A Baron for Becky

by Jude Knight

  “Rumour exaggerates, as usual. From what I can gather, he ignored most of them most of the time. He’d call on the closest one when the mood took him. And when he didn’t call, they occupied themselves shopping and sending him the bills.

  “There were two in London and one in Kent, near his favourite house. I don’t know of any near the other houses. If there’s one near Longford, she’s been buried down there on her own for years, though there is an anomaly in the records—a tenant who hasn’t paid rent in years. It’s one of the things I’ll be checking with the steward—Baxter, his name is.”

  David nodded thoughtfully. “I remember Baxter. He’d be old now, surely?”

  “This would be the son. You might remember him, too. He took us fishing a couple of times. Apparently he had an accident recently—hurt in a barn collapse, which sounds like Longford has at least a few maintenance problems. His own son is handling the work at the moment.”

  “Father to son again.”

  “As you say. But inheriting the position doesn’t mean he’s good at it, or that he’s honest. Though, to be fair, I’ve a stack of reports from him reporting on maintenance needs and a host of other things. Most of them still sealed shut when I found them on George’s desk.”

  “So you’ll go down and take a look for yourself.”

  “And I’ll be handy for anything that develops in Bristol. It’s not more than two hours’ ride.”

  “You’ll be further away from the rest of your empire,” David waved at the laden desk. “It looks like you’re handling the whole thing yourself.”

  “I am, in essence. My agent here in London died while I was still in Canada, and I got rid of George’s man of business as soon as I realised how incompetent he was—which took less than five minutes, I assure you. I’m looking for a couple of skilled and trustworthy people to replace them.”

  “One for the estate, one for your business?”

  “Or one really good man for both, if I could find the right person. Any ideas?”

  “Not off the top of my head. I’ll think about it and ask around.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll set up a courier run. It’s a day’s hard ride each way, with post horses. I’ll get the information I need soon enough.”

  “You could say the same about my investigation.”

  Rede shook his head. “Your investigation is my priority. I’ve been hunting a long time, David. I’m so close now I can taste it.”

  “Revenge.” David said the word without inflection, his eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. Nevertheless, Rede felt the need to defend his quest.

  “Justice. They’ll never pay in court for what they did. English justice doesn’t care about some half-breeds on the frontier, whatever evidence we find. But they’ll pay. I swore it on the graves of my wife and children.”

  “I may find evidence of a crime against English law. If they’ve cut corners on the frontier, they’ll have cut corners elsewhere.”

  “And if you do, you can take it to the law. That’ll be a nice seasoning to the retribution I have in mind.”

  “I’ve never asked what you did have in mind.”

  Rede smiled—a cold stretching of the lips that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve no intention of killing them, if that’s your concern. They took my family for the sake of their business interests. I’ll take their business interests for the sake of my family, and of the other families we buried because of their greed.”

  He could still see them: one burnt-out cabin after another, the bodies left carelessly for the carrion eaters. At every stop they’d had to decide whether to stop and hastily bury the poor broken remnants, or continue on the trail of the human scum responsible, perhaps in time to save a family further on. The rage that had consumed him when he finally learned that the killers had been employed to destroy his trapping enterprise rose in him again. So many died, and for what? To add a few gold coins to the coffers of the men he hunted.

  “I’ll destroy them piece by piece: one ship, one warehouse, one deal, one pound at a time. I’ll strip them of everything they have, and see them begging in the dirt. I’ll take their families from them, if I can; convince their own wives and children to repudiate them. And I’ll do it all within the law, so—when they reach the bottom of the deepest pit I can dig—I can tell them why.”

  Chapter two

  Longford

  At the mill school, the children had been impossible, chattering and poking each other. The Great House was being opened. For the first time in their lives, Longford Court would host its Earl. Anne Forsythe, who taught at the school three mornings a week, kept her private anxieties to herself. She bowed to necessity and set the children spelling and counting exercises that involved the Earl and Longford Court.

  Some of the mothers came to pick up their children and stayed to help Anne tidy the room.

