Tremaine's True Love

by Grace Burrowes

Mr. St. Michael dipped his biscuit too, his third. “Independence appeals to many of us. Have you a strategy for maintaining this happy state?”

  No, Nita did not, other than sheer determination. “Have you?”

  He passed her a slice of buttered bread. “I am in trade, my dear. Notably lacking in address, and in possession of both Scottish and French ancestry. For the nonce, I’m safe.”

  No, Mr. St. Michael was not safe. He dealt easily with children, had a well-hidden streak of practical charity, and looked altogether too appealing over a crock of ginger biscuits. He wasn’t precisely handsome, though. Nita liked that too.

  “Have a care, Mr. St. Michael. You’re wealthy, well traveled, and you can spout poetry. Best not relax your guard. Will you share this apple?”

  He produced a knife, the folding knife with the sharp, sharp edge, and set about quartering and coring the apple.

  Nita was about to ask him why marriage—an arrangement that heavily favored the male of the species—had earned his skepticism when the back door opened on a gust of frigid air.

  Her first thought was that Addy or her baby was in distress, followed by a fear that Elsie Nash might have summoned her. Twice before, Nita had silently hurried up the servants’ stairs at Stonebridge to attend Elsie when the rest of the household had been abed.

  Belle Maison’s head groom, a venerable Welshman named Alfrydd, stomped snow from his boots.

  “Evening, Lady Nita, guv’nor. Rider out from Town has brought the gentleman a letter.”

  Alfrydd withdrew a sealed note from his pocket, and only now, when a trusted retainer of long-standing studied the bunches of herbs and onions hanging from the rafters, did Nita worry about her appearance.

  About the appearances, and she should be beyond that in her own—in her brother’s—kitchen.

  Mr. St. Michael tore open the note, scanned it, and cursed in what sounded like Gaelic. “My tups are sickening. Can somebody saddle my horse?”

  Alfrydd abruptly left off inspecting the rafters. “It be damned midnight, begging my lady’s pardon. Aye, there’s a moon, but there’s clouds too, and the wind is murderous.”

  Nita’s sentiments weren’t half so polite. “You won’t do your sheep any good if you end up freezing to death in a ditch, Mr. St. Michael, or if you come down with lung fever. Alfrydd, have you room for this rider in the grooms’ quarter?”

  “Aye, and a pot of tea to offer the fellow.”

  Nita wrapped up the remains of the bread loaf in a towel and handed Alfrydd a crock of butter as well.

  “Thank Mr. St. Michael’s rider for his heroic efforts” she said, “and be ready for Mr. St. Michael to leave at first light.”

  “But my tups are the most valuable—” Mr. St. Michael began, speaking in the loudest—and most Scottish—tones Nita had heard from him.

  “Alfrydd, our thanks,” Nita said.

  Alfrydd swept Nita with a look that encompassed her slippers, her upset guest, and her hair, hanging over her shoulder in a single braid. “G’night, my lady. Sir.”

  Nita planted herself directly before Mr. St. Michael, between him and the door. “What did the note say?”

  “It’s the damned weather,” he muttered, his gaze on the door Alfrydd had pulled stoutly closed. “Winter hasn’t been bad until these past few weeks, and then we had two snowstorms back-to-back, and some truly bitter temperatures. The water freezes, or is so cold the silly sheep won’t drink it, and if they—my lady, I must go.”

  So he could risk his neck for some adolescent rams?

  “Mr. St. Michael, tell me what the note said.” Nita used the same tone on patients who hadn’t yet realized the seriousness of an injury. Also on her siblings.

  He took the paper from his pocket and shoved it at her. “They’re sick, some of them are down, and that’s a very bad sign. These are my best lads, the ones I had in mind for breeding to your merinos. These fellows don’t get sick, they’re great, strapping youngsters in excellent health, and I must go.”

  His accent had traveled farther north the longer he spoke, his r’s strewn along the Great North Road, his t’s sharpening into verbal weaponry as they crossed the River Tweed.

  Nita’s reactions to the note both pleased and disquieted her. Mr. St. Michael took the welfare of his flock seriously, and not out of simple duty or commercial concern. He cared for these smelly, woolly, bleating creatures. Their suffering mattered to him.

