dawson and Miss Dawson?” There. That didn’t sound too forced.
“Fine, fine. Making a stir in London. You know what the ladies are.”
Hugo nodded as if he did know. “And Arthur? What news of him?”
The squire’s jovial expression faded. Anxiety replaced the twinkle in his eyes. “Young varmint. I don’t understand him, my lord. Never have. Never will. Got himself mixed up with the Bow Window set, most of them Prinny’s men by all accounts. A more useless bunch of dandies I never heard of.”
It seemed a shame that the Prince Regent’s particular friends would be thought of so badly. “He’ll get over it,” Hugo said, albeit without much hope. “He’s young yet.”
“And wild. Pity you left. You used to be a good influence on him. He was right miffed when you joined the army without a word to anyone.”
Hugo felt the familiar flood of shame at his cowardice. “Father didn’t object.”
The Lady Flees Her Lord Page 6