  “Mrs Tyler, she do look for bodies to clean house,” one of them said. “I be going this afternoon.”

  Mrs Tyler, the housekeeper, had closed most of the rooms thirteen years ago when the last of the Redepennings moved away.

  Anne had spent the morning wondering what the Earl was planning, and how it would affect her and her sisters. “Will she be taking on a bigger staff permanently?” she asked.

  Those who had been at the inn when the land steward’s son had announced the call for servants knew how many were needed—more maids, a footman and two grooms—but not for how long.

  “Will he stay, Mu’um, think you?” one of them asked Anne, who was locking the schoolroom behind them. “ ’Twould be grand to have Court open.”

  “I have no idea what the Earl’s plans are,” she told them. “What does Mr Baxter say?”

  This made them giggle.

  “Eee, he doesna tell likes of us.”

  Another nodded. “Clamber-mouthed are t’ Baxters. Our Beks—she cleans for Missus Baxter—she says they doesna tell no-one.”

  “Perhaps they do not know either?”

  They set off along the river towards the bridge, the children running ahead.

  Another comment on the benefits of having the Court open brought a warning from the prettiest of the young mothers. “Aye, if’n Earl will leave the maids be.”

  This led to a discussion of the new Earl as a youth. There were seven cousins, Anne learned, the previous Earl, the current Earl, and the five children of their youngest uncle, whose wife had been châtelaine at the Court for many years.

  “He were a fine young man, were that Stephen Redepenning as is Earl now. Not like last Earl or his Pa.”

  “The old Earl and his Pa before him, they didn’t come here much. But they was two of a kind.”

  “After anything in skirts.”

  “Yes, and the drinking, and the cards.” Fanny added.

  “Best to stay in a group, my Ma said. And so I did.”

  “Me, too.”

  As they crossed the bridge from the mill side of the river and turned towards the village, they went on to reminisce about those who hadn’t stayed in a group, and what had become of them as a result.

  The walk passed quickly, and they were soon at the row of cottages where they lived. One girl was telling the story of an angry father confronting Lord Chirbury with his daughter’s baby. She finished with a flourish. “And he couldna deny the truth any longer, for the baby had the Redepenning eyes!”

  “I have to go, Mu’um,” one of the others said hastily, not meeting Anne’s eyes. The storyteller flushed and put both hands over her mouth.

  Anne smiled calmly. She knew what they thought, but no-one had ever said it out loud, and after she and her sisters had spent more than five years being the most respectable women in the village, they weren’t going to. “Thank you for your help. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

  They mumbled farewells and hurried away.

  Anne continued to her own porch at the far end of the row of cottages. Did it matter that the new Earl, as a stripling, behaved far better than his dead c
ousin? Thirteen years on, he might have changed.

  In any case, a rakehell in London might be less of a danger to her family than the most respectable of gentlemen right here on her doorstep. It all depended on how deeply he intended to enquire into estate business—and what he would do with any knowledge he gained.

  If he suspected who they were... George had, to her surprise, kept their secret. Perhaps he really had been sorry. But a new Earl could decide it was his duty to let their cousin know where they were hiding. As long as her little sister was still underage, the danger continued.

  She gave herself a small shake as she reached home. She had saved them before and, if she needed to, she would find a way to save them again. Time to be cheerful for Meg and Daisy.

  She opened the door to the smell of warm bread, with undercurrents of stew and some other kind of baking.

  “Mama!” Daisy shouted, dropping the cutlery she was putting on the table to run across the room and hug her mother. Meg was close behind, reaching out for her own hug and kiss. Anne handed Daisy her bonnet and Meg her cloak, and sat on the bench by the door to undo her boots, calling out a greeting to Hannah, who was stirring something at the fire.

  Daisy was a delightful little elf of a child, thought her fond mama. Not yet six years of age, she was clever and charming. She reminded Anne of Meg at the same age some sixteen years ago, before a fever killed their mother and robbed Meg of her wits. Daisy had the same intense curiosity, the same eager approach to life. And—apart from her colouring—she looked the same, too, with Meg’s slender body, oval face, arched brows, and sweet snub of a nose.

