He shook himself. Puzzling out Alyse would have to wait. She’d given him a clue, and he needed to follow it. He swung back into the saddle. “Walk, Daffodil.”
At the best pace the mare could muster, it took him nearly thirty minutes to reach the boundaries of Quence’s large, low-lying east pasture. In the past sheep would be scattered across the low grass, inviting some artist or other to paint the pastoral scene. Now, though, it was empty, with shimmers of light reflecting from between the blades of grass and dragonflies skimming the wide stretches of wet. “Good God,” he muttered.
There had to be three inches of water covering the entire pasture. At the upper end he spied several men, and encouraged the reluctant mare through the ankle-deep marsh to the higher bank of the stream.
Three of the men stood arguing with a fourth, who was better dressed and on horseback. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Phineas drawled, stopping beside a cart full of rocks.
They stopped bickering to look at him. “Who’re you?” the stoutest of them asked, stabbing the end of a shovel into the wet ground and resting his crossed arms on the handle.
Phineas gazed at him steadily, unmoved by the show of aggression. “Colonel Phin Bromley,” he said, crossing his own wrists over the saddle’s pommel. “Who are you?”
“Brown,” the fellow retorted.
“And what are you doing on my land, Mr. Brown?” Technically the land belonged to William, but it had been in the Bromley family for generations, and he was still a Bromley.
Mr. Brown spat into the mud. “If it was your land, you’d know why we was here, Colonel Bromley.”
Hm. He did know, but that was only because Alyse had told him. And now that he’d identified himself as a Bromley, he had to behave in a relatively civilized manner. That could be a problem, and not just here. If Beth was unwilling to be communicative, he could only imagine what he might face with the rest of the citizenry. “I only ask because you seem to be talking rather than working.”
“Tell that to bloody Mr. Stuggley there.” The fellow gestured at the still angry-looking man on horseback on the far side of the stream.
The name was familiar, and unusual enough that Phineas was willing to risk being in error. “Stuggley,” he repeated aloud. “Not John Stuggley.”
The tall man’s expression eased a little. “The same, Colonel Bromley. My father retired a year ago now. I’ve been seeing to the stewardship of Roesglen since.”
A few years older than William, John Stuggley hadn’t been part of the Bromley circle of friends. His father had been well respected by the Marquis of Roesglen, and Roesglen had been close friends with the former Viscount Quence, Phin’s father. A rather roundabout connection, but Phineas felt more inclined to listen to him than to the sullen Brown.
“Perhaps you could enlighten me, then, Mr. Stuggley,” he said. “What’s the difficulty here?”
“The difficulty is that if a new irrigation dam goes in here, it might save the Quence east pasture, but the backed-up water would flood the Roesglen north pasture and overflow the fish pond. Lord Roesglen wouldn’t take the news of the demise of his favorite fishing pond well at all.”
“This stream is on Quence land,” Brown countered. “And Lord Donnelly says the dam goes here.”
“This is robbery, sir,” Stuggley snapped. “You will set Roesglen and Quence at odds.”
Phineas took in their wet surroundings and the Roesglen land off to the northeast in the distance. “What kept this pasture from flooding before?” he asked, wishing he’d paid more attention to land management in his youth. That had been William’s duty, though. He’d had other interests.
“The old dam half a mile upstream, just south of the east tributary,” Stuggley said promptly. “It collapsed a fortnight ago.”
“Then perhaps the new dam should stand where the old one did,” Phineas stated. “It did serve for better than twenty years.”
“Lord Donnelly already decided against that.” Brown spat again, just missing Daffodil’s near hoof.
“Another day won’t make any difference. Stuggley, do you have a terrain map of the property?”
“Aye.”
“Bring it by Quence in the morning, will you?”
“Of course.” The steward glanced in the direction of the workers.
“And you lot,” Phineas continued, “go home.”
“What about our wages? We ain’t mucking about here for nothin’.”
