“Are we?” said Hugo.
Tonight he could not hold her while she slept, as he had in the mail coach. As right as he knew that was, it also seemed wrong.
This was only the thirtieth of May. They might be in each other’s company for another month. He needed to maintain a sense of what was proper.
He really, really needed a drink.
On his way out of the room, he glanced once more at the hospital plans. This time, the answer was clear. The hospital’s windows ought to be larger.
And maybe the walls didn’t need to be quite that thick.
He penciled a note to that effect, then left to consume an unexpected, illogical amount of brandy.
Chapter Eight
The sixth of June. The first Friday of the month. Five o’clock in the afternoon.
Since Sir Frederic Chapple had ascended to the baronetcy three months before, he’d come to dislike these first Fridays. They were a relic he’d inherited from his elderly cousin, along with a scattering of tenants and this manor house, Raeburn Hall, in a remote bit of coastal Northumberland. On the first Friday of the month—and only on the first Friday—the baronet was traditionally at home to his tenants, hearing their problems as a landowner and as the High Sheriff of the county.
Freddie had only presided over three first Fridays so far, but already he saw problems with the custom. First, he would never get acquainted with his tenants if he saw them only once a month. Maybe this had sufficed for his cousin, born to the title, but Freddie had enjoyed a far more social life in London. In his fifty-two years, he’d been a barrister, organized a ragged school for children in poverty, and joined every gentleman’s club he could. What was he to do for the other twenty-nine days of the month with no one to talk to? No, this custom would have to change.
The second problem with Freddie’s new role was Callum Jenks.
As High Sheriff, Freddie was the principal officer of the law in the county—which meant he had to follow it to the letter, and therefore he was never again to enjoy smuggled cigars or chocolates from the Continent. That alone would dampen a man’s spirits, but in the past two days a new storm cloud had appeared on Freddie’s horizon in the form of Jenks, an Officer of the Police.
Jenks had traveled the length of England searching for gold coins stolen from the Royal Mint, and somehow he had convinced himself that a trail of evidence led onto Freddie’s land. Since arriving two days before, he’d done nothing but ask questions and make a nuisance of himself. Some of the tenants, Freddie was sure, thought he and Jenks were investigating together. Heaven forbid! He didn’t want anyone prying into his every affair, and he extended the same courtesy to the rest of the world.
For the moment, though, he had a reprieve from Jenks—if one could call the Keelings a reprieve.
After escorting Mrs. Keeling to the door, Freddie blotted his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. “Send in Mr. Keeling, if you would,” he said to the butler, then settled behind the desk in the study he had not yet come to think of as his own.
Poor Mrs. Keeling. She complained about everything from the spring rains to the cold wind. Nothing that Freddie could help with. She didn’t ask about the one thing he might have been able to assist with, the one thing in which he suspected her dissatisfaction was rooted: the presence in her home of a woman hired by her husband for farmwork. A bondager, such women were called hereabouts. Instead of complaining about the bondager, Mrs. Keeling cloaked her anger in the most querulous of queries.
Querulous queries. That was a nice phrase. He made a note of it in his pocketbook. Perhaps he’d work it into a poem later, if he had time. Since he’d become a baronet, most of Freddie’s little notes never became anything else.
He set aside the pocketbook when Mr. Keeling entered the study, hat in hands. “Sir Frederic, you wanted to meet with me?”
“Sit, sit. Yes, yes.”
Gingerly, Keeling seated himself on the leather-upholstered chair across the desk. “I can’t think why. I’ve been meeting my obligations, haven’t I? Doing everything ye ask of me?”
“Your help has been more than satisfactory. Yes. You’ve been hired anew this spring, and I don’t intend to back out of our contract.”
Some of the wariness left Keeling’s features.
“But,” the baronet continued, “you’ve a contract of your own with Linton. And it only binds her to you for farmwork. If you take my meaning.”
“Ah. So that’s your problem, like.” Keeling’s tone was mild, but his eyes had gone hard. The grizzled farmer was probably no more than thirty-five, but the sun had bleached his hair colorless and carved lines into his face.
Farming in Northumberland was no easy prospect. Spring was marked by cold winds and drought, and rocky hills broke the arable land into the tiniest of parcels. The north of England was more beautiful and more wild than Freddie could ever have imagined from his home in London.
Here near the coast, the weather was milder, but no family could eke out a living from the land without help. Thus the bondager system. It had been entirely unfamiliar to Freddie when he took up residence, and it still seemed odd and immoral. As the landowner, he hired farmworkers—hinds—like Keeling, paying them in a portion of the crops and animals they raised. With the land too large and the work too dispersed for villages to cluster, hinds lived in tiny houses on Freddie’s land, sometimes sharing their lodging with livestock. And to help with the work? They hired bondagers. Unmarried women who lived with the family, working for a tiny cash wage.
A new bondager had joined the Keeling household a few weeks before. Linton, her name was. She was young. And pretty. And Freddie was certain Keeling had seduced her.
“Mr. Keeling.” Freddie hesitated, considering how best to word his admonishment. “We’re both men of the world, are we not?”
