Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1)

by Becca St. John

  Eleanor actually gasped. “And what about an heir?”

  “He married me for money. There was nothing said about heirs,” Caroline reminded her. “Some other woman can provide those.”

  She didn’t want to think of that, so she focused on the vein that stood out on Summerton’s forehead. Restraint was not always a healthy thing. She shouldn’t have been so blunt, but there it was. He was being married for a title and she was being married for her money.

  But not an heir.

  Would she have stayed if it had been the other way around?

  It didn’t matter. It was what it was. He was promised funds that her uncle could not touch, no matter the state of the businesses.

  Unless Uncle Robert had found a way to release them for himself.

  But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, her father had been far more clever in such things than Uncle Robert. Surely the money was in trust. Summerton would have delved into that, or should have, but by the looks of things, securing finances was not a family strong point.

  “So there is nothing in this arrangement to your benefit?” he asked.

  “Very little,” she whispered, not meaning to speak at all.

  He turned from the window. “But there is something?”

  If only he wasn’t a duke. “No. I really don’t see any need for me to stay here. Uncle Robert’s pressure couldn’t be denied. He received a percentage, you see, the amount dependent on my marrying an aristocrat. He was very determined it would come to that.”

  Again, Lady Eleanor shook her head. “Be that as it may, you are married, Caroline. It would be a very ugly business to undo this.”

  “Surely, once the funds are dispersed, there is no need of me.”

  Lady Eleanor slapped the chair arm of her chair. “You forget the heir, carrying on the line.”

  “Stop, Aunt. I will not have Caroline put in an untenable position. We will come to that when we must. For now,” Summerton started to pace, “your dowry is secure, Caroline. My men are assured of that. But your uncle insisted on three equal stages. The first was the marriage, the second was the completion of a bridal tour, and the third was the conception of a child.”

  “Good grief.” Caroline sat back.

  “If the third came before the completion of the second, we would be free to return immediately and all funds would be released to us.”

  Caroline tapped the arm of her chair and looked blankly at the floor. She would have to see the documents, look for holes. “What if I never conceived?”

  She glanced up to see both aunt and nephew looking at her, he with his eyebrow raised. “Well, it does happen,” she defended.

  Summerton nodded, crossed to the globe, spun it as though that could dispel his worries. “There is a provision for that, but we need not cross that bridge at this point.”

  Her thoughts returned to his tenants’ ramshackle homes, threadbare clothes, and deep hostility.

  She thought of the mills, and all the people there who needed her assistance.

  She could mend the problems at the mills and help hundreds of people.

  She could take ownership of the problems Summerton faced, and help a whole village.

  She couldn’t do both.

  “Did he give you enough to mend the roofs?”

  There was another chair beside hers. Summerton took it, took her hand. “Right now, this is not your worry.”

  “Summerton,” she demanded, without raising her voice, “do you have those funds?”

  He sighed, his unfocused gaze on their joined hands, his thumb absently stroking hers, unsettling her.

  She tried to pull away, but he firmed his grasp and looked into her eyes. “The tenants are my concern, and I take that very seriously, but I will ask that you not make promises out of hand.”

  “Summerton,” Lady Eleanor stood by the fire, holding her newly found rings. “I suggest you talk to her about your plans. There is a distinct advantage to marrying a woman of her background. No doubt Caroline can hear of business without going glassy-eyed.”

  “Aunt Eleanor.”

  “Don’t ‘aunt’ me. Do it.” She turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Summerton asked.

  “To see if Jenny, my abigail,” she clarified for Caroline, “might know how this Alice person could possibly get two of my favorite rings within hours of arriving at St. Martins. It’s inconceivable.” She opened the door for herself. “And then I will have my afternoon rest.”

  “Very well,” Summerton allowed.

  “And while I am resting, take your bride for a carriage ride while you explain your plans for improvement.”

  “Really, there’s no need,” Caroline argued. She did not want to be distracted from her course.

  “Yes, there is,” Eleanor informed her. “Your decision will affect many people, my dear, and you best see what that means.” She started to leave, then twisted around and popped her head around the door. “And Summerton, be frank. There’s no valor in skirting the issue.”

  With that, the door snapped shut.

  CHAPTER 7 ~ Getting to Know You and Yours

  The open wicker gig was clean—mostly—though a bit of dried mud clogged the corners and the seat was worn on the edges. Things Summerton would have ignored during past visits to the country. One must expect a bit of dirt when rusticating.

  As if living in a Hall that had grown well beyond its medieval origins was rusticating. It shouldn’t be. He’d not realized that until now, in his present company.

  St. Martins Hall had always been the place he visited with his gentlemen friends. Here they were free from the demands of women and society. It was a place where a man could leave his cravat behind, ride with his hounds, and practice archery and fencing in an open shirt, sleeves rolled up. A place where a group of men could finish bottles of brandy over a card table deep into the night. No need to curb their language or navigate their way home when foxed.

  With its square Norman core and Tudor wings, St. Martins had always been a temporary destination. The London townhouse was his true residence.

