Trenton: Lord Of Loss

by Grace Burrowes

  “Wilton has bungled the finances. He’s left my sisters nigh penniless. He’s at Wilton on parole liberty, sent down for bad behavior, more or less.”

  To have this little piece of the truth aired before another felt good, and Trevisham was likely to keep it to himself, too.

  “No wonder he and Tye are getting on so famously. Oh, Wilton makes a pretense of calling on me, but it’s Tye with whom he spends his time.”

  “You know Imogenie Henly is keeping company with the earl?”

  Trevisham’s bushy brows rose. “Little Imogenie? I suppose she isn’t so little anymore. Poor Henly.”

  “And poor Imogenie. Wilton’s intentions aren’t honorable.”

  “Not one to mince words, are you, Amherst?”

  “Not about this. I want to warn you that Wilton has agreed to stay at Wilton Acres, and I do mean stay, for the next five years at least. He’s not to go off shooting in the North, or hunting in the Midlands, or walking in the Lake District. He’s grounded, so to speak.”

  “Godfrey.” The tabby cat bopped the baron’s chin with the top of its head. The baron obligingly pet the beast, which created a steady rumble greater than its half-grown size should have produced. “I gather the solicitors are answering to you then?”

  “I can show you the power of attorney under Wilton’s own seal, witnessed by no less than an earl and a marquess.” Trent would delight in showing him that document, in fact.

  Trevisham pushed his empty tankard to the middle of the table, giving the cat space to strut about. “You aren’t merely making a duty call on your old papa-in-law. You’re informing the magistrate of a few home truths.”

  A magistrate sharper than his genial demeanor might suggest, thank God.

  “Henly reminded me Wilton might try to take steps to ensure Imogenie’s indiscretions aren’t thwarted by her parents. I don’t mean for you to become embroiled in a family problem.”

  “Such as turning Henly out by decree of the earl?” Trevisham snorted. “Maybe a hundred years ago a man might treat his tenants thus, but no longer. The Englishman knows his rights and will bray about them without ceasing to the king’s man. I appreciate the warning, though, as one did wonder. But Amherst?”

  Trent set his mug beside the baron’s.

  “Was my Paula happy with you?”

  Trent looked at the two empty mugs and decided to temper his honesty. “Not at the end. You know that much, though I thought she was doing better. She was anxious, mostly about the children. I had the sense we’d reached an understanding about the children, then something upset her and she had a bad spell. For the most part, though, she was as happy as she could have been.”

  The baron picked up the cat and cradled it to his shoulder.

  “She loved those children,” Trent added. “On her worst day, I have to give her that—she loved them fiercely.”

  “Fine quality in a parent.” The baron’s gaze drifted to the manor house before he set the cat down and rose.

  Trent fell in step with him and found himself being introduced to various horses and the occasional hound allowed pet status due to advancing age.

  The baron knelt and scratched a floppy-eared brindle hound. “I should have been a hound, going hell-bent across the countryside, my pack along with me, then allowed a place at the hearth when my bones got to aching too much to keep up. It isn’t so much to ask, a spot by the fire and some scraps of a night.”

  He rose easily, then extended a hand to Trent.

  “One hasn’t wanted to intrude,” the baron said. “I’m glad you’re faring well, and tell my grandchildren the old baron is glad to hear they’re riding.”

  “I will. Give my regards to your baroness.”

  Trent was up on Arthur a few minutes later, but he kept the horse to a walk, because he had much to ponder in the miles between the Grange and Wilton Acres.

  Trevisham was either a very convincing actor, or Trent’s misfortunes could not be laid at the baron’s feet.

  What of Tidewell, though, and what of Thomas?

  Chapter Nineteen

  The roads were soft the next day, but not exactly muddy, so Trent made good time. To see his brother and his children, to be home at Crossbridge, those were joyful thoughts. To see Ellie again provoked more complicated emotions, though joy was the predominant sentiment.

