“Will you be needing a room?” Congenial, he glanced at the corner stairs, now with no sign of Bagley Crumb slinking through the shadows. “If so, I’ve a one left, though I should tell you that the floor slants and this strong a wind will be blowing ash from the chimney. But there’s a clean bed and-”
Lucian raised a hand, cutting him off. “I expect to be back in London before dark,” he said, hoping he spoke true. “If that changes, I’ll look in again later.”
The innkeeper nodded. “A meal? As you’re feeding my patrons, you might as well tuck into something yourself.”
“Nae, I must be on my way.”
“Expected somewhere, are you?” The innkeeper picked up his towel, resuming his task of tankard polishing. “Not much out there, back beyond Spaniards.”
He glanced at Lucian as he rubbed a shine onto a pewter tankard. “Bogland and old sandpit ponds, is about it.”
“Aye, well…” Lucian finished his ale, then looked across the taproom, studying the men at the tables, and a small group throwing darts in a corner.
He turned back to the innkeeper. “If Alan Steckles is one of thon gentlemen, I needn’t travel any farther. Is he here?”
“Alan was in, earlier. Brought milk, butter, and eggs, as he does, but he’s gone now.” The innkeeper lifted a brow. “He’s not in trouble?”
“Nae, no’ at all.” Lucian threw a glance at the rattling windows, not surprised to see the clouds darkening. “I’ve heard he’s a fine woodcarver and I have need of one,” he said, sure the gods would forgive him the twist of the truth.
Lady Melissa’s business was hers, and no one else’s.
“That he is.” The innkeeper smiled. “So you’ve not met him?”
“Nae.” Lucian shook his head. “I’d hoped to catch him here. It seemed easier. Word was I’d find his cottage by watching out for his pet badger.”
To his surprise, the innkeeper’s lips twitched. “Who told you that?”
“The friend who recommended him,” Lucian said, not missing that the entire public room had again gone silent. “Is there no such a pet then?”
“Oh, he has a badger, right enough. I’m not sure I’d call him a pet, though.”
Lucian angled his head, his ears catching a strange sound from behind him in the taproom.
A noise that could’ve been muffled sniggers.
He frowned and turned around, eyeing the men at the tables. They stared back at him, looking innocent. The few who didn’t meet his gaze were applying all their energy to meat pies or bowls of steaming chicken or potato soup.
The two serving wenches avoided his eyes.
They were also blushing, their cheeks almost as red as the cheery fire on the hearth grate.
Lucian knew when something was up. “So his badger bites, eh?”
His question earned gales of laughter from nearly everyone present. Only the innkeeper struggled to keep a straight face.
“That would be something,” the man said, shaking his head. “I’ve never heard of the beast hurting anyone.”
More laughter.
Lucian decided to leave. But before he did, he wanted clarity.
So he drew himself to his full height – which he suspected was a good deal taller than most men present – and assumed an earnest expression, which wasn’t easy with so many men dashing at a laugh tears.
“Steckles’ Frogbottom is no’ far from this inn, is that correct?” he asked of the innkeeper. “Down the road I saw winding back beyond your courtyard?”
“That’s the way.” The innkeeper nodded. “Just follow that road past a few sandpit ponds till you reach the largest. That’s where-”
“Steckles’ badger guards his bloody gate,” someone called from near the hearth fire. “You’ll see him, for sure.”
“So it seems.” Lucian nodded to the man and made for the door, almost glad for the cold wind that tore at his cloak and made his eyes burn, the moment he stepped out the inn’s door.
“A pet badger as a guard dog,” he muttered as he waited for a stable lad to fetch his horse.
The English were an odd bunch, indeed.
~*~
A short ride and only a few minutes later, or so it seemed, he saw that the joke was on him.
Farmer Steckles did have a badger.
But the creature wasn’t a pet.
He was a huge snarling beast-of-wood who somehow managed to look both ferocious and amused as he ‘guarded’ the tree-lined approach to Frogbottom Cottage.
