by Olivia Drake
He veered straight toward the cottage.
Abby tried to steady the erratic leap of her pulse. She folded her hands at her waist in the hopes of presenting a calm, unruffled façade. But inside, she was a tempest of tension. Had Rothwell followed them here? What purpose could he have? If his meeting with the estate agent was over, why was he not back at the house entertaining his profligate friends?
Why must he come here to disturb the tranquility of their outing?
He swung down from his mount and tied the reins to a post near the garden gate. Brimstone tossed his head and snorted. Abby took an involuntary step backward just as Rothwell glanced at her and raised an eyebrow, as if he found her alarm amusing. The groom who’d driven their carriage sprang forward to help, but the duke waved him away. He murmured softly into Brimstone’s perked ears, stroking the animal’s glossy mane for a few moments until the horse quieted enough to bend his head down and snuffle the grasses outside the fence.
Abby watched from beneath the shade of an oak tree as Rothwell sauntered up the short path, dwarfing the tiny garden with his presence. He had changed into riding clothes: a dark blue coat, buckskins, and black Hessians, though he wore no hat to protect against the late afternoon sun. His coffee-brown hair lay in attractive dishevelment.
Not that she cared to notice.
He afforded her a brisk nod. “Ah, Miss Linton. I spotted your carriage from the lane. Have you lost your two charges already?”
“They’re in the stable looking at some kittens.”
His gaze flashed to the derelict structure as a peal of girlish laughter floated on the breeze. Mr. Beech leaned on his crutches, his leathery face wiped clean of its earlier joviality. It struck her that the duke wouldn’t even recognize his own tenants since he’d been a boy of sixteen when he’d left.
She stepped forward to perform the introductions. Too late.
He was already reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “Rothwell here. You must be Mr. Beech, my cook’s father-in-law.”
The older man allowed a brief, dutiful handclasp. “Aye, that I am. Though I don’t recollect we ever met when ye was a lad. Been gone for a long time, that ye have.”
His stiff tone radiated disapproval, and Abby wondered if the duke would take offense. Most of the tenants were diligent farmers who cherished their vocation of working the land. They would be understandably mistrustful of an absentee landlord who showed up out of the blue. Especially an indolent aristocrat who used the profits of their labor to fund his dissolute ways.
Rothwell’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “It has been too long,” he admitted. “However, Hammond has kept me well informed, right down to the last bale of hay and new calf. I am also obliged for his map of the estate showing the location of each farm. That’s how I knew this one to be yours.”
“Then p’raps ye’ll note that I’ve finished the harvestin’. This leg will be hale again in time for me to sow the winter crop.”
Frowning slightly, Rothwell flicked a glance at the bound ankle. “I’ve not come to discharge you from your land, sir, but merely to make your acquaintance. Might we sit down, then?”
Mr. Beech’s inflexible expression eased somewhat and he gingerly lowered himself into his chair with the aid of the crutches. “Just so ye realize, milord. These bones might be old, but a crew helps me bring in the crop.”
“Yes, I’m aware that workers travel from farm to farm at harvesttime. I saw them on the ride here. Miss Linton, would you care to join us?”
Rothwell waved at a nearby bench. He looked genial enough, yet his penetrating gray eyes stirred discord within her. Since the last thing Abby desired was to sit right next to him on the narrow seat, she shook her head. “Thank you, but I must go inside and unpack the basket Mrs. Beech sent.”
Turning toward the cottage, she couldn’t help overhearing the conversation behind her. At least the two men sounded on better terms now. She would never forgive Rothwell if he caused trouble for the country folk she’d known and loved since girlhood.
“I presume you harvested ahead of yesterday’s rain?” the duke asked.
“Aye, there’s only Digby’s farm left to finish today. And best they hurry, afore the storm hits.”
“Hmm, I did notice a dark cloud to the north. Would you estimate at least an hour or more before it reaches us?”
“Quite so, milord duke. When the winds start a-blowin’ hard, ’tis time ye be on yer way back home.”
