A movement caught his eye as a fat bodied, hairy legged spider crawled along the beam above him, and Pierce shuddered. He detested the things. All their creeping legs made the hair stand up on his forearms. And sure enough, they did just then. As always.
That he could see the ghastly creature making its way over his head, had him leaving his bed a minute earlier than he wanted to, but there was nothing else for it. Apart from the thought that the monster arachnid might suddenly descend on a silken thread and land on his head, he could hear more movement below, and if he wanted to avoid a dressing down, he would have to make his presence known.
With the scuttling spider encouraging him, he kept his head ducked, rose from the bed, and walked towards the table beneath the tiny window set into the eves. A jug of water sat beside a bowl and a thin cotton towel. Sighing for the luxury of a steaming hot bath and his silk dressing gown, Pierce gritted his teeth and splashed his face and torso.
The shockingly cold drenching drove the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and lethargy from his limbs. He took his trousers from the chair and dragged them up his legs, noticing that they now gaped at the waist, before shrugging his shirt over his shoulders. Sniffing, and wrinkling his nose at the armpits of the limp linen, he had another moment’s regret over not being in his London apartments. But it was perhaps best that he wasn’t there. Victor, his valet, would have a seizure if he could see his charge now.
A door banging and grumbling undertones had him forgetting his long lost life of luxury as he hastened to tuck in his shirt. Jamming his feet into his scuffed boots and grabbing his jacket, he made his way across the planked flooring and down the narrow stairs.
Andrews, the stablemaster, stood in the small vestibule between the hall and the stables. Wiry and advancing in years, he peered at Pierce from beneath grey tufted eyebrows.
“Yer up then!” The stablemaster stated the obvious. “Thought some toff like you’d be snoring his head off still. Like you were yesterday.”
A wry smile slid across Pierce’s face.
“I wasn’t sleeping yesterday. As well you knew. That damnable cock saw to that. Someone should tell the cook that it belongs in a pie, not disturbing hard working folks sleep.” He took a cup of milk from the tray on the table and raised a sorrowful eyebrow at the bowl of gloopy, grey porridge. Andrews clearly noticed his look of dismay.
“No need to look so downcast, lad. There’ll be ham and eggs on Sunday.”
Pierce glanced up at the sudden softer sounding words. Andrews’ whiskers twitched in what might have been a smile if one could have discerned his lips beneath all the hair, but Pierce wasn’t quite sure. Best to tread carefully. He didn’t want to lose his position now that he had at last gained it.
“I can live on this until then. At least the cook makes a good stew for the evening meal.”
Andrews nodded and tilted his head.
“That she does. Plus a helping of bread and cheese midday. Not what you’re used to though, is it?”
Pierce shook his head. No point in denying his superior background. Though he had tried to disguise it, his accent gave him away as soon as he opened his mouth.
“No, but a man has to do what he has to do. Though I am down on my luck, I am not unwilling to work. Reading and writing can only get you so far when you are in my position. And the physical labour will do me good. Been sitting on my backside for far too long.”
Andrews gave a wise nod.
“It was lucky for you that Tim lost control of the mistress’ mare and that you recaptured it. Never seen anything like it, if the truth be told. Bernadette has a wild streak. Her Grace is the only person I’ve seen handle the animal properly before you came along. But her Grace hasn’t ridden for a while. Not surprising given her...” He stopped as Pierce banged his cup back onto the table with rather more force than necessary.
Pierce broke the ensuing silence and steered the subject away from matters he didn’t want to think about. He had heard about her Grace’s condition quite enough.
“It’s just as well I happened to be in the vicinity. Your stable lad had taken a nasty tumble. Do you have news of his recovery?”
In the vicinity? He had been staking out the place for what felt like weeks before his opportunity fell at his feet. Quite literally. The beautiful grey mare had refused to jump the fallen tree Pierce happened to be resting against. Just as well or he might have found several hundred pounds of horseflesh landing in his lap. As it was, the horse dug her heels in before the toppled trunk and stopped dead. Young Tim didn’t. The lad shot over the horse’s head and landed on the other side of the huge log with a loud crack and a loud cry of pain as his arm broke not only his fall but itself too.
