Letting out a quiet whistle, Stratford said, “Good news indeed. The estate is in better condition than I was led to believe.” He looked toward the horizon, appreciating the pale sunbeams so different from the Peninsular glare he had learned to live with. His horse shuffled impatiently, breath steaming in the early spring air. “How did the tenants view the former earl?”
“Oh …” Mr. Grund stroked his chin. “They liked him well enough. They held him in esteem and observed all the signs of mourning when he left this world.”
Stratford absently touched his own black armband serving double duty, even though the six months were nearly up. “And how do they look upon the new earl?” He glanced at the bailiff out of the corner of his lashes, wearing the hint of a smile.
Mr. Grund eyed him speculatively. “They are full of confidence in the new earl’s condescension and hope to see his children grace the house before long.”
Stratford let out an unwilling laugh. “So we’re there already, are we?” He shook his head, but his frown returned, as did the unwilling image of blonde curls and a smile he did not trust. “There is no prospective Lady Worthing at present, but I do not intend to remain a bachelor like my predecessor. It is yet another affair I must see to in my new role.”
The bailiff furrowed his brows but let the comment pass. “Now, my lord, if you’ll just ride with me to the east, I’ll show you the part of the estate that needs the most work. I believe the former earl’s illness had weakened him some time before he let on because he stopped caring about this less visible portion of the estate.”
Stratford swung into the saddle and spent the next hour and a half taking mental note of how he would prioritize the repairs. He and Mr. Grund promised to meet two days hence.
On his return, the horse’s hooves struck out a soothing beat, and Stratford began to relax for what seemed like the first time since he set foot on English soil. He may have been new to the title, but he was already familiar with how to turn an estate to profit. And this one showed great promise. Now if only he could acquire the necessary grace to interact with his tenants so they might be on good terms …
“Ho, Tunstall!” A voice from behind made him jolt upright in the saddle. The earl swiveled on his horse and looked down the path to see a familiar face.
“Amesbury,” Stratford replied, his eyes lit with surprise. Though John Amesbury could hardly be considered above an acquaintance, he had frequented their circle of friends in school and was part of the young bucks in London in the short years before Stratford had left for the war. He was also the first of old acquaintances Stratford had met upon his return. “What brings you to these parts?”
Amesbury rode alongside, leaned from his horse, and stuck out his hand. “The devil. You’re Worthing now. Old habits die hard. I just heard news you’d arrived, and I came to see you. Some were laying bets you’d resign your commission as soon as you got your title.”
“With the struggle we had after Ciudad Rodrigo, I didn’t like to. They could ill spare me, but in the end, the general himself gave the order. He was tight with the old earl before his death. Sent his condolences when my cousin Nicholas fell. But you, here! Is this the part of Wiltshire you’re from?”
“I’m your neighbor. My property borders yours on the southwest. I used to get into all sorts of mischief with your cousins growing up, and we both went after the same Miss Hamilton—now Mrs. Cranford—and lost out. Obviously.”
“You said not a word of this when we were at Cambridge together.” Stratford reined in to keep pace with Amesbury.
“Faith, I’d forgotten you were even related. You didn’t come from the same parts, and they never breathed a word of you.”
“We were not intimately acquainted. We shared blood only.” Stratford shot a considering look at his neighbor. “My father married a Cit, and that was the end of that.”
Amesbury gave a negligent wave. “People put too fine a point on it. It’s the way to go if one needs funds and the chits making their come-out are none too plump in the pocket. And as long as she don’t squint.” Amesbury continued. “By the by—I’ll have you know, Miss Broadmore will be married. You might not’ve heard the news since you were away. Word had it you and she had thought to make a match of it at one time.”
“She will not marry,” Lord Worthing said, shortly.
“ ’Twas in the papers. Saw the announcement myself,” Amesbury protested. “You’re not still holding out for her! You can do better now with your title.”
“I’m not holding out for her,” Stratford said, his unconscious stiffening urging the horse a pace forward. “I had a chance meeting with Miss Broadmore in London, and she informed me herself of having just broken the engagement. Said they should not suit.”
