The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  Caroline felt relieved to hear Marsh trudging up the stairs—until the old servant, huffing and puffing in the doorway, spoke in her graveled voice. “Mistress, that Mister Hobbs is come calling again.”

  “Bloody hell,” Caroline muttered, then raised her voice. “Send him up, then.”

  “Aye, Mistress.” Marsh shuffled away.

  “For shame, Mistress Sutherland. You should be pleased to see your only kin.”

  Despite its mocking tone, his voice could melt a glacier. Caroline hadn’t even heard him on the steps. And though Marsh was too deaf to hear her cursing, Tobias Hobbs was not.

  Suppressing a shiver, Caroline turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, one fist braced against her glossy-white door casing, the other crumpling his woolen cap. Sweat spiked his cropped hair and glued his shirt to his chest. Mud and dung flecked his boots. “Get your grubby mitts off my woodwork,” she ordered him through her teeth, “and close the door behind you.”

  Without budging a finger from the door casing, Hobbs flashed his own teeth in a mirthless smile. “What a gracious hostess you are, Caroline. A true credit to London society. Or so I hear.”

  “And you are utterly repulsive. How dare you come to my home looking and smelling the way you do? What must my servants think?”

  His amber eyes narrowed. “At least my stench is that of an honest day’s work. ‘Tis more than I can say for yours.”

  “Mind your tongue,” she warned him. “Is it money again? Neville isn’t paying you enough to shovel horseshite?”

  Hobbs stepped into the room, hooked a boot on the edge of the door, and slammed it behind him. “No hands.” Sneer turned to scowl. “I’m here to see Horace.”

  “He’s in Birmingham,” Caroline hedged, scowling as well. “Why do you want to see him? And why the deuce would he care to see you?”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say, exactly.” It was the humiliating truth.

  “Well, tell him I said exactly that he’d best contact me when he returns. It takes too bloody long to ride to London from Wycliffe, and I’ll not do it again lest I know he’s home.” He gave her a leering smile. “Or if I need money. You’ll do for that.”

  “The devil I will!” Caroline stamped her foot and pointed at the door. “Get your buggering, stableman’s arse out of my house! This minute!”

  “Don’t look now, sweeting, but your pedigree is showing.”

  “Hush! Shut your filthy mouth, you stinking son of a b-”

  “Baron?” Hobbs supplied with an unpleasant smile. “Was that the word poised on those luscious lips, my beautiful base-born half-sister?” His smile fled. “Because I am, you know. The son of a baron.”

  “Mother should never have told you.” Caroline’s voice trembled with fury. “And dead or not, I’ll never forgive her for it.”

  “I’d as much right to know of my father as you did yours.”

  “And what good has it done you? Who’d believe you?” Scorn sharpened Caroline’s hoot of laughter. “He’d fetch you straightaway to Bedlam, your Lord Neville, and who’d blame him? For all the good your knowing does, Toby Hobbs, you might as well have had no sire at all!”

  He drew a ragged breath. “And you, Mistress Sutherland, might have married well, but deep down in your rotten core where none but you and I can see, you’re naught but a whoring, mongrel bitch. Nor will you ever be.”

  He slammed his hat on his head, then yanked the door open and strode onto the gallery, missing the awesome sight of tawny skin gone pale.

  *

  “It’s happened again, M’lord. This time McQuillen’s ewes in the north pasture, four down and one ailing. Kendall’s been and gone. ‘Tis arsenic, he says. Where the deuce does one fetch powdered arsenic?”

  “From a chemist.” Thorne opened his desk drawer, took out a gold-plated humidor and flipped the top, then held it out to Arthur.

  “The nearest we’ll come to a chemist in Wycliffe,” the steward mumbled as he lit the cigar, “is the good Doctor Hodges.”

  Thorne lit one and took a few puffs, then laid it down in the ash-receiver and squinted through the smoke. “Why should anyone want to kill off my stock?”

  Arthur exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and shook his head. “‘Tis beyond my reckoning.”

  Thorne drew hard on the cigar, then tamped it out. “Accounts are in good standing, cash reserves ample?”

  “Aye.” Arthur sat forward as his employer took up quill and parchment, scrawled a brief note, blotted it, and shoved it across the desk.

  “Show this to Graham and McQuillen. I’ll see to the other three. I want two men riding watch in three shifts from dusk to dawn. With lanterns, mind you. There’ll be no moon tonight. Assign Graham and McQuillen first watch, I’ll pair up with the odd man on second. The other two get third. We’ll keep vigil nightly ‘til we deem it unnecessary. And for now, the north pasture lies fallow.

