Grace Burrowes - [Lonely Lords 05]

by Gabriel

  Polly paused while stirring a bowl of chocolate icing. “He was canny as hell,” she decided, “and Tremaine does share that feature.”

  “Which makes him a good manager for your painting, provided he’s honest.”

  “He’s honest, and too quick by half.”

  “Too quick?”

  “He proposed to me, Sara.” Polly recommenced whipping the daylights out of her frosting. “We had just come from the solicitor’s office. Tremaine put it in the most polite, bored, business terms—to allow me to sport a ring, to fend off the wandering hands of clients and their younger sons, to quiet talk about our business association—but he allowed me to understand, should it suit me at some point, we might discuss actually marrying.”

  “You were tempted.” Sara paused, her hands full of dirty crockery. “Oh, Polly.”

  Polly went at the frosting with a vengeance. “Yes, oh, Polly. He can see I’m pining for a man, and he’s thinking to take advantage.”

  “Maybe he can see you’re pretty, talented, lonely, and in need of some roots,” Sara said. “I wish you’d stay here, Polly. You can paint anywhere. You don’t need to become a gypsy for your art.”

  “One gypsy princess in the family was plenty?”

  “Shame on you,” Sara chided, but without heat. “Allie misses you.”

  “And I miss her, which is a good thing, Sara. If we hadn’t struck out on separate paths, I might never have realized I do miss her.”

  “How could you not?”

  “I miss North almost as much,” Polly said, her frosting fork going still again.

  “Beck thought maybe that’s why you needed a change of scene.” Sara set the dirty dishes in the sink. “You have a lot of memories of Gabriel here at Three Springs.”

  “Right.” Polly used a butter knife to dab frosting on a pale yellow cake. “Memories of Gabriel getting up while I mixed the bread dough, Gabriel heading out without a proper breakfast unless I forced it on him, and Gabriel coming in exhausted right as dinner was put on the table. Memories of Gabriel avoiding me.”

  “I thought you two had reached some sort of accord before he left here.” Sara turned her attention to wiping down the counters, which were spotless. “For the last few months, that is, but then, I was preoccupied with Lady Warne’s handsome grandson and Tremaine’s looming presence.”

  “We reached…” Polly dabbed the pattern of a flower into the frosting: a rose. “We reached an agreement to disagree. I think he left in part because he couldn’t stand to see my disappointment.”

  “Or because,” Sara said gently, “he couldn’t trust himself not to take advantage. Gabriel is a gentleman.”

  “Titled.” Polly surveyed her work, then smoothed the flower away. “He told me that much, but he also told me his family, or somebody, did not want him to survive to perpetuate the line, and Gabriel could not endanger a lady closely associated with him. Not for anything.”

  “He wouldn’t let Hildegard suffer a sniffle on his behalf, could he avoid it. Allie considers him honorary godparent to all of Hildy’s piglets.” Sara scrubbed the counter with particular force. “So he’s gone.”

  “To parts unknown.” Polly glowered at her cake. “Dratted man.”

  Sara glanced at the door as if expecting menfolk to appear now that the cleaning up was done. “Beck had a note from Gabriel today, and it seems he’s a guest of Lady Warne for the present, but he made no mention of his next destination.”

  “He said he wouldn’t.” Polly drew the confectionery rose into the frosting again and added a few thorns. “And he made no mention of me, either, did he?”

  Sara crossed the few steps to hug her sister. “You’re not going to accept Tremaine’s silly proposal, are you? He means well, but guilt and a broken heart are no way to start a marriage.”

  ***

  “You said you’d be decent to our guest,” Marjorie accused. “You’re not even going to be here to greet her.”

  “I’ll see her at dinner,” Aaron replied, his patience fraying the longer he stood in the foyer and argued with his wife before the servants. “George says we’ve a problem with one of the hay barns, and it won’t keep. Unless you want all your pretty carriage horses to live on good intentions this winter, you’ll make my excuses to this artist.”

  “Miss Polonaise Hunt,” Marjorie said tightly. “Go then, but if George can’t solve the problems with the estate farms, then why are you paying him to serve as steward?”

