The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1)

by Rachael Anderson

  Aware that she was practically gaping at him, Lucy forced her gaze back to his face, where she found a hint of an amused smile.

  She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Beresford is away, I’m afraid. Perhaps I might be of assistance?”

  Apparently he didn’t care for that answer. His jaw tightened, and his lips became a straight line. When he didn’t respond right away, Lucy glanced past him through the sleet, to where a beautiful black Arabian stood tethered to the post.

  “Is that your horse, sir?” she asked, ready to offer the use of the stables as shelter for the poor animal.

  He followed her gaze before turning back to her. In a dry tone, he said, “I have never seen that animal before in my life.”

  Lucy’s lips twitched. “You are bamming me, sir. Is this your way of pointing out the silliness of my question? You know as well as I that the animal is, indeed, yours.”

  “You should never assume anything about a stranger,” he said.

  “Are you a stranger?” she countered, her curiosity growing by the second.

  “Perhaps,” was all he said.

  Unperturbed, Lucy nodded toward the horse. “Does the animal have a name, or is that a silly question as well?”

  The man studied her for a moment, as though assessing whether or not she was worthy of knowing such information, before answering. “Darling.”

  “Pardon?”

  “His name is Darling.”

  She studied him for a moment. There was a hint of humor in his eyes, as though he was challening her to believe him. “I do think you are serious.”

  “I am.”

  “Surely not. No respectable man would name his horse Darling.”

  “Perhaps I am not respectable.”

  “I’m beginning to think that might be the case.”

  His lips twitched a moment before settling back into a straight line. “If you must know, I experienced a moment of weakness when I promised my mischievous niece that she could name my next horse. Once decided, there was no talking her out of Darling. I should probably forget my promise and give the animal a name more suited to his sex and disposition, but alas, I am a man of my word. So I must either sell it, which would be a pity, or call him Darling.”

  Charmed by the fact that he had a soft spot for his niece, Lucy said, “You could always omit the L and call him Daring, or something a little more masculine.”

  He pressed his lips together as though considering it. “Not a bad idea. Perhaps my niece would allow Darling to be his surname instead.”

  “And Daring his Christian name?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Daring Darling?” Lucy laughed. “That could twist one’s tongue, couldn’t it?”

  “Ah, but therein lies the genius of it, as my niece is vastly fond of alliteration. And with a name like Amelia Applegate, how could she not be?” His expression was now relaxed and somehow more handsome than before.

  “I must adjust my earlier judgment of you, sir. Any man who dotes on his niece in such a way must be at least a little respectable.”

  The praise had a perplexing effect on him. Instead of smiling, his lips straightened. In an instant, he became the formal and stiff gentleman who had first appeared at her door.

  “You give me too much credit, I’m afraid,” he said. “Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me when I might expect to find Mrs. Beresford at home?”

  “A fortnight.”

  “A fortnight!” If he had not been displeased before, he certainly was now. Apparently two weeks was far too long for Lucy’s mother to be away.

  Her mouth lifted into an impish smile, and she gestured inside. “Would you care to wait for her?”

  He blinked for a moment, obviously taken aback by such an offer. “Surely you jest.”

  “Of course,” Lucy said with a laugh. “As diverting as this conversation has been, I think it would be most unseemly to allow you entrance into our home when neither my mother nor our maid is present.”

  His eyes widened, and his gaze swept over her appearance in a show of surprise. “Are you Miss Lucy Beresford?”

  She dropped into a quick curtsy. “How do you do, sir? Did you think me the maid?”

  He did not try to pretend otherwise. “Of course I thought you the maid. You answered the door and are wearing an apron, for heaven’s sake. And your hair is . . . ahem, never mind.” At least he had the presence of mind to refrain from finishing that sentence.

  Lucy’s insides were positively whirling at what he must be thinking. It wasn’t every day a handsome man mistook one as the maid, but she refused to let his obvious shock at her appearance and lack of propriety unsettle her. She lifted her chin instead, holding out her palms for his inspection. “Have you noticed the deplorable state of my hands as well? They are red and blotchy from scrubbing the kitchen floor.”

  He continued to stare at her, his mouth opening and closing a few times before finally speaking. “Are you in such dire straits as that?”

  Pity or concern was the last thing Lucy wanted from this man. She dismissed his question with a wave of her hand. “No, of course not. I was simply bored, is all.”

  “You scrub floors to stave off boredom?”

  “Only when the alternative is embroidery or practicing the pianoforte,” she said, her eyes dancing merrily.

  Once again, his lips twitched and quirked, but the stubborn man refused to smile. Perhaps it was for the best. Lucy’s heart would likely turn to jelly if he became any more attractive.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” said Lucy. “Apparently you know me, and yet I haven’t the faintest notion of who you are.”

  He cleared his throat, perhaps attempting to gather his wits about him. “My apologies for not introducing myself in the beginning. I am Colin Cavendish, the Earl of Drayson and current owner of Tanglewood.”

  Lucy’s forehead wrinkled. He appeared to be quite serious, and yet . . . “I find that very interesting, sir, considering I have met Lord Drayson not two years ago, and you look nothing like him.”