  Arthur nodded. “Will there be-”

  “Hire two villagers,” Thorne went on, “men that can be trusted to stay sober and awake, to watch from atop the tower in separate shifts. Compensation, you were going to say?” He nodded toward the paper in Arthur’s hand. “More than adequate, I think.”

  Arthur glanced down, then cocked an eyebrow. “Adequate? You make it more profitable to let the vandal go unapprehended.”

  “A reward of five pounds in gold should hasten things along,” Thorne countered. “Want of sleep will do the rest.”

  *

  The sun dropped below the horizon, leaving wide slashes of tangerine and crimson in its wake. The beck turned to liquid topaz, the air to a haze of copper as the sheep kicked up dust on homeward-bound paths.

  Henry Pitts turned at the stable doorway to see Tobias Hobbs galloping Bartholomew down the Northampton road. He set down his pails of water and hurried into the yard. Hoping for a stick of candy from the London apothecary, he was handed two shillings instead. He grinned. “Thank ye, Master Hobbs!”

  Hobbs nodded. “All’s well?”

  “Aye, sir. The viscount’s daughter was here again! His lordship rode with her to Wycliffe to show her the church.” Henry’s eyes shone. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she, sir?”

  “She’s a lady, not a filly. Keep your tongue in your head, boy, your eyes, too. I saw a rider in the southwest pasture. Any notion why?”

  “Aye! There’s a watch out this eve, for vandals!”

  Hobbs frowned. “What the devil are you prattling about?”

  Henry told him what he’d heard.

  “Never mind, I’ll get to the bottom of it.” Hobbs patted Bartholomew. “I’ve run him too hard, poor chap. Rub him down before he catches his death.” He strode toward the stables. “Vandals,” he said with a snort, then spat in the dirt. “Shite!”

  *

  “Forgive the delay,” Thorne said, straddling the trestle opposite Arthur at Duncan’s public alehouse. “One of Milby’s bitches had a devil of a time whelping.”

  “Aye.” Arthur nodded Thorne’s shirtfront. “You’ve the proof to show for it. Ever a trial for the poor washerwomen, weren’t you? So, what say the herders?”

  “All champing at the bit. The others?”

  Arthur nodded. “And the young lady? You seem to have misplaced her.”

  “I left her at the church. She and the good vicar were deep in theology. He’ll escort her back to the Hall for supper.”

  A woman set a pint of Kentish ale in front of Thorne, then curtsied. “Good eve, M’lord, will ye take some victuals? I’ve just took out a steak-and-kidney pie.” She flashed a gap-toothed grin.

  “No, Lizzie, thank you all the same.” Thorne lowered his voice as she bustled away. “Milby says the north pasture had lain fallow for three days, so there’s no telling what night the deed was done.”

  “When’s your watch?”

  “At two, with Timmons. I should get some sleep.”

  “You won’t want to miss supper.” Arthu
r’s brown eyes twinkled in the light of the sputtering tallow flame. “Aren’t Radleigh and his daughter bound for London tomorrow?”

  Thorne grimaced. “Carswell will convey my apologies. I’m not up to dining with either of them, but the vicar will keep them entertained. I’ll see them off come morn.”

  “You’re that anxious to have her away, then?”

  “I’m that anxious to have her. Period.”

  “Ah.” Arthur looked down at his tankard. “You need some, ah, diversion. Is there someone you might…visit?”

  Thorne envisioned a pair of emerald eyes and a cascade of auburn hair. “There was someone until recently. I’ve severed ties with her.”

  “Only one woman?” Obviously trying to cover his surprise, Arthur cleared his throat, then murmured as his face flushed a shade darker, “‘Tis rumored there’s an uncommonly clean, pox-free place just outside London.”

  Thorne decided against validating that rumor.

  Arthur signaled for another pint, then leaned in on his elbows. “With all due respect, M’lord, and in the absence of your father, I’ll inqire—was this woman a virgin when you met her?”

  Thorne nearly choked on the dregs of his ale. “Hardly.”

