Redeeming Lord Ryder

by Robinson, Maggie

  But it had been months, and all the projects and holidays and books and feminine amusements he’d tried to occupy himself with had done nothing to soothe his soul. It was time for a change.

  If he did not starve to death first.

  Chapter 3

  December 17, 1882

  Dr. Oakley had visited Nicola every day since he’d wrapped her sprained ankle. He’d done such an expert job, she’d even been able to prepare her own dinner that first night with some gritting of her teeth as she hopped around the kitchen with the aid of a stick. The reheated chicken pie had been delicious, and much against her better judgment, Nicola had eaten three of the tarts.

  Mrs. Grace had offered to sleep over in the ensuing evenings, but Nicola liked her solitude. She read romantic novels sent by her sister—very much out of character for her since Nicola did not believe in romance—and knitted baby clothes for the poor, the Puddling Service that had been decided for her dubious skills. Her stitches were becoming somewhat less lumpy, and she felt useful for the first time in a long while.

  After her daily sessions with the Reverend Fitzmartin, she was never far from her piano, although she wasn’t using the pedals at the moment. Playing allowed her to gaze out the windows at the snowy front garden. No handsome bearded gentleman marched up the path, however. Nicola was very tempted to write questions about Jack to Mrs. Grace, though she doubted she’d get any honest answers.

  Guests’ privacy was of the utmost importance—the Rules were clear. Should one meet another Guest in the village, only first names were to be exchanged. And if one encountered a recovered Guest in the “Outside World,” one must never acknowledge the circumstances under which they’d met.

  Nicola knew of one other Guest in Puddling besides Jack. She was known only as the Countess, a handsome young widow whose elegant mourning clothes were finer than anything Nicola had ever owned. She’d seen the woman in church, but had had no occasion to do anything but smile. And obviously, Nicola could not start a conversation.

  She would like a friend, even if a countess was a touch exalted for a solicitor’s daughter. But her current speechless situation made that all but impossible. How she missed her sister, Frannie. They wrote to each other several times a week, but letters were not enough.

  Bertie had three teeth and was crawling around like a little crab. Babbling.

  More than Nicola could do.

  Oh, she was sinking in spirits again. The weather wasn’t helpful. The unrelieved arctic dampness and gray skies for the past two days had depressed her. There were several sturdy walking sticks by the front door in an umbrella stand, but she really wasn’t up to going outdoors yet. She was housebound, and even the new sheet music her mother sent had no appeal.

  She reached for the knitting basket and pulled out her needles and the beginnings of a blue cap. It was hard to believe any human being could start out so small, so dependent. But she knew it was true. She’d held Bertie when he was brand new, his tomato-red face scrunched, his lungs in fine fettle.

  Once, she had wanted children of her own. But how could she teach them now? Read them bedtime stories? Tell them she loved them?

  An inconvenient tear leaked out of eye, and she wiped it away, annoyed with herself. She knew she was lucky to be alive, with all her advantages. Two men had not been so fortunate in the accident. She still had her sight, her hearing. Once her ankle healed, she’d be mobile again. There were many, many unfortunate people in the world who were steeped in misery and poverty with no means of correction. She was selfish to be sad.

  Yet sad she was.

  Her desolation was interrupted by the clank of the brass door knocker. There was a bell as well—Puddling was prepared for everything. The doctor and vicar had been here already today, but perhaps one of them had left something behind.

  “Coming!” Mrs. Grace called from the kitchen. Nicola was perfectly capable of hobbling up to open her own front door, but the housekeeper was a stickler for performing the household duties the correct way. Nicola continued to wind the yarn around a needle and waited.

  “Good afternoon. I’ve come to see Mrs. Grace.”

  Nicola dropped a stitch. She knew that voice.

  Jack.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Mrs. Grace…is she at home?”

  “What sort of game are you playing, milord? Have you eyes in your head?”

  “I beg your pardon.” His tone was frosty now. “If my visit comes at an awkward time, would you please tell her I called?”