Abby grimaced. A storm? Good heavens, it mustn’t be true. She’d been hoping to avoid the awkward situation of having to ask Rothwell’s permission for Valerie to stay the night. That was Rosalind’s devious plan, and Abby wanted no part of tossing her coquettish niece into his path.
Entering the tiny cottage, she hastened to a window that faced north. Her heart sank as she peered through the wavy glass panes. Black clouds boiled along the length of the horizon. She prayed they would bring only a sprinkle of rain and wouldn’t stop a carriage from transporting Valerie back to Linton House.
She quickly set to work, adding a bit of wood to the fire and pouring water from a pail into the kettle. She tidied the dry sink, put away a few dishes in the small hutch, and then unloaded the basket of food that Mrs. Beech had packed. There was cold chicken and beef, bread and butter, sausages and boiled eggs, enough to feed the cook’s father-in-law for several days, along with a generous batch of the honey cakes he loved. While Abby waited for the tea to brew, she peered out the window again to check on the approaching storm. The clouds were looking larger and more ominous by the moment.
Just then, she spied a gig coming at a fast clip along the lane behind the cottage. As the small vehicle rattled by, her eyes sharpened on the lone woman handling the reins.
Miss Herrington?
Abby blinked. No, that was impossible. The former governess had left nearly a fortnight ago, ostensibly due to a family crisis—or perhaps with a secret lover, if Lady Hester was to be believed. Whatever the case, she was supposed to be long gone from this corner of Hampshire.
Yet Abby could swear that it was her. The last time she’d seen the woman in church, the governess had sported the same distinctive bonnet as the one worn by the driver of the gig. It was emerald green with a cluster of cherries and crimson ribbons.
Mystified, Abby dashed outside to see if the men had noticed and found them deep in conversation about the prizefight.
“’Twill be the match of the century, indeed it will,” Mr. Beech was saying. “Mayhap better even than any of James Jackson’s. I saw Humphries take on Mendoza back in the day, too, now that was a fight!”
“Then you mustn’t miss this one,” Rothwell said. “I’ll send a groom to drive you there on Friday.”
“Ye would do so, milord? But I daren’t beg such a grand favor of ye!”
Abby could no longer wait to break in with her news. “Rothwell, do come quickly. You must see the gig that just drove past!”
He frowned slightly, but rose to his feet and excused himself. His movements were too indolent, so she curled her fingers around his arm and hauled him toward the fence, just as the vehicle was disappearing around a bend in the lane.
“There,” Abby said urgently, “did you see her? I could swear the driver was Miss Herrington!”
Rothwell flashed Abby a swift, piercing look that oddly appeared more calculating than surprised. Then he cocked an arrogant eyebrow and chuckled. “Nonsense. I received a letter stating that she went to her family in Gloucestershire.”
“But did you not notice the woman’s bonnet? It’s deep green with cherry ribbons, which I myself saw her wear a few weeks ago. Besides which, I caught a glimpse of her blond hair and her pretty features. I don’t know how it could not have been her.”
“Rather, it’s mere fancy that is feeding your mistaken notion. I blame it all on my dotty aunt for making you believe the faradiddle that Miss Herrington ran off with a mysterious stranger.”
“Then pray mount your horse and
ride after her! You’ll prove for yourself that it’s her!”
“Absolutely not. I won’t be sent on a wild-goose chase.”
He patted her hand as if she were a child to be placated. Realizing she was still clutching the hard muscles of his arm, Abby snatched back her fingers. She had never apologized to him for spreading that unseemly gossip, but she wouldn’t do so now. At least not until she unraveled the mystery of Miss Herrington’s departure.
“Well, I do know who I saw, Your Grace. One would think you’d be concerned that your sister’s governess might have lied to you.”
“Why? She is no longer in my employ, so it’s of no interest to me. Now, I do believe you’ve forgotten your duties.” He swept his arm in an authoritative wave for her to precede him down the dirt path.
