Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance (Inglewood Book 5)

by Sally Britton

  Neil tipped his chin upward. “And what is it you say, my lord?”

  “Your lack of a wife has given me reason to suspect you lack passion, but given the way Inglewood reacted to your wooing of his countess, there may be more to you than I thought. I have considered how I might use your hidden talents.” The marquess’s eyes gleamed. “I have a political opponent with a wife who may very well fall for your charms.”

  The hypocrisy his father displayed turned Neil’s stomach. His reasons for seeking out the Countess of Inglewood had been his own. She was the first, and only, married woman he had approached and he had failed to secure more than her pity. But his father demanding Neil abase himself to spy on another man, while tearing apart his mother and sister for similar behavior, disgusted him.

  “I might be a useless third son,” Neil said slowly, “but I will not seduce anyone at your command.”

  The marquess smirked. “No? Then you continue to prove useless. Of course, I am not surprised at your disobedience. You have ever been a disappointment.” He looked to his wife, still standing with her head bowed. “My lady, do you still claim this man is my child? I see more evidence every day that he is not.”

  Neil came over the settee and placed himself between the marquess and his mother, who had appeared to flinch away from that accusation.

  “Take back your slander, my lord. Father or not, no one speaks to my mother in this way.” Neil kept his hands at his side, though he was ready to fight with his hands if need be. He had never struck a man other than his father. His brothers, of course, but fighting during youthful disagreements did not count. Yet he was ready to swing at his father in defense of his mother.

  Perhaps it would prove refreshing.

  “Neil.” His mother’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Darling. Stop. Fighting will solve nothing.”

  “Neither of them are mine, are they?” The marquess looked from Neil to Olivia, who made not a single sound. “That is why they look nothing like me, and why they behave without a shred of respect. Disobedient, unnatural children.”

  Neil took a step forward. “You will not speak to my mother and sister that way. Not before me.”

  The marquess folded his arms, appearing as relaxed as though he had done no more than share his opinion on the tides. “Then you are dismissed.”

  “My lord—” His mother started to speak, but Neil would fight his own battles.

  “Dismissed? I have yet to hear your grand plan for taking up leadership of your party.” He laughed, coldly. “It sounds as though it will go as well as this little family gathering.”

  “You forget yourself, Neil,” Lord Alderton said, voice lowering. Neil recognized danger looming, but had yet to discover what shape it would take.

  “I forget nothing. You raised me to be this way. No matter how you deny it, your influence has turned me into the man I am. Are you not proud, Father?” he asked, flashing an impudent grin at the man he hated.

  “Not at all. I am disgusted.” The marquess narrowed his eyes. “And I am finished with you. Remove yourself from my sight.”

  “Gladly. Come, Mother. Olivia.” Neil took his mother’s arm and turned to leave the room.

  “You misunderstand,” the marquess said, voice hardly more than a whisper. “I never want to see you again. You are to remove yourself from my sight, my house, my lands. You are to take nothing that belongs to me or to the family with you. No horses, no dogs, no funds. You have a quarter of an hour. If you are still here, I will make certain you regret it.”

  Neil whirled around, shock turning his blood to ice. “You cannot be serious. I have done nothing—”

  “Precisely,” his father said, a snarl in that single word. “Nothing. You are useless. You are nothing to me. I will spend no more effort, no more of the family money, on such a poor investment as you have proven to be.” He pulled a watch from his waistcoat and flicked open the cover. “Fourteen minutes.”

  “Alderton, you cannot—”

  “Father, please, not Neil—”

  The pleas of his mother and sister would not be heard. His father’s behavior had been volatile before. He’d once whipped an eleven-year-old Neil with a riding crop for naught more than a minor infraction.

  Neil stormed out of the room, the women following behind him.

  Olivia’s shrill voice called after Neil. “You cannot leave—”

  “I must. But the two of you should lock yourselves in your chambers, Mother. He is in a mood.”

  “I would call it more than a mood,” his mother muttered. They stopped at the top of the stairs. “Where will you go?” she asked. “You must send me word. I will keep in contact and tell you when he’s ready to forgive you. This has to be some sort of plan, turning you into a prodigal.”

  “Perhaps.” Neil did not have time to think over his father’s scheme, but the marquess never acted hastily. That thought alone reassured Neil when his mind wanted to give way to anxiety. The marquess had set everything up, before they had even walked into dinner that night. Neil would bet on it, if he gambled the way his eldest brother did. “Keep yourselves safe. I will send word when I have found some place to weather his displeasure.”

  “Take this.” His mother took off the necklace she wore. It was studded with rubies. Then she pulled off her earbobs and put all of it in his hand. “They are mine, not the family’s.”

  Olivia’s worried expression changed into a scowl. “And he wonders why I will never marry. Bah. Giving another man that sort of power over my life.” She jerked her chin upward. “Come, Mother. My room has strong bolts.”

  Their mother shook her head. “He will not harm us, Olivia. This was all done for Neil, though I cannot guess why. Retire to your room. I will go to my own.”

  Olivia glowered at Neil. “You had better fix this.” She turned on her heel and stormed down the corridor toward the family wing.

