To Covet a Lady's Heart (The Landon Sisters)

by Ingrid Hahn

  “You think of everything.”

  From somewhere in the house came a child’s excited shriek. They shared a smile. Then Max indicated that she should follow the servant.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The mistress’s chamber at Sutterton Grange was sumptuous to a fault—almost overwhelming. It boasted soaring ceilings, a towering marble fireplace ornately carved, rich carpets of shining wool dyed in jewel colors that radiated from within, and tall windows overlooking the gardens. The draped bed alone was big enough for an entire family.

  Phoebe would take it all in later. If she possibly could.

  Not the least bit weary from travel—in fact, anxious to be out and moving—she found herself, as soon as she’d bathed and changed from her heavy traveling costume to an airy, buttery yellow muslin, wandering the grounds. Max had taken Thomas out, as promised, and she wasn’t yet ready to face either the ledger books that would be hers or a tour from topmost attic to bottommost cellar. She, too, was eager to be outside.

  Max hadn’t said as much, but she suspected he had been the sort of boy who’d taken great joy in romping through the countryside. There was as much to be learned about him on the grounds of Sutterton than in the house itself, to be sure.

  Subtle cues foretold the coming summer. Spring petals, sodden from a recent rain, fallen from bushes and yellowing at the edges. The new leaves beginning to lose their brightness, maturing into a darker green.

  And there were nooks and crannies everywhere. The garden was full of twists and turns and unexpected pockets, each one better than the last for disappearing with a book. Well. Disappearing after putting a word in the right ear about where one was to be, were one to wish for tea. One couldn’t be completely uncivilized, after all.

  At the boundary where the cultivated gardens ended and the wild woods began, she turned to look back at the house. A mass of endless low clouds, heavy with every shade of gray between dove and charcoal, scuttled through the expanse of sky. A wind going this way and that blew detritus and rustled leaves. The stone structure that was the heart of Sutterton Grange could not have been better suited to its environs. And a man could not have been better suited to his home than Max.

  She wandered farther along the edge of the woods and found a white marble statue of Diana on a high plinth surrounded by a hedge in some need of pruning. Lichen grew on the surface of the goddess. A heavily rutted road cutting through the trees lay a little beyond.

  Phoebe rubbed the statue’s cold sandaled feet, suddenly all too aware of how terribly alone she was without a sister with whom to speak. “Oh, Diana. What is he keeping from me?”

  At that moment, a small carriage coming down the road came to a halt. A window opened and none other than Phoebe’s cousin Cecelia Fairleigh leaned her face out. “Phoebe! I thought that was you.”

  There was the queer sense that the goddess herself had answered Phoebe’s plea. The manner was peculiar—Cecelia wasn’t her sister, after all—but the result was immediate.

  “Cecelia…what on earth are you doing here?”

  “We’ve taken a cottage not three miles away.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, all of us.” Her supposed-relation flashed a white smile. “Oh, I was so pleased to learn that the place mother’d let was so close to Sutterton Grange. We’ll be able to see each other so very often. Can you imagine?”

  “Er—no? I mean…yes?” Phoebe blinked rapidly. “Wait a moment, did you say—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I must be off, I’m so sorry to dash away like this, really I am, but we shall call on you very, very soon, and we can catch up on everything, I promise.”

  Phoebe didn’t have time to reply, for Cecelia signaled the driver, and the horses were off again.

  Shaking her head, Phoebe turned only to find Max and Thomas coming up the road. Max wore a quizzical expression. Before he spoke to her, he urged Thomas to return to the house to clean himself before dinner. After another brief negotiation about whether or not washing included a bath, the boy was off.

  “Was that Miss Cecelia Fairleigh with whom I saw you speaking just now? I didn’t know you two were acquainted.”

  Phoebe wanted to sink into the earth. The truth had to come out sometime. She feigned disinterest, fingering a waxy leaf from the hedge. Perhaps he would allow the matter to drop. “She might be my cousin.”

