Biker Romance: Never Love an Exile (Exile Love Biker MC Series Book 3)

by Summers, Kara

  “Dammit, they’ll rouse or I’ll know the reason why!” Laverly bellowed, giving up on his sword and applying his fists to the hard oaken door.

  “Sir,” Harold said. “I’ll find a window and see what’s inside.”

  Laverly turned the doorknob. It opened without resistance.

  “Careful sir, it’s near dark. I don’t—“Harold muffled an oath as he tripped over something in the entranceway.

  The house was cold. It bore a musty, unused odor as if nothing fresh, neither human nor floral, had been inside its walls for too long.

  “Those blackguards,” Harold said in a long, exhaling breath of disbelief.

  “What is it?” Laverly asked, keeping his voice level with effort. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the French coming at him, it wasn’t swords or guns.

  “Sir, it looks to me like your house might have been robbed,” Harold said.

  “Robbed? Well I’m not surprised if the servants were so witless as to leave the door unlocked.”

  “Take my arm, sir, and we’ll head in a ways, and I’ll tell you what I see and you can tell me what it signifies,” Harold said.

  What it signified was that someone was going to get sacked, Laverly thought, but he said nothing to Harold, who linked his arm with Laverly while the postilion followed them.

  They went through the house that way, Harold describing what he saw, and Laverly realizing what was not there by the slim evidence that met Harold’s eyes of what remained. Room by room they walked, Harold’s amiability changing to grimness as he described furniture that was devoid of adornment, windows minus draperies, fireplaces forgotten, the ashes of a long-ago flame now cold. Now and again, there was the sound of a rustling that hinted at other inhabitants who had moved in to take advantage of a residence where humans would not disturb them.

  Laverly felt panic and rage at war within him. This was his home, the home of the titled Laverlys who had lived here for more generations than the Hanovers had ruled England. Vulgar, rough hands with no sense of beauty had violated the timeless elegance of this structure which had stood for centuries as a symbol of what England stood for, as a testament to the standards which the Laverlys and others of their class maintained. Warring with his anger was fear. With no servants, how could he manage? How could he heat water for his bath, or procure food for his meals? He had no valet; how would he shave himself, or comb his hair or don his clothes? He had never lived without the assistance of those who were paid to wait on him, except for his sojourn in the hospital when he had been bathed, fed, and cared for following his injuries, but that was not an attendance that he cared to recall.

  “Sir, why not come back to the inn with us,” Harold coaxed. “We’ll set this right come morning, we’ll find someone to work here, and my wife’ll get someone to clean and we’ll have Laverly Hall set to rights in no time.. But it’s getting on for dark, sir, and beggin’ your pardon, this isn’t a good time for you to be here this way. You’ll need to eat and---“

  “I shall stay here tonight and every night,” Laverly said firmly, and with the authority his title had always afforded him. “This is my home.”

  “Yes, I know that sir, but you can see—“

  The Duke barked out a laugh. “No, my good man, I can’t see. That is precisely the problem.”

  In the end, because he would not relent, the two men, calling on the coachman for assistance, put the drawing room to rights. There was no food, but Harold said he would send provisions over first thing in the morning and his Lucy would send over fresh bread that she’d made herself. Lucy baked bread fit for quality, Harold assured Laverly, who was not hungry and didn’t give a damn what the woman baked. They cleared the drawing room so that he could maneuver around without obstacles. The postilion got a fire going, although he said apologetically that he’d put it out before they left for safety reasons, but they’d get blankets so that His Lordship could sleep.

  Come morning, Harold said optimistically, they’d get this straightened out. He refused the gold piece that Laverly tried to force on him, but the postilion wasn’t so reluctant; when Harold went to fetch water in a pitcher so that His Lordship could drink, and a chamber pot so that he could attend to the calls of nature, Laverly pressed a coin into the postilion’s hand for him and for the coachmen; the coins disappeared with a furtive thank you.