Amesbury eyed him keenly. “She was wearing the willow, then. Pity the affair didn’t take off four years ago. I lost a bet on it—” He fell silent when he realized to whom he was speaking, then continued weakly, “Wish you happy.”
“Please.” Stratford’s voice was dry. “Save your felicitations. You are mistaken.” In an effort to divert him, he spoke without thinking, and without any real enthusiasm. “I’m meeting the stagecoach to see that the solicitor is properly welcomed, then we lunch at one o’clock. Will you join us?”
“You’ll have to give up these notions of welcoming people yourself now that you’re the earl. It’s just not done, Tunstall—Worthing, I mean. People expect a man of consequence, not one who does what any footman can do.”
“Never mind what they expect. In the end, they’ll get me. I’ve told James to meet me there so we’ll welcome Mr. Harrison and then go to Worthing. The reading of the will is not until four, so a one o’clock luncheon will suit. You’ll need to put off your more colorful stories as we’ll be sharing the meal with some of my uncles—what? Why are you laughing?”
Amesbury shook his head. “Are you trying to draw back your invitation?”
“Of course not.” Stratford gestured to a fork on the right. “This way.”
R
Eleanor, returning from her morning ride, found the manor in a livelier state than the previous night. She spotted three carriages unloading passengers in front of the circular stone staircase and paused to watch the ensuing bustle. A gentleman, encased in a padded coat in jaundiced yellow, called out in stringent accents, “You there! Take Lady Keyes’s portmanteau. You’ll need to remove these two trunks first. Take care what you’re about, man.”
Hiding a smile, Eleanor turned and rode toward the stables and allowed the groom to assist her in dismounting. In the dim interior of the far end, his back to her, the rather shabbily dressed earl teased a gentleman whose spine was as stiff as his collar. “I see you still don’t trust anyone but your own groom—”
“Or myself—” the earl’s friend inserted.
“—or yourself, which is a ridiculous notion. Are you still racing Thunder?”
“He’s retired from the lists. Shame. He brought me a fair profit. I had high hopes for Salamander—you ain’t seen her yet—but she’s foaling and won’t be racing again.” The gentleman flicked his riding crop against the stall and turned when Eleanor’s horse blocked the light pouring into the stable. He threw a surprised look at the earl.
Lord Worthing moved forward when he saw his groom trailing Eleanor. “Jesse, Mr. Harrison will be returning to Salisbury after our meeting, and you’ll need to have the carriage ready any time from six o’clock.” Jesse gave a nod and led the horse into the first stall on his left.
Flicking a glance her way, the earl said, “Mr. Amesbury, allow me to present Miss Daventry. She was my uncle’s ward and is here to attend the meeting with the solicitor. Miss Daventry, this is Mr. Amesbury.” She sank into what she hoped was a graceful curtsy as he executed a correct bow.
“It’s a pleasure.” Mr. Amesbury spoke in a bored voice, but his eyes missed nothing as the groom rubbed down Eleanor’s mount. “She’s short in the hind legs, you know.”
“I know,” said Lord Worthing. “She was my uncle’s.”
Eleanor’s brows snapped together—what?—as the earl addressed her. “Jesse will care for the horse. We sit down to lunch at one o’clock.”
Dismissed, Eleanor nodded and turned on her heel, head held high. Skirting the groom, she picked her way across the stable floor and had reached the sun-filled opening before she realized they had been talking about the horse. Horses have hind legs. Girls do not. She grinned weakly at her own foolishness and prepared to go on, but the next remark stopped her in her tracks.
“Little dab of a thing, ain’t she?”—words she knew she was not meant to hear.
The anger returned and this time with cause. Yes, Mr. Amesbury, she thought, resuming her march toward the house. I know I’m a dab of a thing. Not at all to your liking. It’s fortunate I’m not out to catch a husband or I would be quite out. She took in a lungful of fresh air and blinked against the sting in her eyes.