  “Good day, Marjorie.” Aaron gave her a curt bow. “I’ll see you at dinner, along with Miss Hunt.”

  He stalked down the front steps, glad for any excuse to leave the house, but he had to concede that Marjorie, as usual, had a valid point. George Wendover had been the steward for years, for pity’s sake, and with his fat salary and cozy house came the job of running the tens of thousands of acres held both through the Hesketh title and privately by the Wendover family.

  But everything, everything, seemed to require Aaron’s personal attention, because dear Cousin George never wanted to overstep or make a controversial decision. He was loyal, was George, but something of a ditherer in Aaron’s opinion. George was also a distant cousin, though, and Aaron’s father had trusted the man, as had Gabriel, so Aaron gave him his due.

  “It’s the last of the hay put up,” George explained. He stood in the hay barn, an enormous structure set into the side of a hill, with room for beasts below, and three high mows in the upper part of the building. “Mold got to it, but we’re only finding it now, as we’re beginning to feed some of the fodder on the colder nights.”

  “Mold?” The hay barn was well ventilated, of that Aaron was certain. “We had good haying weather this year. I know we did. None of that hay should have been put up wet.”

  George was intent on studying the barn’s roof beams, though they’d likely occupied their present positions for more than a century. “Must have been wetter than we thought, or it got wet, but the roof is tight, so that makes no sense.”

  “How much is ruined?”

  George nodded at the nearest third of the barn. “That mow seems to have got the worst of it, but you’re right. Haying was good this year, so there should be hay to purchase.”

  “Buy what we need, and sell some of the straw. This lot can be used as bedding hay, at least the parts not completely rotted.”

  “Bedding hay.”

  George had a way of repeating what had been said that made Aaron want to throttle him. “Lousy hay, not fit for eating, isn’t that what you call it?”

  “Mostly, we call it kindling.”

  “If it’s not moldy, it has some value,” Aaron argued, “so use it as bedding. If there’s decent fodder to be had, the animals won’t eat the sorrier alternative.”

  “If you say so.” George’s features remained impassive as he resumed his study of the beams, and curses learned in the cavalry flitted through Aaron’s head. George never disagreed with Aaron, but he never quite agreed with him either.

  “George,” Aaron kept his tone patient, “what would my father have done?”

  “He’d not have put up wet hay.”

  Do not curse at a man who’s trying his best, and is a relation as well.

  “Not on purpose, but say a tree fell on the barn roof and a rainstorm got to some of his hay, what would he have done with it?”

  “He wouldn’t have allowed trees of such a size near his barn.”

  Aaron gave up on parables. “Sell some of the barley and oat straw, and get us more hay. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

  He knew better, knew better, than to leave George such an opening, because there was always, always, something else. This cow had a bad foot, that mare hadn’t caught, and the chickens weren’t laying as well as they had last fall.

  None of which, in Aaron’s opinion, merited the attention of the Marquess of Hesketh. Such trivialities took all afternoon, meaning correspondence would have to be dealt with far into the night, and damn and bl
ast if he hadn’t promised Marjorie he’d appear in proper attire at dinner.

  Damn Marjorie for her insistence on having portraits done.

  Damn the hay for turning moldy.

  And most of all, damn Gabriel for dying.

  ***

  Gabriel had spent months envisioning this day, months plotting exactly what dramatic, pithy, unforgettable line he would recite when his brother beheld him risen from his supposed grave. In hindsight, he saw his months of rehearsal were merely the mental posturing of one victimized by violence, seeking reassurance from his imagination when it wasn’t available elsewhere.

  So he handed his horse off to a groom he didn’t recognize and took himself into the stables to use the mirror hanging in the saddle room, a vanity their grandfather had insisted on fifty years ago.

  As Gabriel was inspecting his tired, dusty, and frankly unappealing reflection, Aaron came into the saddle room, muttering about it being impossible to find a damned jumping bat when a man needed one and owned at least ten, and where in the hell—

  In the mirror, Gabriel saw the moment his brother spied him, the moment recognition tried to force its way past disbelief.