  And yet, as Trent considered how difficult it had been to remain in the same room with his father, he also had to admit that shame had contaminated his dealings with Ellie. He was not ashamed that they’d been intimate without benefit of matrimony, but he dreaded the day Ellie would see for herself the disgrace whom Trent called Father.

  Was giving up on a future with Ellie altogether and allowing Wilton to ruin yet one more aspect of Trent’s life the better course?

  An answer to that question assumed the entire business of being shot at, poisoned, having his stirrups tampered with—and God knew what else—could be solved while body and soul remained together. At Wilton, no such mischief had befallen him, but both in London and at Crossbridge he’d been a target.

  “Welcome.” Darius pulled him in for a hug, oblivious to the road dust, sweat, and milling grooms. “One worried for you, having to go into the belly of the whale.”

  “Benton keeps the place humming,” Trent said, “and Wilton and I hardly exchanged two words. Let me have a bath, and I’ll join you and Cato in the library for details.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Peak, who’d come to take Arthur in hand, tried to hide a scowl.

  “Don’t fret, Peak,” Trent called softly. “We’ll send Cato on his way before the moon is up.”

  The now sheepish groom led Arthur off.

  “Does that one ever speak?” Darius asked.

  “Apparently gives Cato a regular tongue lashing and does very well with the horses. Rides like a demon, too.”

  “Come along.” Darius hooked his arm through Trent’s. “I’ve your bath water heating and a nice bottle of hock on ice.”

  “You are my favorite brother.”

  Darius had him soaking within fifteen minutes, the glass of chilled wine on a stool beside the tub. Within the hour, the bottle was half-gone, and they were dressed for dinner, Cato joining them in the library.

  “Good heavens.” Darius whistled as he strolled a circle around Cato’s person. “Yon stable master cleans up nicely.”

  Cato grinned and turned slowly that he might be admired in the attire of a country gentleman. “The occasion is special.”

  “Glad to see me?” Trent hazarded.

  “I have plans later this evening,” Cato informed them with a smug smile. “Though I am glad to see you safe and sound. I’m also doing you the courtesy of providing you notice in person of my intent to vacate my post.”

  Well, damn. “Vacate? When?”

  “Before winter sets in. I’m not spending another Yuletide freezing my arse off in your stables, Amherst. I’m guessing your plans for a stud operation have come to nothing, and home beckons to me.”

  “Your situation at Glasclare is resolved?” Trent asked, sipping his wine.

  Cato’s genial expression slipped, revealing the determination for which the Irish were famed—or notorious. “It will be, one way or another.”

  “If you need a second…”

  Darius’s eyebrows rose at that, but he kept his questions to himself and let Trent catch them up on the situation at Wilton.

  “What about here?” Trent asked as they sat down to dinner. He waved off the footmen, indicating they’d serve themselves.

  Cato spoke first. “All quiet. Louise is cooking and preserving up a storm, the fruit harvests are good and the gardens producing. Your livestock is doing well, we’ve cleared the ditches and trimmed the hedges. We’ll be ready for harvest, as near as I can tell.”

  “You’ve been poaching on the steward’s jobs,” Trent said. “My thanks.” Though Cato likely owned twenty times Crossbridge’s modest acreage, and the steward’s job w
as well within his ability.

  Cato lounged back in his chair, looking handsome, elegant and relaxed. “Peak can handle the stables. Keeping an eye on the land gets me out from under Peak’s boots.”

  “What about you, Dare?” Trent tucked into his beefsteak, the hearty fare welcome after a day both long and grueling. “Did you enjoy rusticating here?”

  “I have climbed trees; jumped logs on Skunk with little fellows up before me; gone swimming in the creek; played soldiers, pirates, castaways, and Indians; flown kites, read every story ever written with a monster or troll or witch in it; picnicked for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and never slept better. I didn’t know fatherhood was so exhausting, but my nephews assured me you regularly participated in each of those activities.”

  “They neglected to mention I do so over a period of weeks.”