Apparently carved into the base of a once-massive tree, the badger also kindly confirmed the location by holding up a sign that declared that this was Frogbottom.
Lucian didn’t know whether to be perturbed or to laugh, then decided on the latter.
Steckles obviously had a sense of humor.
He was also an excellent craftsman, as Lady Melissa and others had said. The badger looked so real that his eyes almost glittered. His gaze seemed to follow Lucian as he rode past toward the small stone cottage that was set well back from the heath track, close to a cluster of lichened boulders at the edge of a large sandpit pond. Clearly ancient, the cottage also indicated the farmer was at home as earthy-sweet turf smoke rose from the chimney.
Sheep bleated somewhere close by and Lucian was sure he also caught the moo’ing of a cow. A large gray cat came around the corner of the cottage and stood staring at him, but Lucian ignored the cat and didn’t bother to look for the other animals.
The air had turned much colder, the wind was quickening, and the first large drops of rain began to fall just as he reined in and swung down from his saddle.
The cottage’s red-painted door opened at once and a bearded man with shaggy iron-gray hair smiled at him from the threshold. Over sixty, if Lucian guessed rightly, the man – he assumed Alan Steckles – had lined, leathery skin that revealed a long, hard life spent outdoors, but his blue eyes were bright, and welcoming.
“Mr. Steckles?” Lucian strode forward. “Lucian MacRae, Laird of Lyongate in Scotland,” he said, smiling.
“That I can tell.” The older man opened the door wider, gesturing him inside. “And, aye, I’m Steckles.”
Lucian hesitated before he ducked beneath the low-cut lintel. “Do you always give strangers such a welcome?”
The farmer chuckled. “If they pass old Bamber, aye.”
“The badger?”
“So it is.” Steckles moved aside so Lucian could step past him into the cozy, lantern-lit cottage.
As he’d known, a turf fire glimmered in the hearth. Simple but clean red-and-white striped curtains hung at the open windows, but the farmer went there now to close the shutters against the worsening rain. The stone-flagged floor proved well-swept, and the splendidly-made but unpretentious table and chairs, and benches, were spotlessly clean and well-scrubbed. If anything, Frogbottom Cottage could have been a Highland croft, transported to the vastness of London’s Hampstead Heath.
But one thing set Steckles’ home apart…
Shelves lined the walls and each one brimmed with wooden carvings of every imaginable woodland creature. Larger carvings crowded corners, mostly domestic animals. Life-size renditions of dogs and cats, wearing collars or bows, and like Bamber the Badger, they all looked uncannily real.
About to bark, meow, wag a tail, or start forward to saunter proudly across the room so that his or her feline grace could be duly displayed and admired.
Lucian looked back at the farmer, not surprised to see a hint of pride in his eyes.
“I am impressed,” Lucian spoke true.
“So was Badger or you wouldn’t be here.” Steckles pulled out a chair at his table, indicating Lucian should sit.
When he did, the farmer nipped into a tiny kitchen niche and busied himself preparing tea, and then returned to the table with a teapot, mugs, a small pitcher of fresh and creamy milk, and a platter of what Lucian, as a Highlander, would call thick, fresh-baked oatcakes, and cheese. All this Steckles arranged neatly bef
ore his guest before taking his own seat and encouraging Lucian to help himself.
Lucian did, pouring a cup of steaming tea. “So the locals were right. The badger is your watchdog?”
Steckles chuckled. “You were at Spaniards?”
“Aye.” Lucian tried his tea, sure he’d never tasted better.
Though, were he honest, he suspected the afternoon’s raw weather had something to do with that. Highlanders appreciated a steaming cuppa when a cold wind raced around the eaves and rain beat on the roof.
“The way I figure…” The farmer leaned back in his chair and took a long sip of tea. “I am who I am, and how I am,” he said, holding Lucian’s gaze. “Folk who come to Frogbottom are three sorts. Many hope to commission a woodcarving, or to pick up one they’ve ordered. Such folk will not be troubled by Badger’s presence at the gate.