  “Gabriel?” Incredulity, but also hope, relief, and genuine, unmistakable joy colored that one word. Gabriel turned, the same emotions crowding into his throat and chest as his brother hurtled into his arms.

  “Damn you, damn you,” Aaron whispered fervently. “Just damn you to hell, damn you to goddamned, bloody, benighted, stinking, perishing hell. You’re alive.” He fell silent, hugging Gabriel in a crushing embrace, until he stepped back, balled up a fist, and flashed a lightning quick right to his older brother’s chin.

  Then wrapped him in another suffocating hug.

  Gabriel had anticipated the blow, but it still stung, leaving a reassurance as the pain dulled to a throb, but reassurance of what, Gabriel didn’t know. That he was loved, maybe? That his brother wouldn’t have connived at the title to the point of having Gabriel murdered—maybe?

  Aaron held him at arm’s length, looking Gabriel over with a scowl reminiscent of their late father.

  “I am happier to see you than you can possible know, but, Brother, you are in a bloody lot of trouble.”

  “One suspected this would be the case. You look like hell yourself.”

  “Married life does not agree with me,” Aaron shot back. “Nor does wearing your idiot title, nor does sitting on my arse in the library hour after hour and bickering in writing with doddering lords trying to cadge my vote on every worthless bit of self-enrichment they can legislate.”

  Aaron had always had a temper, a quick tongue, and an equally generous and forgiving heart. In the two years since Gabriel had last seen him, though, Aaron had laid claim to the essential darkness of demeanor previously reserved for every other male member of the Wendover clan.

  In short, Aaron had grown up, and this left Gabriel feeling both sad and guilty. They were five years apart in age, though sometimes, it had felt closer to fifteen.

  No more.

  “Let’s get you up to the house,” Aaron said. “Will you have luggage coming along soon?”

  “I have only what my horse could carry, though there will be more coming down from London eventually.”

  “Is that where you’ve been hiding?” Aaron’s tone held a hint of that hard blow to the chin.

  “Walk with me.” Gabriel took charge of their progress toward the house, and led his brother around to the side gardens, where plane maples provided shade, beauty, and more importantly, privacy.

  Aaron had also apparently learned some patience, or some strategy, because he kept his peace until Gabriel found them a bench under the trees, out of sight of the house or stables.

  “We never did get to the bottom of my mishap in Spain.” Gabriel sat slowly, the damned English roads having wreaked havoc with his back for the last ten miles. Aaron tossed himself onto the bench with casual grace.

  “Mishap?” He snorted. “You were set upon by brigands, as often happens to men traveling alone in war zones after dark.”

  “It wasn’t a war zone, Aaron. We were well behind the lines, and I was traveling between the church and the infirmary where you were recuperating. I traversed the middle of the village under a full moon.”

  “I was dying,” Aaron said tiredly. He crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back to turn his face up to the sun. “You were set upon while I lay helpless, and if you’d stayed in England, you’d still be… well, you are, alive… Christ.”

  “You weren’t dying.” Though in the bright sunlight, Aaron now looked to be at least exhausted. “You’d given up, and because the army knows nothing of medicine save cutting, burning, stitching, and praying, you needed better care. You were too stubborn to trade on the family name, so you weren’t getting that care, hence the necessity of my travel.”

  And hence, indirectly, two years of backbreaking labor and heart-wrenching uncertainty as well, for them both—and for Marjorie?

  Aaron swung at a bed of yellow pansies with his riding crop, missing—fortunately. “What’s your point?”

  “I had no money on me,” Gabriel said. “I was on a humble borrowed army mount, and yet, I am larger and meaner and fitter than most—or I was. I do not think brigands set upon me.”

  “The men and I asked around everywhere, Gabriel,” Aaron countered. “Nobody had heard the least rumor that you were ambushed as anything other than a casual crime.”

  “You asked around in English. Even if I allow that the first attack was pure bad luck, what about the second and the third?”