  “Might be? And how does that work precisely?”

  “Oh…” She tossed a shoulder, still attempting to appear more interested in foliage than in him. “You know how these things are.”

  For the first time in her memory, he chuckled. “No, actually, I don’t.” His mirth faded to contained amusement. “I take it you don’t like her much.”

  Wasn’t it nice that she amused him so? Her lips went flat.

  The sky darkened, and the wind picked up.

  “Oh, no, that’s not it at all. I like her immensely. She’s just…well, she’s a lot. They all of them are, those Fairleighs.”

  Max waited patiently.

  Apparently the so-called facts of the matter, such as they were, would have to come out. The only thing that could be said in favor of airing the story would be to set the precedent that might tear down the wall between them. “The Fairleighs claim to be descendants of the natural son of a man in the Conqueror’s court. They claim the Landons are of the legitimate branch.”

  “Is there any truth to it?”

  “It’s true that the Landons descend from a line we can trace back to the rule of Elizabeth. And the first earl did have a natural son. But whether the Fairleighs descend from him or not is questionable. They insist on maintaining we’re related.”

  “Seems they wouldn’t do so unless it was true.”

  “Ah, but to hear my mother tell it, in my grandfather’s time, the Fairleighs were claiming the ancestor was a Plantagenet. Edward the Third, maybe.” She waved. “I don’t remember. All we can prove is that our ancestry goes back to Elizabeth’s time, as I said. The point is, their story has changed over the generations.”

  He offered his arm, and they began walking back to the house. “You didn’t want me to know about the connection, did you? That’s why you avoided Miss Fairleigh in the bookshop that one day, is it not?”

  A fierce prickling heat assaulted her skin. “You saw that?”

  “I must admit that I did.”

  “I had hoped you didn’t know who the Fairleighs were.”

  “My sweet, I believe even Corbeau has heard of the Fairleighs.”

  “Very well.” There really was no option of escaping those cousins of hers, was there? “Maybe you’d heard of them. But to know them on sight?”

  Max paused a moment before speaking.

  A strong downdraft swept over them, followed by a few fat drops painting dark marks on the dusty stone. The scent of new rain filled the air.

  “I have two immediate thoughts on the matter. One, they’re not so shocking as all that. They don’t do half so much as the most ribald men do, and yet they’re vilified for their so-called scandalous behavior as if they’re one and all of them the second coming of Delilah.

  “Second, what I think is what I think. What Society thinks is quite something else altogether. And I hope you’ll forgive me for this, but to that I can only say I’m quite amused that the Landons are associated with them. You’ve been so preoccupied with scandal, scandal, scandal, yet all this time, they’ve been—”

  “We’re not associated with them. They’re associated with us.”

  Looking from the corner of her eye like he was holding back a smile, Max patted her hand. “It’s quite all right, my sweet. What I should say most emphatically is that you needn’t worry on that score. Not on my account.”

  “I know it’s a bit of a double standard. I know, of all people, the Landons should not mind them. But we each of us keep our own counsel.” Oh, dear Lord, am I turning into my mother? “And sometimes it’s not entirely logical.”

  “You’re as hum
an as the rest of us, my sweet.”

  “What about being worried about the association with that family on your mother’s account?”

  At that, Max’s face clouded. “Unlike many females who are terribly hard on those members of their sex who deviate from societal expectations, my mother is a far harsher critic of men than women.”

  The rain was coming a bit harder, and they began moving more quickly to the house.

  “Why should it trouble you to say that?” The words were out before Phoebe could think the better of them. She winced. She’d stepped right in the thick of where she’d sworn she would not tread.

  It’d been innocent enough. But if she’d only think before speaking. She knew better. But a lifetime of being the youngest daughter fighting to be heard by three older sisters had reared its head.

  “She’s endured more in her life than any person ought. As a consequence, she has no time for ideals lacking any basis in reality.”