Abby marched ahead, her arms swinging and her heels kicking up the hem of her gown. His quick denial of her testimony burned in her craw. Only a cad would dismiss the evidence of an eyewitness so readily. Especially when he had at his disposal an easy means of solving the mystery. All he’d needed to do was to leap into the saddle, spur Brimstone to a gallop, and catch up to the gig. The matter could have been settled in the snap of a finger.
Yet it seemed to Abby that Rothwell had been determined from the start to scoff at her word. Did he scorn her so much that he would believe nothing she said? Or was something else at play? Might there be another reason why he had been so swift to refute what she had seen?
She recalled his expression upon first hearing that she’d spotted Miss Herrington. There had been a hint of shrewdness in that sharp look. And he’d shown not even a trace of the surprise that one would expect him to exhibit at the news that a former employee who supposedly had gone away was, in fact, still lurking in the neighborhood.
Abby mulled over the matter. Was it possible that Rothwell already had known Miss Herrington was in the vicinity? The more she weighed the startling thought, the more viable it seemed. But why would he keep it a secret? What could his purpose be?
“Miss Linton! Do come and see this dear little kitten!”
“Look, Aunt Abby, I have one, too!”
Abby realized that both girls were standing near Mr. Beech, and that each cradled a tiny ball of fluff. Lady Gwendolyn held a caramel tabby that was curled fast asleep against her bosom, while Valerie’s gray kitten batted at the dangling yellow ribbons of her straw bonnet.
“Please, Miss Linton, may we keep them?” Lady Gwendolyn asked, her eyes shining. “Mr. Beech says they need a good home.”
The old man smiled craftily from his chair. “’Twould be a blessin’ if I wouldn’t have to drown the wee mites.”
The girls gasped. “Oh, but you mustn’t do so, sir!” Valerie cried. “That would be too cruel! Aunt Abby, pray help us save them!”
“I understand your concern,” Abby said soothingly, “but kittens soon grow into cats and I doubt that Mrs. Jeffries will appreciate having two felines prowling the house and sharpening their claws on the silk chairs. Nevertheless, the final decision is up to His Grace.”
She turned to look at Rothwell, who stood beside her. A sudden gust ruffled his dark hair so that he looked diabolically handsome. His mouth quirked slightly as he ran a fingertip over the kitten nestled in his sister’s hand. Abby watched the stroking motion of that finger and felt her insides contract with an untimely yearning.
“Cats belong outdoors,” he said, “and not in the house. They would be welcome as mousers, though, if they were to make their home in the stables.”
“The stables!” Lady Gwen said in dismay. “Oh, but they’re just babies—”
“Should you object to the arrangement, you may leave the kittens here. Now, it is time to be off, else we’ll be caught out in the storm.”
The wind was indeed beginning to blow harder, with a chilly dampness that foretold rain. The sky darkened as the black clouds crept ever closer. Abby fetched the empty basket to use to transport the kittens and informed Mr. Beech that his tea awaited him inside the cottage. They climbed back into the carriage, the girls tucking the covered basket at their feet. Chattering excitedly, they took frequent peeks inside to check on their kittens.
Abby held herself stiffly, for she was keenly conscious of Rothwell riding alongside the carriage. As Brimstone tossed his head, the duke controlled the massive black horse with a deft hand. She didn’t know if the tangle of tension inside her was due to her wariness of the horse, or frustration with the way Rothwell’s aloof expression masked his thoughts.
Although at one time she had felt perfectly attuned to the workings of his mind, he was now as much an enigma to her as this business with Miss Herrington. If indeed he’d known of the governess’s presence in the area, why would he pretend otherwise? Abby remembered how ardently he had defended Miss Herrington in the kitchen the previous day. He had referred to her as estimable and then had nearly bitten off Abby’s head for repeating gossip that the governess had run off with a lover.
Was it possible that Rothwell was Miss Herrington’s lover? That he had embarked upon an illicit relationship with her?
Abby shivered from the chill wind that buffeted the open carriage. The notion seemed utterly implausible. She didn’t want to believe that he had sunk so deeply into debauchery. Yet she had always found it odd that he’d employed such a young, pretty woman, for Miss Herrington could be no more than five-and-twenty and she had held the position for at least three years. Given his exalted position, he certainly had the wherewithal to hire an older governess with decades of experience to ensure that his sister had proper guidance.