  “I am busy in the kitchen, but I can spare a minute. What can I help you with?”

  “As I stated, madam, I’m here to inquire about Mrs. Grace’s health.”

  “I’m feeling fine.”

  “I don’t c—that is, I’m very glad, but the young lady who injured her ankle the other day, Mrs. Grace, how is she?”

  “Oh! You mean Miss Nicola. I’ll see if she will receive you.” She shut the door loudly on the poor man, leaving him on the doorstep, and poked her head into the parlor. “There is a gentleman to see you. Another Guest. I don’t have to let him in if you don’t want me to.”

  She’d called him milord. Was he truly a lord, or was Mrs. Grace just being deferential? Nicola put the cap back in the basket and stood up from the sofa, nervously smoothing her skirt. It seemed Jack was under the impression that she was Mrs. Grace, which was rather amusing. She motioned to the housekeeper to open the door, and mimicked drinking tea.

  “Well, if you’re sure, I suppose I can add another cup to the tea tray. I was just about to bring it out to you anyway. Are you certain you’ll be able to manage the fellow? We, that is the Rehabilitation Foundation, really don’t know anything about him. It’s most irregular.”

  Nicola nodded, clasped her trembling hands in front of her, and waited.

  She couldn’t catch what Mrs. Grace muttered to Jack before she let him into the hallway. Some dire warning, no doubt. Mrs. Grace had dragonish tendencies. He entered unscathed, hatless and carrying a small parcel.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said, shrugging out of his coat. Mrs. Grace sniffed with disapproval and hung it on a hook by the door. “I didn’t see you in church this morning, and came to see how you were doing. Your ankle and whatnot. I see you’re standing. Can you walk on it yet?”

  Very carefully, Nicola pirouetted, then curtseyed.

  Oh, how very foolish she was being. There was something about Jack that made her want to be foolish. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d flirted with anyone. In the time she’d known Richard—more than half her life, really—there had been little cause for flirtation. Richard had been a serious boy then and was a serious man now.

  Jack grinned. “Well done, you. But perhaps you’d like to sit down and not overdo.”

  Nicola wished her dress was not a sensible gray, had a bigger bustle, more ruffles, and that she hadn’t pinned her hair up any which way this morning. But judging from the heat flaming on her cheeks, she probably didn’t look white as snow anymore.

  “I’ve brought you something to while away the time while you’re recovering. I mean about your ankle, not whatever has brought you here to Puddling. But don’t get too excited—the shops here are very limited, aren’t they? And they keep us impoverished too. I had to turn over all my pocket money to the fiend who works in my cottage when I arrived. Mrs. Feather is as strict as a nun. Probably worse. Nuns have to be charitable and take pity on one—it’s in their contract, I expect. You would not believe the lies I had to tell the woman so she’d advance me some of my allowance.”

  Nicola waggled a finger at him.

  “Of course I should have lied! I wanted to give you a gift, shabby though it is. I feel rather responsible for you. It’s not every day that I get to save a pretty young lady from a life on the streets.” He handed her the brown-wrapped package and sat across
from her in a chair she knew to be uncomfortable.

  Oh! A life on the streets! He was so cheeky. She should be offended by his teasing, but she smiled anyhow.

  He passed her a small pocket knife. “For the string. Don’t stab me later.”

  Nicola sliced open the string and unfolded the paper. Inside was a pocket-sized blank notebook and a pack of colored drawing pencils.

  “I didn’t know if you were artistic. If you are not, you can use the book to talk to me.”

  Nicola raised an eyebrow.

  “You know, I’ll say something—probably stupid—and you can write down your reply. Whatever you say back will be much prettier if it’s in red or blue or green.”

  Nicola mouthed the words “thank you,” and selected a purple pencil. She flipped the book to its first page.

  You are very kind. But I am a terrible artist. She squiggled something after the words. Can you tell what this is?

