She had succeeded in making him feel guilty as hell for yelling at a pair of little orphans, but not everyone on earth was a saint like her. Yes, he sometimes raised his voice. Especially when a child’s life was at stake. Apparently that made him a cruel brute of some sort.
Or selfish.
Mindful only of what he had himself been through. Forgetting that other people had suffered, too, through this war.
That did seem to be what she had been accusing him of.
But how dare she? Well, she could serve that dish, but he wasn’t going to eat it.
If she wanted to see selfish, she could look at Nick. Or Beauchamp. He was a saint compared to them.
Strangely, these rationalizations did not make him feel any better—which only vexed him more.
Who did she think she was to take him to task? He was sorry if he did not live up to her standards, but he had saved that boy’s life this morning, and he did not deserve to be scolded by some churchman’s overly virtuous daughter.
Ah, hell, what did he care what she might think of him? It did not signify.
He was done with women.
Thrusting Miss Holier-Than-Thou out of his mind, he changed into dry clothes, then walked through the house, looking for breach points.
He locked the Grange up tightly as he moved from room to room, and near the end of his tour, he found the rusty window hanging open above the scullery sinks.
Aha. The scullery off the kitchens was sunk fairly low into the earth, which made it an easy climb through the window at ground level; this was apparently where the little devils had been getting in.
Trevor shut the window with a harrumph and turned the latch, then at last set off for town—such as it was. For his first foray into the village, he needed to see if his mail had started arriving from London yet, and the dry goods store served as the local post office.
As he saddled one of his horses, he wondered what sort of reaction he was going to get from the locals. Small, close-knit hamlets like Thistleton did not always welcome outsiders with open arms. Certainly, he did not expect everyone to be as joyous about his arrival as the bubbly Calpurnia Windlesham.
Considering how fast news traveled in little rural communities, he took it for granted that everyone had heard by now about his clash with the pair of pint-sized rascals.
He hoped some of the villagers had firsthand experience with the sort of trouble those two little wild things could cause; otherwise, he feared he was going to be persona non grata in his new hometown before noon.
On the other hand, if the locals decided they should be afraid of him, they’d be more likely to leave him alone.
Hmm. He swung up onto his horse, but as he rode off, it occurred to him that Grace’s word probably held a lot of weight in this town. She might hold his entire reputation among these people in her hands. He was in her territory, on her turf, he understood quite well, and though her influence here made him feel both sardonic and uneasy, he supposed he’d better watch his step.
Upon arriving at the village, he opted for a neutral expression, unsure of how he’d be received.
He tipped his hat to a cluster of villagers who stared as he rode by, but he did not deign to smile.
Country folk did not trust city dwellers as a rule. Besides, acting too friendly, too approachable, would only invite more intrusions.
Reactions to him seemed mixed as he rode up to the dry goods store and dismounted. But they were obviously curious. Shopkeepers in aprons stepped into the doorways of their establishments as he rode by, no doubt sizing up the value of his purse.
The old men playing chess under the tree halted their game and watched him warily as he tied his horse to the hitching post, then walked up the few steps to the entrance of the store.
Thankfully, the dry goods dealer was a garrulous man. Trevor introduced himself, collected his mail, and glanced through it; then he wandered the three aisles of the tiny shop, determined to buy a few things whether he needed them or not, as a gesture of goodwill.
This done, he stepped back outside into the village square. Scanning his surroundings, he noted the location of various places of business that he might need in future. Blacksmith, bakery, pub . . .
But it was strange. On his first pass through Thistleton with the land agent, he had merely noticed the general quaintness of the village. Now that Grace had told him about Colonel Avery’s misadventure, his searching gaze picked up finer details. A closer look revealed the onset of a creeping shabbiness, a quiet despair that seemed to reflect his own.
Peeling paint, sagging shutters. An air of defeat.
The impact of what Grace had just told him about the old cavalryman’s ill-fated regiment sank in.
Fifty dead. Ten percent was a horrendous loss, proportionally speaking. The army had rules about this, but in desperate times, they weren’t always followed.
Even worse, the loss had robbed Thistleton of its young men, the muscle of any small farming community. And then the disastrous weather killing the crops on top of that.
Good God, Grace, is this what you’re up against?
And he had had the audacity to ask her why she wasn’t married?
He hated himself at the thought. He could not believe he had thrown it in her face so irreverently this morning. But he had not understood. Not really. He had merely been a bit jealous and trying to understand. Well, he saw it now, whether he wanted to or not.
This tiny village had suffered a crushing loss of life in a distant war that most of these people probably didn’t even understand. Hell, he barely understood it himself, and he had clearance for all sorts of confidential memoranda.
No wonder they were staring at him.
He had lived. Survived an ordeal that had robbed them of brothers, husbands, sons. God. Fairly tingling with self-consciousness under the villagers’ silent scrutiny, he walked back slowly to his horse. I don’t need this.