  “Reckon you’ll be all right, sir. I checked all around and I don’t see no windows broken. All the same, I’d sleep with that sword by me side if I was you. Never know-”

  It was sound advice from a man who seemed to believe the worst of his fellow humans, and Laverly assured Harold that he intended to do just that.

  “We’ll be back in the morning, sir. Things always look better in the morning,” Harold said as the three men prepared to leave.

  Perhaps they did, Laverly thought, when one could see in the morning. But as that would not be the case, he did not expect to detect an improvement when the sun rose. However, he did not share his view with the good-natured Harold who seemed genuinely troubled at the prospect of leaving him. But Laverly insisted, accepting Harold’s promise which had by now taken on the semblance of a holy vow, that he would be back come morning and they’d get it all set to rights.

  He also insisted on walking the two men to the door as if they were guests and he the host. They were no such thing, certainly, but he felt that he owed them some kind of recognition for their efforts. He stood in the doorway until he heard the post-chaise leave, and then he closed the door.

  Chapter Two

  The cold did not particularly bother him; years of military life had hardened him to the absence of such niceties as heat. He had not eaten but he was not particularly hungry; an army did not eat according to civilian hours. The chaise upon which he spread out was much more comfortable than accommodations in the field. But as he laid down, having removed his jacket and boots, he felt engulfed by a sense of despair that was in some ways more powerful than what he had experienced when the bandages were removed from his eyes and he could see no more than very vague, misshapen outlines.

  Somewhere in his thoughts, he had conceived of home as a refuge. He had not been blind at home; he had been a young man with a young man’s interests and pursuits. Every horse, every fox hunt, every Lord’s daughter he’d courted and every village wench he’d dallied with, had testified that he had been a whole man. That he was not, in his perception, whole any longer made those recollections all the more precious. To have his home abandoned, with no staff to tend to the property or to his own needs, was a bitter violation of his heritage. He was Dennison St. John of Laverly Hall, and when he’d left to take up his commission five years ago, Laverly Hall had been elegant and spacious, with furnishings that were an artful blend of family heirlooms and the Duchess of Laverly’s exquisite eye for taste. The servants had been an integral part of the running of the household. How many times had he bribed a footman to wait up and open the door for him so that his family would not hear him returning late at night—or early in the morning—from an adventure which involved a willing girl or a scrape of recklessness?

  The house had never been this silent. Not being able to see made the darkness an affliction of the soul as much as an impediment to the eyes. He felt entombed in this room that had been filled with conversation and laughter during his growing-up years. His father had been a reserved man, his mother vivacious, but their marriage had proved to be a mix of personalities that suited one another. He remembered the deaths of his parents; their passing had not been so long ago. He had expected the Hall to retain their memory for him. Now the house was cold and vacant and he was attempting to fall asleep on the chaise in the drawing room. And he couldn’t see a bloody thing. Sleep was elusive, although he tried to divert his thoughts so that slumber could come. Finally, after much readjusting of his body to attempt to get comfortable on the chaise, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  He was awake before morning. He could sense the difference between light and dark,
although he couldn’t actually tell the hours. Laverly rose from the makeshift bed and washed himself in the basin that had been left out for him, the chilled water bracing. He didn’t dare to shave himself yet, but as he rubbed his hand along his jaw, he realized that learning to tend to his toilet was of paramount importance in the absence of a valet. He opened one of his trunks; his clothing had been packed for him but according to his instructions. Not that it mattered in the least any more what clothing he wore, but he had no intention of appearing clownishly attired in an ill-suited matching of trousers and shirt. There was no use in attempting a fashionable coif so he merely combed his hair to rid it of the tangles from sleep.

  He heard the approach of horses outside, and went to the door.

  “Good morning, sir,” called out Harold, sounding cheery and refreshed.

  “Good morning,” he returned.

  “Good morning, sir. It’s a lovely day.” Harold’s wife; he recognized the voice. “We’ve come to work, sir.”

  “Who’s minding the inn?”

  “Oh, we’ve got kin,” she answered. “We’re going to turn Laverly Hall back into itself again, sir. There’s me and my girls and we’re ready to work.”