“Indeed, they are then more likely to want my carvings.” He set down his cup. “Others are friends and they, likewise, aren’t bothered by Badger. The rest…”
He shrugged, looking amused. “Aye, well. Such folk who find it odd to have a giant badger guarding a gate? They can keep on walking or riding past my little patch of this good green earth. I wouldn’t be getting on with such souls, and they sure wouldn’t care to come spend time with me.”
“Then I am honored Bamber let me pass.” Lucian wondered what it said about him that he admired the farmer so much.
The reason was the older man could be a Highlander, he supposed.
“What made you carve him out there?” He found he wanted to know. “And so large?”
“Badgers are big animals.” The farmer spread his hands. “Have you ever seen a small one?”
Lucian chuckled this time. “No’ that I recall.”
“The truth is I liked that old tree Bamber is carved from.” Steckles leaned forward to top Lucian’s tea. “A huge old oak, it was – till a lightning strike split it in two and sent most of it crashing to the ground. I was heartsick for days, and one morning bright and early, I found a badger sitting by the stump.
“The beastie gave me such a long look that the idea came to me to honor him by doing a carving of him. So I gave new life to my favorite tree by creating Bamber from what remained of the massive trunk.
“That was the way of it.” He sat back, turning a speculative look of his own on Lucian. “And now I’m wondering what sort of visitor you are? I don’t think you’re here for a carving. Nor have we met, so you aren’t a friend coming to call.”
He paused, considering. “You’re also not local, so…?”
“I am here on a matter that regards Lady Melissa Tandy,” Lucian said. “She thinks highly of you and has told me of your assistance with her aged coach horses.”
“She is a fine young woman.” The farmer’s eyes warmed. “So she is a friend of yours?”
“Nae. She is to be my wife.”
Steckles’ brows shot upward. “I hadn’t heard she planned to marry.”
Neither has she… yet.
Lucian could hardly contain his own amazement at his oh-so-calmly stated pronouncement. But now that he’d made it, the rightness of it swelled inside him, assuring him that he wanted nothing more than to claim the lass as his bride.
No maid would suit him better.
He was certain of that, so he smiled at the farmer, his heart warming when the older man beamed and slapped the table.
“I knew there was a reason Bamber liked you,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “So what can I do for you? What is this matter concerning Mellie… er, ah… Lady Melissa?”
“She’s worried about her horses.” Lucian was blunt. “She believes they are in danger and that they need to be removed from Cranleigh at the soonest, all of them. I agree, hence coming to speak with you.”
“I will do what I can.” The farmer didn’t hesitate. “I’ll need to round up some local lads and have them act at night, getting the horses away to Crickhollow-”
“It is too late for that.” Lucian shook his head. “The beasts are to come to my home in Scotland. I want them shipped up and around the coast to Lyongate Hall.”
The farmer’s eyes rounded. “I don’t have the funds or means to do that,” he said. “Much as I’d like to help.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself with the cost.” Lucian now knew he’d gone fully mad, but another part of him was elated he had the means to help. “I’ll make all arrangements. You just need to hire men to assist you and then get the horses safely to the ship.”
Reaching beneath his cloak, he retrieved a plump coin pouch and placed it on the table between them.
“This money should take care of your costs,” he said, well aware it would do that, and more. “If anything else arises, contact my London solicitor, Mr. Henry Brentwood. He will have instructions to serve you in any way.”
The farmer stared at him. “I don’t know what to say.”
Lucian stood. “Just agree, and all will be well.”
“Oh, I will see it done.” Steckles scrambled to his feet, nodding. “I’d do anything for Lady Melissa. And for those poor coach horses she’s rescued.”
Lucian nodded. “Then you have my gratitude. She would be greatly troubled if harm came to them.”
“Oh, no, oh, no,” the farmer agreed. “We cannot allow that to happen.”
Lucian started for the door, but Steckles grabbed his arm before he could go but a few feet.
“Wait…” The farmer released him, but stood between Lucian and the door. “I am a man of honor, lord. That money bag holds more coin than I’ll need. Can I do anything else for you?”
Lucian considered.
