by Olivia Drake
Her gaze strayed to the doorway. Good heavens, what was keeping Finchley? If only the butler would return to report that the duke wasn’t receiving, then Rosalind would be forced to abandon her scheme and depart.
“It isn’t up to me whether to help or not,” she said testily. “You must understand, I have no authority whatsoever—”
The words died on her tongue as Rothwell stepped into the antechamber.
* * *
Max had been heading into his study to meet his estate agent when a voice from far down the corridor had stopped him.
“Your Grace,” Finchley called in a gravelly tone, scurrying forward with the speed of someone half his age. “If I might have a word.”
Max turned back to meet the butler. “What is it?”
“You have visitors. Mrs. Rosalind Perkins and Miss Valerie Perkins.”
He had no intention of squandering the afternoon in the company of nosy neighbors who would gabble gossip or, worse, thrust their simpering daughters at him. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Send them away. Along with whoever else might come knocking.”
“If I might be permitted to say, Your Grace, that would be poor manners, indeed. Especially as Miss Abby knows these two very well.”
“What has that to do with anything?” Max said impatiently. “She’s lived her entire life in the area. I expect she is well acquainted with everyone in and about the village.”
“But they’re her sister and her niece. Miss Abby and Lady Gwen are with them right now. They happened to be coming down the stairs as I opened the front door.”
The gleam in Finchley’s rheumy blue eyes hinted at a certain delight in the situation. Max couldn’t imagine what the codger found so amusing. Though he’d wondered if the staff had guessed about his boyhood courtship of the girl on the neighboring estate. Only look at how Beechy had bade him sit with Abby the other day in the kitchen. Perhaps having the two of them living under one roof injected a little unwarranted excitement into the tedium of their everyday lives.
Too bad they’d be disappointed.
“Where are they?”
“I left them in the entrance hall. Shall I show them into the Turkish Saloon? Or perhaps the Gold Drawing Room?”
“No. I’ll go downstairs myself. Pray inform Hammond that I’ll be a trifle late for our meeting.”
Max stalked along the lengthy corridor, his footfalls sharp and clipped. Already, he half regretted the impulse that had spurred him on this detour. He ought to have stuck with his original decision and ordered Finchley to turn them away. There could be no logical reason for him to want a word with any of Abby’s relations.
Except curiosity perhaps.
That long-ago summer when they had met nearly every day in their secret glade in the forest, Abby had related many humorous stories about her family members. There had been one about her elder sister Rosalind … something about her setting a trap to lure the dashing younger son of a baron into marriage. Max strained to recall the particulars, but the tale was lost to the mists of time.
Not that he wished to remember. Nostalgia served no purpose. Yet he could not deny a certain interest in making the acquaintance of Abby’s sister. All four of her siblings had been considerably older than him. Consequently, they’d been married and living elsewhere by the time he and Abby had met. Other than glimpsing them occasionally at London parties, the only one with whom he’d ever had any particular dealings was her brother James Linton, to whom Max had awarded the living at the village church several years ago. The matter had been handled by post based upon a recommendation from the previous vicar.
He’d had only a nodding acquaintance with Abby’s parents, too. They’d seemed a devoted couple, though old enough to be her grandparents. He’d seen them in the village from time to time, when he was home on holiday from Eton.
Home. He felt an unwanted catch in his throat to think that Rothwell Court had once been his home. He had lived every day of his life here until age sixteen. His earliest memories were of playing solitary games of pirates, constructing ships out of bedsheets and chairs, and of sometimes escaping the nursery to battle the Spanish or the French amid the shrouded furniture of an unused wing, or to stalk imaginary prey through the jungles of the conservatory, much to Aunt Hester’s delight and his nanny’s dismay.
Aware he was smiling, Max wiped his expression clean and headed down the grand staircase. The entrance hall was unoccupied save for the footman on duty at the door, but the hum of voices led him across the marble floor to the antechamber. Nearing the doorway, he heard the low pitch of Abby’s voice.