  Aaron hunched forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and sending Gabriel a puzzled glance over his shoulder. “The second being whoever tried holding a pillow to your ugly face when I was finally recovered enough to leave you to the sisters. I know nothing of a third.”

  “The fire,” Gabriel said. “The one that supposedly took my life. I was given laudanum for the pain in my back, but I’d mostly weaned myself rather than let it become a dependency. I wasn’t fast asleep as intended when somebody torched the infirmary—I wasn’t even in my bed.”

  “You were off trysting?”

  Had Aaron developed a penchant for trysting despite being married to Marjorie? Was that what all her shopping and his dueling were about?

  “I was taking a damned piss,” Gabriel shot back. “And there but for the grace of God, I’d be sporting that halo.”

  “So you went into hiding,” Aaron surmised.

  “I am willing to be convinced that my death was not planned, but who among the Spanish, English, Portuguese, or French would torch a convent’s infirmary? Too many wounded and ill depended on the kindness of the sisters, and they took in their patients regardless of nationality.”

  Aaron swatted at nothing with his crop, while Gabriel felt his brother putting together puzzle pieces. “By the time you were well enough to come home, I’d had you declared dead, and you suspected I was behind all the attempts.”

  Gabriel rose carefully—now was no time for his damned back to seize up—and paced off a few feet. They were surrounded by pansies and chrysanthemums, though a few precocious maples were parting with their leaves. The garden in all its autumn glory was easier to look upon than Aaron’s face.

  “I didn’t want to think you guilty, Aaron. You were the only one with anything to gain, and then too, I lay in that damned bed for months, thinking myself into a stew, and your guilt was the logical conclusion.”

  “Is it still?”

  And there, in a nutshell, was why Gabriel loved, and despaired of, his brother. Aaron was brave, unflinchingly courageous. He’d toss out a question like that, knowing it opened an unbearably painful wound for them both. And he’d do it without batting an eye. Such a man might easily believe himself to be—and might be—the better choice to hold the title.

  “No, it is not the logical conclusion,” Gabriel said, turning in time to see his brother’s shoulders drop, the only sign Aaron h
ad given a damn about the answer, one way or another. “It’s no longer the only possible conclusion.”

  “Oh, famous.” This time, Aaron decapitated a few pansies with his crop, and the steward in Gabriel winced. “A Scottish verdict? Insufficient evidence?”

  “No evidence,” Gabriel said, eyeing the pansy parts scattered on the ground. “My own fevered reasoning, but no evidence and plenty of reasonable doubts.”

  “Such as?”

  “You didn’t know I was coming to fetch you home.” Gabriel resumed his seat beside Aaron, though the hard bench was murder on an aching back. “It’s easy enough to have a man killed if you’ve coin and cunning. If you’d wanted me dead, it would have made more sense for you to see the thing done while you were in Spain and I was in England.”

  Aaron left the bench, reminding Gabriel that his brother had never enjoyed inactivity. “If I’d wanted you dead, I would have managed it myself on a field of honor, regardless of country.”

  “May I assume that isn’t a challenge?”

  Aaron scrubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t be ridiculous, but if I were you, I wouldn’t turn my back on Marjorie anytime soon.” The smile accompanying this advice was complicated: humorous, rueful, self-mocking. Boys did not smile like that, though married men did.

  “I assume Marjorie is well?” Gabriel shifted on the infernal bench and missed the padding Polly had kept on his chair at the Three Springs kitchen table.

  Missed Polly too, though that was hardly news.

  “Marjorie’s not breeding, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s utterly miserable married to me, and lest there be any doubt, long lost brother, I am miserable married to her. It’s the English way. She’s hired a portrait artist to memorialize our misery.”

  Perhaps Aaron wanted to call him out after all? “You didn’t have to marry her.”

  “Yes, Gabriel, I did. Her dear mama was crying breach of promise and damages if I hadn’t, and your Mr. Kettering was very reluctant to hand over the details of the agreement to a mere wastrel younger brother when you were yet alive.”

  Damn Worth Kettering and his lawyerly scruples. “You had me declared dead just to get a look at the contract?”