Phin lifted an eyebrow, but kept his voice even. “See Lord Donnelly. He hired you.”
“Damned soldier’s got a ramrod up ’is arse,” Brown sneered.
If Phineas hadn’t had the uniform on, if he didn’t have William’s reputation currently in his hands, he would have been quite willing to show Brown just how flexible he could be where legalities were concerned. He’d never wanted to be two separate people so badly before.
Riding away at a brisk trot would have put a good period to the conversation, but Daffodil falling down dead in the mud would not. He needed a more sound damned mount. As he clucked at the mare and turned her around, he caught Stuggley’s grateful look. At least someone appreciated his presence.
He slogged out of the pasture and rode back to the broad white manor house. The flooded pasture was ill luck enough. But the way Donnelly had chosen to resolve the matter troubled him even more. With one carelessly designed and easily prevented dam mistake, the viscount might have set two allied families at odds. And since Donnelly had shifted the dam from its original location, Phineas had to wonder whether it could have been intentional.
Beth liked Lord Donnelly, and William likewise seemed to consider him a friend. Phineas scowled. If he was going to be conjuring and pursuing conspiracies, he needed to be cautious about it. His footing in the household was uncertain enough without him accusing friends and neighbors of misdeeds—especially when he had no evidence, and no real reason to do so. No reason but a soldier’s hard-learned instincts. And he needed to use those instincts to figure out how he could get to the bottom of what troubled Quence and his family without causing William to boot him back to Spain.
“Welcome back, Mr. Bromley,” Warner said, meeting him at the front of the house. “Daff ’s got a gleam in her eyes; she must’ve enjoyed the ride.”
“Thank you for the loan.”
“There’s something you should—”
The front door opened, and Gordon charged onto the drive, a practically apoplectic Digby on his heels. “Colonel, ye have—”
“That is my duty, you upstart,” the butler interrupted, actually swiping at the sergeant.
That wasn’t the wisest move old Digby could make, considering Gordon’s skills as a soldier. “Enough, Gordon,” Phineas cut in, before anyone could exchange blows.
“Indeed,” the butler echoed, and held out the silver salver he carried in his other hand. A folded missive lay roughly in the center of it. “You have a letter, Master Phineas.”
“My thanks,” he said, taking it. The sprawling hand across the front read “Colonel Phineas Bromley” in a familiar hand. “It’s from Sullivan,” he said aloud, breaking the wax seal.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Colonel,” Gordon broke in again, “but ye need to come to the stable with me.”
The man was red-faced and practically vibrating, so Phineas gestured his valet to lead the way around the side of the manor house. “This had better be good, Gordon, or you’re going to find yourself a private without privates.”
Gordon pushed through the wide double doors and stood aside. “Oh, it’s good, sir. Bloody good.”
Phineas stepped inside the stable—and stopped dead. “Good God,” he breathed.
“I tried to tell you, sir,” Warner put in from the stall where he was removing Daffodil’s saddle.
“No worries,” Phin said absently, his gaze on the monster that snorted at him from beside the post in the center of the floor. Black and sleek and clearly a thoroughbred, the beast looked at him and stomped.
Abruptly Phineas remembered that he still clutched Sullivan Waring’s missive in one hand. He opened it hurriedly.
“‘Phin,’” he read aloud for his sergeant’s benefit, “‘Welcome home. I thought you could use a good horse. His name is Ajax.’”
“Ajax,” Gordon repeated. “Aye. Captain Waring always did know his blood-horses.”
“He has a stable in Sussex,” Phin said, walking forward to take a closer look at the animal. Sullivan was arguably the best horse breeder in the country, even with the four-year absence he’d taken to serve with the First Royal Dragoons in Spain. Reluctantly he looked away from the horse and down at the note again. “‘I hope your brother and sister are doing well, and that Bram’s and my concerns have been unfounded. If you need anything—anything—I’m but a few hours distant. Sullivan.’”