“I am, aye. I can’t say as I know what you get up to behind a closed door.”
“Er—yes. I am too. But. When I have formed a business relationship—such as I have with you—then I do not allow personal matters to complicate it. Or endanger it.”
Keeling squinted at Freddie. “What’ud ye have me do, then? Linton’s a canny worker. We can’t get by without her. But she lives in me house, like.” He scratched his head, repeating, “What’ud ye have me do?”
Poor Mrs. Keeling, Freddie thought again. He’d taken steps to better the situation of the baronetcy, but little of the benefit seemed to be reaching the laborers’ families. “Are your children not old enough to help in Linton’s place?”
“Me oldest bairn is twelve. She’ll be a bondager soon, but not soon enough to do me no good.”
Not soon enough indeed. The cold summer of the previous year had brought poor harvests across England. As soon as he took up residence at Raeburn Hall, Freddie had heard enough from Keeling and his other hinds to realize that the always-poor farmers had fallen into desperate straits.
“I’m doing my best to help you,” said Freddie. “You know that. For your part, I need you to be more cautious. Only hold out, and we’ll be much better off soon. The weather is turning, and the growing season about to begin.”
“Good advice, like. But a little late, sir.” Keeling leaned forward, his voice dropping low and confidential. “Between ye and me, Linton thinks she’s fallen with child. So if the piper’s been paid, why stop the dancing?”
That was a nice little turn of speech. Freddie would write it in his pocketbook—later. “Has the piper been paid? Are you certain?”
“She’s sure as she can be without having a doctor look at her, like.”
Right, right. There was no doctor for miles; only an apothecary in the nearest village. No lodging house, either. Little work for the young men of the area besides farming, mining, fishing. Living off a land that decided on a whim to turn on its inhabitants. Some of the young men had left a few months ago, but they had recently come back. Northumberland got into the blood, it seemed.
Freddie wasn’t one of these men, and he n
ever would be. But he would see to their welfare with a will of iron. Maybe Keeling thought Freddie had no right to chastise him—but Keeling relied on him, and Linton relied on Keeling. And Keeling’s pleasure might not be Linton’s. And Mrs. Keeling and her four children relied on both of them to work the land, and . . . God, what a tangle.
He blotted his forehead again. Why could Keeling not keep his tackle to himself? “If there is a babe, then what—”
“Sir Frederic.” Without a knock, without a beg pardon, a man poked his head into the study. “I need a word.”
It was Jenks, of course.
“But I’m speaking with Mr. Keeling,” Freddie replied.
“I’ll take a word with Mr. Keeling, too.” Average in every way save for his doggedness, Jenks shouldered into the study without waiting for a by-your-leave. He looked about at the damask-hung walls, the polished wood furnishings. “You’ve done well for yourself, Sir Frederic. Must cost a pretty penny to keep up a place like this.”
“It doesn’t. It’s amazingly economical.” That wasn’t true. But if Jenks asked whether his name was Frederic, Freddie would deny it until his head fell off. He’d had to offer house-room to the Runner, since there wasn’t a lodging house for miles. At dinner the first afternoon, Jenks had gulped a twenty-year-old port as though it were cider. Freddie had had to blot his forehead rather a lot after that. Jenks’s brusque manner hadn’t endeared him since.
The Runner trailed a hand over the smooth edge of Freddie’s desk, then turned a dark gaze upon him. “Still insist you know nothing about the stolen gold?”
“I never said that. I know gold was stolen, and that you think it’s on my land. Other than that . . .” Freddie spread his hands in a gesture of hopeless ignorance.
“And you, Mr. Keeling?”
The hind leaned back in his chair. “I know about it, aye. Everyone knows about it.”
“Did you know,” said Jenks to Keeling, “that your bondager had a bit of gold in her pocket this morning?”
“That I didn’t.” Keeling stretched out his legs as though he’d all the time in the world. “But if Linton came across some gold, why would she look to see where it came from? She’d pick it up and put it in her pocket, like, and move along. Who wouldn’t?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Jenks. “Because I would know it wasn’t mine.”
Keeling’s expression turned shrewd. “How do ye know what was in her pockets? Have ye a habit of looking through a woman’s clothes?”
Jenks’s brows lifted. “I am in the habit of pursuing my investigation by any means I see necessary. I thought it justified to search Miss Linton. My search was rewarded.”
“Aye, I’d say so.” Keeling waggled his brows.
“I did not touch Miss Linton in an inappropriate manner, if that is what you’re implying.”
“Sure, sure.” Keeling winked broadly at Freddie. “We’re all men of the world, like.”
Jenks sighed. “I am a Runner first and foremost, Mr. Keeling. Do not presume that your own sluttish manners apply to others.”
Keeling snapped upright, his face going red.
Freddie lifted his hands. “Now, see here. There’s no need—”
“Where did she get the gold, Keeling?” Jenks pressed. “Did you give it to her?”
Keeling stood, fists clenched, facing the Runner over the corner of the desk. “I pay her what she’s owed. What that be, and how much, is no business of yours.” Almost nose to nose, the men stood. Which would back down first?
