The Trouble with Love (Distinguished Rogues Book 8)

by Heather Boyd

  Whitney patted his shoulder as his rock sank beneath the surface without one single bounce. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  “I’m going to beat your three bounces if it’s the last thing I do,” he promised with the enthusiasm of a child without limits to his imagination.

  She agreed, followed him up the hill, and turned to her own horse and the pair of grooms that had insisted on accompanying them that morning. They were waiting to assist her remount, as if she couldn’t possibly manage the task alone. The largest one, Mr. Landry, seemed an obstinate sort of man, with a face only a mother could love, but entirely respectful. He also possessed the widest set of shoulders of any man she’d ever seen. There wouldn’t be enough canvas to do this man justice unless it was life-size.

  The second man said very little and seemed happiest when not forced to converse.

  She mounted her horse effortlessly with Landry’s boost and settled herself astride her horse. Whitney refused to ride sidesaddle except on Rotten Row in London. She’d had a charming riding outfit created for the express purpose of riding astride. Modesty and comfort assured. She felt safer this way, riding across unfamiliar terrain.

  Christopher kicked his old pony on ahead of Whitney to begin the long climb to the top of the steepest hillside on Taverham’s lands.

  Landry scowled and glanced at the other groom first before speaking. “Begging your pardon, miss, but surely there are plenty of perfect spots to paint from lower down. You haven’t seen the causeway yet.”

  “You fuss without reason, sir.” The boy glanced over his shoulder, grinning as he urged his pony ahead at a trot. She offered up her most reassuring smile to each one of Twilit Hill’s servants. “Can you not see that I am in danger of being beaten to the top? We came riding for the exercise and our mounts are far from winded. Never fear, I have more stamina than the marchioness. I promise you, Christopher and I are in no danger of fatigue.”

  Although they both appeared unconvinced, Whitney kicked her mount forward before they could think of more ways to protest, and pursued Christopher.

  Lord Taverham had claimed they were free to ride anywhere on his estate, but his wife insisted Landry accompany her son at all times. Unfortunately, neither one had mentioned that Landry was such a stick in the mud, and overprotective, too.

  Whitney reached the boy quickly and remained abreast with him up the steeper incline. Her horse surged forward, and so too must have Christopher’s, because he burst out with a whoop of joy when they reached the summit at the same moment.

  It was a glorious day, and the Twilit Hill estate was everything she was promised it would be. Rolling hills, green fields for miles around and a charming river that wound through the valley floor. The landscape was a painter’s dream. She paused at the top of the hill to get her bearings then turned her mount in a slow circuit before stopping to admire the view.

  “Oh, Christopher. Your home is very grand,” she told him.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Christopher grinned, patting his pony’s sweaty neck. “I used to try to imagine this place when I was little. I made Mother tell me of home each night before I went to sleep.”

  His brow furrowed, and then his smile slowly slipped away as he took in the spectacular view to the south.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  “It will be all mine one day.”

  She brought her horse beside his, puzzled by his sudden change of mood. “And that worries you?”

  “A little.” The boy shrugged. “I know my father will teach me what I need to learn to run this place in his stead.”

  “But you are worried still?”

  The boy nodded. “If anything happened to Mother or Father…”

  “You’ll be alone,” Whitney finished for him.

  The boy nodded quickly, biting his lip as he fiddled with the reins. “There’s so much I need to learn.”

  “Don’t forget you have your grandmother.” Whitney squeezed his arm. “I’m an only child, and always longed for brothers and sisters. When my parents died, my aunts and uncles drew straws to decide who I would live with. Each new situation brought a new set of challenges.”

  Christopher gasped, eyes widening. “They didn’t want you?”

  “No, the problem was that they all did,” Whitney reassured the boy with a soft laugh. “It was quite a squabble between them at first. To restore the peace, a ballot was set up and straws drawn. I went to live with Uncle Willard first, then when he died, another ballot was undertaken and so on and so forth. It all turned out quite well. By the time I was of an age to be taken seriously, there was only Uncle Nash left, and we both moved to live with my cousin, Lord Louth. Uncle Nash died last year.”

  Whitney had been to more than her fair share of family funerals, but she’d also experienced living in six very different but loving homes. She felt herself blessed to have lived such an extraordinarily diverse life. Christopher was blessed too, but in a way he couldn’t imagine yet.

  “I don’t have any aunts or uncles,” said Christopher in a worried tone.

  “But you do have a cousin, and you do trust her, don’t you?” The boy nodded quickly. “I am certain you can depend on Lady Carrington to smother you with love and support if anything should happen to your parents.”

  “I really miss Aggie and the others,” Christopher admitted.

  “The others are the children she took in from the orphanage?”

  Christopher nodded quickly. “They were my friends. I haven’t seen them in such a long time. I think they will have forgotten all about me.”

  Whitney clucked her tongue. “You were their leader, weren’t you?” she asked him, already knowing that was the case. She had seen the children in action together in London, and knew they had all adored Christopher. They probably missed him, too. “They will not have forgotten you. Have you told your mother you’d like to see them?”

  “She’s always tired.”