“It isn’t up to me whether to help or not,” she said in a rather distressed tone. “You must understand, I have no authority whatsoever—”
As he stepped inside, she fell silent, those expressive blue eyes widening. What did she mean by having no authority? Judging by the bloom in her cheeks, it must be something she didn’t wish for him to know.
He squelched his curiosity. Whatever issue that troubled her did not concern him so long as she performed her duty to his sister and stayed away from his London friends. In particular, he had thoroughly disliked the way Ambrose had salivated over her charms. He found his own attraction to her to be irksome enough, for she was a rustic spinster, too slim and willowy to suit his tastes, and no match for the dainty blond beauty of Lady Desmond.
Nevertheless, Abby had a quiet elegance that was enhanced by her bluish-gray gown, the same one she’d worn while spying on his sparring match with Goliath. He found nothing to praise or criticize in her regular features, yet there was a lively sparkle in her eyes that lit up her expression and set her apart from more practiced flirts. And that luminous look still had the power to twist his gut into knots.
A straw bonnet framed the oval of her face, and he recalled that she’d planned to take Gwen out on a mission of mercy to visit his tenants. That must be why they had been coming down the stairs at the time of her sister’s arrival.
He strode forward to greet Abby’s sister. A family likeness could be detected in the structure of her cheekbones and the pert chin. With strands of silver in her copper hair, Rosalind Perkins looked to be some ten years older than Abby. The moment she spotted him, her frown transformed into a smile that had the effect of revealing fine lines around her mouth and eyes.
Abby sketched a curtsy. “Pardon me, my lord duke. I was expecting Finchley to return. May I present you to my sister, Mrs. Perkins, and her daughter, Miss Perkins. Rosalind and Valerie, the Duke of Rothwell.”
Miss Valerie Perkins sprang up from the chaise where she’d been chatting with his sister, her youthful features alive with coy pleasure. As she and her mother made their genuflections to him, Mrs. Perkins said brightly, “It is a great honor to meet you at last, Your Grace. I trust we are not intruding?”
“I was about to sit down to a meeting with my agent,” he said bluntly. “I haven’t much time, but since we are neighbors, I did not wish to snub your acquaintance.”
“My sister lives in Kent,” Abby interjected. “She and her daughter are staying at Linton House for a short visit.”
“A prolonged visit,” Mrs. Perkins corrected with a sidelong look at her sister before turning a smile back to Max. “You see, having grown up here, I’ve a sentimental attachment to this corner of Hampshire. It’s all so charming and tranquil. I do believe my daughter has grown to love the area as much as I do.”
“Indeed, I find it ever so beautiful, Your Grace.” Miss Perkins made a coquettish peek up at him from beneath a flutter of long lashes. “Most especially here at Rothwell Court. Mama and I greatly enjoyed the drive from the gatehouse with all the lovely trees and the rolling hills. And might I add, the magnificence of the house quite stole my breath away. I daresay there is no finer estate in all of England.”
Max hid an unexpected twist of amusement at the gushing tribute. The little minx was barely out of the schoolroom and she thought to beguile him with her kittenish wiles. He intercepte
d Abby’s glance and caught a glint in her eyes as if she’d just had the same thought. For one brief moment, they gazed at each other with a strange sort of kinship. It was as if the past fifteen years had never happened and they were back in their secret glade, sharing a laugh over the absurdities of people.
She blinked and looked away, the warmth of her expression fading into a cool smile. “We mustn’t keep His Grace from his business affairs,” she told her sister. “And I’m afraid it is past time for Lady Gwendolyn and I to set out on our errands.”
“Oh, must they both go?” Gwen piped up, then blushed as everyone turned to look at her. His sister stood rather shyly to the rear of the party, her fingers twined at her waist as she lifted pleading eyes to Max. “That is, I—I wondered if Miss Perkins might come along with me and Miss Linton. Please, Max?”
“But you’ve only just met.”
“That may be true, Your Grace, yet I do believe we are destined to become bosom bows,” Valerie Perkins said, slipping her arm through Gwen’s. “You see, it has been ever so lonely since all of my friends live in Kent. Lady Gwendolyn has been kind enough to offer to keep me company this week.”
