by Kruger, Mary
Justin looked up at that. “Have you?”
“Yes. My stepfather’s run it into the ground. Bang up bit of blood, sir,” he added admiringly as the stallion suddenly took exception to something only he could see and began to dance about.
“Diablo? Yes, a good mount.” Justin, keeping an iron hand on the bridle, smiled at the horse.
“Diablo?”
“Spanish for devil. Good-tempered, for all that.”
“You were in Spain, sir?” Harry’s eyes grew wide. “Melissa didn’t tell me! Did you know my father? Major Selby of the Light Division?”
“Knew him well. I was in his regiment.”
“You were? Oh, famous! Were you at Vittoria last June, or Talavera, or—”
“Talavera, yes, and unless I’m mistaken here are some boots for you.” Justin stepped back as the groom came back, carrying a well-worn pair of boots.
“‘Twere Master Philip’s, when he were just a lad,” Jeffrey said. “Here, Master Harry, try them on.”
“Oh, capital!” Harry sat down on a bench and pulled the boots on. Justin watched him, a little smile playing about his lips. It had been a long time since he had been so enthusiastic about anything, let alone something so simple as a ride. For the first time he wondered just what kind of lives his wife and her brother had led.
Jeffrey led out a bay mare. “Not as prime a bit as that there Diablo,” he said, “but a sweet goer all the same.” Justin, already mounted, watched the boy dispassionately as Jeffrey gave him a leg up. Good hands, and a good seat.
“Does your sister ride?” Justin asked.
“Yes. Sir, will you tell me about Spain?”
“What?” Justin turned as they walked their horses out of the stable yard. Since his return to England he had spoken little of his experiences in battle on the Peninsula. Most people, he had quickly learned, were far too concerned with their own pleasure to be interested, and until recently support for Wellington’s troops had not been widespread. It was rare to see such enthusiasm in anyone’s face. “Very well, halfling,” he said, and pointed with his crop. “That way.”
So it was that some time later Harry, his clothes mussed and his glasses askew, burst into the breakfast parlor, where Melissa was just dealing with the morning mail. She set down the roll she had been about to bite into and looked up at him. “And where have you been?” she asked, her dancing eyes belying the sternness of her tone. This morning Harry looked like a boy again.
“It was famous, Lissa!” Harry pulled out a chair. “Chatleigh let me ride with him!”
Melissa wrinkled her nose at the smell of horse. “I might have guessed.”
“It was famous! Chatleigh told me all about the Peninsula and all the battles he was in, and all about Papa! Why didn’t you tell me he knew Papa?”
Melissa’s startled eyes met Justin’s as he paused in the doorway, and he had the grace to look ashamed. She looked at him for a long moment before turning away. “It must have slipped my mind. Have you breakfasted, my lord?” she asked, coolly.
“Yes, before riding. Hope you don’t mind I took Harry along?” he said, in milder tones than she had yet heard from him. The circles under her eyes were dark this morning, and Justin felt an unaccustomed sense of guilt.
“No, of course not. I was worried about finding ways to entertain him.”
“Enjoyed it. Excuse me, now. Got work to do.” He inclined his head and turned away, and Melissa glared at his back. What had happened last evening was something she would not soon forget.
“...and he said I could ride with him whenever I wanted, and oh, Lissa, he offered to teach me how to box!”
“What?” Melissa came out of her daze. “He did?”
“Yes, he said it’s true, fighting doesn’t solve things, but sometimes you have to fight, whether you want to or not.”
“But that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for years!”
“Yes, but you’re a girl. And he says that you have to stand up to bullies or they think you’re a coward, and where would we be if we hadn’t stood up to Napoleon?”
“True.” Melissa brought her napkin to her mouth to hide her smile. It seemed her husband had listened to her last night, and had chosen to do something about it. It wasn’t like him, but she was not going to question it. “I’m glad, Harry.” She rose. “You could have a worse teacher.”
“You don’t like him much, do you?” Harry said, his eyes suddenly penetrating behind his spectacles.
“Why, what a question! Would I have married him, else?”