With his experience, though the grey initially backed away and danced on its hind legs, Pierce soon managed to tie it to the fallen tree. He then picked up the near fainting boy, sat him astride the animal before climbing up behind him. Bernadette, as he had discovered the huge grey mare to be called, had stomped and snorted bad temperedly before Pierce reached around the lad and stroked her long neck. He spoke to her softly, asking her to be calm, to be patient. And the animal had given a great sigh. Of surrender, relief, or resignation Pierce didn’t know or care. All he needed was for the mare to get them to a doctor.
Not that he knew where to go. He might have been staking out Portland’s country estate for days, but that had meant avoiding people rather than discovering the local villagers, or finding a doctor. Pierce had gone as far as walking the five miles to the next town for supplies in an attempt to remain incognito.
But he needn’t have worried. Although the headstrong Bernadette had allowed Pierce to mount her, there was no guiding her, and after Tim gave a second agonised cry as his broken arm was jostled, Pierce finally gave up the struggle and let the headstrong animal have her way. She took them straight back to the stables from whence she had come.
A near frantic and furious stablemaster had met them in the yard.
“You young idiot, Tim! What did I tell you about taking Bernadette...”
“I’m sorry Mr. Andrews. I thought I’d be helping. But, but..” Tim’s lips trembled as his voice wavered. “This, this man was by the fallen oak.”
Andrews narrowed his eyes as he took in the man seated behind the boy.
“Who the Devil be you, and what are you doing riding her Grace’s mare?” He demanded. “You’ll hand her and the boy over immediately or I’ll...” He never revealed what he might do. The man stopped short as he suddenly noticed Tim’s pale face and agonized expression. A startled gasp on his lips, the stablemaster had helped the injured lad slide down from the mare, and carried him into the nearest stall.
Andrews didn’t bother calling any doctor. After laying the boy on a bench, he simply cut the shirt from the youngster’s body and looked critically at the broken arm before nodding to Pierce to take hold of the lad’s shoulders.
“Hold him still.” He aimed his words at Pierce, then jutted his whiskery chin towards the tearful boy. “Time to become a man, Tim. It will be over before you know it. Now, grit your teeth and we’ll do the rest.”
And they had. Pierce braced himself as Andrews took hold of the boy’s arm. Tim screamed, even before the stablemaster pulled, and promptly passed out. Pierce held onto the boy and winced as Andrews straightened the crooked limb, only holding the contents of his stomach because there was actually nothing left in it. But the worst was over. The limb was quickly splinted and bound and the still unconscious Tim was put in a cart driven by another stable lad, and sent off home to his mother, leaving the stables one man short.
Andrews had looked Pierce up and down critically. Pierce glanced up and down himself too. Though the weather had kept fine, a week sleeping rough had taken its toll. His crisp linen shirt was more than bedraggled. His cravat hung limply around his neck. His jacket sported smears of lichen from the trees and his boots had lost their shine. But these disadvantages hadn’t fooled Andrews at all. The
shrewd stablemaster raised a bushy brow.
“So what’s a gent like you doing creeping about our woods, that’s what I’d like to know. Stealing horses is it?” He folded his arms across his chest and, though far shorter than Pierce, the man’s stance had challenged Pierce to dare lie.
Which he didn’t. Feeling as though his own mother was giving him a dressing down, Pierce had begun brushing off the green dust from his lapels even as he tried to hold onto the last vestiges of his dignity.
“Creeping? I’ll have you know that I was not creeping. Nor stealing horses, or anything else for that matter. I might be down on my luck but a man has his pride. No, I was simply in the area.” He carried on quickly at Andrews’ doubting snort. “I’m not a thief or a liar. Just a man without funds. Or food.” His stomach gave a loud grumble and Andrews quirked the other bushy brow.