  They went the rest of the way in silence. One thing was for certain. Whatever it was had to do with Max’s father. Not with him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Max had tried to tell Phoebe any number of times over the past week. Every time, the words wouldn’t come.

  Yet another day had gone by without being able to tell her the full truth.

  He sat in his shirt-sleeves, hunched before a cavernous fireplace where no fire burned, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. Not telling her wasn’t making anything easier. It was driving them apart. Even he could see that.

  Day in and day out, she watched him carefully with those dark eyes of hers. She missed nothing. What sort of husband was he?

  The kind who wished to set fire to the contents of his veins to purge the sins written in his blood.

  The only thing keeping him strong was the knowledge that whatever else happened, there would never be a chance of a child. He could only pray Thomas remained free of the Fitzhugh curse—and not because of the earldom. That meant nothing. Because nobody deserved to endure what Max’s father had endured. To slowly lose one’s mind. To become the feared enemy of those one had once cherished above all others. The confusion. The suspicion. The frightful breaks with reality…

  As harrowing a sentence as it would have been, he’d have shouldered it himself, if he could guarantee it would never touch Thomas.

  Max went to the sideboard and poured another glass of strong spirits. It was his third in quick succession. Contrary to the reputation he’d worked hard to cultivate, he wasn’t much of a man for hard drink. Tonight, however, the only solace that seemed possible to be had was at the bottom of a decanter.

  Because tonight he had to tell her. There was no more waiting. He would force his mouth to form the words. He would force his voice to produce sound.

  After that—assuming she didn’t flee in disgust and betrayal—he had to make her promise that if he ever began showing the same signs or symptoms of what had befallen his father, she would take Thomas and run.

  And never look back.

  The room he currently occupied was one of the two original rooms of the first Sutterton Grange mansion still standing. The stone floors were worn with grooves where hundreds of years of feet had trod and paced. For several centuries, it had been a reception room. But in later years, it was abandoned in favor of newer, grander rooms with higher ceilings and towering windows. It was perpetually cool, although it hadn’t been in his mother’s day. Then she had claimed the room, liking the view best from this vantage, and had kept a fire burning the year round to warm her eternally chilled bones.

  Max poured a fourth glass of the vile liquid, but set it down again. His head was already a touch fuzzy. Any more and he’d be in danger of intoxication.

  Krum made his presence known with a discreet cough. Max gave him a nod.

  “My lord, two more footmen and three housemaids have resigned.”

  Of course. How could he blame them? Why work for the Fitzhughs when there was work to be had in respectable houses? “And there’s still no indication of where the rumor originated?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I suppose it’s only a matter of time until we’re down to only the last of the old retainers.”

  At this, Krum moved ever so slightly, but in a way that suggested he was quite ruffled. The man would have done anything for this family. Max need only have said the word and Krum would have faced the impossible foe on Max’s behalf. If only such loyalty could be justly remunerated.

  “My lord—”

  “It’s all right. Write them a good character and see them on their way. Same as the others.”

  “I have already taken the liberty of doing so.”

  “Ah. Was there something else?”

  Krum had only barely opened his mouth when Phoebe swept into the room. She was dressed for the outdoors, in a heavy cloak and gloves, her cheeks red as if she’d been out in the wind.

  “You must come at once.” She paused to draw breath, motioning Max toward her. “To the village. There’s a disturbance.”

  Max was already pulling on his waistcoat and hastily did up the buttons, ignoring the guilt stabbing his innards. Here he was mired down by his own concerns while she was attending to the inhabitants of the village. While he himself had been in residence a full week and hadn’t yet seen more than a quarter of his tenants—something he’d never before put off.

  He made a silent vow to himself to set aside his worries and see to his duties as earl. “What is it? And why the devil were you out at this hour? I thought you were up in your bedchamber.”

  The idea that she’d been out and he hadn’t known was unsettling…which was absurd, because if any woman could take care of herself, it would be Phoebe. She didn’t need protection, per se; there weren’t any footpads known to be in the area. Also, in the past week she’d made herself known among the tenants and workers in the vicinity. She had sufficient protection by virtue of being Lady Maxfeld.