  Which insight was at variance with the gruff, businesslike demeanor Mr. St. Michael showed the world.

  Nita’s second reaction was more of an unwelcome possibility: Was this how Nita reacted to word that some child had fallen ill or some grandmother was at her last prayers? St. Michael’s sheep had shepherds as well as the sheep equivalent of stable boys, and yet he trusted no one to deal with the situation but himself.

  Grandmothers had grandchildren. Children had mothers and fathers, yet never once had Nita questioned that she herself must hare off to attend any who summoned her.

  In this weather, at this hour, she’d permit no haring off. “Mr. St. Michael, please sit.”

  “I don’t want to blasted sit. When I’ve taken every precaution, fed them extra rations, added hot water to their icy buckets at considerable effort on the part of—”

  Nita took Mr. St. Michael by the shoulders and turned him toward the hearth, which was rather like persuading Atlas away from his hay.

  “Listen to me,” Nita said, when he’d finally acquiesced to her prodding and resumed his seat. “My brother has pigeons. Your sheep are in Oxfordshire?”

  “This herd is.”

  Nita put a biscuit in Mr. St. Michael’s hand. “We have pigeons in the dovecote from Mr. Belmont’s estate in Oxfordshire. Are these extra rations from the same hay you normally feed?”

  Mr. St. Michael stared at the biscuit. Nita could see him trying to make himself focus, the way she had to focus when deciding what supplies to grab when somebody was badly injured. Catgut, scissors, poultices mostly, and a prayer that Dr. Horton hadn’t already been consulted regarding the course of treatment.

  “I had the steward buy some particularly good hay,” Mr. St. Michael informed his biscuit. “We’ve saved it back to feed on the coldest nights. That hay is beautiful, soft, green. It’s quite dear, but worth the expense.”

  “Send a pigeon in the morning,” Nita said. “Tell your men to switch back to your usual hay.”

  Mr. St. Michael half rose, then sat back down heavily, as if an excess of strong spirits had caught up with him.

  “Pretty hay isn’t always the best quality,” he murmured. “Noxious weeds can spring up in any field.”

  In other words, Nita’s theory had merit, and she hadn’t even had to raise her voice or slam a door. Reason had joined them in the kitchen, a far more agreeable companion than panic. Mr. St. Michael broke the biscuit in half and offered Nita the larger portion.

  “Unless you’ve moved your herd or recently added to it,” she said, “a sudden illness affecting many of the flock isn’t likely. If it’s not contagion, then a problem with their fodder is the next most likely culprit.”

  Mr. St. Michael dispatched his sweet in silence, though as Nita took a place beside him before the fire, she sent up a prayer the problem was as simple as a noxious weed. Diagnosis was equal parts science and instinct, with common sense mediating between the two.

  “May we send the pigeon tonight, Lady Nita?” Worry and the Aberdeenshire hills still laced Mr. St. Michael’s voice.

  “Certainly. A good bird will be in Oxfordshire before your lads are at their morning chores. Alfrydd manages the dovecote.”

  The apple went next, in a few crunchy bites, while Mr. St. Michael remained quiet, and Nita’s feet grew chilly.

  “The grooms sleep above the carriage house?” Mr. St. Michael asked.

  “Alfrydd among them. You might take them some biscuits.” For nobody would get any rest until Mr. St. Michael had done something to ensure the welfare of his sheep
.

  While Nicholas thought to send the merinos and Susannah to Edward Nash?

  “You truly think it’s the hay?” Mr. St. Michael asked, rising. He took his mug to the sink, tossed the apple core into the slop bucket, and wiped his hands on the towel kept for that purpose near the bread box.

  “I’m nearly sure of it,” Nita said, though no medical situation was ever certain. “You’ll also want to scrub out the water buckets. If all you’re doing is adding hot water to icy buckets, then the buckets haven’t been truly cleaned for some time. Start fresh, and see if the sheep aren’t more interested.”

  “Excellent advice,” he said, draping the towel over its hook exactly as he’d found it. “I might have come to the same conclusions by the time I reached London—provided I hadn’t landed on my arse in the ditch at the foot of your lane.”