“Now that is a good friend,” Gordon commented, then stirred. “What concerns?”
“I’m still determining that,” Phineas replied, running his free hand along the stallion’s withers. “You are a handsome lad, aren’t you?” he murmured, and the black nickered at him.
Ajax was hardly the horse a fellow attempting to do some subtle investigating should be riding. Of course, that same fellow probably shouldn’t be bringing attention to himself by wearing a shiny uniform, either. Hm. No, he shouldn’t be riding about on Ajax, unless he could somehow use the animal’s striking appearance to his advantage. A plan began to curdle through his brain.
He glanced over his shoulder at Warner. “You’re a local fellow, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember the stories about The Gentleman?”
The groom grinned. “Aye. A highwayman, from about thirty years ago. My grand drove one of the coaches he held up.” With a chuckle, he gestured at Ajax. “Rode a horse very like that, as I recall.”
“Yes, he did supposedly have the swiftest animal in the county, didn’t he?” Phineas agreed, half to himself.
Gordon looked from the groom to Phineas. “And what happened t’this Gentleman, if I may ask?”
“No one knows,” Warner returned. “Retired with one of the pretty young things he robbed and charmed, I would imagine. He stole as many hearts as he did coins.”
“Might I have a word with ye, Colonel?” the sergeant said gruffly.
“Certainly.” Phin walked to the stable door, then looked back at Warner. “I would appreciate if no one else learned about Ajax here for the moment.”
The groom looked curious, but nodded. “Aye.”
As soon as they were outside, Gordon rounded on him. “Ye came back home to become a highwayman? What the devil is—”
“I suggest you think very carefully before you continue, Sergeant,” Phineas interrupted darkly.
“But ye—”
“What have you noticed since your arrival here?”
“Noticed?” Gordon frowned. “If I’m to be in trouble, it won’t be for insulting ye or yer family, sir.”
“I appreciate that. But I want you to be honest. What have you noticed?”
“Some fields could use plowing, too few servants, but one carriage, only four horses in the stable—five, now—and a handful of burned-to-the-ground tenant cottages.”
Phineas looked at his so-called valet for a moment. He’d noticed the rest himself, but he hadn’t known about the tenant cottages. And that was after only a single day in residence. He drew a breath. “My sister admits that she lied about my brother’s health to get me here,” he said slowly, “but she’s apparently given her word not to involve me in anything further. All I know is that something is wrong, and that I’m not leaving until I discover what it is and make it right.”
“I think that’s fine an’ noble of ye, Colonel, but I don’t see how bein’ a highwayman can—”
“I need information, without drawing suspicion to my family or to me. And under the circumstances, I…welcome the opportunity to obtain some answers that I might not be granted as Phin Bromley.” He cocked his head. “Are you with me, Gordon?”
“Always.”
“Explain it to Warner, there. For the moment, no one can know that Ajax is here.”
“Aye. But if ye become a highwayman, Colonel, yer goin’ to be risking getting yer neck stretched.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Digby, still looking annoyed that Gordon had galloped through his territory, opened the door for him as he topped the shallow front steps. “I trust everything is well, sir?” the butler asked.
“It is. Has Beth returned yet?”
“No, sir. I don’t expect her for another hour, at the earliest.”
“Where might I find William, then?”
“Lord Quence is in his office. Do you req—”
“I remember where it is,” Phineas interrupted, leaving the foyer for the main hallway and the rooms at the back of the house.
The office door stood open, but he stopped to knock, anyway.
“Enter.”
“Good afternoon, William,” he said, strolling into the office and pasting a friendly look on his face. Andrews stood to one side of the room, immobile as a statue but obviously ready at any moment to become the viscount’s legs.
“Phin.” William closed the ledger book on which he’d been working. “How was your ride?”
Was William attempting to keep the condition of Quence from him? Or was there something else in the air? “It was interesting,” he answered aloud. “Might we speak in private for a moment?”