“I don’t know. You hardly talk to each other and he didn’t even know you rode.” Harry’s gaze was accusing. “And he’s the most capital fellow.”
“That’s enough out of you, young man!” Melissa said, sharply. “What happens between the earl and me is not your concern. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Harry stared sullenly at his plate. “You never used to be this bossy.”
“Times have changed.” Melissa looked down at his bent head and forced herself not to ruffle his hair. He was growing up, she thought wistfully. “What do you plan to do today?”
Harry looked up. “Read, I suppose. I have a lot to do before next term and Chatleigh says his library is excellent.”
Melissa suspected that she would soon grow tired of hearing what Chatleigh said, but she only nodded. “Don’t wear your eyes out,” she said, and this time did ruffle his hair, though he ducked his head. At least Harry was safe. That was one less thing for her to worry about.
Sometime later Justin leaned back in his chair and glanced out the window. The morning’s clouds had burned off and the day was bright. Wouldn’t be many more days like this before winter, he thought, and reluctantly turned back to the estate account books, spread over the leather surface of his desk. Melissa had been right, though it pained him to admit it. His agent had done his best, but the Hall had felt the lack of a master’s presence over the years. Justin had never had much interest in an estate his father would not let him manage, but now he felt an almost primeval urge to control his land. He wanted to walk over his holdings, learning about them and the people who worked them. Instead, he seemed fated to obtain his knowledge second-hand.
There was a discreet knock on the door and Phelps came in, holding a silver salver. “Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord,” he said, bowing, and Justin fleetingly reflected that this was another instance in which his wife had been right. In spite of a few mistakes, Phelps was turning into an excellent butler. “Are you receiving visitors?”
Justin held out his hand for the salver. “Who is it, Phelps? Anyone I know?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord. But her ladyship told me never to admit him to the house.”
Justin had taken the black-bordered card from the salver, and now he looked questioningly up at Phelps. “Does she know he’s here?”
“No, my lord, she’s in the music room with the builder.”
“Good. Don’t tell her. And I will see him.”
“Very good, sir.” Phelps bowed and left the room. Justin rose, to look out the window. So, he was finally to meet the infamous Sir Stephen Barton. After what Melissa had told him last evening he had to admit to more than a passing curiosity about the man. What had he done to make her so bitter and fearful?
“Sir Stephen Barton, my lord,” Phelps announced at the door, and Justin turned. Immediately he felt a wave of distaste so strong it stunned him. Never in his life had he taken so quick, or so unreasonable, an aversion to anybody.
Years of army staff life stood him in good stead as he came forward, hand outstretched. “How do you do?” he said, formally, quickly assessing the other man. On the surface there was nothing out of the ordinary about him, nothing to cause that clenching of Justin’s muscles. Dressed conventionally in mourning, he was tall and thin almost to the point of emaciation. Thinning hair an indeterminate shade between blond and grey was brushed back from a high forehead, and his face with its sunken cheeks wa
s dominated by his hawk-like nose, giving him the look of an ascetic cadaver. Only his mouth, unexpectedly full and red, gave the lie to that impression. “I am Chatleigh.”
“Good of you to see me,” Sir Stephen said, taking his hand.
“Not at all.” Justin motioned the other man to one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace. “Care for a cigarillo? Bad habit of mine. Picked it up on the Peninsula.”
“Thank you, don’t mind if I do.” Sir Stephen looked up at Justin again as he chose a cheroot from the mahogany box held out to him. “So you’re an army man, are you?”
“Yes.” Justin blew out a cloud of smoke. “Knew your predecessor, as it happens.”
“Excuse me?”
“Major Selby.”
Sir Stephen’s pale eyes darkened for just a moment. “Is my daughter here?”
“She’s somewhere in the house,” Justin said, dismissing her with a wave of the cigarillo. “Believe Harry’s in the library.”
“Harry!” Sir Stephen straightened. “Harry’s here? I thought he was at Eton.”
“Came to spend Christmas with us.” Justin studied the tip of his cigarillo. “Putting up at the Crown?”