  Mr. St. Michael offered Nita his hand, and without thinking, Nita let him draw her to her feet. They were in the kitchen, she was wearing two thicknesses of wool stockings, and front parlor manners were the farthest thing from her—

  Tremaine St. Michael hugged her. The sensation was rather like being enveloped in a blanket left to warm on a brass fender, all comfort and ease, a hint of heather and lavender, and an irresistible temptation to relax.

  To relax everything. Nita’s mind, her body, her worries, her heart, yielded to the pleasure of Tremaine St. Michael’s embrace.

  “I worry over those young fellows,” he murmured. “I am in your debt, my lady.”

  Tremaine St. Michael’s debts were patiently repaid. He made no move to march off to the stable. Nita rested her head on his shoulder—so few men were tall enough to afford her that comfort.

  She offered him the words nobody offered her.

  “You’re good to worry for them, Mr. St. Michael. They count on you to look after them, to keep them healthy, and your people were right to bring this problem to you. A few days of proper rations, a nap in the sun, and your tups will recover. Keep them in your prayers, and this time next week, they’ll be good as new.”

  Mr. St. Michael stroked Nita’s hair, another invitation to relax, to be safe and warm. “One doesn’t admit to praying for sheep.”

  One just had, perhaps even two.

  Nita stepped back and Mr. St. Michael let her go.

  “Take the biscuits to the stable lads,” she said. “William will benefit. You’ll probably have word back from Oxfordshire by sunset tomorrow.”

  Mr. St. Michael picked up the entire crock of biscuits, kissed Nita’s cheek, then lingered for a moment, near enough that she caught ginger and cinnamon on his breath.

  Near enough that she had one instant to consider turning her head.

  “I am grateful to have been spared a frigid, dangerous, crackbrained midnight ride, Lady Nita. I meant what I said: I am in your debt. Collect your boon at the time and place of your choosing.”

  He marched off to the rack of capes and coats hanging in the back hallway. Nita spared the dirty dishes a thought, grabbed a carrying candle, and took herself up the servants’ stairs, rather than linger in the kitchen.

  The stairwell was cold and dark, but she paused on the landing to watch through the oriel window as Mr. St. Michael made his way across the snowy gardens. In the depths of a winter night, he would have hopped on his trusty steed and charged to the rescue of a lot of smelly sheep twenty leagues beyond London.

  A gust of chilly air doused the candle. Nita found her way to her room through the familiar darkness, said a prayer for Mr. St. Michael’s sheep, and went to bed.

  Her last thought was that she should be a little ashamed of herself. Her mother had taught her that a person in possession of the ability to help, especially a person well-placed in Society, was both privileged and obligated to render aid to those in need.

  Nita hadn’t offered her opinion on the sheep out of a sense of privilege or obligation. She’d tendered her diagnosis simply because she hadn’t wanted Mr. St. Michael to leave.

  She wasn’t ashamed of that at all.

  Five

  Nita Haddonfield possessed keen medical insight, long blond hair, and curves. Tremaine had guessed at the first two, but the third…

  The third revelation was a problem. His cock had awoken with that problem in mind, a puzzle and an inconvenience. A few minutes of self-gratification did nothing to solve the puzzle.

  Why her?

  She’d made a fetching picture in a faded velvet dressing gown the same shade of blue as her eyes, and she’d brought a cozy elegance to the business of nibbling biscuits. Tremaine’s imagination—ever as unruly as a healthy tup—had latched on to the idea that Lady Nita would be cozy and fun in bed. How he’d leaped to that conclusion about a woman who lacked romantic sentiments, had no use for marriage, and little use for men—

  A knock sounded on Tremaine’s door, too decisive to be a footman with more coal or a maid with a tea tray.

  “Come in.”

  George Haddonfield sauntered through the door, showing a country gentleman’s attire to excellent advantage. “Ready to go down to breakfast, St. Michael?”

  “I am, in fact,” Tremaine replied, whipping his cravat into a mathematical. “The earl says I’m to quiz you about coaching inns, packet captains, and French highwaymen.”

  George lifted the dish that held Tremaine’s shaving soap and took a whiff. “Beastly time of year to travel. This is quite pleasant. Is it French?”

  “Scottish, and no time of year is good for travel. Mud, flies, storms, rain, coaching accidents, pestilence, blistering sun, every season has some blight to offer the weary traveler.”

