Tamed By A Dangerous Lady (Scandalous Liaisons Book 3)

by Ella Edon

  “You’re back from the south, I see.”

  “Yes,” Cutler agreed.

  They regarded each other uneasily for a moment. Mr. Hanford’s gaze held his for half a minute – agonizing, assessing. Then it wandered sideways, towards Raymonde. He said nothing, but his face stiffened disapprovingly.

  Cutler felt his childhood insecurity start to rise: suddenly, he was twelve years old and apologizing for some misdemeanor. He looked up at the old man and felt his perception changing.

  I am not twelve. And Mr. Hanford, while my guardian, is not always right.

  He was surprised by how that thought shifted something inside him. He glanced at Raymonde.

  “May I introduce Lady Raymonde, sir?”

  The man’s brow went up. He looked outwardly composed, but Cutler could see in his eyes that the news had shaken him. He did not – absolutely not – expect Cutler to arrive with a woman as a companion, and the fact that she was a member of the gentry made his eyes bulge.

  Cutler tried not to smile. His back straightened even more.

  “My Lady Raymonde… I welcome you to my home.”

  Mr. Hanford stood back, holding out his hand so that Lady Raymonde could enter. She looked at Mr. Hanford and then at Cutler and took his arm so that they could walk in together.

  Mr. Hanford stared at them and Cutler could see him make no attempt to hide his shock. He wanted very badly to laugh. He fought to maintain a straight face and walked past the man into the hallway that smelled of stone and cold, and swallowed the laughter. He glanced sideways at Lady Raymonde.

  “A charming place,” she said softly. She took off her coat and bonnet, hanging them up on a peg, utterly ignoring Mr. Hanford, who stood there with a look of utter disbelief on his face.

  Cutler followed her example and they went together into the dining room. In there, Cutler turned to face her and he saw, to his astonishment, that she, too, was smiling.

  “I think your steward is somewhat confused,” she said.

  Cutler nodded, grinning. “It seems so,” he agreed.

  “Well, then,” she said. “He should remember his place is to aid, not to overrule.” Her voice was steely, and Cutler was surprised.

  She had never been difficult with servants, always treating them with care. Her cutting-down-to-size of Hanford was something new.

  It was, he thought, as if she knew how the man had acted so tyrannically toward him.

  “Well,” she added, after a brief glance around the small, sparse-furnished room. “I suppose we should go upstairs. If this fellow has something to tell you, we ought to give him a chance to say it. Then, I think he might organize a bath to be drawn. I would like to wash off the stains of traveling, and you need something to cleanse your shoulder.”

  “Yes,” Cutler said, feeling somewhat at a loss as she calmly and tranquilly organized his life. He was following her up the stairs in a daze, when he wondered how he’d managed without her.

  “Mr. Hanford,” he said as he walked into the drawing-room. “I have a great deal to ask you. You wrote to me in London of an urgent matter to discuss.”

  “I did, yes. And it seemed to take a while before you responded.”

  “I was not in London – the letter was forwarded to me at Westmore.” He kept his voice neutral, feeling the small barbs that Hanford had always leveled at him, but refusing to engage. He was twenty-eight years old now, not a wounded child. “I did write to inform you of that fact, a week before I departed for Yorkshire.”

  “Your letter was mislaid,” Mr. Hanford replied coolly.

  Cutler heard booted feet cross the wooden floor and knew that Lady Raymonde was listening to them. He felt a surge of strength flow through him as he remembered her presence. She was standing just on the edge of the room, her eyes focused elsewhere, but he knew she was there, and he knew she was listening and that was enough.

  “I wish to know what it was you had to tell me that was of such urgency.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Hanford raised a brow. “I suggest we speak in the parlor, then – where we can be alone.” He cast a significant glance over his shoulder. Cutler bridled.

  “Lady Raymonde is my companion. There is nothing of my business which I feel the need to conceal from her.”

  Mr. Hanford looked like he’d been slapped. He swallowed, throat working. When he spoke again, his voice was level.

  “I see. Well, then, I trust you do not mind if she knows you are in debt, and what little land you own is under threat.”

  Cutler swallowed hard. It was far worse than what he’d expected to hear. His eyes widened and then he schooled his face neutral.

  “What little land I own has always been entailed to Alford Manor,” he said as calmly as he could muster. “And I would like to know the nature of this debt.”

  “If you wish to know that, mayhap you could step into my office, where we can consult the books alone? I, for one, have more humility than to air that in front of other people.”

  Cutler swallowed hard. On the one hand, he hated the very thought of concealing something from Lady Raymonde. On the other hand, he had to see there was merit in concealing this. He nodded.

  “I will come and look at them.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  If the reply was made with irony, it was lightly done, but Cutler felt it nonetheless. In part, he thought he deserved it. He was indebted to Mr. Hanford for his daily bread for fourteen years. He’d heard that often. Chastened, he followed him up the stairs.

