‘Miss Duncombe.’ Wolf found himself being scrutinised by a pair of dark eyes.
‘But how did you come here, sir?’ she asked. ‘I saw no carriage on the street.’
‘I walked from Hindlesham.’
She looked wary and he could not blame her. He had been travelling for over a week, his clothes were rumpled and he had not shaved since yesterday. There was no doubt he presented a very dubious appearance.
The parson coughed. ‘Mr Peregrine will be staying in Arrandale for a few days, my love.’
‘Really?’ she murmured, unbuttoning her pelisse. ‘I understand the Horse Shoe Inn is very comfortable.’
‘Ah, you misunderstand.’ Mr Duncombe cleared his throat again. ‘I thought we might find Mr Peregrine a bed here for a few nights.’
* * *
Grace sighed inwardly. Why did Papa think it necessary to play the Good Samaritan to every stranger who appeared? She regarded the two men as they stood side by side before the fire, the guest towering over his host. She turned her attention to the stranger. The dust of the road clung to his boots, his clothes were positively shabby and as for his linen—the housewife in her was shocked to see anything so grey. Grace was not used to looking up at anyone, indeed she had often heard herself described as a beanpole, but this man topped her by several inches. His dark curling hair was as rumpled as the rest of him and at least a day’s growth of black stubble covered his cheeks. She met his eyes and although the candlelight was not sufficient to discern their colour they held a most distracting glint. She looked away, flustered.
‘I do not think...’ she began, but Papa was not listening.
‘And we have been very remiss in our refreshments, my love. Mrs Truscott is unwell, but I am sure you will be able to find our guest a little supper?’
‘Why, of course,’ she answered immediately, glad of the opportunity to get this man away from her father, who was far too kind-hearted for his own good. ‘Perhaps Mr Peregrine would like to accompany me to the kitchen?’
‘The kitchen?’ her father exclaimed, surprised. ‘My dear—’
‘It will be much easier for me to feed Mr Peregrine there, sir, since he will be on hand to tell me just what he would like.’ She managed a smile. ‘I came in that way and noted a good fire in the range, so it is very comfortable. And you may finish your sermon in peace, Papa.’
Her father made another faint protest, but the stranger said, ‘Pray do not be anxious for me, sir. If you have work to finish, then I must disturb you no longer.’ He picked up his battered portmanteau and turned to Grace. ‘Lead on, Miss Duncombe. I am at your service.’
It was most gallantly said, but Grace was not fooled. She merely inclined her head and moved towards the door.
‘Oh, Grace, send Truscott to me, when you see him, if you please. I need to apprise him of the situation.’
She looked back in surprise. ‘There is no need, Papa, I can do that.’
‘It is no trouble, my love. I want to see him on other matters, too, so you had best send him up. As soon as you can.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Her eyes flickered towards the stranger. ‘Come along.’
She crossed the hall and descended the stairs to the basement with the man following meekly behind. No, she amended that. There was nothing meek about Mr Peregrine. Hah, she almost laughed out loud. That was no more the man’s name than it was hers. Clearly Papa had made it up on the spur of the moment to give him some semblance of respectability. It was the sort of thing her father would do. Papa was a scholar and Grace’s own education was sufficient for her to know that the name meant traveller in Latin. No doubt Papa thought that a good joke.
She went quickly to the kitchen, despatched Truscott upstairs to see his master and turned to face the man.
‘Very well, you may sit at the table and I will see what we have in the larder.’
‘A mere trifle will do,’ he murmured, easing his long legs over the bench. ‘A little bread and butter, perhaps.’
She pursed her lips. Even sitting down he dominated the kitchen.
‘I do not think a mere trifle will do for you at all,’ she retorted, reaching for an apron. ‘You look the sort of man who eats heartily.’
‘You have it right there, mistress, but with your cook indisposed I would be happy to have a little bread and cheese, if you know where to find it. Perhaps your man Truscott will help us, when he returns.’
Grace had been thinking that she would serve him just that, but his words flicked her on the raw. She drew herself up and fixed him with an icy look.
‘I am quite capable of producing a meal for you. It is a bad housewife who has to depend upon her servants for every little thing!’
* * *
Wolfgang rested his arms on the table as he watched Grace Duncombe bustling in and out of the kitchen. She must be what, twenty-three, twenty-four? He couldn’t remember seeing her, when he had lived at Arrandale, but ten years ago he had taken very little notice of what went on in the village. He had been four-and-twenty, reluctantly preparing to settle down with his wife. He thought of Florence, lying cold and broken on the stone floor, and her daughter—their daughter. The baby he had always believed had died with her. He rubbed his temples. He would consider that tomorrow. For now he was bone-tired from travelling and ravenously hungry. From the delicious smells coming from the frying pan his hostess was rising admirably to the challenge of feeding him.
When Truscott returned, Wolf knew he had been informed of their guest’s identity. The man was bemused and not a little embarrassed to find Arrandale of Arrandale sitting in the kitchen. Miss Duncombe was absent at that moment and the manservant stood irresolute, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
‘Sir, I—’
Wolfgang stopped him. ‘Hush, your mistress is returning.’