  “I should hope not,” said the man. “My father was bald and portly, with a ruddy nose. I, fortunately, take after my mother’s side.”

  All humor faded from Lucy’s being as an otherwise nondescript, three-letter word captured her attention. “Was?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “He passed on last summer, I’m sorry to say.”

  Lucy’s palm flew to her mouth. She didn’t know why she found the news so distressing—she had hardly known the man—but the late Lord Drayson had been so kind to her family after her own father had passed away. The earl had journeyed all the way to Askern for Mr. Beresford’s funeral and, upon learning that the widowed Mrs. Beresford had been left only a paltry income, had offered them the use of the dower house. Since that time, Lucy had held him in high esteem and was saddened greatly by this news. Her mother would find it even more upsetting, no doubt.

  “I am sincerely sorry for your loss,” she managed to say. If anyone knew what it felt like to lose a beloved parent, it was Lucy. “I was not aware—nor was my mother—or I daresay she would have informed me. Goodness, he seemed so young and in good spirits . . . but then so did my father before . . .” She lifted sad eyes to his. “Life can be unpredictable in dreadful ways, can it not?”

  “Yes.” Lord Drayson didn’t look at all comfortable at the turn the conversation had taken. He cleared his throat again and looked away from Lucy’s face. “I had hoped to speak to your mother, but I cannot stay in Askern for an additional fortnight to await her return, so I fear I must relay my message to you instead.”

  “Message?” Lucy’s mind was still far away, recalling memories of a firm handshake, kind words, and the promise that her family could live in the dower house as long as they pleased.

  “As the new Earl of Drayson, I have been looking into and making necessary changes to some of my family’s holdings. There is no easy way to say this, but I must inform you that the Tanglewood
Estate is to be sold as soon as possible.”

  The words “Tanglewood Estate” and “sold” effectively jerked Lucy’s thoughts to the present. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “You plan to sell Tanglewood?”

  He fiddled with his hat, not meeting her gaze. “It will be listed as soon as you and your mother can make arrangements to live elsewhere. I am hopeful that two months should give you enough time.”

  Lucy’s breath caught. Other arrangements? Two months? “But this is our home, my lord. How can you—”

  “Forgive me,” he said gently, “but I believe it is my home.”

  “No.” Lucy was determined to make him understand. “This is your house. It is our home.”

  His dark and mysterious eyes finally lifted to meet hers. Though his tone remained gentle, it was also firm. “But you do not own this so-called home, do you?”

  If Lucy’s face reddened, it was not because she was mortified at being taken to task. It was because her veins began to pulse with both fear and anger. Lord Drayson made it sound so easy. Make other arrangements, as though penning a quick note and sending it off to a close relative would do the trick. But the few relations the Beresfords had left were no better off then they, and Lucy and her mother would never sink to asking for help from those who could not afford to give.

  Which left what alternative?

  Already, Lucy’s mother mended clothing for a pittance, and Lucy, an adept gardener, sold her prized roses during the warmer months for a pittance more. It was the only way to keep Georgina, the horses, and food on the table. Without this house, the meager earnings the Beresfords brought in would barely cover the rent of another, far lesser home. How would they ever manage?

  Apparently the new Earl of Drayson was in every way the opposite of his father—both in looks and disposition—for he did not seem to care that in two month’s time a widow and her daughter would be without a home.

  Lucy lowered her pride enough to plead, “Your father gave us his word that we could live in this house indefinitely.”

  “My father never mentioned you or your mother to me, and from what I understand, you have signed no contract.”

  “No,” Lucy reluctantly agreed, feeling her spirits whither by the second. “It never occurred to us to ask for a contract. A gentleman’s words seemed more than sufficient at the time.”

  “And yet that particular gentleman is no longer among the living.”

  Lucy’s eyes sprang to his. How could he be so unfeeling? His father had been wonderful, and even his mother was said to be all that was good and kind. “So you will not honor the promise of your father even though you claim to be a man of your word?”

  “It was his promise, not mine.”

  “I see,” said Lucy, though the only thing she really saw was a despicable man who cared more about his purse than a person.

  Lord Drayson sighed. “Surely you have noticed that Tanglewood Manor is going to ruin. It does not turn nearly the profits it would take to restore the house to the immaculate condition it ought to be. Yes, advances could be made to increase profits and make it lucrative once again, but why should I dedicate time or money to a property that my family no longer takes an interest in? This estate should have been sold when my family relocated to Danbury, but it wasn’t, and now I have been handed a property that will bring in much less than it is worth because of its current, worsening state. Surely even you can understand my predicament.”

  “Not as much as I understand my own, my lord,” said Lucy woodenly.

  “I am sorry for it. Truly, I am. But I have made up my mind. Tanglewood will be sold.”

  “And,” Lucy added, “despite your father’s promise, my mother and I have only two months to find another place to live.”

  Lord Drayson fiddled with his hat and looked away. “If it would help, my man of business can locate a new residence for—”

  “Thank you, sir, but we are perfectly capable of finding our own home,” said Lucy. Her pride refused to allow her to accept one ounce of help from this man.

  “I’d consider it an honor if you would allow me to help you in some way.”

