Elaine stiffened. “You’re suggesting I’ve been to see Hobbs, M’lord?”
His silence was answer enough.
“I have not seen the man since the day he spurned me,” she said firmly. “I only dressed so because…” Her words faded into embarrassed silence.
“You knew the room would be cold,” Lord Neville ventured, “that the fire would soon be out.” Eyeing her intently, he awaited her nod, then spoke again. “You’ve come here before?”
“Yes, M’lord.”
“Once, twice?”
She steeled herself. “Many times, M’lord.”
He filled his glass again. “And what do you read here?”
Elaine searched his face for some sign of disapproval, but found none. “All manner of things, M’lord. There are so many wonderful volumes…but of course you know precisely what is on these shelves. How stupid of me.”
Thorne’s mouth turned up at one corner. “I’m surprised I haven’t discovered you here before.”
Elaine almost smiled. “You very nearly have, sir, more than once.”
“Do you come every night?”
She shook her head. “I used to, before you returned from university.”
“I see. Then I spoiled it for you.”
“Oh, no, M’lord!” Mortified, she pressed a hand to her chest. “I meant no such thing…I only meant it was easier…”
“Go on.”
“‘Twas easier to steal away here then, knowing no one would be about because no one used the room then, not even during the day, though I cleaned it regularly, which is how I came to be so interested in its contents, as I’ve always loved to read.” She drew a breath. Good heavens, he must think her absolutely giddy. At least his brooding frown had disappeared, indeed his eyes seemed to twinkle in the firelight.
“So,” he said, amusement in his voice, “my return forced you to play a game of cat and mouse to do your reading.”
“Yes,” Elaine admitted ruefully. “But I am less clever than I supposed, since tonight I thought…” Encouraged by Lord Neville’s amiable expression, she went on. “I thought that you and her ladyship had retired for the night, that I was quite safe in coming.”
He smiled briefly, but the light had gone out of his eyes. “Aye, well, I hadn’t planned to be in this room at all tonight.” Abruptly he quaffed the contents of his glass, then glanced at the mantel clock. “You’d better get some rest, Combs, and not only for yourself.” He glanced at her midsection.
Elaine struggled to keep tears at bay; sometimes she wished he were less kind. “If you please, M’lord, I must say something before I go.”
“Can it wait?” He was filling his glass again.
“No, M’lord, it cannot. Nor should it,” she added firmly, seeing his cocked eyebrow.
“Say it, then, quickly.”
“I should like to express my gratitude for the situation you’ve given me, M’lord. Your kindness is unique among the nobility. I am indebted to you.” She dropped a curtsey at his inquiring look.
“You’ve definite opinions, then, Combs, in regard to nobility.”
“M’lord?”
“You say my kindness is unique. You’ve been treated less kindly by someone of my circumstance?”
Elaine hesitated. “I would rather not say, M’lord.”
He studied her face. “Well, you needn’t feel indebted to me. Your new situation wasn’t especially created, nor am I particularly kind. The seamstress was in need. However, if the work in some way lessens your burdens just now, I’m glad for it.”
She nodded, grasping the diplomacy behind his denial. “Thank you, M’lord. May I pose one question?” At his silence, she boldly continued. “How does her ladyship feel about my staying on?”
Was there a flicker of ire in that inscrutable expression? If so, it fled as quickly as it appeared.
“I’ve explained it to Lady Neville,” he said, “as I did to you just now. She sees the wisdom of my decision and will abide by it.”
Elaine curtsied again. “Good night, M’lord.” Approaching the library doors, she halted, arrested by his voice—and its studied indifference.
“Combs, a good seamstress should value her fingers, and not be chilling them to the bone over a book every night.”
Her heart sank. “Yes, M’lord.” She reached for the door handle.
“Henceforward,” he said brusquely, “regardless of my whereabouts, a fire shall burn here throughout the evening.”
*
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Milady?”
Gwynneth shaded her eyes. “Have you seen his lordship this morning?”
“Aye, Milady. He rode early this morning to meet Pennington for rounds. Shall I fetch him for you?”