  Still. She wasn’t simply Lady Maxfeld to him. Neither was she simply his wife. No. Phoebe was becoming far more than just anything.

  “Mrs. Cartwright has a sick child. I went to tend him to give her a few hours respite.”

  “Sick child?” Alarm ran through Max’s veins. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Is Thomas in any danger?”

  “No, no, it’s nothing that won’t…” With a frown, she shook her head, impatient. “We haven’t time for this. The men are drunk and they’ve taken to throwing sticks and refuse at some poor man. You must hurry. Before the situation escalates.”

  Krum, a man who’d lived most of his life exemplifying the proud art of restrained walking, awkwardly rushed ahead for Max’s greatcoat.

  Swinging the garment over his shoulders, Max followed Phoebe out the door. The night was dark, but the sky clear, and enough light shone from a first quarter moon to see the way.

  They scrambled down the path toward the village. “Tell me everything you know.”

  “They’ve singled out the man who lives under the bridge. They’re—”

  “What’s this about a man living under the bridge? Is he a vagrant?”

  “So far as I’ve been able to learn, he once belonged to the village, but—”

  “Oh, Lord.” A sudden assuredness passed over Max. “It’s James Reeve, isn’t it?”

  The sounds of jeering met them, as the village came into view.

  “Yes, Reeve—that’s the name.”

  Max’s blood went cold. There’d always been something off about the man, long before Max himself knew him. Or so the stories went. But seeing Reeve was uncomfortable to the point of pain for one simple reason: there were too many similarities between Reeve and Max’s sire.

  For that exact reason—and Max’s chest went tight as the thought intruded upon him—there were rumors that he and Reeve might’ve been half brothers.

  It simply wasn’t true, and not because Max didn’t want it to be. Max’s father might have been mad, but he’d
been an earl through and through. He had lived by a code of not exploiting the powerless.

  There was nothing else for it. Max pulled his shoulder blades down his back and squared himself against his intense disinclination to step one foot closer to the melee. He couldn’t stop, and he certainly couldn’t run. This wasn’t a Mayfair drawing room where he could turn on his heel and return to the comfort of his own house. If a man in the village needed help, it was his duty to help. Even if the man was Reeve.

  Especially if the man was Reeve.

  They came down through the main thoroughfare toward the square where a mob had gathered in a pool of torchlight by the public house. Huddled figures in dark doorways looked on. Drunken slurs and shouts cut into the night.

  Sure enough, hulking laborers had cornered Reeve and were throwing at him whatever they could get their hands on. They were trying to run him out of town—quite literally.

  If Max had been thinking, he’d have insisted Phoebe stay back at the house. It was so natural to have her close; he hadn’t thought to question her presence until arriving at the face of danger.

  Max leaned close to Phoebe. “You must stay back. Understand? Stay back.”

  Her eyes huge, she nodded.

  He cut through the crowd, shouting for the men to quiet down. It didn’t take them long to realize who walked among them. They parted to make way for him, the din dying down as they touched their forelocks to mark their respect.

  Reeve was curled against a wall, his unmistakable face caught in a perpetual sneer. His lip was curled back, revealing gaps and holes in his snaggled brown teeth. He was filthy, his face streaked with dirt, his long hair in matted disarray, his clothes nothing but rags.

  God help him. Reeve needed so much more help than Max could give him. He could give Reeve Sutterton Grange and it wouldn’t be enough.

  Max took a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth in order to take a deep breath. He was still more than five feet away from Reeve, but the stench was an offense to nature.

  Max faced the crowd, a collection of twenty or so familiar faces, red from the night’s activities. “Tomorrow I’ll discover who led this rabble and have him before the magistrate. Tonight, however—” Tonight he needed to see a quick end to this and usher Phoebe home as soon as possible. “You all need to go home and sleep off your drink.”