There was something, but he feared he’d shock the farmer if he asked.
“Anything at all, sir.” Steckles glanced at his turf fire, then back to Lucian. “I owe a debt to the gel’s father,” he said. “‘Twas himself who bought me this cottage. He liked a carving I did of his favorite hound so much, he wanted me to have a place close to London where he would then encourage the gentry to purchase my carvings.”
“I see.” Lucian smiled, deciding he liked Melissa’s late father.
He also made another quick decision…
“Ah, well,” he began, “you know I stopped by the Spaniards Inn?”
The farmer bobbed his head.
Lucian leaned in to whisper his wish in the farmer’s ear.
Not surprisingly, when he straightened, he saw that Steckles’ cheeks had reddened.
“That would cause quite a stir, lord.” He pulled on his beard, uncomfortable.
Lucian set a hand on his shoulder, strove to reassure him. “Such a measure surely won’t be necessary. I’d just like your help if needed.”
“Then you shall have it,” the farmer agreed.
“You are a good man.” Lucian meant it.
He also smiled at the farmer when he opened the cottage door. Blessedly, the rain had dwindled to less than a drizzle and the wind was no longer as fierce. Lucian’s horse had kept dry beneath a lean-to and the beast trotted over to him now, ready for the ride back out of Hampstead Heath and on to London.
But just before Lucian mounted and rode away, another thought came to him and he turned, calling out to the farmer before he could nip back inside his cottage.
“Ho, Steckles,” he called. “I have one last favor.”
The farmer waited, clearly willing.
“There is a man in some trouble,” Lucian said, already swinging up into his saddle. “Mr. Bagley Crumb, a patron of Spaniards. Do you know him?”
“We all do, lord. He’s a fine man, though his luck is poor.”
“Aye, well, perhaps no more.” Lucian smiled. “Take whatever sum is needed from the money pouch and pay the man’s rent and any other debts. Better yet, after you’ve done that, tell him my solicitor will be in touch with his landlord to purchase his cottage for him.”
The farmer’s brows arced clear to his hairline. “You will do all that for Bagley?”
&n
bsp; “Consider the gesture my thanks to you and whoever here helps you with Lady Melissa’s horses. Do you understand everything that needs to be done?”
“Right, sir, I do.” The farmer grinned.
“Then I bid you farewell,” Lucian said, and rode toward Bamber the Badger and the heath road.
He was also now quite certain that the English weren’t the only addled ones. Somewhere between Lyongate and London, he’d lost his own wits.
Or was it his heart?
Chapter Nine
Two days later, Melissa stood in the green-and-gold drawing room at Cranleigh Manor and came to the shocking conclusion that desperation, not love, was the most powerful of all emotions.
Until a very short while ago, she never would have guessed.
She’d believed, as had her mother, that nothing could match the power of love.
Now she knew better.
Sir Hartle Hutsby occupied her late father’s favorite chair by the fire and to her horror, in the light of the crackling flames, he looked even older than the room’s faded and frayed silk-covered wall behind him. Clearly an ancient, his skin appeared almost translucent and she could see every blue vein in his face and on his hands.
She didn’t want to consider what she’d find if she could see more of his bared flesh.
The prospect was one she hoped to avoid at all costs.
Especially as his eyes seemed to have not aged, his gaze sharp and decidedly lusty as he eyed her up and down. He wasn’t even listening to her stepmother’s fawning attentions. Her assurance that Melissa would indeed become his third wife.
“I will not do it,” Melissa said. “I made that clear before we went to London and I am repeating it here and now.”
“The matter is already settled.” Lady Clarice rested a hand on the back of Sir Hartle’s chair. “You should be ecstatic. You shall be the new lady of Rosedale Hall. A Tudor treasure.”
And owned by a man who could be a Tudor.
“I do not care,” Melissa said aloud. She felt the floor shifting beneath her feet, tilting and rolling as if she stood on a ship. A wave of dizziness also seized her, so she put a hand to her breast and inhaled deeply through her nose.
A Rake Like No Other (Regency Rendezvous Book 12) Page 7