  Jack took the book from her and squinted. “Huh. A dog? No, a bear. Maybe a cat without a tail.”

  See? I’m hopeless. It is a rabbit.

  “You’ve got the ears all wrong, you know.” He borrowed her purple pencil and sketched an exquisite little rabbit next to hers.

  That is very good. My rabbit wants to hop away in embarrassment. If he had proper feet.

  “Well, one more foot, at least. They usually have four. Thank you. I’m a bit of a draftsman. Normally I draw machinery to mathematical specifications instead of cute fluffy creatures.”

  So, he was employed somewhere. Nicola had a healthy respect for those who earned their own bread. As a solicitor’s daughter, she had no right to be snobbish, and thought it ridiculous that the idle rich were so very idle and so unfairly rich. Richard was a Liberal MP with a true concern for the poor, and she had planned to support him in his progressive ideas.

  Did she dare ask what Jack did and why was here?

  No. She would keep everything casual. Discreet.

  And it was none of her business.

  Mrs. Grace entered bearing a well-stocked tea tray. Jack leaped up to help her, but she refused. “Please sit down, sir. You’ll only make me spill something.”

  It was true that now he was in the parlor, quarters seemed even tighter. He was tall and broad and so very present. Nicola was used to blending into the background, but no one could ever miss Jack.

  The housekeeper set the tray on the low table in front of the sofa. “All right, Miss Nicola? Or would you like me to stay and pour?”

  Did Mrs. Grace think she needed chaperonage? Jack did not seem dangerous at all, despite the fact that he was tall, dark, quite handsome, and took up so much space in the room.

  Nicola hoped he was not a homicidal maniac hiding out in Puddling from the law. Or a married man with half a dozen children. She stole a look at his left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but then so many men didn’t.

  “Milk and no sugar, please,” her mysterious visitor said before she had a chance to gesture.

  Her mother had raised her to be the wife of an MP, perhaps even a future prime minister, for Richard was ambitious beyond belief. Nicola usually moved with grace and ease, except when she was falling down an icy hill or skating. Ice seemed to be her nemesis. Perhaps she was meant to live somewhere in the tropics. She poured the tea and arranged a small plate of sandwiches and biscuits for her guest as any properly trained young woman would do.

  But she hadn’t the first idea what should come next.

  Chapter 4

  Jack had always been a talker. A chatterbox, if one was being completely accurate. He had so many ideas, a second would tumble out before the first was finished, and it had required a lot of patience from his friends to wade through his words. But he found his mind was completely blank now.

  Mrs. Grace—Miss Nicola, since he wasn’t supposed to know her last name—was sipping her tea, her face a delightful shade of rose. One of his former companies manufactured oil paint—paint was flammable, so no more factory—and he’d never seen pigment that delicate in color. She reminded him of the portrait George Frederic Watts had done of the actress Ellen Terry, all gold and pink and ivory. What was its name?

  Choosing. The actress had been in a garden, deciding between the worldly red camellias and the humble violets. Jack bet that Miss Nicola would pick the violets if she had a chance.

  It wasn’t because she was childlike, for she must be almost as old as he was, but there was a freshness, an innocence about her. Perhaps if she recovered her speech, that illusion might be broken. She could sound like a fishwife, or worse, his opinionated mother.

  The fire rippled along merrily, but he got up to stab at it. He needed something to do besides swallowing tea and biting tiny sandwiches in silence, even though the food on offer was a thousand times better than the swill he’d been served since he arrived. He’d have to speak to Mrs. Feather and complain he was being mistreated, for all the good it would do.

  Jack wasn’t uncomfortable with the quiet; it was soothing. But he was a man of action, wasn’t he? He did enough damage with the poker, causing sparks to land on the hearth rug. He stamped them out with his large feet, then sat back down.

  Come on. How hard could it be to have a civilized conversation with an attractive young woman? It had been ages. Ah.

  “Have you been here long?”

  She raised two fingers.

  “Weeks?”