  Darius paused, his wine glass halfway to his lips. “Lying little blighters. They want you to build them a tree house big enough to fit Uncle Nick in it. When I wasn’t being run ragged by pirates, highwaymen, or grenadiers, I did read your journals, or much of them.”

  “And?”

  “Somebody is absolutely determined to kill you.”

  ***

  Scent alone gave him away.

  “Trenton?” Ellie struggled up from sleep, knowing he was in her bedroom before the shadows at the foot of her bed shifted to reveal his form. “Is something amiss?”

  “Yes.” He sat at her hip, making the mattress dip deeply. “Your pillows are all askew.”

  “Not askew. I have a system, so I can be comfortable as I careen around in my dreams. One for my knee, one for my back. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking at the loveliest sight I’ve beheld in days.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “I should not be here.”

  No, he should not, for many reasons. If he was to risk his neck paying a nocturnal call, though, Ellie wanted more from him than mere chaste kisses to her forehead.

  Dane had kissed her forehead.

  She struggled to sit up, rearranging her pillows behind her back. “You should not be here at this hour. Climbing trees in the dark isn’t good for a man of dignified years, particularly when his safety has been jeopardized.”

  His safety, her heart. Not a fair bargain to either of them.

  “Tell that to my brother. How are you?”

  “Awake in the middle of the night.” Ellie hefted her legs to the side of the bed and rocked herself upright, then belted a dressing gown around… not her waist, for she hadn’t one, but her middle. “How exactly did you ascend to my balcony?”

  “Not your balcony. The one down the hall, off the family parlor. Dane used it when he didn’t want to rouse the household.”

  Was this what the gossips meant by the wife being the last to know?

  “How you know this about my late spouse, I will not inquire. You pushed yourself on this tour of Hampshire. Not well done of you, Trenton.”

  Despite her best intentions, she cupped his jaw, because even at the wrong time and in the wrong place, she was still so very, pathetically glad to see him. She dropped her hand and stepped back.

  “You might as well get comfortable.” Ellie poured herself a glass of water. “Unless you planned to leave another bouquet then be on your way.”

  “You’re not inviting me into your bed.” Trent pulled his shirt over his head and removed his boots and stockings.

  He did all this while Ellie took a sip of water and stared out at the moonlit gardens like a dog scouring the bushes for game. She searched for balance, for solid footing between a foolish pleasure at Trent’s company, and consternation, that he’d once again present himself uninvited, despite her having discouraged him from such behavior.

  “I’m trying to exhibit commonsense,” Ellie said, passing him the glass of water. “Unlike my neighbor, Lord Amherst.”

  “I concluded there was less chance of me being seen in your company this way.” He stepped out of his breeches. “That you not be seen with me has become imperative.”

  “Why?” Ellie heard the sharp note in her voice, the tone of a woman approaching exasperation, while Trenton Lindsey approached a state of complete undress.

  “My brother went through my journals while I was traveling, Ellie.” Trent banked pillows at the head and foot of the bed, ruining Ellie’s system, then climbed onto the mattress. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  “What is worse than you thought?” She climbed in beside him and didn’t protest when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She’d kept her dressing gown on—some armor that would be—but Trent was here, naked, in her bed, and she doubted she’d be able to resist him did he make advances.

  Much less recall why she should.

  “Dare read my journals with a fresh eye.” Trent tucked his chin over her crown, and Ellie had reason to know that Lord Amherst had not arrived in a state of sexual arousal.

  Which deflated her ire at him considerably. Had he climbed the garden wall expecting her to service him, well, that would have given her some purchase in her attempts to move past their dalliance.

  But he was here to warn her, apparently.

  “Dare found a pattern of somebody trying to do me harm, and it has to be somebody who knows me and mine well.”

  “Tell me more,” Ellie said, not finding anywhere for her leg to go except across his thighs, where it seemed to fit naturally, as the bump of her belly fit against his side.

  “Dare saw a notation that I had planned to admonish him to extinguish his damned cigars when he came calling late at night. He used to do that, stop by between engagements, or come in late and stay with us after Paula died. I concluded he was saving himself coal, but in hindsight, he was also keeping an eye on me.”