She came in from the yard.
‘Truscott, pray fetch a bottle of wine for our visitor.’
‘Nay, not just for me,’ said Wolf quickly. ‘Bring a glass for your mistress, too.’
He thought for a moment she would object, but she merely frowned and went back to her cooking. The kitchen was warm and comfortable and Wolfgang felt himself relaxing as he watched her work. She was well named, he thought, there was a gracefulness to her movements, and an assurance unusual in one so young.
When Truscott went out again, Wolf said, ‘Are you only preparing a meal for me?’
‘Father and I dined earlier,’ she replied, dropping pieces of lamb into the pan. ‘Papa will take nothing more than a biscuit or two until the morning.’ She finished cooking the meat and arranged it neatly on the plate. ‘There,’ she said with a hint of defiance. ‘Your dinner.’
Wolf regarded the meal she had set before him. Besides the collops of mutton there was a dish of fried potato as well as cold potted hare and a parsnip pie.
‘A meal fit for a lord,’ he declared. ‘Will you not join me?’
‘No, thank you. I told you I have already dined.’
‘Then at least stay and drink a glass of wine with me.’ When she shook her head he murmured, ‘“Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”’
She glared at him, but at least she stayed. She slid on to the end of the bench opposite. ‘What an odd thing to say. I do not hate you, Mr Peregrine.’
He poured wine into the glasses and pushed one across the table towards her. She cradled it in her hands before sipping the contents.
‘Then what do you think of me?’ he asked.
‘To begin with,’ she said slowly, looking down at her wineglass, ‘I do not think you are deserving of Papa’s best claret.’
‘The best, is it?’ Wolf murmured. ‘Perhaps your man made a mistake.’
‘Truscott does not make mistakes.’
‘Then clearly he sees the worth of the man beneath these sorry clothes.’
She put her glass down with a snap. ‘Who are you?’
‘What you see, a humble pilgrim.’
‘Yes, I know that is what you would like me to think, Mr Peregrine, but I will tell you to your face that I find nothing humble about you!’
‘Humility comes hard for a gentleman fallen on hard times.’
She was silent and Wolf gave his attention to the food. It was really very good, but it troubled him that she had been obliged to cook it.
‘You have only the two servants?’ he asked her. She bridled at his question and he went on quickly. ‘You have a large, fine church here and this area is a prosperous one, I believe.’
‘It was used to be,’ she told him. ‘There has been no one living at the Hall for several years now and that has had an effect. Without a family in residence our shopkeepers cannot sell their goods to them, the farmers do not supply them with milk and meat.’
‘But the estate is very large, it must provide a good living for many local families.’
‘With an absentee landlord the farms do not thrive and there is no money to maintain the houses. Many families worked at the Hall, when it closed they lost their positions. Some moved away and took up new posts, others found what work they could locally.’ She looked across the table at him. ‘There is much poverty here now. My father does what he can to relieve it, but his own funds are limited. We have very little of value in this house.’
Wolf understood her, but the fact she thought he might be a thief did not matter at that moment, what concerned him was that the people—his people—were suffering. Duncombe had told him the lawyers were being parsimonious with his money, but clearly they did not realise the effect of that. Richard should have started proceedings to declare him dead. Instead he preferred to put his own money into Arrandale.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as the weight of responsibility pressed down on him. He had thought himself unfairly punished, exiled in France for a crime he had not committed, but he saw now that he was not the only one to suffer.
‘How long do you intend to stay in Arrandale?’ Grace asked him.
‘A few days, no more.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘It is growing late and I should indeed be grateful for a bed, Miss Duncombe, if you can spare one.’
‘My father does not turn away anyone in need.’
‘Thank you.’ He pushed aside his empty plate. ‘Then with your permission I will retire now.’
‘Of course.’ She rose as the elderly manservant shuffled back into the room. ‘Ah, Truscott, Mr Peregrine is to be our guest for a few days. Perhaps you would show him to his room. Above the stable.’
She took a large iron key from a peg beside the door.
‘The...the groom’s quarters, mistress?’ The servant goggled at her.
‘Why, yes.’ She turned her bright, no-nonsense smile on Wolf. ‘We have no stable hands now, so the garret is free. I have already made up the bed for you. Truscott will show you the pump in the yard and where to find the privy. I am sure you will be very comfortable.’
And I will be safely out of the house overnight, thought Wolf, appreciatively.
‘I am sure I shall, Miss Duncombe, thank you.’
Truscott was still goggling, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Wolf clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come, my friend, let us find a lamp and you can show me to my quarters.’
* * *
The servant led him across the yard to the stable block, but when they reached the outer stairs that led to the garret, Truscott could contain himself no longer.
‘Mr Arrandale, sir,’ he said, almost wringing his hands in despair. ‘Miss Duncombe’s as kind as can be, but she don’t know, see. I pray you’ll forgive her for treating you like this.’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ said Wolf, taking the key from the old man’s hands. ‘Your mistress is very wise to be cautious. I should not like to think of her letting any stranger sleep in the house. Now, go back indoors and look after her. And remember, tomorrow you must treat me as a poor stranger, no serving me any more of your best wines!’