  Daisy couldn’t wait to tell Anne about her morning. “I made bread with Hannah, and I helped cut the apples for the pies, and Meg made the marks on the pie lids, didn’t you Meg?”

  “Meg made bread, too!” Meg added, dropping the cloak in her eagerness to have her say. Daisy, who had clambered onto the other end of the bench to reach the coat hooks, turned from hanging the bonnet. “Pick it up and pass it to me, Aunt Meg. I’ll hang it for you.”

  “Meg hang it,” Meg insisted.

  Just then the door opened again, letting Kitty and Ruth into the warm.

  “Water’s warm,” Hannah told them, “and t’meal be served as soon as may be. Miss Meg, Miss Daisy, up to table, my lovelies.”

  From the scullery as she washed her hands and face, Anne listened to her daughter reporting on her morning, with Meg chiming in to echo and agree. They had, it seemed, spent a morning in the kitchen, ‘helping’ Hannah prepare the dinner.

  As always, the family said grace before they ate. Anne smiled around at her family. Growing up in luxury as she had, she couldn’t have imagined eating such a simple meal in the kitchen—or eating with servant, children and adults all together. Even her nursery fare had been more elaborate than stew and bread, with apple pie to follow. When she left the schoolroom, dinners had been in the evening, not in the middle of the day, and had commonly boasted several removes with a dozen dishes at each.

  She’d been lonely when she left her sisters on the nursery floor. She’d dined with her brother when he was home, but she and Sam had little to talk about. She didn’t miss the solitary splendour of her girlhood. She preferred it here in this warm kitchen, surrounded by the women she loved.

  “How was your lesson today?” she asked Kitty.

  Kitty’s smile lit the whole of her lovely face. “Rose and I practised our duet. Ruth said we are coming along very well, did you not, Ruth? She says we may sing it at the Redwoods’ on Tuesday.”

  “If you are asked to sing,” Ruth warned.

  Kitty waved off this reminder with another smile. “Lady Redwood likes to hear us—she says we brighten her day.”

  “Pride goeth before a fall. Perhaps you should embroider that on a sampler?” Ruth raised one eyebrow, and tried to look stern, but her eyes betrayed a twinkle. Anne chuckled. Kitty could sing like an angel, especially with Rose Ashbrook, the Rector’s daughter. But her fancy sewing was truly abysmal, and even in plain sewing her stitches often had to be unpicked and done again.

  “I am not being proud, Ruth, truly I am not. But I like singing for Lady Redwood. Poor lady. Fancy never being able to walk, and never going anywhere unless someone carries you. And I would not be honest if I pretended that Rose and I did not make quite a pretty noise together, especially when Emma plays for us.” Emma Redwood was the daughter of Sir Thomas Redwood, the squire, and his invalid wife.

  Ruth relented. “Indeed you do, my dear. Even if it is unbecoming to say so.

  At this point, Daisy—who had made great inroads into her stew—started into another story about her morning, again ably supported by Meg.

  On Kitty, the same features that blessed Daisy had matured into true beauty, the nose straight and the large eyes fringed with the same absurdly long lashes as her small niece. The tiny mirror they all used told Anne that she was, if not a beauty, at least not an antidote. Meg still looked a child, though she was fully grown. She was three years Kitty’s senior, but something in her expression spoke of her innocence and lack of understanding.

  Kitty, Meg and Anne shared the same light brown hair and hazel eyes. Ruth and Daisy were complete contrasts to one another. Ruth was dark and light: hair almost black and eyes of a deep brown against a porcelain complexion. Her head was currently bent close to Daisy’s golden curls while the child’s intensely blue eyes watched the piece of apple pie Ruth was sliding onto Daisy’s plate. The startling colour was set off with dark lashes, a surprising combination with the golden hair. Redepenning eyes, the Longford residents called them, though not to Anne’s face.