  True, but the boy needed companions his own age to play with. Whitney remembered feeling very old around other children her age, since most of her time was spent with an older generation. Making and keeping friends though had been difficult when she’d moved homes so often during her childhood, too. She had many friends now, and wrote letters to them every day. But still, despite the shortcomings of her childhood, she wouldn’t trade the love of her aunts and uncles for anything as fleeting as friendships.

  “Your father promised me just this morning that your mama is much better than she once was,” Whitney assured the boy. “Coming to the country and resolving their differences has taken away a great strain. Why don’t you talk to your father about it first when we return and see what he thinks about extending an invitation to Lord and Lady Carrington.”

  The boy nodded. “I will.”

  “And in the meantime, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my shabby company for games,” Whitney apologized, pulling a long face.

  Christopher laughed. “You’ll do in the short term.”

  “You’re sounding more and more like the marquess every day, you know,” Whitney said, grinning from ear to ear. She glanced around, impressed with what she saw of the district. “As far as inheritances go, not bad, young man. Not bad at all.”

  Christopher began to point out features of the estate he recognized and a few moments later, the tension in him disappeared. She ruffled his hair affectionately, and thought she too might have a quiet word with the marquess about the boy’s loneliness. He was much too serious for his age.

  The grooms appeared suddenly, their mounts puffing and blowing. Landry seemed most upset of the pair. “Struth, Miss Crewe, have you no patience?”

  “Some, but I refuse to let life pass me by while I wait for anyone’s permission to enjoy myself,” she told Landry.

  She shielded her eyes from the sun and spied the roof of a distant manor house nearly hidden by an unending forest of trees. “Whose home is that?

  “Lord Acton’s,” Christopher said quiet
ly. “Warstone Manor abuts Twilit Hill on the southern boundary.”

  “Oh,” she whispered, trying and failing to see more of the distant manor house. So that’s where the naughty earl lived. The close growth of woods prevented her from noticing more than the roofline and chimneys of Warstone, but she thought it looked to be a peaceful place. At least from a safe distance such as this. It was closer than she’d imagined it would be. Perhaps an hour’s stroll from the main house of the Twilit Hill estate.

  Christopher turned his horse away, his smile slipping. “I’d like to return home now.”

  The grooms immediately surrounded the boy to urge him back down the path.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll join you soon,” she called out to him, and watched as he disappeared from view.

  Whitney turned her attention to the lands surrounding Lord Acton’s distant home. Had she really expected to find ugliness surrounding his holdings? Yet there were dark woods crowding wide paddocks of rich farmland, roads no more than horse trails crisscrossing the landscape. The place seemed unfathomably peaceful for having been the birthplace of a scheming witch like Lady Emily Brighthurst.

  She caught a glimpse of a figure on horseback galloping away from a distant cottage, and stood up in her stirrups. “What have we here? A lover fleeing a scandalous tryst?”

  Landry spluttered and coughed. “No, miss.”

  Whitney frowned, noting the reckless pace the rider had set in his eagerness to leave the cottage far behind. “I thought you had gone.”

  “No miss.”

  She glanced at the man as she resumed her seat. “The boy is out of earshot, so there’s no cause for false manners around me. What goes on in the countryside is the same thing that happens in London’s finest homes, I assure you. Tell me that isn’t a budding scandal?”

  The man turned a fiery red, and Whitney raised one brow as she waited for her answer from him.

  “Not a tryst,” he spluttered at last.

  She spotted the figure on horseback again, and concluded that the rider was headed directly for Lord Acton’s manor house or stables. She was too far away to determine who exactly it might be. Only that he wore dark clothes. She glanced back the way the fellow had come. “Who is it that lives in that picturesque little cottage over there?”

  “I couldn’t say, Miss Crewe.”

  She stared at the walled garden and vast green field around the dwelling and felt drawn to see it in closer detail. “Well, if you won’t tell me, I shall have no choice but to go down and introduce myself.”

  Landry wheeled his mount around and blocked her way. “You cannot, Miss Crewe.”

  “Why ever not? Lord Taverham said I can go anywhere I choose on his land.”

  “The cottage is not on his land, but on Lord Acton’s.”

  “Ah.” Whitney frowned. Although curious, she wasn’t about to ask the scoundrel for his permission to do anything. And yet… “What he doesn’t know…”

  When she tried to ride around Landry, he placed himself in her path again.

  She stared at him in consternation. “For goodness sake. What is so dangerous about that cottage that I cannot view it from a closer distance than this very high hill? I have it in mind to paint it as a surprise for Lord Acton’s bride.”

  Landry set his hand on his hip. “I’m sorry, Miss Crewe. For everyone’s safety, it is best that Rose Cottage not be reminded of the Twilit Hill estate or its inhabitants.”

  “Not be reminded?” she spluttered. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. How could anyone forget that gargantuan pile of rubble behind us?”

  Landry glared at Whitney. “Turn back.”

  “Oh, very well. But you are being ridiculous. When I get back to the estate, I will have a strong word with Lord Taverham about these silly restrictions. I am sure Lord Acton would welcome my interest in painting any part of his home.”

  Perhaps that might be a stretch, she did not know Lord Acton well, but it wasn’t as if she could do any harm painting a little cottage in an empty field.