“No! No, never mind. Thank you, Hobbs.”
He bowed as she turned to go.
“Will you be riding today, Milady?”
“Perhaps,” Gwynneth called back, already preoccupied keeping her skirts above the muck as she wended her way back through the stable yard.
Hobbs watched her until it occurred to him that someone at the Hall could be watching him, then turned back to his chores. He couldn’t imagine why Neville would abandon his wife’s bed so early without a word.
Sickening jealousy stabbed Hobbs through as he recalled their rendezvous yesterday at the Hollow. Bloody exhibitionists, the both of them, and her as much a whore as any other wench, for all her convent upbringing.
Swearing softly, he kicked a tabby mouser out of his path, then spat in the direction of Raven’s stall.
*
“Lady Neville awaits your lordship in the library with a caller,” Jennings announced, looking unusually tight-lipped. “Lord Whittingham, M’lord.”
Stunned, Thorne stared at his head-footman. He hadn’t heard seen the earl, whose birth surname he’d yet to recall, for nearly a decade.
He found Gwynneth looking repulsed but fascinated as she listened to their caller regale her with God-knew-what sort of tale. Hargrove, that was it—Lionel Stanford Hargrove, eleventh Earl of Whittingham. Leaning forward in his seat, the man all but devoured Gwynneth with his beady black eyes. At least fifty years old, he had the same thick mustache and head of hair as always, apparently scorning wigs as Thorne did, but vain enough to dye his hair. A scar Thorne didn’t remember marred the swarthy brow.
“Young Neville,” Lord Whittingham chortled, rising to greet Thorne. “To think, you’re lord and master of the Hall now! Do you remember me?”
“Aye, my lord.” Thorne bowed. “But you’ll forgive me for remembering your daughter more clearly.”
He felt, rather than saw, Gwynneth’s sudden alertness.
The earl sobered. “Aye, you and my Maddie were good friends indeed.”
The two men waited to sit while Gwynneth rang for an early tea. “So, my lord, what brings you our way after all this time?” Thorne wanted to know.
Lord Whittingham looked Gwynneth over as they all sat down. “In truth, I had hoped to see Radleigh.”
“My father? You are acquainted?”
“Indeed we are.” The earl’s voice sounded smooth as silk.
“What a shame, he left Wycliffe Hall just this morn-” she began, but Thorne interrupted.
“What business, if I might inquire, have you with Radleigh, sir?”
Lord Whittingham’s eyes sidled to Gwynneth and back to Thorne. “No doubt Lady Neville has better things to do. My business would bore her insufferably. Shall we speak in your father’s…in your study?”
Gwynneth pursed her lips and abruptly stood up from her chair. “You are quite right, my lord,” she said, far too sweetly in Thorne’s estimation, as the earl scrambled to his feet and Thorne rose as well. “I’ve business of my own to attend, therefore you gentlemen please remain where you are.”
Thorne suppressed a smile, but Lord Whittingham was all teeth, flourishes, and bows. “I am most pleased, dear lady, to have made your acquaintance.”
“Love
ly young woman,” he said to Thorne when the doors had shut, smiling after Gwynneth like a sleek, fat cat contemplating a delectable mouse. He seemed oblivious of Thorne’s frown as they reclaimed their seats. “Now then. When you learn the nature of my business with Radleigh, you’ll appreciate my wish to exclude your wife.”
Thorne waited in silence.
Lord Whittingham harrumphed. “Well, in short, Radleigh is heavily indebted to me. Over the last two years, I’ve carried his gaming losses in London, with little reimbursement. Then there was the recent matter of his daughter’s dow-”
“What does he owe?”
Lord Whittingham’s brow rose at Thorne’s interruption. “He owes much. The debt has compounded, especially since his dau-”
“How much?”
The earl looked taken aback. “I say, sir, you are quite as direct as your father was. Perhaps more so.”
Getting only Thorne’s steady gaze for a response, he gave up his rhetoric. “Radleigh’s debt is nearly ten thousand pounds, including what he borrowed to refinance his daughter’s dowry.”