  Hannah rounded the table to clear the stew bowls, before taking her own place again on the other side of Daisy. Dear Hannah. She’d come to them as Daisy’s wet nurse, and stayed these five and a half years as maid-of-all-work. She was as much part of the family as any of the sisters.

  “Mmmm,” Kitty said, having swallowed her first bite of pie. “This is good.”

  “Meg pricked the crust. Meg pricked the crust.” Meg was jiggling in her seat with excitement.

  “Eat your mouthful, Meg darling. Ladies do not speak when they have food in their mouths.”

  Meg gave another couple of chews and a mighty swallow. “Meg pricked the crust.”

  Anne leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Well done, Meg.”

  “Anne,” Kitty asked, “Did you hear the new Earl is coming?”

  “They did mention it at the school.”

  “The whole village is talking about it. The last Earl never visited, not since he was a boy. But the new Earl is going to be here this weekend, and Mr Will Baxter has told Mrs Tyler to prepare for him to stay until the end of June. Do you think we’ll meet him?”

  Anne exchanged glances with Ruth. “If he is a good landlord, he will want to meet all his tenants, darling.” If their luck held, he would not be a good landlord.

  If only he had waited another two years, until Kitty was of age. If only he planned to stay a few short days. If only he would leave without ever setting eyes on Daisy or questioning the rent rolls.

  Meg, who had been listening with a frown on her usually happy face, suddenly scrambled up from the table and rounded it, heading for the door.

  “Meg!” Anne shot out a hand to catch her pinafore. “Where do you think you are going?”

  Meg tugged at her pinafore, trying to get free. Her face was distorted with fear. “Meg going to hide. Earl is coming.”

  In an instant, Anne was out of her seat and folding her sister in her arms. “Not the bad Earl, darling. This is a different Earl.”

  “The Earl is a bad man,” Meg insisted.

  “The bad Earl is dead,” Anne soothed. “He will never come. The bad Earl is dead.”

  Ruth joined them, to run a soothing hand over Meg’s hair. “The bad Earl will never come,” she agreed.

  “A good Earl comes?”

  Anne met Ruth’s eyes, and her own thoughts were r
eflected. In their experience, a good Earl was an unlikely beast indeed.

  “A different Earl,” Anne said.

  “You’ll have to watch your nephew with the maids,” David observed to Rede, as they sat in the late afternoon sun on Monday, sampling a mug of the local brew.

  They’d made an easy ride of it, leaving London at first light that Monday morning, and making their last post of the day from Newbury in the mid-afternoon.

  John Price, Rede’s man, had written ahead so horses had been waiting for them at each stop, and he’d booked rooms for them at the Red Lion in Hungerford.

  It was a good choice. Newbury was crowded with families departing for Bristol, Bath, or points further west. The King’s decision to call an election had chopped at least six weeks off the Season.

  “So I’ve been told,” Rede replied to David’s warning. “Nasty Nat, my cousins call him. But my sister assures me that the girls at Oxford were quite willing, whatever the Chancellor says.” He raised his mug in an ironic salute to the illusions of a doting mother.

  “Sent down, was he?”

  Rede took a contemplative sip of his beer. Not at all bad. “Yes. And his father won’t take him to Brighton to stay with Prinny, and his mother is off to Bath and is reluctant to leave him without a keeper. He has fallen in with a bad crowd, apparently.”

  “So Uncle Rede to the rescue.”

  “How bad can a seventeen-year-old be, after all?”

  “How bad was George at seventeen?” David asked, wryly. “You do know that young Bexley was George’s acolyte?”

  “Yes, my cousins made sure to acquaint me with that small fact.”

  “On the bright side, three of my cousins have invited themselves down to help me keep him out of trouble,” he said.

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping their beer and watching the sunset. “I see you were much in demand at the Haverford ball,” David said after a while.

  Rede gave a short bark of laughter with little amusement in it. “The mothers with daughters to market were bad enough. But the married women… Is no-one in London faithful? If I had one invitation to cuckold some poor unsuspecting husband, I had a dozen.”