  “’Tis not his restrictions, Miss Crewe,” Landry ground out. “The dowager marchioness ordered we keep a distance.”

  “Then I shall speak to the dowager directly this afternoon and clear up this problem.”

  Landry raised a brow. “You’re a feisty piece, aren’t you?”

  “I prefer to speak my mind.”

  “Well, make sure you don’t mention your intention to visit Rose Cottage around the young master. He will not be allowed to go with you, and we won’t have him upset for anything.”

  Whitney stilled her restless horse, struck by the fierce and protective words Landry spoke. Such devotion. Such protection. But why? There was no danger. Not anymore. Acton had sent his sister away to Bath.

  Or had he lied about that?

  Whitney glanced over her shoulder. Rose Cottage was on Lord Acton’s lands and it was suspiciously off limits. Could he have been the figure riding from it this morning?

  “Damn his black heart,” she hissed furiously. “I should have known he wasn’t to be trusted.”

  Whitney whipped her horse around and fled down the opposite side of the hill, intending to visit Rose Cottage herself.

  Landry, caught unawares, cried out after her but she would not stop. She would see for herself if Lady Brighthurst was there—and if Lord Acton had it in him to lie to everyone he claimed to hold dear.

  Chapter Six

  Everett dismounted outside his stables, feeling weariness in every part of his body. It had been a long night and he was beyond exhausted. He needed to sit quietly for a moment and clear his head.

  A groom took his horse away, leaving Everett standing at the entrance to the stables all alone, save for the old horses he couldn’t bear to part with. He turned away as they acknowledged him, stepped into an area that had until last month been the stable master’s private quarters and stripped off completely.

  He placed his older clothing into a bucket near the doorway for boiling and dragged his feet across the room to the fireside. This daily cleansing routine was for his own piece of mind as much as anything. He couldn’t bear it if anyone else was hurt unwittingly by contact with his sister through him.

  He found the water heating at the range in the corner and mixed it in with the cooler bathwater already set aside in readiness for his return. He stepped into the lukewarm hip bath and scrubbed himself from head to toe with the new block of sandalwood soap, well aware his precautions might be for naught in the end.

  There was no way to predict the spread of consumption, only its final result. Death.

  Even without the threat of catching her consumption over his head, he felt better for cleansing himself after visiting with Emily, too.

  It was not just her illness that troubled him, but the manner of her thoughts she often shouted out in her delirium. She was dark now, bitter and angry, seething with hate for Lady Taverham and her innocent son. Her sickness, fevers and dreams had affected her judgment, too. She wanted to rid the world of the pair. She still believed she could take Lady Taverham’s place in the marquess’ affections, if only Everett would let her go to him.

  He refused.

  He scrubbed himself again as he remembered her sudden awakening in the middle of the night, to rid himself of her vile words, but they were burned into his skull. She wanted Miranda dead. She wanted Everett to bring the boy to her.

  Emily would forever be disappointed in him, because he could not agree to any of it.

  He liked his best friend’s son too much to allow him to be harmed. He’d not had much to do with children, but Everett found young Christopher curious, respectful, and often amusing. Christopher reminded Everett of the Marquess of Taverham as a young boy, full of wonder for the world and in awe of the estate he would one day inherit.

  But Everett was aware the boy was uncomfortable when he was near, and only time and Emily’s absence could change that.

  Emily’s actions had managed to make the boy wa
ry of him.

  He wished the boy no harm, and had been trying to smooth the boy’s way into his new situation as best he could. It was not easy, but he was determined to one day call upon the boy and know he was not viewed as any sort of threat.

  He redressed in finer clothes for the day then strolled out into the stables, stopping beside each stall to speak to the horses he owned. At the far end, Lion nickered a greeting.

  He moved toward his favorite horse, scratched his nose and generally fussed over him.

  “He’s restless today,” the stable master, Neals, complained.

  “I thought one of my guests might have wanted to ride him by now.” He had brought in his best mounts from the pasture, sure Miss Quartermane had professed to enjoy spending time in the saddle every day. But she had not once enquired after a horse to ride and his hints at an outing had been not outright dismissed, but certainly forgotten in the excitement of visiting neighbors like Twilit Hill.

  “None have asked to,” Neals said with a shake of his head.

  Everett opened Lion’s stall and the horse trotted out quickly, leaving him to pay a call on all the other horses in their nearby stalls.

  “Lion,” he called before the animal reached the farthest one, and the horse obediently trotted back to his side. He petted him, scratched him behind the ears, and then decided to take the old fellow out for a stroll while he checked on a few things.

  Lion required neither lead nor saddle to make him follow Everett about. The beast was always content to walk alongside him like a faithful hound would, sometimes with his large, heavy head draped over Everett’s right shoulder.

  Lion nudged him.

  “I know. I know. Walk faster,” Everett said to him with a soft laugh.

  He lengthened his stride, reaching the nearest outbuildings where workmen were repairing an old long-abandoned cottage on the edge of the woods. The workers, under Thompson’s direction, were making better progress on repairs than he’d ever hoped for. The man himself was consulting his papers and marking off items as he joined him.