  “Ah, a widow.” Arthur nodded sagely. “Different breed altogether. No wonder you’re avoiding Miss Stowington. Breaking a virgin is not a race, nor can you afford to be a loose cannon, even after you’re wed. My Anna surrendered her maidenhead on our wedding night, but some women are more skittish, and might require a se’nnight, even a fortnight or more.” Hearing Thorne’s soft groan, Arthur smiled. “Patience is the test of true manhood, M’lord. Dig your heels in and grit your teeth. ‘Tis well worth the torment in the end, when your bride is at last willing, perhaps even eager-”

  “There, that will do.” Thorne dropped his head into his hands and pressed hard on his temples. “Damn it, Pennington, I was under tight rein when I walked in here, and at this rate I’ll not be able to walk out. Not without embarrassing myself, at any rate. Bloody hell.”

  Chuckling, Arthur reminded him another pint was on the way.

  Conversation reverted to the watch, but Thorne’s mind was only half there. Patience be damned. I’ll at least know Gwynneth’s mind on the prospect of a betrothal.

  When Lizzie had come and gone, Thorne tapped his brimming tankard against Arthur’s, and with a “bottoms up” quaffed his ale. “Fortification,” he explained, seeing the steward’s bewilderment. He lay coin on the table and rose from the trestle. “For what lies ahead.”

  “Your two o’clock watch?”

  Thorne grinned. “Aye, that too.”

  *

  Standing in the Wycliffe road next morning, one hand on a flank of Arthur’s horse, Thorne watched Radleigh’s coach round the bend. “Yonder she goes, Arthur. The future Lady Neville.”

  “You’re betrothed, then, ring and all?”

  “I am. You’ll be glad to know I proposed on bent knee, and with a heartfelt speech.”

  “Caught you in a weak moment, did she?”

  Thorne smiled. “I won’t deny my libido was involved. But the fondness I professed was no less sincere for it.”

  Arthur snorted. “No doubt. And how does the Honourable Miss Stowington take to being the pawn in a predetermined match?”

  Thorne’s smile faded. “She doesn’t know. Radleigh thinks it best she never know this was our plan.”

  “Never?”

  “She believes he hatched it alone. She would have taken the vows at Saint Mary’s, you see. ‘Twas her life’s wish.”

  “Sweet Jesu.” Arthur shook his head.

  “Be glad she’s out of earshot, oh thou blasphemer,” Thorne said wryly, taking hold of the bridle. “Come, let me get horsed. You might have to nudge me awake now and then. I didn’t see my bed last night.” He chuckled at Arthur’s inquiring look. “No, my friend, nor did I see hers.”

  FOUR

  Even for a Saturday night, Duncan’s public alehouse seemed particularly rowdy. Maneuvering a tray of empty pewter tankards past the crowded trestle tables, Lizzie barely dodged a stream of spittle intended for the nearest cuspidor.

  “I hope you’ve better aim in the privy closet, mister!” she scolded over the din. A shout of laughter went up, while the guilty party blushed and choked on his ale as his mates slapped him on the back.

  “Here now, leave the lad alone, he’s a bit green is all.” The new arrival was a regular patron. “Lizzie, dearling, bring us a round…on me.”

  The ensuing catcalls and jeers didn’t faze Tom Barker. He sat down on the trestle with uncustomary dignity.

  “Perchance ye’ve come into some inheritance?” mocked one crony.

  “Same as.” Looking smug, Barker plunked a leather pounch down on the table and opened it to display a pile of shillings topped with several crinkled pound-notes and two gold sovereigns.

  A low whistle broke the sudden silence. “Where’d ye fetch a purse like that, Tommy? Been grave robbing, have ye?”

  Nervous laughter ended almost as soon as it began. Barker leaned in over the table, a leer on his face. “I been telling all of ye for years I’d find me a lady who’d pay what I’m worth.”

  Amid guffaws, the man who’d challenged Tom said with a sneer, “Come on, Barker, ye ol’ blowhard! Tell us who’s lying in the gutter with an empty purse now’t ye’ve gone and cold-cocked him.”

  Like a shot, Barker dove across the table, overturning ale tankards to grasp the man’s shirtfront with a beefy hand and twist it toward him. “Mind your manners, Jakey boy, ‘cause ye’re the only blowhard ‘round here!” His rheumy eyes bored into Jake’s, whose own began to bulge. Barker shoved him back on the trestle, then sat down and mopped his forehead with a sleeve. “I earned this pot fair and square,” he said, focusing his indignant look on each man in turn. “And if ye’re smart as ye think ye be,” he went on, voice rising as a titter of laughter threatened the tense silence, “ye’ll hold your tongues and enjoy what it buys. ‘Cause after all, me boys,” —he winked, a gap-toothed grin folding his jowls— “I be a sharing man!” He seized a foaming tankard from Lizzie’s tray and held it in the air.