  The office at the top of the house was cold and damp as it had always been. Wintry, even in summer, the room had a great deal in common with Mr. Hanford, its main inhabitant. Cutler followed him to the desk, feeling the awkwardness he had felt in here as a child reducing him the way salt poisons soil. He swallowed hard and stood at the desk. Mr. Hanford remained standing.

  “The accounts have been unpaid for almost two years.”

  “What?” Cutler clutched at the desk, feeling swimmingly ill. What had happened? It was madness! He had sent half his pay back from the army every year in good faith that Hanford was using it to look after his interests, saving the rest for his old age. And they were in debt for two years’ expenses? Surely, this was impossible?

  “It’s a fact,” Mr. Hanford said. He opened the leather ledgers, showing Cutler the final total for the month. He was right. He was five thousand pounds in debt.

  “It’s not possible,” he said. “The land… The cottagers?”

  Most of the income came from a section of land – perhaps five acres – which had been left in his name by his late father. The land – Alford Acres – had hosted five or six tenant farmers, whose sales and profit were partly his income. It should have been more than enough to cover his modest expenses, and Mr. Hanford’s, and to keep the household running, too!

  “The tenants haven’t paid.”

  “What?”

  Cutler sank into a chair. This was not possible! His tenants had always been supportive. He knew many of the cottagers personally, and they had never begrudged the rents. They were not too high – payable by them even for a bad year. He himself had sat down with the five farmers and calculated them, when he was eighteen and had come into the possession of the acreage.

  “I have seen them personally. They refuse to pay.”

  Mr. Hanford looked haggard for a change. Cutler looked up and realized, for the first time, that the old man was suffering too, and that the degree of his remoteness increased when he felt under threat. That, Cutler thought with some surprise, explained much of his childhood.

  The man felt at a disadvantage, looking after me.

  It was a revelation. Cutler had no clear idea as to who he was, save that his father had died and Lady Edmore had died and then his distant uncle, Gray Stirling, had come and assumed control of his family house, along with the Dukedom of Alford. The steward had been assigned with his care, and he had grown up here in cold, regimented circumstances.

  With a man who ha
d no idea how to deal with children and absolutely no idea how to react to me.

  It was like being let out of prison, realizing that. He looked up at Hanford with new strength.

  “I will meet with the cottagers.”

  “It’s too late in the year. The harvest is collected, and they have nothing to give…”

  “I will speak with them tomorrow morning,” Cutler interrupted him firmly. “Organize it, please.”

  He saw Hanford’s eyes widen in shock, and then he nodded. “Yes.”

  Cutler felt his heart return to its easy pace. He found he could breathe again, and his legs were steady. Pushing back the chair, he stood.

  “Lady Raymonde and I would like to dine early,” he said lightly. “We have had a long journey. If you could ask Emery to take the luggage to the top room, please? And please have a bath drawn – Lady Raymonde would like to clean herself of the long trip.”

  He took a look at Hanford’s astonished face and felt a pang of guilt, but he didn’t let it soften his resolve. It was, after all, nothing but manners – something Hanford should have offered of his own accord.

  The man’s throat worked, and Cutler looked away before he could reply.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Feeling somewhat lightened, Cutler walked out of the office and down the stairs. His discomforted feeling returned somewhat as he crossed the floor and went back to the drawing-room. He had no idea what had caused the chaos in the finances, but he was in a position to find out. He walked into the drawing-room, composing his features.

  “I have organized lodging for us,” he said to Lady Raymonde, who was seated on the chaise-lounge – the only comfortable furnishing in the whole house – and looked unworried. “We will stay here for three days.”

  He wondered if it would not be best if Lady Raymonde returned home after that, as he might need to stay on for a while alone.

  She got to her feet fluidly, stretching her arms over her head. He felt his throat tighten as she made the unconscious gesture. Her body was so beautiful, the light from the window turning her half-silhouette. His loins tightened, and he longed to crush her to his chest.

  She saw him watching and raised a brow. He went red, but she had already turned away.

  “I will go up to my room, I think,” she said, her back turned to him. “It would be nice to rest before dinner.”

  “Of course. The bedchamber for guests is on the top floor, on the righthand side,” he said succinctly, his mind still fighting against dreams of holding her.

  “Thank you. Where will you sleep?” she asked, turning to face him in the doorway.

  “Where I always slept,” he said lightly.

  She just smiled, a small frown creasing her brow, and walked lightly through the door ahead of him. He followed her as if drawn by some impossible force. He watched her sway and glide up the steps ahead of him and felt his heart pound.

  He went to his old bedchamber and shut the door behind him.

  Memories pressed in, unstoppable, crippling. He was a boy, eight years old and terrified of the dark. He was in here alone, one candle burning. His father’s body was fresh in his mind, filling his world. He could smell the dust of the drawing-room and see the brocade of Lady Edmore’s dress.

