“Well, as you discovered for yourself, it’s England’s most northerly county. It’s wild, rugged, and mostly untamed. Some of our coastlines are outstandingly beautiful, and the countryside is home to a variety of wildlife. We have red squirrels, roe deer, badgers, feral goats, and eider ducks. We have white cattle, too, that roam free and — sensible creatures that they are — dislike the company of man. Besides that, the rivers and coastal waters abound with salmon, sea trout, grey seals, otters…” Clarissa paused to draw breath, unaware how animated her expression had become now that she was talking of something she loved so passionately. “And there’s a wide variety of bird life. We have coastal, upland, and lowland birds, all of whom enjoy the offshore islands and muddy estuaries. We have black curlew, red grouse, oyster catchers, sandpipers — ” Clarissa paused, smiling in embarrassment as she ticked the species off on her fingers. “I’m sorry, I tend to get carried away sometimes.”
“Not at all. You make it sound enticing. Please continue.”
“All right, I’m glad you said that because I’m now getting to my favourites.”
“And they are?”
“Why, the majestic birds of prey, of course. There are sparrow hawks, eagles, falcons, merlins, and most important of all to me, Blazon.”
“Blazon?”
“My falcon. I rescued him when he was a fledgling and hand-reared him.” Lord Deverill, understandably she supposed, looked confused. “He’s not just a falcon,” she explained, “he’s also my friend and protector.”
“What type of falcon is he?”
“You know something about birds of prey?” Clarissa didn’t try to hide her surprise.
“I’ve already told you, I know a little about many subjects.”
“Blazon is a magnificent long-winged Peregrine, and I miss him terribly. I’ve never been apart from him for so long before.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine. But tell me, what made you and your father decide to breed sheep?” He smiled into her eyes and Clarissa, feeling as though her insides were melting, found it impossible to look away. This really wouldn’t do. She was disgusted with herself for reacting to his shallow form of charm when she didn’t want to feel anything for him at all, except contempt.
“It was Michael and my father who made the decision, when I was still young.” Clarissa felt more in control of herself now that she was on familiar territory. “Our estates adjoin, but are both quite small. The two together don’t extend to twenty thousand acres. It sounds like a lot but with such poor pasture it doesn’t count for very much. Michael was a dedicated Egyptologist in his younger years and spent little time in England, so was delighted when my father suggested the scheme. It meant that his land would be properly managed during his absences.
“Anyway, the estates are ideally situated for our business. The Wansbeck River forms our southern boundary and affords us the advantage of being able to send our fleeces to the port of Newcastle directly via the river. Newcastle is but thirteen miles away, and we have the market town of Morpeth on our western most perimeter.”
“Doubtless the end of hostilities in France has opened up that lucrative market for your fleeces once again.”
“Indeed, it has. But as to our reason for breeding Cheviot sheep, they can survive the harsh winters and live on the sparse moorland in our part of the world. But they lack size and their wool yield was disappointing. My father tried to think of ways to rectify that situation but died before he could put them into practise.” She gulped at the memory, pausing to regain her equilibrium. “A few years ago I introduced some merino rams, in an attempt to improve the bloodlines.”
“And did you succeed?”
“Yes. There is a marked improvement in the size of the fore-quarters and last year my wool yield increased by almost twenty percent.” Clarissa didn’t attempt to suppress the pride in her voice.
“My compliments, Lady Hartley. That’s a most impressive achievement.”
“You know something of sheep?” Laughing, she held up a hand. “No, there’s no need to remind me. You have a little knowledge on many subjects.”
He returned her smile. “Yes, but remember that I’m a farmer, too. I run a few sheep on my land in Berkshire.”
“But I thought you bred horses?”
“I do, but sheep are excellent for cleaning up the pasture. They happily eat anything that my fastidious thoroughbreds won’t deign to wrap their dainty muzzles around.”
“Yes, sheep will do that for you, right enough.”
“Do you manage everything on your estate, as well as helping with the manual work?”