  Neil looked down at his mother, her green eyes full of sorrow. “I will be fine, Mother. There will be a friend with a spare room somewhere. I will be away only until he comes to his senses.”

  “I have been married to that man for forty years. He is playing a game. Though I do not know what it is. Be careful where you go. He has spies everywhere, and too many powerful people who owe him favors.” She put her hand on Neil’s cheek, her brow pinched. “Neil. I will say this once and only once, and you will never repeat it to your sister. But you are not that man’s son.”

  Neil pulled away from her, nearly dropping the jewels she had given him in his shock. “Mother, what do you mean?”

  “There is nothing, absolutely no reason, why you must be like him or why you cannot escape him,” she whispered harshly, her expression fierce. “Go. Before he turns your own precious dogs against you.”

  She turned and went away, too fast for Neil to even attempt to grab her wrist, to stop her and demand an explanation.

  His time was nearly up. And the last thing Neil wanted was for his father to turn the dogs on him. Despite his care for the animals, they were well trained to do as the kennel master commanded. Being chased off the property by the animals he loved would prove the greatest humiliation.

  Neil stuffed the jewels into his coat pocket and fled the house, out the front door, and away from the only family he had ever known.

  Chapter Three

  Three days of being turned out of houses and away at doors by those he had considered friends had altered Neil’s perspective on how easy it would be to wait out the marquess’s wrath. Once he had shared his story, the noblemen and gentry had politely rescinded their hospitality.

  Whether they declined him as a guest due to fear of the marquess’s displeasure or disgust that Neil no longer had full pockets, they did not say. He wandered up the coastline, his hope waning as his list of friendly acquaintances thinned.

  He’d traded one of his mother’s earrings at one house for a horse and a bag of coin, but that was all the help he’d had. The horse wasn’t a particularly fine specimen, e
ither, but it hadn’t seemed to mind wandering down the road.

  Soon, he would need to turn westward. The next gentleman he meant to try was a third son, like himself, who lived near Saxmundham. At least, that’s where Neil thought the man said one could find him.

  He dismounted the gelding and walked upon the road, giving his legs a much-needed stretch. His first instinct upon leaving his father’s house had been to seek out Lady Annesbury or Lady Fox. But he could not step foot upon the first lady’s lands without angering her husband, and the second lady was not at home. Having recently married, she and her irritating husband had gone on a wedding trip.

  The knowledge that his immediate plans had been to run to women with whom he shared naught more than friendship stung his pride. There was no lover to seek. No gentleman who thought highly enough of him to risk his father’s wrath by offering shelter. The men who owed him favors were few, and not exactly near neighbors.

  What was a man to do, without more than a small purse of coins to his name and no place to go? Perhaps this had been the marquess’s plan, to force Neil into recognizing how much he depended upon his lordship’s good graces. The marquess had always been manipulative. There must be more to his reason for turning his third son out. A man did not invite that kind of public scrutiny without reason.

  Or perhaps the marquess had only tired of throwing money away on a child he had rightly suspected was not his own. Neil cast that thought away. He was the natural child of another man. In the hasty seconds his mother had shared the revelation, he hadn’t asked who the man was. Did it even matter?

  Why had his mother even told him? Perhaps she wished to spite the marquess. Instead, she had thrown Neil into confusion. He couldn’t think on that. There would be time to spare on that mystery another day. A day when he had a roof overhead and a bed no one would turn him out of when they discovered he had angered one of the most powerful men outside of the royal family.

  Neil glared up at the sky, noting patches of cloud everywhere except before the summer sun. He took his hat off and wiped at his brow with the back of one gloved hand. That was another thing. His attire was ridiculous. He had been dressed for dinner when he’d fled without clothing and was offered none by any he had met. He’d already stuffed his white gloves away in a coat pocket, but his trousers and shoes were not meant for riding and were certainly ruined.

  All his clothing came from tailors, most from London. They were expensive, perfectly fitted to him. Finding the appropriate attire in his current circumstances would prove difficult.

  Neil glimpsed a flash of movement to his right, behind a low gate, and turned more out of instinct than interest. A woman stood from her work in her garden, a basket tucked against her side, and stared at him with her head cocked to one side.

  Replacing his hat, Neil went to the fence. The day was hot. He and his horse needed refreshment. “Pardon me, madam. Might you know where I might find a public house? My horse is thirsty, and I am similarly afflicted.”

  She blinked at him, perhaps at his overly formal words. Yet he found impressing commoners with charming smiles and flowery language usually made them more compliant. Perhaps he had overestimated her vocabulary.

  “The nearest public house is in Dunwich, behind you about four miles. But you are welcome to water your horse here at our trough. If buttermilk will cool your thirst, or dandelion tea, I can offer that as well.” She spoke with the accent of an upper class gentlewoman, despite the smear of dirt on her cheek. He had to blink, the incongruity forcing him to reconsider his response.

  “That would be most welcome. Thank you, Mrs.—?”

  “Clapham.” She nodded up the road. “Our gate is around the next bend.”