“What? Oh, no. I’m staying with friends.”
Bad luck for the friends, whoever they were, Justin thought, and reached a decision. For whatever reason Melissa and Harry disliked their stepfather, Justin didn’t want him in the house, either. He would not invite him to stay. “So what can I do for you?”
“I wanted to see how my daughter’s settling in. How is she, by the by?”
“Quite well. Keeping busy.” Justin gestured about the room. “House needs a woman’s touch.”
“Quite so. And her money as well.” Justin looked up sharply at that, but Sir Stephen went on before he could say anything. “Did you know, I didn’t even realize you and my daughter were acquainted.”
“Met through her father,” Justin said, easily.
Sir Stephen’s eyes darkened at this obvious lie. “That’s not what I heard. I understand you met in an inn.”
Justin drew in on his cigarillo. “Oh?”
“Yes. The Hart and Hind, to be precise.”
“We met there, certainly. But not for the first time.”
“Do you take me for an idiot?” Sir Stephen’s eyes suddenly blazed. “I heard what happened there. She’s made me the laughingstock of the village. I deserve some recompense for that.”
Ah, now we come to it. Justin had been expecting this since the beginning of the interview. No longer, however, did he believe that Melissa was behind it. “What, Harry’s money not enough for you?”
“What!” Sir Stephen sat bolt upright. “What are you implying—”
“Speaking of Harry, I’d like to talk to you about him. Or, rather, my man of affairs will talk to your man.”
“About what?” Sir Stephen looked wary.
“About assuming Harry’s guardianship. Well, really, old man, you can’t wish to be saddled with another man’s brat—”
“Never!” Sir Stephen had jumped to his feet. “That is a sacred trust resided in me by his mother and I will never give it up.”
“Really.” Justin drew in on his cigarillo and then looked up at the other man, his eyes suddenly keen. “Nevertheless. I plan to try.”
“Want all the money for yourself, do you, Chatleigh? I’ll fight you on this.”
“Do so.” Justin rose. There was nothing menacing in his aspect, but Sir Stephen shrank back. “But, I warn you. You’ll not see a penny from me.”
“No? And what, sir, will people say when they learned how you seduced my daughter? You’ll be singing a different song then, I’ll wager!”
Justin crossed to the bellpull. “I don’t give a damn what you do, Barton, but I will not tolerate you bothering me. Or mine.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Take it as you like. Phelps, please call for Sir Stephen’s carriage.”
“Yes, my lord. If you’ll come this way, sir?” Phelps said.
Sir Stephen looked indecisively from one to the other, and then turned. “Very well. But we are not finished, my lord.” He gave Justin a look. “No. We are not finished.”
Justin bowed, looking bored, and went back to his desk. He was half-turned, looking out the window, when Phelps knocked again on the open door. “Yes, Phelps, what is it?” he asked.
“Excuse me, my lord. Is Sir Stephen to be admitted in future?”
“No. On this, I agree with her ladyship.”
“Very good, my lord.” Phelps went to the door, and then turned. “My lord?”
“What the devil is it now?” Justin said, looking up from the account books.
“Jeffrey, the groom, says as how he’s seen Sir Stephen on the estate once or twice.”
“Really.” Justin leaned back, tapping his pen against his hand. “Does Lady Chatleigh ever ride out alone?”
“No, my lord.”
“Good. Inform Jeffrey she’s never to go out alone.”
“My lord, you don’t think—”
“That Sir Stephen would try to harm her?” Unbidden to Justin’s mind came the memory of Melissa, that fateful night at the inn, willing to marry a stranger rather than return to her own home. For some reason, she was terrified of Sir Stephen. For some reason, the thought infuriated him. “I don’t know, Phelps. Best to be safe, though, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.” Phelps bowed and closed the door behind him, and Justin was left alone with his thoughts.
“...but I tell you, Lissa, he was here.”
“It couldn’t have been him, Harry,” Melissa said, and in the corridor outside the drawing room, Justin paused, his hand on the knob of the half-open door. “Surely he’s back at Cleve Court by now?”