“I have Masters, my manager, who was appointed by my father and who is excellent. I wouldn’t have left Blazon, or the dogs either, if it weren’t for Masters.”
“Dogs?” Luc raised a brow.
“I have four, all waifs and strays like Mulligan, and I love them all to distraction.”
“Lucky dogs,” Luc muttered.
“Oh, for goodness sake!”
Clarissa whirled away from him, humiliated by his flippant attitude. She couldn’t abide being patronised. During her description of Northumberland she’d formed the impression that Lord Deverill understood her fierce determination to carry on her father’s work. But with one careless aside he’d reminded her that he was just a dandified aristocrat, who’d never done an honest day’s work in his life. For some reason she was at a loss to explain she’d spoken to him of things she’d never discussed with another soul, and all he could do was mock. She paced the terrace, attempting to rein in her fulminating anger.
“Lady Hartley.”
Clarissa turned her head but refused to meet his eye. “What do you want?”
“Why do you dislike me so much? You hardly know me.”
“What makes you imagine that I dislike you?” He merely looked at her, his expression impossible to interpret. Eventually the intense silence compelled her to speak. “You just now warned me against speaking my mind whilst in the ton, my lord. In view of that, perhaps it’s not wise to ask such a question, knowing you’ll get an honest answer.”
He seemed unmoved by her sarcasm. “That’s precisely why I asked.”
“Very well.” All the derision she’d had to endure over the years because she preferred sheep to people bubbled over, and she let fly without pausing to choose her words. “I’ve known you for less than a week, my lord, but that is sufficient for me to deduce that you are idle, dissipated, scathing, and fatuous. You never appear to do anything unless it’s likely to reflect upon your own pleasure. With the exception of rescuing Mulligan, I can’t find that you’ve done anything with your privileged position in life, other than to please yourself.” She stood facing him, hands on hips, slightly out of breath, defying him to deny it.
“I see,” he said, the rigid set of his jaw the only indication that he was the slightest bit perturbed by her directness. “And that is your opinion of me?”
“You did ask,” she reminded him. “And don’t imagine that I didn’t see all those…those ridiculous butterflies in there trying to single you out. It seems Mrs. Stokes isn’t the only one with whom you are intimately acquainted, and you’re only turning the others away because you promised your mother that you would attend me. Well, it might surprise you to learn, my lord, not every woman in attendance this evening is wilting for want of your company. This one certainly isn’t, and you are free to leave me at any time. Doubtless you are anxious to search out more congenial company.”
He remained annoyingly calm, merely raising a brow in apparent amusement. “My, my, Lady Hartley, do I detect a note of jealousy?”
“No, of course not!” But the fight had gone out of her, and she turned away from him, shivering.
“Come, Lady Hartley, you’re cold. Let’s return to the ballroom, if you can tolerate mixing with my indolent friends again, that is. I believe,” he added, cocking his head on one side, “that the music’s ceased. That can only mean that supper is being served. No
doubt you’re hungry?”
“Famished.”
Their eyes locked, and they burst into a spontaneous laughter that eased the tension between them.
Chapter Five
A knock on the library door the following morning interrupted Luc’s perusal of papers pertaining to his investments. He looked up, expecting to find Simms awaiting clarification on some point or other. Instead Clarissa Hartley, looking excessively well in blue-stripped muslin, stood before him.
“Lady Hartley.” He put the papers aside and rose smoothly to his feet.
Mulligan, asleep in front of the fire, opened one eye and trotted across the room to greet her. She gave his ears an energetic scratch, not once looking in Luc’s direction.
“Please, be seated,” he said, forcing her to finally glance at him.
“There’s no need for that. This will take but a moment. I simply came to apologise for abusing your friends, and tonnish ways, in the manner that I did last night. I had no right to behave thus, and I ask your forgiveness. You showed much kindness in remaining by my side, and all I did in return was to pour scorn upon the proceedings.” She briefly lifted her eyes to his face and then lowered them again. “You have my apology.”