Thorne bit off an exclamation. “At what rate of interest?”
“One quarter per annum.”
“You’ve notes for these debts?”
“Of course. They’re in a strongbox in my coach, at your front door. With your indulgence, I’ll fetch them.”
“Please do.” Thorne kept his expression bland, realizing that even as a child he had instinctively disliked Lord Whittingham. No wonder Robert Neville had broken contact with the man. “Jennings will show you into my study.”
Lord Whittingham returned in no time and presented the notes. Thorne’s heart sank as he recognized Radleigh’s bold signature.
Signing his own bank note for the full amount, Thorne sensed Lord Whittingham’s glee behind the man’s half-closed eyelids.
“You are a dutiful son-in-law,” the earl fawned in an oily voice. “Your father, God rest his soul, would be quite proud of the way in which you handle-”
“If I may presume to offer advice to an elder and superior, my lord.”
Lord Whittingham’s mouth went slack at yet a second interruption.
“Think twice,” Thorne said curtly, “before backing Radleigh’s wagers again. Whiskey often blurs his mental faculties, so I ask you, in honor of the friendship you and my father once shared, to use your own good judgment where my fatherin-law’s may be lacking. I’d consider it a personal favor to myself and my family,” he added, tasting gall with the statement.
Lord Whittingham only smiled, his eyes smug. He was making no promises.
“Jennings,” Thorne said flatly, “will show you out.”
*
Gwynneth poked her head inside the study door. “He’s gone?”
“Aye,” Thorne replied without a glance. “And good riddance.”
“Amen to that.” She closed the door and sat down. “What is this business concerning my father?”
“Venture a guess.” Thorne opened the drawer where the cigars were kept.
“My lord, please,” Gwynneth said, with a pained look at the cheroot in his hand.
Slowly, deliberately, Thorne replaced it in the box, and watched Gwynneth’s gaze sidle to the fire.
“Father owes this man money, doesn’t he?” She braved her husband’s eyes. “How much?”
“The amount matters little. Then you knew he was indebted?”
Gwynneth’s hands fidgeted in her lap. “He mentioned he owed money to a certain earl.”
“Did your father reveal this before you and I were betrothed?”
Her eyes fell. “My lord, I-”
“Enough said. The matter is finished.”
“You paid him off, didn’t you?” Her pained gaze met her husband’s. “You reimbursed him for Father’s debts.”
“I want no one in this family beholden to a man such as Lord Whittingham,” Thorne said shortly, closing the ledger. “I consider it money well spent.”
“Thank you,” Gwynneth murmured.
He gave her a brief nod.
“Would you ride with me?” she surprised him by asking. “There’s some time before your tea.” She scowled. “‘Twas wicked of me, but I sent it back to the kitchen! That man vexed me sorely.”
Thorne laughed, the first time that day. His wife was a little spitfire when it suited her. All well and good for people like the earl, but not for those such as Elaine Combs—or himself, for that matter. “No, but thank you.” He hoped he sounded regretful. “I’ve business delayed by our visitor.”
“Never mind,” Gwynneth said lightly. “I am learning the paths in the forest.”
“Have Hobbs send a groom with you. I won’t have you riding alone.”
She nodded, looking anxious to please. “As you wish, my lord.”
*
Just past the hour of eight that evening, feminine laughter trilled from the direction of the great hall. Less than a minute later, a maid burst into the library.
“She’s here, M’lord.”
“None the worse for her disappearance, I hope?” Thorne kept his eyes on his reading.
“A bit mussed is all, sir. She says she’ll join you in the dining room.”
“Thank you, O’Connor.”
He finished the periodical and glanced at the clock, then went unhurriedly to the dining room.
Already seated, Gwynneth seemed to accept his perfunctory nod as sufficient greeting. No one spoke while the meal was served, but when Susan returned to the kitchen, Gwynneth broke the silence.
“My lord, I must apologize for being away much longer than I’d realized.”
Thorne tore some meat from the leg of mutton.