  Tremaine could, that very minute, have been racketing about the snowy lanes of London in a headlong dash for Oxford. What had he been thinking?

  “So don’t travel,” George said. “Linger here for another week or so. The ladies would love to show you off at the assembly.”

  “A temptation, to be sure.” To be shown off like a prize ram? “I might be leaving today, despite the lure of the assembly. One of my most valuable flocks has taken ill, and I’m awaiting word of their prognosis.”

  Tremaine’s wardrobe stood open, and George surveyed its contents.

  “You’d be a perishing idiot to ride any distance with the sky promising snow,” George graciously opined. “You’ve traveled on the Continent before. Your waistcoat whispers of Italian silk, and that’s Flemish lace on your shirt cuffs.”

  A touch of lace only. French blood would tell. “I’ve traveled at length, though less so in recent years. Why aren’t you married, Haddonfield? You’re comely, well placed, and overly endowed with charm.”

  George touched the sleeve of one of Tremaine’s fancier shirts, fingers lingering on the frothy cuff.

  “I ought to marry. Travel in quantity doesn’t agree with me.”

  Whatever that had to do with anything. Some married men traveled a great deal.

  Tremaine dragged a brush through his hair, which was overdue for a shearing. “Lady Nita has also apparently eschewed holy matrimony,” he observed, “while the earl wants nothing more than to see his sisters well settled.”

  Now George examined the embroidery on a paisley waistcoat. “I suspect Nicholas made some promise last year to our dying father about finding husbands for the ladies. Nicholas promised Papa he’d marry, and he kept that promise.”

  The ladies were doomed then, all but Lady Nita. Tremaine’s money was on her to thwart her brother, and yet she needed marrying. Needed somebody to share biscuits with her late at night, appreciate her curves, and give her children of her own, lest she waste her days wiping the noses of other people’s offspring and brewing tisanes for other people’s uncles.

  Tremaine tucked a sleeve button through the buttonhole on his cuff. “If Bellefonte won’t sell me his merinos, then I’m for Germany. The earl has some notion that he can lead Mr. Nash to the altar by parading the sheep before him.”

  The sleeve button wasn’t cooperating, or perhaps Tremaine was in a
hurry to get down to breakfast.

  “Let me do that.” George captured Tremaine’s wrist and tended to each sleeve button, left then right, with the practiced efficiency of a valet. “I’d not like to see those sheep go to Nash.”

  “Neither would I,” Tremaine said, “but my interest is mercantile, while yours is—what?”

  George Haddonfield was a pattern card of male beauty, and yet what made his appearance interesting was a quality of self-containment, a guardedness his older brother Nicholas lacked. George had spent time on the Continent too, a sad and weary place in the wake of the Corsican’s protracted spree of republican violence.

  “Nash is guardian to his nephew,” George said, straightening a fold of Tremaine’s cravat. “I don’t think the boy is happy. I know he’s not, in fact. Neither is his mother. How a man treats his dependents says a lot about him. No one is more dependent than a wife, and Susannah has no wickedness, no instinct for self-preservation. Managing Nash will take sharp wits and a nimble self-interest.”

  Business instincts, in other words.

  “Have you shared your sentiments with your brother?” Tremaine asked. He wanted those sheep, wanted them badly, but his question had more to do with keeping them from the wrong hands than putting them in his own. As for Lady Susannah…

  Lady Nita didn’t think much of this Nash fellow.

  George held the bedroom door open. “Bellefonte wouldn’t be interested in my opinion regarding a possible match for Susannah. He and I manage the civilities, but we’re not close.”

  As Beckman hadn’t been close with his brothers, and a fourth brother, Ethan Grey, had apparently been estranged from them all until recently. No wonder Bellefonte fretted over his siblings.

  A scattered flock was at the greatest risk for predation.

  “I had only the one brother,” Tremaine said as he and George traveled the carpeted corridor. In memory of that late brother, a lazy scoundrel with too much charm, no honor, and little sense, Tremaine would meddle, just a bit.

  “I didn’t always like my brother,” he went on, “and I often didn’t respect him, but he’s dead, and even the civilities are lost to us. Talk to the earl, Mr. Haddonfield. Bellefonte is a reasonable man. If Lady Susannah must marry, the union should have at least a chance of happiness.”