  “There’s nothing they don’t know about cleaning,” Harold boasted.

  “Judging from the state of the Hall, you’re likely to learn a few new things,” Laverly predicted drily. “This time, you will accept payment.” He said it, as he intended, as a command.

  “That’s very kind, sir. Well, we’ll be getting started. Harold, you and the boys will see to the stables and the grounds?”

  Harold barked out a command and Laverly heard the swift assault of young limbs upon the ground as they headed off to do their father’s bidding.

  “You seem to have brought a regiment,” Laverly commented.

  “We’ve a big family,” Harold answered.

  Laverly resolved that the family would profit from their labors. It was, he realized, kindness and not the hope of gain that had sent Harold and his wife to his aid. He was in their debt, but at least with the lower classes, one could redeem one’s dignity with gold. It would not be said that the Duke of Laverly was dependent upon an innkeeper.

  “Sir,” Harold began hesitantly. “I wonder if I could be of service, until you find a man, and shave you?”

  Laverly was startled. He rubbed his jaw, as he had done earlier. “I am a bit whiskery,” he acknowledged. “Yes, that would be preferable.”

  It turned out that Harold, for all his rough-hewn ways and common background, was actually a deft hand with a razor. Laverly was accustomed to his valet’s ways, but he was gone, and Harold knew what he was about. As he worked, he talked.

  “I’m by way of doing a lot of things, it’s the way of the trade,” Harold said “I thought that, while the wife and the rest are working, we could -- that is, you might want to make an appearance, sir? Word’ll be out that you’re back but your tenants haven’t seen you in years. ‘Twould be good if they could be reminded that there’s a Laverly in residence again. You can let it be known—if that’s your wish, of course—that you’re seeking trustworthy servants for the Hall. Seems to me—if you agree—that you need a cook first off. Then a girl to clean, and a lad to do the grounds. Wouldn’t hurt to have two of each.”

  “Yes,” Laverly said slowly, startled to discover that the humble innkeeper had appraised his staffing needs with such acuity. “Yes, that would be helpful.”

  “If you like, we could ride out on your lands and make the rounds. You’ll be wanting horses again, no doubt?”

  “I’ve no intention of riding to hounds, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I’m very much afraid that the Laverly social season is not about to resume any time soon,” Laverly said with a sigh.

  “You’ll need horses to draw a wagon or a carriage, sir. You’ll be needing a stableman of some sort,” Harold persisted doggedly. “Someone to go with you to buy the horses you need. You’d be using your hands anyway to judge the horseflesh.”

  Laverly said nothing. Harold was plainly trying to present rational objectives without causing offense. A blind man couldn’t see the flaws in a horse; eyes were needed for that. But an experienced rider knew what to look for, using his hands to assess the mount.

  “Quite right,” he said. “Have you anyone in mind?”

  “There’s a likely lad, sir, wounded in the war, but he gets around well enough, and he knows horses better than anyone I can think of. There you go, sir, all shaved, and looking like a gentleman again.”

  “Wounded? Where was he wounded?” Laverly felt his chin; Harold had done a proper job of shaving him. “You’re on your way to being a gentleman’s gentleman, Harold. I haven’t had so fine a shave in weeks.”

  “Thank ‘ee, sir. He’s got a bit of a limp, sir. Wounded in the leg, but it don’t hold him back none.”

  They were heading outside, Harold performing a strange sort of dance which allowed him to walk sideways so that he could offer support to Laverly without actually walking in front of him. When they were on the stairs, the ruse had to end. Laverly accepted the innkeeper’s arm, walking in the slow, step-by-step formation that allowed him to gain his bearings upon each level before descending to the next one. It was clumsy but Laverly felt as if he had a slim measure of control over his movements rather than depending entirely upon someone else to steer him.

  “Where was he wounded? What place?”

  “Oh, I – sorry, Sir. Salamanca.”