“Hobbs took me over some of your lands,” Gwynneth went on after a hasty sip of spring water. “This is an impressive estate, to be sure.”
Thorne swallowed, his eyes piercing hers. “I am gratified, my lady, to know you are so pleased with my assets.”
Looking stung, she opened her mouth to protest, but her husband held up a hand.
He drank his wine to the last drop before setting the goblet down with quiet deliberation. His eyes probed hers. “For four hours, my stableman showed you about my lands?”
Gwynneth’s bow-shaped mouth pouted. “You know how I love to ride. I simply lost track of the time, with the sun hidden behind the clouds and all. But you mustn’t blame Hobbs. ‘Twas I who insisted we keep on.”
She flinched as Thorne, still eyeing her, grimly speared a roasted onion and held it on the tip of his knife. “Just yesterday,” he reminded her in a low voice, “I expressed my displeasure at the notion of Hobbs showing you about.”
“You didn’t expressly forbid it. And none of your stable grooms is acquainted with the property. Not one could have shown me the old cottage ruins to the west, or that odd circle of stones in the clearing. Hobbs even told me some of the manor’s history! You never mentioned his mother had served here.”
Thorne frowned. “Hobbs’ mother…a servant here?”
“Some twenty years ago, he says. You didn’t know?”
“I don’t recall. I was quite young, of course. Arthur would know.”
How neatly Gwynneth had sidestepped the issue at hand—one of her father’s traits.
Thorne let it pass. At least she would never ride with Hobbs again.
*
Shortly before ten of the clock, Thorne closed his book and left the library after watching a maid stoke the fire according to the instructions he’d given Carswell.
He told himself he was restless, that his leaving the room had nothing to with Elaine Combs’ imminent arrival.
He saw no sign of Gwynneth. Skulked off to her chambers, no doubt, thinking early-to-bed would ensure her safety from him. Thorne smiled grimly to himself, aware that some husbands would quickly rid a wife of that notion.
He paced the length of the great hall, debating whether to venture out or stay in. Duncan’s wouldn’t do, at least not by himself, and if he only wan
ted spirits, there were plenty here. Arthur was likely at home and abed.
It galled Thorne to realize how friendless he was in his own home. At Oxford he’d had no shortage of peers, and amusements to share with them. He’d forgotten what a solitary existence he’d led before university, even in this house full of people. Arthur seemed his only companion. Thorne had imagined Gwynneth his new bosom friend and ally, had dreamt of the two of them closing themselves off from the rest of the world each evening in their big, soft bed.
It has only been a week, he chided himself. But far more than a week’s worth of his patience had been tested, and the prospect of more such trials discouraged him.
London, said a voice in his head.
But he’d just been there. Still, he hadn’t visited any friends, Townsend in particular.
Aye, and Townsend lives not far from another place of which you are fond. Thorne could almost hear softspoken Gaelic at his ear, feel the silkly auburn tresses trailing over his body.
Best not pursue that avenue. But a certain appendage was pursuing it relentlessly. He glanced around the hall to make certain he was alone. A wife should ensure against such embarrassment and all temptation.
It has only been a week!
With a sigh of disgust, he decided on a long, brisk walk in the night air. Only later did he ask himself why he’d gone out of his way to pass the library doors.
*
Elaine glanced at the clock on the library mantel. Nearly eleven. A hearty fire burned in the grate, as promised. No longer needing a cloak and doubtful she’d have company, she wore only her muslin wrapper over her shift.
Still, she’d yet to lose herself in her book, listening instead for any noise outside the doors. She told herself she simply wanted to avoid detection, but her unpretentious nature was ready with the truth. You await the sound of his step.
She gave a start as footsteps approached in the hall. Pulse racing, she glued her eyes to the text in front of her, seeing none of it.
The footsteps reached the library doors—and then faded away in the opposite direction.
She let out her breath.
Perhaps it was Dame Carswell, making last rounds. But no, the housekeeper always retired before ten of the clock; otherwise, late-night visits to the library would be impossible. And that was not the tread of a petite woman.
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