“Best get you fed then. Come on, there’s Tim’s bowl of porridge left on the table. He won’t be wanting it now he’s back with his mother. There’s the matter of his work too. Since the Duke’s death and her Grace moving back to the country, we’ve had to split the staff. The more experienced stayed in town with the Duke’s mother, the Dowager Duchess. My mistress, the current Duchess of Portland, ended up with a minimum of household staff, me, and only two stable lads.”
Pierce felt his eyebrows rise.
“The Duke’s mother kept the main staff in town? And his wife let her! Ha! I don’t believe it.” He guffawed and spoke without thinking as incredulity hit him. Were they talking about the same woman? He couldn’t imagine Daisy letting anyone tell her what to do. Or how many staff she could have. But Andrew’s suspicious frown caused him some concern. Damnation! He instantly cursed himself. His words had revealed that he obviously knew the late Duke’s wife a little better than might be expected, given his state of attire and the circumstances of his arrival. But the words were already out of his mouth and he couldn’t take them back. Daisy had clearly gone soft in her bereavement. She was mourning her beloved husband. A thought that made Pierce sick to his stomach.
He tried to put the thought from his mind as Andrews chuckled unexpectedly.
“If you want my honest opinion, I think her Grace prefers the countryside and couldn’t bear to be surrounded by a bunch of stuffy idiots who have orders to prevent her riding.” He paused and his whiskers wriggled. “Not that she has done much of that lately. Hence the reason for Tim’s jaunt this morning. Young fool. He’s nowhere near up to managing Bernadette. But you, “ He eyed Pierce up and down again. “You’re obviously more than capable of handling the horses. And young Seth and I cannot manage them on our own. How about you taking Tim’s place while he’s out of action?”
Pierce tried to hide his smile. He couldn’t believe his luck. Though he hadn’t intended to weasel his way into the household, staff always knew information before the general public. He would find out far more by being part of them. The chance was too good to miss.
“It’s a deal. I’d be happy to work in the stables.”
Andrews shook his head at Pierce’s apparent enthusiasm. And his still soft, and manicured hands.
“Hmm, perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut. Are you sure you are up to work of this kind? It’s hard and dirty.”
Pierce laughed. Though he hadn’t mucked out for many a year, there had been a time when he had loved working in his father’s stables.
“I’m not as weak as I look, and I don’t mind hard work. Peter Everard is my name.” He used his current alias as he stuck out his hand and shook the stablemaster’s. The job wouldn’t be glamorous, but he’d have a roof over his head and a couple of meals a day. And he would be exactly where he wanted. On the Portland country estate and within a few hundred yards of his goal.
His goal? Did he know what that was anymore? He had thought so only a few weeks earlier. The note from his Daisy Caruthers, had made it seem that she was in deep distress. Her husband was dead! Dead!
The news came as a surprise. Yes, Pierce knew that the Duke of Portland had fallen from his horse in the very same race that Pierce won and gained a fortune, but not that the man had died a few days later. Pierce hadn’t seen the initial incident. He had already been a good few lengths ahead of the competition with the winning line in sight when the saddle had apparently slipped, throwing the Duke to the ground, but Pierce had heard about it almost the instant he dismounted.
He hadn’t rejoiced. The Duke’s leg had been broken. Badly. There was talk of amputation. Pierce’s squeamish stomach notwithstanding, he had quickly ascertained that Daisy hadn’t attended the event and wasn’t in need of immediate comfort, before riding off to meet his best friend.
There had been nothing more Pierce could do, but his victory had suddenly become hollow. The money he thought he needed, didn’t seem such a prize. Daisy would be facing a life with an invalid. Not that she would care about the lack of a leg, but Pierce didn’t think Portland would take to the changes easily. James Robert Benedict was proud, unerringly fashionable. The lack of a limb certainly wouldn’t suit his style and, though Pierce had hated the man, cursing him roundly for stealing Daisy away, he hadn’t wished him any bodily harm.