The short strip of grass beyond the stables led to the stone path and circular driveway, which was empty now with all newcomers indoors. The manor looked as it did the day before. For all its beauty and pleasing layout, this place does seem to bleed the life from one. Eleanor walked with purpose up the stone staircase, squinting in the darkness that enveloped her as soon as the footmen gave her entrance. Making her way directly to her aunt’s room, she scratched at the door.
“You’re looking well, Aunt.” Eleanor bent over and gave her a dutiful kiss. “I didn’t want to disturb you before I took the horse out this morning. Will you spare Betsy when your toilette is complete? Lord Worthing told me we lunch at one.”
Mrs. Daventry examined her niece in the glass. “Have a seat, my dear. I’m told we will be quite numerous. How was your dinner with the earl?”
Eleanor perched on the edge of the chair and gave a rueful shake of the head. “Torturous. He couldn’t bear to make conversation. I understand I am not yet nineteen and, and … perhaps not much to look at, but were he more of a gentleman, I should not have known it.”
Mrs. Daventry frowned. “Perhaps you will grow on him with time. It’s quite possible those years in the Peninsula affected him. I understand soldiers can suffer from melancholy.”
Eleanor shook her head. “He seemed at ease with the friend who will be joining us for lunch. Do you know who is here? I saw no less than three carriages when I rode in.”
Her aunt shrugged as Betsy clipped a gold chain in place around her neck. “Will that be all, ma’am?” the girl asked.
“Yes, you may attend to my niece.” Mrs. Daventry frowned. “Eleanor, you’d best wear your blue muslin. That brown you make such a habit of wearing does nothing for your complexion.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Eleanor gave a quiet sigh and caught Betsy looking at her with sympathy. The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Miss, if you please? I will go and fetch some hot water.”
“Thank you, Betsy.” When the door closed softly behind her, Eleanor came and stood before her aunt. “How soon may we leave after the will is read?”
“My dear, it depends largely on what the will contains.” Mrs. Daventry swiveled in her seat. “And the procedure for carrying it out. And how well the earl takes to you. In any event, it was kind of your guardian to make known his intention to provide for your Season. At the very least, you need not be ashamed to present yourself to Lady Ingram.”
“How well he takes to me?” Eleanor said. “I hope you aren’t scheming because I assure you any efforts you or I might make are wasted. He has no interest in me.”
Her aunt’s face fell. “What a pity. Well,” she patted one of her curls, “maybe one of the other gentleman will.” She caught Eleanor’s scowl before it could be whisked away. “Take care, my dear, or you’ll get wrinkles.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eleanor replied, turning to the window so her aunt wouldn’t comment on her slumped shoulders as well.
Lunch was spent only slightly more tolerably than the previous night’s dinner, with Eleanor seated between Mr. Amesbury and Sir Ambrose Keyes. Mr. Amesbury, who had decided she lacked looks, address, and a portion, did not put himself out to please, but performed his part punctiliously. When all other subjects had been exhausted, he forged ahead with the battle-weary pluck of a hardened conversationalist. “Miss Daventry, I understand from the earl that your father succumbed to illness from battle wounds when you were still quite young.”
“Yes. I was nearly six when he died.”
“And your mother?” Mr. Amesbury was busy attacking his steak and did not see her tense.
“My mother gave up all claims to natural affection when she remarried. Her husband is a French count, and they moved to the Continent in 1802.” Eleanor’s voice was firm, and she bore her glass steadily to her mouth, despite the alarming look her aunt shot her from across the table. She continued as if she hadn’t seen. “The former Lord Worthing was a great friend of my father’s and showed his kindness in taking me on as his ward.”
Before Mr. Amesbury could respond, Eleanor was called upon to listen to Sir Ambrose’s condescending oratory on the subjects that interested him. She was grateful for the reprieve and that little time remained that required her to converse with Mr. Amesbury, whose fixed gaze on the plate in front of him told her he felt no duty to continue the conversation.
R
Stratford did not learn of Amesbury’s views on Miss Daventry until the meal had been shared and Amesbury was ready to leave. He announced that he would take himself off immediately rather than rejoin the ladies in the drawing room, not wishing to encroach on a family party. Stratford accompanied him to the stables, where Amesbury confronted him.