  The drift of Trent’s fingers over Ellie’s brow was not at all erotic, and yet, it was intimate, cherishing even.

  “What did your brother find?”

  “On more than one occasion, I’d rouse myself in my study to stumble up to bed, only to find a lit cigar burning on my desk and the doors to the back garden open.”

  “You assumed it was your brother?”

  “Who has never smoked a cigar in his life, though he keeps them on his person as a sort of accessory, like a snuff box. Somebody knew what brand he carried, but not that he’d never smoke them.”

  Ellie wrapped an arm around his waist, which felt leaner to her than it had earlier in the summer. “Is there more?”

  “My town carriage axle came unbolted twice. Once when Darius borrowed it, but I’d forgotten the other time, when Leah and Emily used it for some dress shopping in foul weather. No more carriage mishaps after that, but other things happened.”

  “So you are justified in establishing distance between us. How I wish you’d been wrong. What else happened?”

  “I wish I were mistaken, too, but I’m not. I developed a habit of taking dinner on a tray in the library, though I mostly ordered the food and drank myself into a pleasant haze as the evening progressed.”

  “You ate little and became peaked.” So peaked she’d thought he’d been to war.

  “The footmen would have learned of this habit, of course, because they kept my library and personal chambers tidy. The fellow on duty late at night developed a mysterious stomach ailment, one I could say I also had a mild case of from time to time. He was bleeding internally before he sought his brother’s home in the country for a repairing lease.”

  “He was helping himself to your fine meals,” Ellie guessed. “A nightly reward for the hours he was working, because nobody with any sense would let good food go to waste night after night.”

  “So we’ve guessed, but we’ll follow up if we can track the man down.”

  His fingers traced a pattern on her arm, though how he could be calm, how he could discuss this without ranting and pacing and throwing things eluded her.

  “Is there more?”

  “I wouldn’t have seen it, had Darius not turned his eye on my personal r
ecords. I noted a sick footman, Dare put together the rest. I noted the cost of the carriage repairs, Dare saw the consequences of the axle being tampered with.”

  “He has no idea who’d wish you ill like this—or does he?”

  “He’s asked if my wife hated me enough to put such things in train.” Trent shifted on the bed so his lips trailed across Ellie’s cheek, which meant the sense of his words took a moment to emerge from the bodily sigh Ellie felt at his kiss.

  “How could he suggest such a thing?”

  “His experiences with women haven’t been the most sanguine, but the trouble persisted after Paula’s death, so I doubt she was responsible.”

  “And you loved her.”

  Trent’s hand closed gently over Ellie’s breast. She had missed that very sensation, missed just that firm, cherishing, knowing pressure in that location.

  “I cared for her as best I could.” Trent turned and rose carefully over Ellie, then settled his mouth on hers. “I wasn’t going to do this.”

  “I wasn’t going to allow you to,” Ellie whispered an instant before she kissed him back. “Not ever again.”

  That sense of not-ever-again imbued Ellie’s hands with both reverence and boldness as she caressed Trent’s lean back and muscular flanks.

  For months, possibly longer, somebody had tried to see him dead. If not his wife, possibly her family, her brother—who knew?

  Nothing but good luck had kept Trenton Lindsey alive this long, and Ellie could not bear the thought his luck might run out.

  He pleasured her with slow, easy thrusts, and she welcomed him without hesitation, luxuriating in the scent and feel of him making love with her. The tempo eased, became languorous, comforting and arousing at once.

  “More?”

  “This is lovely.”

  “Am I too heavy?”

  “You’re just right.”

  “The baby?”

  “That was him, or her.”

  Ellie buried her nose against Trent’s neck and let him rock her to slow, deep satisfaction.

  He could have been poisoned, died in a coaching mishap, been shot, fallen from his horse—so many times, he’d cheated death. Fear, rage, love, bewilderment, all manner of passions gave Ellie’s desire a desperate edge.