Peace and quiet. He hadn’t come here for them; he had come here for himself. Don’t look at me like that. You people need to leave me alone.
He felt like absolute hell, all the more so because neither Grace nor her father had uttered one complaint.
Maybe he was a selfish bastard, just as bad as Nick, but in a different way.
Maybe he needed to open his eyes and look around him, stop focusing so much on himself. If not, he might as well go back and join Laura in a life of preening vanity.
He let out a sigh and lowered his gaze but did not have the heart to go fleeing back to his hermitage, leaving them like this. Indeed, with the morning waning, he was getting hungry, so he decided to try the local pub fare. Walking across the square to the Gaggle Goose Inn, he could still feel everybody staring at him, just like they did in London. Just what he’d come here to escape.
With a sigh, he stepped into the coaching inn. The Reverend Kenwood had said they served decent food.
It was dark inside compared to the June sunshine, but as his eyes adjusted, he glanced around and saw he was the only customer, at least for the moment.
Then he spotted the buxom tavern girl who was leaning on the bar, polishing silver. She straightened up when she saw him, and the way her stare immediately homed in on him, he felt a certain degree of relief.
At least someone here was ready to be friendly to him.
He had long since learned to recognize a professional when he saw one.
Indeed, it was good to know that out here in the middle of nowhere, if he needed female company some night, he wouldn’t have to go far to find relief without scandalizing the village. That’s what girls like this were here for.
“I’ll bet I know who you are,” she greeted him as she approached at a slow, hip-swaying saunter. “You’re the gentleman that bought the Grange, ain’t ye?”
“Guilty,” he replied.
“Well! Welcome, then.” She smile
d broadly, revealing a fetching little gap between her two front teeth. An inviting gleam in her dark eyes, she gestured toward a table. “You just come and sit right down over here—Lord Trevor, ain’t it? You’re even handsomer than I heard.”
He arched a brow.
With a toss of her tousled raven mane, she led him over to a table by the grimy window.
Trevor followed her, bemused. Well, he had already crossed blades today with the town saint. It seemed he was about to make friends with the town sinner.
As he sat down, she set her hand on her waist and stood before the table, letting him look her over. “You can call me Marianne,” she said, leaning forward in cozy fashion, making sure he saw her cleavage. “I’m here to get you anything you want,” she added softly, her meaning very clear.
“Why, thank you, Miss Marianne. You’re very kind,” he whispered with an appreciative smile.
Now that’s more like it.
Chapter 10
By late morning, the day had finally returned to its normal track after the debacle at dawn.
Still stewing on her fight with her new neighbor, Grace headed down to the village, carrying a few easy children’s books in a satchel on her shoulder. Three times a week, she worked with Marianne, teaching the unfortunate young woman to read.
But after a pleasant walk to the village, she went up the few steps of the coaching inn and promptly stopped in her tracks, spying her pupil through the window.
Her heart lurched in her chest. Her stomach instantly twisted into knots. Marianne was sitting at the window table inside the pub, polishing silver, laughing, while across from her, finishing his meal, sat Lord Trevor Montgomery. He reclined a little, at his ease, one arm cast across the back of the empty chair beside him.
Grace snapped her mouth shut. Well, he certainly hadn’t wasted any time! Then her heart began to pound.
He said something to Marianne that Grace could not make out, then he listened intently to the answer, which was shocking in itself. Nobody around here except Grace and her father ever actually listened to Marianne.
They just stared—women, coldly; men, leering. Trevor was treating her like a person, and Grace had not anticipated that. She wanted to be happy about it, but a curious rush of unpleasant emotions stormed through her at finding them together.
One thing was for certain. She suddenly comprehended in a whole new way why Calpurnia still wasn’t speaking to George.
Grace, however, refused to admit that her own reaction could be described as jealousy.
The implications of that were too dark to contemplate, considering she had already assigned him to Callie, at least in her own mind.
Safer to convince herself that, at the moment, all she felt was protectiveness toward her wayward pupil.
Yes. That was it. Marianne had to be protected from that worldly seducer.
Relieved at this conclusion, Grace quickly recovered her composure. Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and noted with relief that Trevor was wiping his mouth with his napkin and paying Marianne for the meal.
She hoped that was all he was paying her for.
Not wishing to cause a scene in front of the village, she pushed the pub door open and masked her moral outrage behind a cool stare as she walked in, ready to play the harlot’s guardian angel. Somebody had to save poor, misguided Marianne from that devil.
Who better than she? Somebody who had already tasted the sort of temptation he could offer.
Well, here comes the sweets course, Trevor mused as Miss Kenwood came marching into the pub.
He had known, of course, that she was coming.
Marianne had already told him about the scheduled reading lesson. Besides, he had seen Grace from the corner of his eye, gawking in the window with a stricken look.
It was gone now, as she advanced toward their table—on the warpath once again. Indeed, she looked even more furious to find him talking to Marianne than she had been this morning at his cruel, callous yelling at the pair of little housebreakers.