  He glanced over at Caroline, the woman he’d chosen to live at St. Martins. He’d never thought of her changing things, but she would, if she stayed. Women were like that.

  If she stayed.

  She sat beside him, cool and straight backed without being rigid. Her gracious, regal manners were one of the things that had drawn him to her and made him believe her background could be ignored.

  She’d been raised by two men as different as chalk and cheese. A socially offensive but brilliant father, and an undeniably common uncle, who could charm his way past social barriers.

  Then there was Caroline—more aristocratic than the aristocrats. Yet she had no wish to leave the culture of her youth. If that had been the case, she wouldn’t shy from being a duchess.

  He maneuvered the gig along the tree-lined drive that would take them through the gates of St. Martins to the edge of the village, Hillside. He’d turn there, along the road that bordered the estate, to show her the vastness of his ancestral home.

  He would see if that would win this green-eyed beauty. Or would she tilt that petite chin of hers, and slice him with a look over those high cheekbones of hers? Right now, her eyes were shielded by her thick lashes, lowered as she studied her hands clasped in her lap.

  She hadn’t agreed to stay with him. Not yet. Perhaps never. But she would join him on the journey. She would give him time. All he needed to do was find her weakness.

  It wasn’t him.

  He held nothing of value for her.

  The horse shied, so he loosened his grip, relaxing hands that had fisted with frustration.

  Nothing of value for her.

  Without her, he would be a duke in name only. That wasn’t her fault. He’d been the fool. Trusted his father’s claim that the estates ran themselves. He had appreciated the freedom, to follow his interests at Whitehall while he could.

  They lived well in London. His
allowance was healthy and never delinquent. If he needed more, the funds were there.

  He’d had no idea there were mortgages upon mortgages. That the whole estate sat on the precipice of loans.

  New cottages? There would be no need for cottages if he didn’t shore up the crumbling foundation of the whole damn thing. The dukes of Summerton had estates across England and every one was too ravaged to sell without tremendous loss, too grand to hold onto.

  They might be out of a home, all of them, even himself, if he didn’t pay off the mortgages and get his affairs running profitably again.

  Even limited to a third of the promised funds, there was an incredible amount to do before they left, and yet here he sat in a gig, riding with a woman who held the future of his estates, his workers, his name, in her hands.

  And she didn’t want him.

  Worse yet, he respected her for it. She was strong and sensible and thought for herself. She’d make an excellent duchess. Unfortunately, the only thing he could offer her was the hope in a secure future and himself, as a man.

  Any other time, he might have enjoyed that challenge, but he was too desperate to trust that ‘he’ was any kind of bargain.

  “Oh, look.” Caroline put a hand to his arm.

  They were just leaving the gates of St. Martins. Hillside High Street was to their right, the path he wanted to take, to the left. The night before, when they arrived, it had been too dark for her to see any of it, or to even know Hillside was there.

  “Do you mind, Summerton? Can we go into the village?”

  He stayed the horses. “There isn’t much to see, I’m afraid. Just a few shops with wares well below London standards.”

  “And a pub.” She frowned. “It might do you well to have a drink with the locals, see what they have to say. Begin as you mean to go on.” She turned to him. “Really, Summerton, you should get to know these people.”

  True, but not now, not with her. “I will go this evening.”

  She turned back in her seat, her regal icy shell coming down again. “Of course. Such a vulgar suggestion, too common. Do forgive me.”

  He sighed. “Not common, but we don’t have time, not now.” There was no telling what sort of reception he would receive. He didn’t want to subject her to that, not when he still had to convince her to stay with him.

  “I think it would be wise,” she argued, “to develop a personal relationship.”

  He hesitated, looking down at the reins as he weighed her suggestion. “It might not be friendly.”

  “It rarely is when superiors, who have been absent for too long, decide to descend to the peasants’ level, but they will respect you for it.”

  “Peasants?” He snorted.

  She turned to him, a half-smile on her face. “Yes, peasants. They’ve been treated as such.”

  “Fine,” he nodded. “For one drink, but you’d best put away that hard face if you want to win them over yourself.”

  “Hard face?” He’d startled her. Her smile broadened and the warm, rich sound of her chuckle rippled to his core. “Is it gone?”

  She didn’t want or need him, he reminded himself. He’d best remember that.

  ***

  The small village had old Tudor brick buildings, their upper stories jutting out, shadowing walkways, where a dozen men stood about in twos and threes, much as they might in London or Manchester. They even looked like town men. Cravats, frock coats and tall hats, though not of the finest ilk, far different than a farmer’s coarse woven shirt and baggy-bottomed breeches.

  Surely, with so many about, this village should have prospered better. But building facades were worn, shop fronts bare.

  She’d worried that Jeremy wouldn’t be able to go near town. That a stranger, such as he, would stick out among the farmers. An obvious stranger. But surely he would blend right in to these circles.

  “Is this a major thoroughfare?” she asked Summerton, who scowled at the clumps of men.