A muscle in William’s gaunt cheek jumped. “This is as private as I get.”
Phineas clenched his jaw, but nodded. If his brother wanted Andrews there, then the valet would remain. He had long ago realized that he didn’t have much skill at diplomacy; he left that to others more qualified. Where he excelled was charging in after the diplomats failed.
He drew a breath as he closed the door. New situations, new tactics. “I rode by the east pasture.”
William continued to gaze at him. “And?”
“The site where Donnelly wants to put the new dam will flood Roesglen’s north pasture and his pond.”
His brother rubbed a finger against the silvering hair at his temple. “And?” he repeated.
“And so I told his men to wait a day. John Stuggley will be here in the morning so the two of you can decide where best to locate the dam.”
“Very well.” William opened the ledger again.
Phineas blinked. “‘Very well’?” he repeated. “That’s it?”
With a breath the viscount shut the book for the second time. “What would you like me to say? ‘Thank God you returned to Quence in time to keep Lord Roesglen from losing his fish pond’?”
“Didn’t Donnelly mention that he was moving the dam’s location, and that it might cause friction between you and Roesglen?”
His brother scowled briefly, then smoothed his expression over again. “I didn’t think to ask.”
“Where’s your estate manager? Where’s…what’s his name? Boling. Where’s Mr. Boling?”
“He married a young lady whose father owns a mill in Darbyshire. He runs the mill, now.”
“Why haven’t you hired someone to replace him?”
William’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not actually questioning my governance of this property, are you?”
“No. Of course not. But—”
“You reappear after ten years, and because you happen across a dam being constructed in the wrong place you’ve, what, become the family’s salvation?”
Phineas straightened. “I said no such thing. I was only concerned that Donnelly’s decision might harm this family’s friendship with Roesglen. That is all—”
“Richard Donnelly has been unendingly helpful since his arrival here last year,” William interrupted. “And he requests nothing in return. No acknowledgment, no money, noth—”
“Nothing except for Beth, p
erhaps.”
“Beth likes him. He’s become a part of this family.”
Phineas understood that. “You mean he’s taken my place in this family,” he said stiffly, turning his back and heading for the door.
“Someone needed to.”
“Insult me all you like, William. It’s nothing less than I deserve. But it won’t make me leave.”
His jaw clenched, Phineas stalked back down the hall. He’d expected to find a fight ahead of him, and he certainly had never thought William would greet him with open arms. But not to have a place at all—that had never occurred to him. It should have.
Swearing under his breath, he lengthened his stride and turned up the stairs to his bedchamber. In the past he would have paced and sulked, or climbed out the window to head into Lewes and find trouble. Tonight he meant to become someone else entirely and, as a stranger, venture into places that the new and hopefully wiser Phin Bromley could no longer afford to go.
“Milton,” Alyse grumbled, setting the book down on the library table with a thud. It had used to amuse her that Aunt Ernesta tended to select for her silly discussions pieces rife with heavy-handed morality and themes of eternal damnation. After a year of it, though, she’d come to realize that irony lost its bite when its intended victim didn’t see that she was being targeted. So her aunt went blithely along discussing sin and hubris and not realizing that she committed those very same acts on a daily basis.
She dragged the step stool over to the correct shelf and then retrieved the book from the table, replacing it between equally dull tomes where it could gather age and dust until Aunt Ernesta circled around to it again. Personally she hoped to be long gone before then.
Out the tall, narrow windows, the moon was past full, but still bright and silver over the leaves in the pretty garden. At least Richard hadn’t seen fit to dig up the roses and replace them with something more to his taste—though she couldn’t imagine what that might be, as money trees were solely the stuff of myth. Heaven knew she could use one of those right now otherwise.
In the drawing room her aunt and cousin were playing whist and carrying on a criticism of everyone who wasn’t themselves. Sighing, Alyse slipped past the half-open door and down the stairs.
Before the Scandal Page 5