“I say, old friend. I’m surprised you have Miss Daventry residing here. Her family is too smoky by half.” Amesbury’s mouth twisted with indignation. “I’ll not thank you to have placed her next to me.”
“What the deuce do you mean?” True, Miss Daventry had had little to say when he dined with her, but she’d uttered nothing that could be called objectionable. Stratford frowned, realizing that the failure of their dinner together might not lie entirely with her. I did not behave as a gentleman ought. I was in no humor to dine with anyone, much less a young lady who was a perfect stranger …
“Do you not know?” Amesbury replied. “Her mother abandoned her daughter and eloped with a Frenchman, and they now live on the Continent. The devil only knows whether she was yet a widow. That your uncle recognized the girl baffles me, but my advice to you, dear fellow, is to let her collect her share of the pot—whatever that may be—and send her packing. Your connection is not widely known, and it may not be too late if you give her the cut direct as soon as you are able.”
“Surely, someone whose consequence is as great as mine cannot be hurt in any way by a connection I choose to form.” Stratford’s voice was mild, but had his neighbor chanced to look at his face, he would have seen his lip curl.
Amesbury missed the irony. “No, no, you have it all wrong. You can never be too careful—” He did not finish his thought because the groom came forward leading his horse. “Ah, you had him saddled, did you? I’ll just check the straps myself. No, you see they’re too tight here, don’t you?”
Stratford’s thoughts went to Miss Daventry for a second time that day. It seemed it would not prove an easy thing for his uncle’s ward to find a suitable match, and unlike Amesbury, it was not in his nature to cast off an object of ill-repute—or pity, since she was not the cause of it. He hoped for her sake she’d receive something to live on so she was not dependent on society—most particularly, his.
“I’m for London on Friday.” Amesbury, now mounted, was ready to be off. “Come play billiards with me this evening. I’ve found the most excellent brandy buried in my father’s cellar. I’ve been kicking my heels in this cursed place for too long and am in need of some diversion.”
Stratford smiled to himself, having learned in as little as two hours that—far from being a “cursed place”—Amesbury’s est
ate was his pride and joy. “I cannot escape my duties of playing host at dinner,” he replied.
“Come afterward. No one can have a thing to say about that.” When he saw Stratford start to shake his head, he drawled, “Come, and I’ll tell you what really happened with Mack and the hog when they went to the prizefight.”
Stratford laughed at the unexpected memory. Years fell away, and he was back in school, where there was no disappointment in love, no bloody war, no title and estate to uphold. “Mackery always did kick up the best larks. I thought you swore to secrecy. Word of a gentleman and all that.”
“He spilled the story himself at White’s. It was the talk of the town. You were away though.” Amesbury’s horse sidled impatiently, and he gripped the reins. “So I can count on you to come?”
“I’ll come as soon as I’m able.” Stratford gave a wave, and Amesbury rode off.
Chapter Four
The reading of the will took place in the library at four o’clock. The chairs were arranged in two rows of semicircles with an aisle in the middle. Stratford sat in the front with Mrs. Hester Tunstall, sister-in-law to the former earl, who had been more gracious to him at their first meeting in twenty years than he’d expected. Her two sons had been destined for the earldom were it not for their untimely deaths in the war, but there was no trace of acrimony in her conversation or tone.
Behind them in the last row, the old earl’s steward and his wife took seats, shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. Stratford knew if their presence were requested, it meant they would be receiving something. He was glad for their sakes but had been prepared to show his uncle’s respect on their behalf.
On the other side of the aisle were two more of his aunts, sisters to the former earl, neither of whom he had met more than once. Aunt Lucretia and her husband, Sir Ambrose, sat at an angle in order to converse with Aunt Gertrude behind them, who was flanked by her husband and three daughters. In the last row were four people whom Stratford had met only minutes before entering the drawing room. He gathered these to be distant relatives or recipients of the earl’s generosity.
A Regrettable Proposal Page 3