“What a marvelous notion,” Mrs. Perkins said, gazing fondly at them. “And quite perfect, for you are a mere two years apart in age. Why, I could leave you here in the care of your aunt Abby and send the carriage to fetch you before dinnertime. Provided, of course, that His Grace agrees.”
Max had no doubt the plot had been hatched before they’d even set foot on his land. It was patently obvious that she wanted to dangle her pretty daughter in ducal waters in hopes that he would snap at the bait. And little Miss Perkins had ingratiated herself with his sister in order to encourage the scheme.
It isn’t up to me whether to help or not. You must understand, I have no authority whatsoever—
Now he understood the distress he’d overheard in Abby’s voice. Mrs. Rosalind Perkins must have tried to recruit her assistance, and Abby had balked at the ploy. Not because she still harbored any tendre for him; that was impossible since she’d ignored his numerous letters years ago. Rather, she believed him to be too irredeemable a rake for her innocent niece.
Abby was right. Although the debaucheries of his youth were much exaggerated of late, he had experienced enough sordidness to know himself unfit to wed a mere child, even if he had the slightest interest in marriage, which he did not. His own parents’ volatile union had cured him of any such inclination. Nevertheless, the mothers of society continued to parade their naïve daughters in front of him. And nothing irritated him more than to be maneuvered by female tricks.
Max was on the brink of issuing a firm refusal when he looked at his sister. Her soft gray eyes beseeched him, and it struck him suddenly that she had no friends. For most of her life, she had lived in this great pile of a house with only his aunt, a governess, and the servants for company. He had never thought much of it, for Gwen had always been a timid sort, happy to play quietly by herself and shy of speaking to strangers.
But now Max wondered if he’d done her a terrible wrong. Perhaps he ought to have sent her off to finishing school, where she would have met other girls her age. Could he truly deny her this one chance to make a friend?
No. Not even if he had to fend off a budding siren and her ambitious mama.
Smiling at his sister, he said, “It shall be as you wish, then.”
Chapter 9
Considering the way in which it had begun, the afternoon turned out to be far more pleasant than Abby had anticipated. She’d fretted that a spirited older girl like Valerie might have a corrupting influence on Lady Gwendolyn. But as they approached their last stop, she had to admit that both girls had behaved admirably.
It had been a tight squeeze for all three of them to fit into the narrow confines of the open carriage. A groom sat on the box ahead of them and kept the pair of horses to a sedate pace over a road that wound through the verdant valley where the tenant farms were located. It was fascinating to watch the last of the corn being harvested, the reapers wielding their scythes with a steady back-and-forth motion while other workers followed in their wake, tying the stalks into sheaves. Flocks of birds fluttered over the shorn fields to peck for stray bits of grain.
They had visited three cottages already, spending time with the residents of each one, including a widow with eight children who’d welcomed a basket of food and clothing, a toothless pensioner requiring broths and possets, and a first-time mother who’d gratefully accepted instruction from Abby in swaddling and calming her colicky infant. Abby had compiled a list of those in need with the help of Mrs. Beech, whose father-in-law lived at this last house. He had wrenched his ankle two days ago, and with all the fancy meals to be prepared for the duke’s guests, the cook had been unable to call on him.
The carriage drew to a halt in front of a charming thatch-roofed cottage with pink roses climbing over the doorway. The girls hopped out, first Valerie in a rustle of pale green skirts, then Lady Gwen more cautious and dignified. After stepping down, Abby headed straight to the graybeard who sat on a chair in the shade, his bandaged foot propped on a wooden stool.
His eyes squinted. He drew the pipe from his mouth and tugged his brown cap by way of respect. “Why, ’tis a trio of angels appearing on my doorstep. Ye’ve not come to carry me up to heaven, have ye?”
The girls giggled. “No, sir,” Valerie said very prettily. “Rather, we are here to bring you good cheer.”