The sparks shooting out of Grace’s blue eyes didn’t have much effect on Trevor but sent a flash of guilt across Marianne’s face.
The bold, bawdy tavern girl suddenly turned humble and obedient as her virtuous reading tutor came stomping across the wood-planked floor to stand by their table.
Trevor just looked at her, but Marianne shot to her feet, scrambling to gather up her silverware. “Morning, Miss. I’ll be ready in a moment, if ye please. I was just finishin’ up my work ’ere—and talkin’ with our new neighbor.”
“So I see,” she answered with a frosty stare at him.
Trevor smiled politely and, hiding his amusement, leaned back in his chair. He gestured to the seat across from him. “Won’t you join us, Miss Kenwood?”
He was in no mood to stand at her arrival. Why bother? She had already decided that he was not a gentleman.
“I am here,” she said stiffly, “for Marianne’s reading lesson.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I better go put these away, then,” the village hussy mumbled.
Grace looked daggers at her. “Yes. Do.”
Marianne lowered her head and hurried off with a load of flatware clattering in her apron.
After she had gone, Grace turned to him and, to his amusement, did not even bother trying to find a subtle approach.
It seemed they were past such formalities.
She set her white-gloved hands on the table and leaned closer, glaring into his eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Pardon, dear?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I’m sorry, I was just having my breakfast. Can I buy you something to eat? Your father was right. The food here’s not half-bad.”
“I’m only going to say this once, so hear me well. Stay away from Marianne. Is that clear?”
“As a bell, love.” He lifted his eyebrows innocently. Her wrath was too amusing. “But why?”
“That girl has been through more than you can possibly imagine. She’s already suffered enough at the hands of cads like you.”
“Oh, so I’m a cad now, too? The list of my faults is growing apace.”
“Mock me as you like, I’m not going to let you despoil her.”
“Despoil her?” He chuckled softly. “Oh, I think it’s safe to say someone else did that long before I came along.”
“Listen to me. This is not a jest.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Marianne was not in earshot. “She’s trying to change her life, all right? Papa and I found her in a London gutter with two black eyes given to her by her flash man.”
Trevor instantly stopped smiling.
“She was penniless and half-starved. Beaten to within inches of her life. Disowned by her family. She had nowhere else to go.”
He checked an impulse of rage at this information, maintaining his mask of nonchalance. “Go on.”
“We brought her here so she could have a new start, a chance to rebuild her life. If you ruin it for her—”
“I’m not going to ruin it for her. What do you take me for?” he retorted.
“You’d better not, or I will personally come over to the Grange when you’re not there, a-and burn your house down as soon as your renovations are complete!”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, you are even more violent than I suspected. Now you threaten my poor old house with arson, too?”
“I’m warning you. Stay away from her.”
He frowned. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit of a killjoy?”
“Say what you want of me; just leave Marianne alone.”
He lowered his gaze and tried to sound as casual as possible as he asked, “So what’s the name of this flash man who beat her?”
“I don’t know. She’s too f
rightened of retaliation to tell us.”
“Or maybe she’s protecting him,” he murmured.
“Why would she do that?” Grace asked, keeping her voice down so the tavern girl putting a few things away behind the distant bar wouldn’t realize they were discussing her past. “Well?”
Trevor didn’t bother trying to explain it. A preacher’s daughter would never understand the whore’s age-old curse of becoming enthralled with her abuser. “Never mind that. Would you like me to talk to her? I’ll get the name.”
“Why would she tell you? You only just met her. We’ve known her for a year, but she won’t tell us anything.”
“She’ll talk to me,” he replied. “Just say the word.”
Grace shook her head. “Thanks, but I really don’t want you getting involved. It’s still too soon to press her. She’s finally started feeling safe here. She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”
“And you don’t want her trusting me.”
“Not really, no.”
“Because you don’t trust me, either?”
She looked at him in hesitation. “I’m not sure, to be honest.”
Trevor held her stare. At least he could appreciate her honesty. “If you get a name out of her, you give it to me. Next time I’m in London, I can make sure this man never hurts her or any other woman again.”
“More violence? That is your solution?” She sat back and studied him intently. “I should’ve known.”
Trevor paused. “I know you don’t like soldiers, Miss Kenwood, but I’m afraid a gun to the head is the only language that certain types of men can understand.”
Grace rubbed her brow as though striving for patience with him. “Thank you, my lord. I’m sure you mean well, but please, just stay out of it.”
He shrugged, irked. “Only trying to help.”
“Then don’t go luring her into wickedness! You know what I mean. That’s all I ask.”
He smiled ruefully at her blush in mentioning such things. “Very well. I’ll keep my hands off Marianne. But I hope you don’t regret it. For if I get lonely, maybe I’ll just have to come to you.”
She turned a darker shade of red and fell silent for a second. She looked away. “I wish you wouldn’t flirt with me when you’re in love with someone else. It may be the custom in London, but—”
Gaelen Foley - [Inferno Club 06] Page 13