  “Thank you,” he repeated stupidly. He offered a small bow as an afterthought, then remounted his horse.

  The woman started walking in the same direction, disappearing behind the hedgerow lining that side of the lane.

  The shrubbery and fence broke after he went around the slightest curve in the road, revealing a dirt path that took him to a small house. The ground floor appeared to be made of gray stone, the above floor wood, and the roof thatched. There was glass in the top windows, but the bottom had none, only shutters thrown open to let in the breeze.

  The woman arrived near the house, but she gestured to a small barn made entirely of wood, with a similarly thatched roof. He saw the trough outside of it and rode closer before he realized it was empty. The woman had gone to a pump located between the house and barn.

  He dismounted and affixed the horse’s lead to a rail apparently meant for that purpose, positioned as it was just above the trough.

  Mrs. Clapham, a comely woman he supposed, were it not for the well-worn clothing she wore, positioned a bucket beneath the pump and began to work the contraption, water pouring out to fill the pail.

  Neil shifted uneasily. Everything he knew about etiquette would have him preventing a gentlewoman from performing such an action on his behalf.

  Obviously, she is not a gentlewoman. No matter how she sounds. He adjusted his stance, looking away from the uncomfortable sight to take in the chickens pecking at the yard. Though the buildings and grounds were humble, there was an air of cleanliness about it. There were flowers planted along the side of the house. No rusted tools or discarded objects about the yard.

  The woman came to the trough, holding the bucket at one side, though she used both hands. She dumped it, then went back for another. It would take several trips to fill the trough. Neil shifted again. Should he wait for her to finish? Perhaps he could amble away to avoid the discomfort.

  He shifted his attention to a tree near the corner of the house and went toward it. He inspected the slim trunk, looked up into the branches.

  A child peered down at him, all wide-eyed and shadow-speckled. She was frozen, her bare toes curved around the slim branch, her arms wrapped around another at her waist, where she bent and stared down at him.

  “Good morning.”

  The girl’s eyes widened and she turned as though to see the woman through the branches.

  Neil leaned a shoulder against the tree and checked the progress of Mrs. Clapham. “She is at the pump. Shall I call to her for you?” He glanced up to see the girl shaking her head back and forth anxiously. “Ah. You are climbing the tree in secret.”

  She nodded.

  Neil chuckled. “Very well. I will not give you away, miss.” He lowered his eyes, watching the chickens instead. “Do you live here?”

  No answer came, so Neil sighed.

  “I’m not looking anymore. You will have to answer aloud. A whisper will suffice.”

  “I live here,” she whispered. “That’s my mother. I’m Caroline.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Caroline.”

  There was a long pause before the girl responded. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Neil Duncan.”

  “Oh. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Duncan.” There was a rustle above him and when he looked up he saw the girl had tucked herself closer to the tree trunk, her footing more certain. “My mother does not like me climbing trees,” the child said. “It isn’t ladylike.”

  Interesting. But it was none of his concern who the woman was or how she knew what was and was not ladylike.

  After his horse rested, he would be on his way. Even if he wasn’t certain of his destination.

  The door at the front of the house opened. Neil looked over his shoulder, and then he moved away from the tree. The woman standing in the doorway with white cap, iron gray eyes, and a stern glare, commanded his immediate attention.

  “Madam.” He bowed, the movement slight. A marquess’s son bowed low to very few. At least, a man raised in such a station need not lower himself overmuch for a countrywoman.

  She took his measure with one appraising glance. “Sir.” Then she directed her eyes to the tree. “Come down, Cara. We have yet to study geography.”

  A bare-footed, tree-climbing child had geography studies?
>
  “Yes, Grandmama.” The girl’s voice lilted sweetly in her obedient answer, and Neil looked up in time to see her stepping down from one branch to another with as much grace as a fully grown woman descending a stairway. The last limb was several feet high, yet she jumped down as though it was nothing to worry her.

  Miss Caroline grinned most impudently up at him, bobbed a curtsy perfectly adequate for a child of her age, and hurried by him and through the door to the house.

  Her grandmother stayed outside the doorway, her eyes fixed upon him. “You are oddly dressed, young man.”

  Young man? He doubted whether he was more than a dozen years her junior. Then again, there was some gray in her hair. She might be older than she looked.

  “I am dressed for dinner.” He held his arms out, not at all self-conscious of his odd apparel. Best to accept his circumstances, after all. “Yet I find no one will ask me to the evening meal.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “My daughter is caring for your horse?” While nothing in her manner was precisely rude, her tone struck him as somewhat commanding.

  Neil adjusted his coat. “If your daughter is Mrs. Clapham, then yes. I am—” He stopped, considering the woman before him and the recent revelation in his parentage. The child had assumed a title when he had not told her he was a lord. Might the grandmother do the same? “I am Neil Duncan.”

  “Mr. Duncan.” The woman curtsied, barely dipping. “Consider yourself invited for dinner.” Then she walked into the house, closing the door behind her.

  Teresa did not move, as shocked by her mother’s hasty invitation as the stranger. She had come up behind him, ready to offer him something cool to drink, when she’d heard her mother’s pronouncement.