The words poured from her lips in a breathless rush, tumbling over one another in her clumsy anxiety to say her piece. Luc stood on the other side of his desk, unable to resume his seat since she’d expressed her disinclination for a chair, wondering how much pride her clumsy apology had cost her.
“Thank you, Lady Hartley.” He resisted the temptation to smile, making do with a grave inclination of his head. “I accept your apology, although much of what you said was uncannily accurate. The ton is, for the most part, frivolous, and to an outsider’s eye, I imagine it is rather pointless.”
She glared at him. “Are you making sport of me, my lord?”
“Perish the thought, my lady.”
“Humph, well, in that case there is nothing else that requires an apology.”
This time Luc’s smile could not be contained. She’d made it perfectly clear that she stood by all the things she’d said about him personally, which amused rather than offended him.
“Please stay, my lady.” His quiet command couched as a polite request caused her to pause with her hand on the door and turn to face him. “As you’re here, there’s something I would ask of you. Please take a seat.”
“Very well.” She perched herself on the edge of the proffered chair, suspicion and curiosity competing for dominance in her expression. “But don’t think to persuade me to accept more fancy clothing,” she warned, frowning.
“That was not my intention. I merely wanted to ask if you would do me the honour of — ”
The door burst open and Simms bustled in. “Forgive me, my lord, I was unaware that you were engaged.”
“What is it, Simms?”
“We have several matters to attend to this morning.” Simms indicated the pile of papers in his hand.
“Do we indeed?” Luc struggled to hide his amusement.
“Indeed. Your lordship specifically asked me to — ” He cast a significant glance in Lady Hartley’s direction.
“Thank you, Simms, we’ll deal with my business affairs later.” Luc’s amusement turned to irritation as Simms continued to stand beside him at military-like attention. “That will be all, Simms.”
“As your lordship pleases,” he said stiffly.
Luc barked a laugh as the door closed behind Simms. “I regret the intrusion. Simms can be a mite over-protective at times.”
“Then he and Agnes would get along very well.” Lady Hartley clasped her hands primly in her lap. “Perhaps you had better tell me what it is that you want of me before Simms invents another excuse to interrupt us.”
“My mother will not be about for hours yet. She always sleeps late on the morning following a ball. Can I persuade you to accompany me on a short journey?” Luc essayed his most winsome smile. “There’s something I would have you see.”
“What is it?”
“Ah, well, it’s to be a surprise. Besides, even if I told you, you’d never believe me.”
She managed a brief smile but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Very well.”
Ten minutes later Lady Hartley descended the stairs, clad in a carriage gown of fine lavender wool. There was a jaunty bonnet to match and soft leather gloves too. He offered her an appreciative look and, simultaneously, his arm.
Luc’s curricle was pulled up at the front door. The restless pair of matching grey geldings harnessed to the conveyance was being held by a groom. Luc assisted Lady Hartley to her seat and, leaping up himself, encouraged the horses with a sharp crack of the ribbons.
They journeyed for some distance in silence. Clarissa’s head turned in all directions, taking an avid interest in their surroundings, alive with curiosity about this unexpected outing. She’d imagined she would spend the morning with Aunt Marcia, making calls and hopefully taking in a few sights. Instead she was alone with Lord Deverill, travelling heaven only knew where. He must be angry with her for her outspokenness, even though he was far too well-mannered to admit it. Even so, she felt safe with him and didn’t give two figs for the non-conventionality of their situation.
They travelled in an easterly direction, and as they did so the streets became progressively narrower, the houses smaller and closer together. Urchins ran everywhere, avoiding carriage wheels with a skill born of experience. Costermongers called their wares in lacklustre voices. Lines of grimy washing flapped in the breeze, barely leaving room for traffic to pass beneath.