  What shred of self-control Lucy had left evaporated. “How can you speak of honor when you so obviously have none? You have shown your true colors, sir, and I will not assuage your guilt by accepting any help from you or anyone else in your family. So please, take your leave and be on your way.”

  His body stiffened, and his jaw tightened. He said nothing for a moment before giving her a curt nod. “Very well. Good day, Miss Beresford.”

  “Not at all, my lord,” Lucy muttered before closing the door with a hearty shove. Her fingers clenched into fists, and she stormed into the parlor to pace off her frustrations, adding more wear to an already worn carpet. Concern after concern flew through her mind, fueling her anger and frustration. The beastly earl had failed to see anything beyond his own perspective. He hadn’t asked what would become of the Beresfords—only assumed that he was merely inconveniencing them with a move. Had it ever occurred to him to wonder why she and her mother were living on the charity of others? It was a most unusual arrangement, to be sure, and any person of substance would at least attempt to understand the circumstances before threatening to remove a family from their home.

  Yes, Tanglewood needed improvements, but the fact of the matter was that Lord Drayson had money and therefore options. He could improve the property. He could try to find a new owner who would allow the Beresfords to remain in the house. He could be the sort of man who did everything in his power to take care of a family who had once offered a service to his.

  The Beresfords, on the other hand, had no options. But had Lord Drayson cared to consider that? No. He did not want to be bothered by anyone’s plight but his own. He viewed Tanglewood as a noose around his neck, and the Beresfords as the knot that held that noose in place. The sooner he could cut them off, the sooner he would be free.

  And the sooner Lucy and her mother would be out on the streets.

  Colin swung into the chilled, wet saddle and gathered the reins in his gloved hands. He clicked his tongue, and Darling responded immediately, carrying his master away from the house and the difficult woman inside it.

  Now that he had finally met the young Miss Beresford, Colin could understand why Erasmus had rather quit his job than confront the chit with bad news. She had obviously been raised with no notion of propriety or she would not have appeared as a maid, spoken to him with such frankness, or transformed into a spoiled child who accused him of having no honor.

  Had she accepted the help he had offered? No. Had she tried to be understanding? No. Had she, at the very least, remained civil? No. She had been brash and curt and blind to the fact that no one should be required to retain a useless piece of property for the sake of two tenants.

  And now, because of her lack of self control, Colin was made to feel like a veritable cad.

  “Blast it all,” he muttered under his breath, urging his horse to a faster pace. The sooner he could be rid of Yorkshire the better. Colin had done what Erasmus could not. He had delivered the news, and, like it or not, his bailiff could take it from here.

  Colin leaned low over the horse, willing it to move even faster. As they rounded a bend in the drive, Darling cut into the turn, but his hooves hit a slippery patch, and the horse stumbled off the road and into some deep mud. Colin’s body flew sideways, and he experienced a brief moment of shock before his head crashed into something solid.

  “Miss Lucy, Miss Lucy, come quick, come quick!” Georgina’s shrill voice echoed through the sparsely furnished room, where Lucy still paced angrily, thinking of all the ways she could do away with the new Earl of Drayson.

  Picking up her skirts, she rushed to meet her maid, who clung to the banister, appearing as gray as the clouds.

  “There’s a m-man,” Georgina stammered. “D-dead, in the road. ’E’s so p-pale and blue. Looks as though ’e’s been there a while. And—”

  Lucy did
n’t wait to hear anymore. She bolted out the front door, not bothering to don her coat or bonnet or even some boots, and ran down the carriage path. The sleet slapped against her face, feeling like hundreds of needle pricks and making it difficult to see. Her slippers soaked up the water, chilling her feet and toes, while pebbles dug into the soles. Still she continued on, running as fast as she dared on the slippery path.

  A few bends in the road later, she finally saw the man and stumbled to a stop, her eyes wide. It was as she’d feared. Lord Drayson lay sprawled across the road in a limp and awkward position. The bluish hue of his skin did, indeed, make him appear dead—the exact fate Lucy had wished on him only moments before. Not far from his person lay his hat, now sodden and mashed.

  Oh no. One hand rested against her queasy stomach while the other covered her mouth. Had she caused this? Surely God knew that she hadn’t really meant such a fate to happen to anyone, even to someone as horrid as the earl.

  What now?

  Lucy had no idea what to do. The cold seeped into her body, triggering a fit of the shivers. First her chest, followed by her arms and legs, and finally her lips. As she stood there in shock, a slight movement captured her attention, and her breath caught in her throat. She took a few steps nearer, watching the earl’s chest closely. Sure enough, his chest rose and fell ever so slightly, indicating that he was somehow still breathing. Lucy let out the breath she had been holding. He wasn’t dead. Her dreadful wish had not come true.

  Thank heavens.

  Lucy’s relief was only momentary, however, for while she was grateful that Lord Drayson was still among the living, she had little desire to help him—he, who had caused her so much distress. Why couldn’t he have tumbled from his horse far enough away for someone else to find him?

  Speaking of his horse, where was Darling? Lucy looked around, not seeing the Arabian anywhere. Perhaps the animal had gone for help and would soon lead a more willing rescuer back here shortly.