Another damning fact occurred to Abby. A little while ago, the duke had come riding from the same direction as Miss Herrington, where the lane branched off toward a densely wooded area of the estate. Might he have settled her in a love nest—perhaps a secluded cottage? Was she the reason he’d returned to Rothwell Court after so many years—so that he might conduct an illicit affair with her?
The possibility was too monstrous to contemplate. Surely if that were the case, he would have spirited Miss Herrington away to a distant and discreet locale. Unless, of course, the upcoming prizefight had influenced him to keep his latest dalliance close at hand. He wouldn’t wish for his sister to learn of his nefarious seduction of her governess, so it would make sense for him to arrange a trysting place away from the house.
Come to think of it, Miss Herrington was fair-haired and petite just like Lady Desmond. Dainty blondes must be the sort of female that appealed to his decadent tastes. In fact, the scoundrel likely kept a string of mistresses scattered hither and yon across England so that he would never be inconvenienced in his wicked pursuits.
Abby gripped her fingers tightly in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Rothwell’s virile form astride Brimstone. Her quickened heartbeat had to be caused by the twist of wrath that bedeviled her insides. He was no longer the tender young man she had known and loved. How arrogant he had become! How coldhearted to take advantage of the very woman who had been his sister’s teacher and companion!
As the carriage arrived at the circular drive in front of Rothwell Court, the wind flung a flurry of fat raindrops that wrested squeals from the girls. Valerie grabbed the basket as she and Lady Gwendolyn hastened up the steps and into the house. Abby knew she ought to go after them, to ensure they took proper care of the kittens. Instead, she waited under the shelter of the portico as the duke dismounted and tossed the reins to a groom.
Frowning slightly, he was looking down at his hands as he stripped off his riding gloves. He appeared lost in thought and barely conscious of Abby’s presence. So she stepped into his path and forced him to a halt.
“Rothwell, I must have a word with you.”
Chapter 10
Those keen gray eyes sharpened on her. His mouth tightened slightly and his manner exuded imperiousness. He slapped his gloves against his palm. “Tomorrow perhaps. I’m late for drinks with my guests.”
When he started to walk
past her, she stopped him again, this time blocking the doorway. “I’m sorry, but I really must speak to you immediately. In private.”
If she delayed, Abby feared she might lose her nerve. She disliked conflict, not because she lacked strong opinions, but because it was in her nature to create peace and harmony. Her role in the family had always been as the one who’d calmed the troubled waters of discord. Yet now she felt plunged into a sea of turmoil, her mind a tangle of anger and antipathy.
What did it matter what she said to him, anyway, when he had already given her notice? She would not be staying here as governess beyond the end of the week. In the meanwhile, she must do whatever was necessary to protect his sister.
He frowned at her for another moment before giving a curt nod. “My study, then. Come.”
As he proceeded through the entrance hall, Abby scurried to keep up with his long strides. The fact that he expected her to trot behind him only fed her ill humor. Who was he to treat her like a dog brought to heel? A mere accident of birth had set his rank above hers. He had no respectable accomplishments in his thirty-one years, only a rotten reputation and a past cluttered with discarded mistresses.
She fumbled with the ribbons tied at her throat and yanked off her bonnet, automatically reaching up to smooth her hair. The long corridor echoed with the sound of their footsteps, his heavy and decisive, hers light and quick. What she needed to say to him would require firm resolve and a determination not to be browbeaten. For Lady Gwendolyn’s sake, he must be forced to see the folly of his ways.
As they reached a doorway at the end of the passage, a man strolled around the corner. Lord Ambrose Hood looked like a male fashion plate in a dark rifle-green coat and nankeen trousers, his sandy curls brushing his high shirt collar. In his hand he carried a battledore racket.
“Rothwell! Just the fellow I was hoping to find. We’ve had to bring our game indoors and we need you to referee—”
“Not now,” the duke said, rather curtly. “I need a word with Miss Linton. I’ll join you later.”