  Salamanca. “I was there,” Laverly said brusquely. He should have known that a lad from his village was there as well. He had never bothered with anyone who wasn’t an officer. It wasn’t as if their paths would cross, he told himself. But still, he could have done something, perhaps send a letter to the family to alert them of their son’s injury but reassuring them that he would survive. Perhaps the family couldn’t read, he told himself as Harold instructed where to put his hands so that he could ascend into the wagon; most village families were illiterate. But that was no excuse—

  “Here, sir, Lucy made bread, just like I said she would. There’s cheese in the parcel. It’s not what you’re used to, but my Lucy is a fine baker.”

  Hungrily, Dennison tore off a large hunk of the bread. “It’s very good,” he said, adding, “Thank you. I hadn’t realized how hungry I am.”

  “Shouldn’t wonder,” Harold said. The horses took off at a slow, ambling pace. “You ain’t et since you were at the inn.”

  “I should think that your Lucy will be able to find me a serviceable cook,” Dennison said.

  “More than serviceable, sir. She’ll want the best. We’ll leave one of our girls and lads to bide with you in the meantime, if that suits your will. All my girls can cook and clean, and my boys know how to put their backs into a task. They’re respectful, too sir. You won’t have to fret over them.”

  “I’m obliged,” Laverly said in a low voice.

  “The Laverlys have always been good masters,” Harold said cheerfully. “In hard times, they were always kind. We had a good harvest this year.”

  “I don’t suppose any of the servants bothered to plant?”

  “Sorry, sir, no. Anyway, I can only guess that food will be sent up to the Hall, once all know you’re back. ”

  Laverly had another though. “The livestock? Did you see any of the livestock on the grounds?”

  But Harold didn’t know what had been the fate of the cattle, sheep, and pigs that had provided the family with meat. “Sold off, likely, by the servants, but I couldn’t say for sure, sir.”

  “Yes, I understand. I suppose I’ll have to begin it all again. Tell me, do you have someone in your estimable family who happens to know anything about livestock?”

  Harold did, but he was hesitant. “Sir, it won’t do if it looks as though my family is taking all the jobs,” he said bluntly. “There are plenty among your tenants who can do the job. Best to look to one of them.”

  “Thank you,” Laverly sa
id.

  “Lucy put me in mind of it. She said it was for you to decide which were to work for you. Reckon we know everyone, me and Lucy have lived nearby since we was born. But folks’ll want a chance. We can tell you who we think is honest, sir, and the vicar can tell you if we’re truth telling.”

  “Is Lester still the vicar? My parents used to have him to dine after services on Sunday.”

  “He’s retired, sir, and living in Devon, where he’s from. There’s a new fellow, Reverend Stone. He’s a good ‘un. Not afraid to lend a hand with the haying if it’s needed.” From Harold’s words, it was apparent that he valued the physical abilities of a man of the cloth as much as his spiritual attributes.

  “I reckon he’d welcome an invitation to Laverly Hall, sir,” said Harold enthusiastically.

  “An invitation? To Laverly Hall? You must be in jest. How would I invite callers?”

  “Beg your pardon, sir, but if callers are welcome, they’ll come. My Lucy might not be up to London standards, but she can cook a fine meal that will please your guests. Give her a recipe, sir, and she’ll serve up a real feast. It’s the company, surely, that makes the meal worthwhile.”

  The man was a hopeless yokel. One’s table defined one’s ability to host, and hosting depended upon manners, style, the right assembly of guests, and a deft host who could engage people. Certainly food mattered, one didn’t want to give the impression that one’s staff was unfamiliar with the delicacies that adorned the most fashionable tables in Mayfair. But a social occasion of any kind, whether it was a supper or a ball, required an artistry that Laverly knew he lacked. He could not see. There would be no guests invited to dine at Laverly Hall.

  “Where are we?” he asked, sparing Harold the rough edge of his tongue for the ludicrous suggestion that a blind man could play host. “Which of the tenants are we approaching?”

  Harold was eager to turn to a different subject. “The Cantwells, sir.”

  “Cantwells?”

  “Farmers, sir. Josiah Cantwell and Elsie, and their six. You might not remember them,” Harold said.