“I don’t know, Lissa, but it looked like him.”
“It can’t have been!” Melissa’s voice was shaky with panic, and Justin deemed it time to intervene. Pushing the door open, he walked in, and brother and sister looked up at him, wearing identically startled, guilty expressions.
“Mind if I join you?” he said.
“There, he’ll tell you!’ Harry jumped up. “Was our stepfather here today, sir?”
Justin’s eyes sought out Melissa. “Yes, Harry, he was.”
“I told you so, Lissa!” Harry said, triumphantly.
“What—what did he want?” Melissa’s hand was at her throat, and her voice sounded strangled.
“Merely to make my acquaintance, I believe. Are those rock cakes I see?” Justin sat on the sofa across from Melissa.
“Yes, they’re capital, and the scones! Shall I toast one for you, sir?” Harry said, jumping up again.
“If you like. I sent him away.” Justin said, his eyes never leaving Melissa’s face. “He won’t be back.”
Melissa’s tense shoulders suddenly slumped. “Are you sure of that?”
Justin nodded. “Yes. Tell me.” He reached for the cup of tea she handed him. “Why does he frighten you so?”
“Melissa’s not scared of anybody,” Harry said scornfully, coming back from the fire with the toasted scone. “But we both think Sir Stephen’s a toad.”
“Harry!” Melissa said.
“Well, he is. You think so, too.”
“A snake, more like.” Justin spread jam and clotted cream on the scone and bit into it. “You’re right, Harry. Capital.”
Melissa looked from one to the other. Men! The world could be falling to pieces and all they would care about would be their precious stomachs. “I’m glad you enjoy your tea, my lord,” she said, frigidly.
Justin glanced at her. “Always did,” he said, his tone mild. “Been a long time since I had it in this room, though.” His eyes roamed around, noting with approval the changes she had made and stopping briefly at the spot where his mother’s portrait had once hung. A landscape hung there now. “M’father wasn’t much for tea. Not much for anything, besides his hounds and his gambling.”
“Did he hu
nt, sir?” Harry asked, his eyes suddenly eager.
“Indeed he did. Kept the best stables and the best kennels around. Boxing Day hunt used to meet here all the time. Now Sir Percival hosts it.”
“But now you’re here, sir. Couldn’t we have it again?”
“Afraid not, Harry.” Justin smiled at him. “For one thing, I sold him m’father’s hounds. Had no use for them myself.”
“No use!” Harry stared at this bit of heresy, and his adoration of Justin, his hero, slipped a little. “But, sir—”
“I couldn’t afford to feed them, Harry. And, no, I won’t house them again,” he went on, before Harry could speak. “Money could be better spent elsewhere.”
“But a hunt would be capital, sir,” Harry protested.
Justin glanced over at Melissa, who was struggling with a smile. “Perhaps. But perhaps your sister has other ideas?”
Melissa looked up. “Excuse me?”
“Been thinking. Been a long time since we entertained guests here. With Christmas almost here—”
“We could have a party!” Melissa exclaimed. “Oh, I wish you might have thought of this sooner, there’s so much to do, invitations to send and the menu to plan, and should we just have dinner, or dancing afterwards, and—”
“Melissa.” Justin was grinning at her, but it was his use of her name that stopped her. “Plenty of time to plan something. For Twelfth Night, perhaps?”
“Oh, splendid!” Melissa clapped her hands. “We could have a masque, with people coming as Twelfth Night characters—that is, if you don’t mind?”
“Don’t mind at all.” Justin was still smiling. “Time we have some life back in this house. M’father used it only during hunting season, and Philip and I have been gone for years.”
“I’d like to meet your brother,” Melissa said. “Do you think he’ll get home on leave soon?”
Justin looked down into the fire, and his smile faded. “Maybe. With Wellington in France, the army will likely be home soon,” he said moodily, kicking the fender. In October Wellington’s troops had invaded France, and there was talk that peace negotiations would begin soon in Vienna. The long war was nearly over, and all England was excited.