Well, maybe a punch on the nose or two for luring his beloved into marriage. Or more likely Portland had lured her parents with a magnificent title, priceless jewels, and any number of fine carriages. Personally, Pierce thought the man a bit of an eccentric in many ways. Likely to be found wearing a purple frock coat while humming to himself and nipping dead heads from the roses as he walked his formal gardens. A little unusual if the truth be told, but not in an exciting way. Older, set in his ways, and far too boring for the likes of the daring and wild Daisy Caruthers, who liked nothing more than riding like the wind across the fields and climbing to the tops of the highest trees to gain the best view. Not the most ladylike of pastimes he knew, but Pierce had always thought her more incredibly fabulous for them.
Incredible, fabulous, and perfect for him. But it was not to be. He reflected on the years he had waited. And wasted, assuming that she would be his. The ones in which he had always believed that Daisy would fall into his arms the moment he crooked his finger at her. Not that he had ever done such a thing. Why would he need to? It was obvious she was his.
And that had been his downfall. In his arrogance he had presumed too much and delayed too long. So many years too long that he could have kicked himself the day he realized his mistake when the wedding announcement had been made.
For a solid hour he had stared at the morning newspaper and let his kippers go cold, while quite unable to believe his eyes. But the printed words never changed.
Lord and Lady Charles Caruthers
Are Delighted to Announce
The Engagement of Their Beloved Daughter
Miss Daisy Caruthers
To
His Grace, James Robert Benedict, Duke of Portland
The Marriage will take place...
Blah blah... He hadn’t cared to read any further. A wave of sickness had overwhelmed him, paralysing him for minutes on end. And then he had begun to shake. He had lost her! His appetite for his breakfast totally gone, he dropped his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. What had he been waiting for? The good Lord only knew, because Pierce certainly didn’t. Maybe it was the thought of getting into a fight with her brother Lucas. Not a good prospect. Especially now that the man had become an expert pugilist.
Or perhaps it had been because he thought she loved him as much as he loved her. Idiot! Of course she didn’t. He knew that now, but from the moment he had first met her, a newly born babe thrust screaming into his arms, he had known that he must protect her, and keep her safe from all harm. While her brother had curled his lip in revulsion at the squalling babe, Pierce had cooed at her, held her close, talked to her. And she had instantly stopped her cries, blinking up at the sound of his voice, her trusting blue eyes staring deep into his four year old soul, and claiming him for all time.
&
nbsp; He hadn’t thought about his own reaction to such innocent faith. Not once, had he questioned his innocent feelings all those years ago. There was no romance to them. No desires, no passion. No thoughts beyond the day. There was just knowledge. She was his. Totally and beyond any doubt.
While they were children they had played together at family parties. As they grew up, they good naturedly irritated and annoyed one another. When he went to school, he wrote to her. And looked forward to her replies. He sent her notes from his grand tour, telling her about everything he had seen and done. Riding on an elephant, sleeping under canvas, eating roasted snakes.
On his return, when his father gifted him the townhouse in London, she had surprised him with an intricately embroidered cushion cover. Untamed and windswept, she was rarely off her horse. Her dresses, when she wore them, always had mud spatters on the hem and grass stains adorned her knees. She hated idling indoors when she could be out in the fresh air, and never in his life had he seen her with a needle and thread in her hand.
And so the embroidery was all the more surprising, and infinitely more precious. He had looked down at the cushion and his heart warmed further as he smiled. The hours she must have spent making such an item. Sitting still. Sitting quietly. Concentrating on the pattern. Perhaps stabbing her fingers with the needle. His smile became wider as he admired her hard work. The flowers – were they flowers? - were crooked, the stitches uneven. The colours clashed and the edges were slightly frayed. But Daisy had made it. For him! All these years later, it still had pride of place on the settee in his drawing room.
He had thought she was his. How wrong could he have been? The wedding was proposed, planned, and over before he had time to consider what was going on, or to plan any last minute battle to win her back. The six month honeymoon dragged by without a word, and then a social conquering of London. The Duke and his new bride were the talk of the ton. Radiant! Glowing! The gossips whispered behind their fans. Was she already carrying the Duke’s child, the much needed Portland heir.
A Fragile Chain of Daisies: Flowers of the Aristocracy (Untamed Regency Book 4) Page 2