* * *
Wolf climbed the stairs to the groom’s quarters and made a quick inspection. Everything was clean and orderly. One room contained a bed, an old chest of drawers and a washstand, the other a table and a couple of chairs. Wolf guessed the furniture had been consigned there when it was no longer of any use in the house. However, it was serviceable and the bed was made up with sheets, blankets and pillows upon a horsehair mattress. He lost no time in shedding his clothes and slipping between the sheets. He could not help a sigh of satisfaction as he felt the soft linen against his skin. After a journey of twenty hours aboard the French fishing boat that had put him ashore near Eastbourne, he had travelled on foot and by common stage to reach Arrandale. The most comfortable bed on his journey had been a straw mattress, so by comparison this was sheer heaven.
He stretched out and put his hands behind his head. He could not fault Miss Grace Duncombe as a housekeeper. A smile tugged at his mouth as he recalled her shock when the parson said he was to stay with them. She had come into the room like a breath of fresh air. Doubtless because she brought the chill of the spring evening in with her. She said she had been visiting a Mrs Owlet. He frowned, dragging back old memories. The Owlets had worked at the great house for generations. It was a timely reminder that he would have to take care in the village, there were many such families who might well recognise his lanky frame. Grace Duncombe had no idea of his true identity, but she clearly thought him a rogue, set upon taking advantage of her kindly father, which was why she was housing him in this garret. That did not matter. He was here to find out the truth, but he must go carefully, one false move could cost him his life.
* * *
It was Grace’s habit to rise early, but this morning she was aware of an added urgency. There was a stranger in the garret. She was quite accustomed to taking in needy vagrants at the vicarage, giving them a good meal and a bed for the night, but Mr Peregrine disturbed her peace. She was afraid her father would invite the man to breakfast with him.
As soon as it was light Grace slipped out of bed and dressed herself, determined to make sure that if their guest appeared he would not progress further than the kitchen. When she descended to the basement she could hear the murmur of voices from the scullery and looked in to find Mrs Truscott standing over the maid as she worked at the stone sink in the corner. They stopped talking when Grace appeared in the doorway.
‘Ah, good morning, Miss Grace.’ Mrs Truscott looked a little flustered as she came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I was just getting Betty to wash out Mr—that is—the gentleman’s shirt. So dirty it was, as if he had been travelling in it for a week. We didn’t heat up the copper, not just for one shirt, Miss, oh, no, a couple of kettles was all that was needed and look—hold it up, Betty—you can see it has come up clean as anything. All it needs now is a good blow out of doors and it will be as good as new.’
‘Did Mr Peregrine ask you to do this?’ asked Grace, astounded at the nerve of the man.
‘Oh, no, Miss Grace, but I could see it needed washing, so I told Truscott to fetch it off the gentleman at first light, saying I would find him a shirt from the charity box to tide him over if need be, but he said he had another to wear today, so all we have to do now is get this one dry.’
Betty had been nodding in agreement, but she stopped, putting up her nose to sniff the air like a hound.
‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Truscott, but ain’t that the bacon I can smell?’
‘Oh, Lordy yes.’ The
housekeeper snatched the wet shirt from the maid’s hands and dropped it into the basket. ‘Quick, girl, it will be burned to a crisp and then what will the master say? Oh, and there’s the bread in the oven, too!’
Grace stepped aside and the maid rushed past her.
‘Give me the shirt, Mrs Truscott, I will peg it out while you attend to Father’s breakfast.’
‘Oh, Miss Grace, if you are sure?’
‘I am perfectly capable of doing it, so off you go now.’ Smiling, she watched the housekeeper hurry back to the kitchen then, putting a handful of pegs in the basket on top of the shirt, she made her way outside. The sun was shining now and a steady breeze was blowing. Grace took a deep breath. She loved spring days like this, when there was warmth in the sun and a promise of summer to come. It was a joy to be out of doors.
A clothes line was fixed up in the kitchen gardens, which were directly behind the stable block. As she crossed the yard Grace heard the noise of the pump being worked and assumed it was Truscott fetching more water for the house, but when she turned the corner she stopped, her mouth opening in surprise to see their guest, stripped to the waist and washing himself.
Her first reaction was to run away, but it was too late for that, he had spotted her. She should not look at him, but could not drag her eyes away from the sight of his half-naked body. The buckskins covering his thighs could not have been tighter, but although he was so tall there was nothing spindly about his long legs. They were perfectly proportioned. He had the physique of an athlete, the flat stomach and lean hips placing no strain on those snugly fitting breeches, but above the narrow waist the body widened into a broad chest and muscled shoulders, still wet and glinting in the morning sun. He bent to pick up his towel, his movements lithe, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. As he straightened she noted the black beard on his cheeks and watched as he flicked the thick dark hair away from his face. Droplets of water flew off the tendrils, catching the light. Like a halo, she thought wildly. A halo for a dark angel.
‘Good morning, Miss Duncombe.’
Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical) Page 26