  “Hear, hear!” some shouted, and the rest joined in as Lizzie set full tankards all around the table.

  The door to the street swung wide. Barker squinted through a pall of smoke at two new arrivals, his expression turning surly as he saw Duncan slip from behind the bar to lead them past the gaming and the empty hearth to a quiet corner. “Since when does Duncan give escort? Who does Neville think he is, the bloody king hisself?”

  A couple of Barker’s mates tried to hush him.

  “I ain’t going to be quiet if I don’t want to be,” he blustered, belching before he continued. “Look at his lordship’s fine linen” —he belched again, pointing a stubby finger— “shirt, aye, and them fine leather boots, will ye. Now there’s a man what’s never been hungry! He don’t fret for his next pence.” He banged a ham-like fist on the table. “I’ll wager nobody ever asked him whence his purse come! Never mind it come from the sweat of poor working folk, likely their blood as well-”

  “Shut your foul mouth, Tom Barker, ere I shut it for ye!”

  Apparently awed by Lizzie’s rare temper, every man at the table fell silent.

  “His lordship is a good man, a decent and just man,” she scolded, her nose just inches from Barker’s bulbous snout. “He’d give a body the shirt off his back if ‘twas needed—and ye know that, Tom Barker, ye know it well. ‘Twasn’t yourself that kept your mother out of the poorhouse them two bad years, now was it?”

  Barker’s eyes fell, then rose to see Lizzie holding a fresh pint just out of reach.

  “So if ye’ve any more foolishness to speak on his lordship, ye’ll have to say it elsewhere, do ye hear me, Tom Barker? And just ye try finding another of these within a twelve-league!”

  She glared at him until he dropped his gaze again; then she set the tankard down with a slosh.


  Far to the rear, oblivious of the little drama, Arthur Pennington rested his elbows on the table and covered a yawn.

  “William, much to Bridey’s distress, has volunteered to watch in your place,” Thorne told the steward. “You’re needed closer to home.”

  “You mean I should be home in bed,” Arthur countered. “Aye, and you’d best be snatching some rest yourself. Your young lady will be disappointed if you can’t stay on your feet to dance.”

  Thorne groaned. “I may be bored into sleep at this soirée or whatever the deuce it is the Sutherlands are hosting for us. Gwynneth is no more enthusiastic about it than I. She’s used to a quiet, country life.”

  “Aye, but a cloistered one. How will she adapt to being lady of the manor?”

  “Well enough, I think. She’s no shy violet, despite her piety.” Refilling the glasses, Thorne pulled a wry face. “Which is the one thing about her that grates upon me.”

  Arthur shrugged. “Let her have her piety, it needn’t affect your habits. Most women are taught to keep their opinions of men’s ways to themselves at any rate—at least ‘til they’re wed,” he said with a wink.

  Thorne chuckled. “Not at Saint Mary’s, apprarently. You should hear Gwynneth’s opinion on wagering.”

  “I’ll pass,” Arthur said soberly. “Perhaps you should, too.”

  “No.” Thorne gave him an affectionate smile. “No, my friend. As I see it, the winds are favorable enough. My course is set, and I embark happily on life’s journey, my mate at my side through fair weather and foul, for as long as she’ll have me.”

  Arthur regarded him silently, then lifted his glass. “Then bon voyage, my friend and liege…and may God go with you.”

  FIVE

  In the drawing room of his Covent Garden town house, Radleigh eased aside the chess board with its jade and rose quartz pieces poised in mid-match, and untied the ribbon around a sheaf of vellums.

  “Gwynneth’s dowry,” he said, pride in his voice.

  Thorne hesitated, then flattened the sheets on the table, then glanced over the list. Young ewes, beef cattle and dairy cows, oxen and horses appealed to him as a land baron and husbandman. For the Hall itself there was a Boulle cabinet inlaid with tortoiseshell and copper, two Carracci oils, a Cellini vase, a pewter table service for twenty, a full set of Meissen china, and sterling flatware. Then came bed linens, table linens, and tapestries, all either inherited or among Gwynneth’s own handiwork, along with lace she’d tatted and blankets she’d woven. For Thorne personally, a gold-hilted rapier in a gem-encrusted scabbard was catalogued, followed by a carved-ivory snuffbox and a sapphire-and-diamond brooch. Halfway down the second page, he encountered a sum of cash to be transferred into his holdings.