  “No, it is not. Nor is it usually this congested. There must be a market nearby.”

  “Ah,” she nodded, just as confused. Markets drew people from the countryside. Not this sort. But then, what did she know of country life?

  Summerton slowed as they neared a sign, swinging in the breeze, illustrating a coachman high atop a post chaise, cracking a whip. An inn, Caroline realized, The Coachman. Men stepped aside as they turned into the crowded coach yard.

  Caroline squeezed her hands, stilled their trembling. She was made of sterner stuff, but Alice’s death stole much of her pluck. She’d best find it again because Jeremy was here and she had to speak with him, somehow.

  She waited in her seat as the duke jumped down and secured the horse, not bothering to unhook the gig. They’d not be there long enough to warrant it. A young stable worker stood leaning against a barn door, rake in hand. He doffed his hat. Barely.

  Neither he, nor any of the others milling about in the stables, came to help.

  Bad reception indeed.

  Caroline put her trembling hand in Summerton’s as he helped her down.

  “Are you chilled, my love?” he asked, rubbing away a cold that wasn’t there.

  She wished he wouldn’t call her my love, or my dear, or any of those endearments. She was nothing but a cash cow to him, no need to pretend otherwise.

  And she wasn’t cold, but it would be better for him to think so. She was frightened and determined and confused. Especially since she’d seen Jeremy at the top of the street, when they’d first left the grounds of St. Martins.

  He’d seen her as well. Had ducked into a shop, must have stayed there, as they drove past. He would be watching. He would find her.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” she lied.

  “Your grace!” A small balding man, with a white apron strapped around his waist, came rushing out. “We’re sorry,” he said as he bowed, shouting to the stable lad as he rose. “See to his grace’s cart. Come on now, right quick.”

  Summerton nodded as if the fuss was his due. It probably was, this and more, which made the lack of reception earlier that much more worrisome.

  “We’ve been busy, your grace, men coming from all over. I ’spect the boy just thought you were another.”

  “Is that what we saw, on the high street? Men coming to Hillside?” Summerton asked. “Whatever for?”

  “Don’t know, sir, but we aren’t sorry. They’ve filled the inn and about eaten us out of food. But don’t you worry, if you want…”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Summerton told him, as he waited for Caroline to come abreast.

  She waved him on, happy to have these moments alone, even if it was only a step or two behind. The door led them through a dark corridor. The scent of beeswax carried her past polished paneled sidewalls, across clean wood floors, centers worn pale by decades, if not centuries, of traffic.

  The common, everyday sense of it offered a much needed normalcy against the sixes and sevens of her nerves. She couldn’t risk Jeremy approaching her when Summerton was near. The duke would recognize him, from the wedding. She didn’t want the two to speak.

  She just wanted to get a message to Jeremy, to let him know she had agreed to go with Summerton, for a month, possibly two. Then she would return to Manchester.

  Nothing would keep her from that.

  There wasn’t anything to stop her. Not even the duke—rude, arrogant man who barely spoke to her before the wedding. Disinterested in anything but her money. She resolved to remember just that as she followed the two men.

  Summerton’s head tilted, as he listened to the publican’s words with rapt attention, as though they were immensely important. How had she missed that? His ability to look at a person without distraction, and listen. She’d never noticed it before, when she’d watched him. And she had watched. In the days before he knew she existed, she’d watched and admired without really knowing why, beyond his fabulous good looks. And, of course, he moved like a living, breathing piece of art without losing
a smidgen of his masculinity. Caroline rather liked art.

  That was before he told her they were to marry. Before she learned he needed an heiress. She had more pride than to settle for that. Even if the duke revealed himself to be a different man than she believed.

  She could ill afford to have him get under her skin now.

  The innkeeper’s babble floated back to her. She ignored it, and pushed up against the wall, as a maid scurried past with linens piled high above her eyes. When she stepped back into the hall, she wasn’t in a hall anymore, but a foyer. The duke and his newfound friend stood on the threshold of a room to the right.

  Head still cocked toward the man, Summerton’s eyes were on her. She joined him at the entrance to the public room, amazed by the buzz of conversation. The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron.

  “Here we have it, your grace,” the man boomed.

  As though a curtain rose on a great stage, silence settled, sudden and thick. All eyes turned to them.

  A hand on her back, the duke guided her to a bench in the inglenook, beside the fire.

  “Warm yourself. I’ll see about tea.”

  But he didn’t need to go anywhere. The landlord was at his elbow. “Tea for her grace, then?” he asked. “Will you have the same, or something stronger, sir?”

  No wonder Summerton didn’t want to stop. She looked about.

  Heads turned quickly, pretending they hadn’t been staring. She caught the odd peek here, a quick glance there, as people tried not to be too obvious.

  The attention left her feeling awkward and gauche.

  The landlord had gone to fetch their drinks. She leaned in close to Summerton. “He said there were strangers about, but in here, do you think these people are local?”

  Even as she said it, a group of town men barged into the room. Summerton ignored them for her, his keen attention as disconcerting as the rest.