  She flashed both hands at him several times.

  “Two whole months? I thought this was a twenty-eight-day program.” He didn’t intend to stay any longer himself. If he couldn’t get out of his funk—well, it didn’t bear thinking of.

  Nicola shrugged. So she had not been cured in the allotted time.

  “You came to restore ability to speak?”

  She nodded.

  “What happened?”

  She picked up the notebook he’d given her. An accident.

  “I’m so sorry. Where is, uh, Mr. Grace?” He pictured some ugly brute with his hands around her slender neck and his fists clenched.

  I have no idea.

  Jack was shocked. The cur. The bounder. Dumping his wife in this backwater just because she couldn’t talk! If Miss Nicola was in his care…

  “You mean your husband has abandoned you here in Puddling?” He couldn’t contain the anger in his voice.

  Her lips turned up as she wrote. She should not be used to such iniquity and smile over it.

  Mrs. Grace is my housekeeper. I am not married.

  Ah, that explained why the woman thought he was a lunatic at the door. He’d somehow got the wrong end of the stick. Jack laughed.

  “I apologize. I misunderstood something the doctor said. So there is no Mr. Secret Surname lurking about?”

  Her cheeks flamed as she shook her head.

  “No fiancé either?”

  A very firm shake. Jack was encouraged.

  “This proves men are idiots.” Nicola was not in the first blush of youth, but neither was she old maid material. How had she escaped marriage for so long?

  Jack had had a few brushes with the institution himself over the years, mostly because he wasn’t paying proper attention. He’d been so preoccupied with businesses he’d almost wound up a bridegroom once or twice. He hadn’t truly listened to a couple of conversations when every cell of his body should have been on high alert. Women could be dangerous creatures, if charming.

  And there was the heart of all his problems. His mother was right—he had to slow down. Take a step back. That’s why he was in Puddling, wasn’t it?

  What was he doing sitting in Stonecrop Cottage? Nothing good could come of it. He was supposed to be atoning for his failures, not flirting with a pretty young woman.

  But when he was with her—well, for the very few minutes, for that’s all it had been—he forgot his ow
n problems and worried about hers. How agonizing it must be not to be able to communicate. Jack thought of all the orders he dispatched on a daily basis and wondered what it would be like if he took a vow of silence. His retainers would probably welcome that. His browbeaten secretary Ezra Clarke might even do a jig.

  “Where do you live when you’re not imprisoned in Puddling?”

  Bath.

  “You’re a city girl! A small city, to be sure. I live in London myself. And I have a country house in—well, wait a moment. I’m not sure we’re supposed to be trading personal information. I haven’t been here a week and don’t know the ropes yet.” The talks he’d had with Oakley and Reverend Fitzmartin so far had dealt less with Puddling Rules than his depression. He hadn’t told them the exact particulars, but they were aware of some of his difficulties.

  It’s all right. I won’t tell anybody. There was a wicked gleam in her eye.

  “So you won’t get me in trouble?”

  Are you the sort of man who gets in trouble easily?

  “I am afraid so. I could tell you stories, but I don’t want to alarm you.”

  Oh, go ahead. I am tougher than I look.

  She didn’t look tough at all, just a pink and gold and ivory girl. My God, he was becoming poetic. Jack reminded himself he was a rational man, at home with compasses and protractors and slide rules. Thrilled to balance columns of crabbed figures in ledgers. Happy in laboratories with noxious fumes, a safe distance from china tea cups and lemon-flavored biscuits and blue-eyed females. He cleared his throat.

  “I’ll save my misadventures for another day. I’m still trying to make a good impression. You don’t mind if I come to visit again, do you?”

  Nicola cast those blue eyes down and shook her head.

  “That’s a ‘yes, I don’t mind’ shake, isn’t it?”

  She looked up at him, and his brain got fuzzier. He’d seen a lot of blue eyes in his time. Why were hers having such a peculiar effect on him?

  You may come tomorrow and take me for a walk.