  Where have you gone? Why am I here?

  He sat down on the bed, head in his hands. His world was different now. He had to remember that. He was a boy no longer, and ghosts could not harm him. He was a veteran of war, a survivor of the Spanish battles that had taken so many innocent lives.

  He had gone to Spain on Uncle’s command. He had been given the commission through Uncle’s influence. He had been sent, all unknowing, to the wickedest conflict on earth, an almost-certain death sentence.

  “And now, here I am. Drawn North to find my accounts in disarray and being shot at.”

  He lay back on the bed, feeling his stomach cramp painfully. What was happening? Everything was too confusing.

  He heard a tap at the door. He shot to his feet, blood draining from his head.

  “Who’s there?” he called out. He had instinctively placed his back to the wall, and judged the distance from himself to the fire-poker, the most likely source of arms in the room.

  “Sir?” the rough voice of the stable-hand, Emery, called out. “Cook’s drawn a bath.”

  Cutler let out a long breath that he hadn’t realized he’d held. He felt blood rush to his face again and he wanted to laugh.

  “Thanks,” he called back through the door. “Send it up, if you please. And for Lady Raymonde first.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Thank you, Emery,” he called back through the door. When the man had gone, his booted footsteps creaking on the stairs, Cutler sat down heavily on the bed, relief flowing through his veins again.

  At least there was something going right with his world.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Exploring the House

  Raymonde dressed carefully the next morning in a gown of dark red. It had been a real joy to sleep in a bed in a room in a house again, she thought as she sat at the dressing-table. She hadn’t realized how taxing the journey had been, until she had locked the door that evening and slipped down under the covers of a bed that was going to be hers for more than just one night.

  “My Lady, can I fetch you a tray?” the maid who was brushing her hair asked, standing close to her ear.

  Raymonde frowned. “No, thank you,” she said softly. “I’ll go down.”

  The maid said nothing but carried on brushing her hair. She was a quiet woman, and Raymonde had the impression that she had limited experience in dressing people, or styling hair. Nevertheless, she worked with quiet efficiency.

  When she had finished, she went out, shutting the door behind her with a click. Raymonde studied her face briefly in the mirror. Her auburn hair was arranged in a neat up-style – not fashionable, but not unbecoming either. She tucked a stray lock behind her ear, biting her lip to bring out the color. Then she walked quietly downstairs.

  “Mistress is coming down for breakfast,” she heard the maid saying as she walked past the kitchen door.

  “It’s a rare plague, having so many people here,” a male voice grumbled. A clank and hissing of water suggested to Raymonde that somebody was washing dishes in the bucket on the counter.

  She bit back a grin. There are only two guests, she wanted to say. She recalled her childhood home, where twenty house-guests at a time was not a large group.

  “Yes. But, what can I say about it?” the maid answered, longsuffering.

  Raymonde tiptoed away. As she crossed the hallway, she ducked into a parlor, hearing footsteps coming along behind her. She saw Mr. Hanford walk past, dressed for going out.

  Odd, she thought to herself.

  She looked around the room. It was plainly furnished, the chairs covered in floral chintz, the windows smallish, covered with lace curtains. The fireplace was small, a fire newly-lit there. She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It showed quarter past eight. It was too early for breakfast by almost an hour. She looked out of the window. Long fields of grass stretched to a wooden fence; a dark sky was soft over low hills.

  I want to look around.

  She glanced around the room again. She had no idea why, but it was tempting to explore this small house. There was something here, she thought; some secret that she longed to uncover. Why was Mr. Hanford so distantly unwelcoming? Why had somebody shot at both of them? Why, for that matter, was the Lieutenant living here? He must have had parents, a family.

  Raymonde shook her head at herself. It was a strange feeling, to be drawn to search through somebody else’s house! She ought to be ashamed of herself.

  And yet, there was some secret here. She felt as if Lieutenant Wingate was in some deep danger, which she couldn’t understand.

  She drew back against the wall as the man from the kitchens walked swiftly past. He headed out through the door at the end of the hallway and there was a click
as it shut behind him. Raymonde stayed where she was, breathing deeply.

  There is something deeply odd about this house, she thought.

  She tiptoed out and into the next room. This was a study of some sort, she guessed. It had a large desk, some dried flowers in a cheap clay urn on the top. Some paintings adorned the walls, the colors crude, the brush-strokes rushed. She breathed in, smelling the scent of dust. It was clearly a room that was hardly ever used. She felt her stomach twist as she smelled the scent of pastry. Somebody was clearly taking breakfast to one of the other rooms of the house. She turned around from where she stood at the window, amazed by how hungry she was. The thought of a meal eaten in quiet, safe surroundings was a gift that she had not realized how much she had missed.