“’Tis happy I am for visitors. I see there’s Miss Abby. She’s the finest seraph of them all, that she is.”
As he struggled to stand, Abby said, “Pray do remain seated. Mrs. Beech said you must be careful not to cause further harm to your ankle.”
“Mustn’t disobey the wardress, lest she put me on a diet of bread and water.” Sinking back down, he patted his vest, the buttons straining at his stout midsection as he gave a jolly chuckle. “I do believe I might expire of sorrow to be denied her honey cakes.”
“I daresay there may be some in the basket she sent,” Abby said. “Now, I should like you to meet the duke’s sister, Lady Gwendolyn, and my niece, Miss Perkins. Girls, this is Mr. Beech, who is Cook’s father-in-law.”
“What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance,” Lady Gwen said glowingly. “I have heard Cook mention you.”
“Not tellin’ tall tales, I trust.”
“Certainly not, sir! She has only the greatest fondness for you.” The girl bit her lip, then added, “Though I must say, I did not know of your injury. If I may ask, how did you come to hurt yourself?”
Abby was pleased that Lady Gwen had taken her advice to heart. At each cottage, the girl had made an effort to engage the tenants in conversation by asking polite questions. She had not flinched on encountering poor conditions, either. Even when Valerie had wrinkled her nose in disgust, Lady Gwen had held a baby in need of a nappy change, and accepted hugs from grubby children. She had shown herself to be gracious and kind, and in some ways, more mature than Valerie, who was inclined to frivolity.
Mr. Beech regarded his bandaged foot dolefully. “I was fetchin’ the kittens out o’ the loft when my gumboot slipped on the ladder,” he explained. “Just tucked the last one in my pocket when it happened, or she might still be mewlin’ alone up there, whilst her mam is off catchin’ mice.”
“Kittens?” Valerie echoed.
The two girls regarded each other with rounded eyes.
“How old are they, please?” Lady Gwen asked him.
“Oh, ’round about six weeks by now.” He waved his pipe. “Gave away some yesterday, but there’s two of ’em left. Ye might go and have a peek in yonder stable.”
Valerie started to trot away in the direction of a dilapidated structure that looked more like a shed than a stable, but Lady Gwen turned her gaze to Abby. “May we, Miss Linton?”
Abby nodded. “Yes. Only do be careful lest their little claws snag your skirts.”
Both girls disappeared through th
e shadowed doorway.
The groom had taken the basket into the cottage, and now he brought forth two more items that had been lashed to the back of the carriage. They were a matching pair of long sticks, each with a padded crosspiece, which Abby presented to Mr. Beech. “We’ve brought you a proper set of crutches, for Mrs. Beech said you were making do with only a stout branch as a cane.”
His weathered face lit up with a grin. “Such a right fine one she is to think of me comfort. Just like me own daughter. I’ll give ’em a try straightaway.”
He used one crutch to lever himself up from the chair, while Abby hovered nearby, ready to assist, yet cognizant of the man’s pride in doing for himself. He succeeded in standing upright, then tucked a crosspiece beneath each arm before taking a few hobbling steps along the dirt pathway.
“Ah,” he said, with a grunt of approval. “That’ll be much easier, indeed so.”
“Just take your time getting used to them,” Abby advised. “There’s no need to hurry.”
While he practiced walking with the crutches, she glanced around the neat little yard. The climbing pink roses and the purple foxgloves in the garden showed Mrs. Beech’s touch. Her late husband, Mr. Beech’s only son, had died in a threshing accident before Abby had been born. Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Beech had secured a position in the Rothwell kitchen, returning here whenever she had a free moment to cook and clean for her aging father-in-law. Mr. Beech still farmed the surrounding land, and Abby wondered how he managed alone even when in better health.
As her gaze swept over the shorn fields, she noticed a lone rider cantering down the lane from the direction of a forested area of the estate. She shaded her eyes with the edge of her hand and idly watched him. Suddenly, her heart did a wild flip as she recognized the tall, muscular form of Rothwell astride the big black horse named Brimstone.