In spite of the bright morning sunshine, which was unable to fully penetrate the close-packed streets, an air of despondency dominated. The people they passed trudged about their business, not bothering to raise their eyes to the smart curricle as it bowled past them, intent only upon surviving yet another harsh day. Clarissa noticed that many of them lacked the requisite number of limbs and employed ingenious methods of replacing them. Peg legs, hooks, and rough-hewn crutches were the most common. The children’s faces, at first glance, appeared to be healthy. It was only as she observed them more closely that Clarissa realised the colour she had mistaken for rosy good health was attributable to illness and disease. Their severely undernourished bodies confirmed her worst fears in that respect.
Clarissa surveyed it all with horror, uncomfortable now, and unable to understand why his lordship would wish to bring her to such a place. Was it an attempt to exact revenge for her rudeness of the evening before? She dismissed the possibility before it could take root. His faults were myriad, but she had never before considered him to be spiteful.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Approaching Whitechapel.”
“It’s another world, and yet so close to the splendours of Belgravia,” she whispered.
Lord Deverill indicated the twenty or more narrow avenues they passed as they journeyed along Whitechapel Road. “There are thousands of closely packed nests amongst those streets,” he told her in a voice unusually devoid of expression. “All full to overflowing. Inkhorn Court on your left, there, houses several Irish families to each room, and Tewkesbury Buildings, yonder, houses a colony of Dutch Jews.”
“What do the people do to survive?”
“Those that can obtain employment are mostly dock labourers. The rest are costermongers, as you saw back there, or stall keepers — either that, or professional beggars, thieves or prostitutes.” There was a protracted pause before he spoke again. “Here, we’ve reached our destination.”
He turned the curricle into a side street and pulled up in front of a large, ugly stone building with small windows and an institutional appearance. As Clarissa looked more closely she noticed, with astonishment, that the front step was spotlessly clean and all the windows sparkling. Her jaw dropped when she heard children’s voices raised in song from behind the door and, when they stopped singing, loud chatter and actual laughter. The door opened, and children of
all ages and sizes spilled into the street and fell upon the curricle, shouting delighted greetings.
“Be careful!” Clarissa cried. “They might try to rob you.”
“I doubt that.” Lord Deverill jumped to the ground and scooped the youngest child into his arms. The others swarmed around him, clamouring for his attention. Laughing, he patted heads and tried to restore some kind of order. The job was eventually done for him when a simply dressed middle-aged lady appeared from the building and, clapping her hands, organised the children into lopsided rows.
Still with the little girl in his arms, the earl turned to Clarissa and spoke to his audience.
“Children, I’ve brought a special visitor to meet you. This is Lady Hartley.”
“What do you say to Lady Hartley, children?” asked the woman in their midst.
“Good morning, Lady Hartley,” chorused the children. The girls managed curtseys with varying degrees of success. The boys made slightly more elegant bows.
“Good morning, children.”
Clarissa, choked with emotion, found it difficult to speak. Lord Deverill, intuitively perhaps, chose that moment to assist her from the curricle, giving her time to recover her composure. Shooing the children before her, the woman encouraged her charges back into the building. His lordship introduced her to Clarissa as Mrs. Fielding.
“Now, Eleanor,” he said, “perhaps we can show Lady Hartley ’round?”
“With pleasure, my lord.”
“What is this place?” Clarissa asked.
“It’s an orphanage, ma’am. All of these children were discovered living on the streets. The boys were destined for lives of crime, the girls almost certainly for prostitution. Without our intervention, almost all of them wouldn’t have lived to reach maturity.”
“And you’ve saved them?” Clarissa couldn’t keep the admiration out of her voice.
Mrs. Fielding smiled. “I live and work here, with a few other volunteers. We do what little we can.”
“There are about a hundred children here at the moment,” Lord Deverill said. “Mrs. Fielding tries to ensure that they get a rudimentary education.” They stopped at the door to a classroom where about thirty children were dutifully writing on slates. A man in a threadbare coat was teaching them. His tone was firm but gentle, and the children were paying him close attention.
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