Neither would. They were both stubborn. If Freddie didn’t intervene, they would all have to live like this forever.
“There are mines all around,” he offered by way of truce. “For minerals and . . . and things. Surely she discovered the gold by chance.”
“Mines.” Jenks leveled a skeptical look at Freddie. “Gold mines. In England.”
“To be sure.” In truth, they were for coal and lead—but lead was next to gold, or so said generations of alchemists. So it was not much of a lie.
“I doubt it,” said Jenks. “I know that gold came from somewhere.”
Freddie adopted a bland mien. “Everything comes from somewhere. You came from London, for one. So did I.”
“Yes, and so did someone else, I’ll warrant.” Jenks took a step back, turning toward Freddie. “Any travelers arriving recently? Within the last two weeks? Three?”
“I can’t say,” Freddie said vaguely. “Rather, I can’t say who hasn’t come and gone. Throughout the spring, hinds flit from master to new master.” Only in May had all the hiring been complete, the laborers again pinned to Freddie’s land. Since inheriting in March, Freddie hadn’t always stayed in Northumberland himself.
Every question Jenks asked raised so many more. So Freddie posed one of his own. “Why are you so certain you’re going to find the answers you seek here?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Jenks said. Sitting on the edge of the newly polished desk—Freddie groaned—Jenks held up a finger. “First, because three empty, scorched trunks from the Royal Mint were found north of Doncaster. Second, because a Doncaster maid with a crude new gold bracelet fled north.”
“So go to Doncaster.” Keeling dropped back into the chair with an air of utter unconcern.
“Third”—Jenks ignored this interruption, counting off a third finger—“rumor had it that gold was found near the coast. This coast. And there’s never been gold here before.”
“First time for everything,” muttered Keeling.
“And finally”—Jenks held up his little finger—“a suspicious couple has been traveling northward from Northampton. Following the same road as me. Had something valuable stolen, but wouldn’t report the theft to me. Now, why would that be?”
“Because they didn’t like you,” said Keeling. Freddie would have to offer him a drink when Jenks left. Maybe even the twenty-year-old port.
“Because,” Jenks said with a glare, “they were up to no good, and they couldn’t afford the scrutiny of an investigation.”
“It happens,” said Freddie. “There are many no-good-doers in England. Just because some of them were traveling north doesn’t mean they have anything to do with—”
“It means exactly that they have—”
“Beg pardon, Sir Frederic.” The butler, Hawes, had appeared in the open study doorway. “Your niece and nephew have arrived.”
“My . . . what did you say?” Freddie had no idea of whom the man was speaking.
A blond woman whom Freddie had never seen before in his life darted into the study. “Uncle!” she cried. “How good it is to see you!” Circling around his desk, she flung herself into his arms where he sat. “Please,” she whispered. “Play along, and I shall explain all when I can.”
Freddie looked toward the doorway, where a stern-looking man with black hair stood with arms folded. His supposed nephew?
And then he looked at Jenks, who wore an expression of great annoyance.
Jenks’s annoyance decided it. Freddie gave the woman a pat on the shoulder. “There, there, dear. So nice to see you. How good of you to come all this way to see your old uncle.” With a speaking look of thanks, she stood. Freddie did too, gesturing to offer her his chair.
Jenks looked at them narrowly. “What’s her name? If she’s truly your niece, you’ll know it.”
“I always called her Petunia when she was little,” Freddie said soppily. “There, I shouldn’t have told you that. Now she’ll be embarrassed.”
“You could never embarrass me, Uncle.” Her pale eyes lit with mischief. “But I go by Georgette now. That is—Mrs. Crowe. You won’t have met my husband before, but you’re going to love each other.”
Freddie shot a look at Jenks. “Is this the suspicious pair of which you spoke, Mr. Jenks? How you wound me, speaking slightingly of my relatives. How you lack the proper family feeling!”
The Runner’s jaw hardened. “That’s something I don’t lack at all, Sir Frederic. If you’ll excuse me.”
Turning on his heel, he stalked from the study.
Keeling stood. “Eee, you’ve a houseful now. I’ll be off, if we’ve done?”
Freddie took a step forward. “But the matter of Linton . . .” They’d settled nothing.
“I know ye mean kindly, sir. But mebbies ye be too different from us, like. The old ways have done for a long, long time.” With a bow, the laborer left.
Freddie watched him go, torn. An insubordinate hind couldn’t be trusted. But all the others looked up to Keeling; relied on him. No, Freddie would have to keep his word and honor Keeling’s contract.
They would all breathe more easily in a few weeks, when they could begin harvesting the fruits of their labor.
The dark-haired man posing as Freddie’s nephew stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “Thank you . . . ah . . .”
“Sir Frederic Chapple—or Uncle Freddie, if you like. This is Raeburn Hall. Northumberland.”
“Well, I knew we were in Northumberland,” said the blond woman. “And I really am called Georgette. But my last name’s—”
“Don’t tell me. Don’t say another word. If I don’t know anything else, I can’t be convinced to tattle on you.” Freddie smiled. “I don’t know who you are, but your arrival irked Jenks to no end, so I’m pleased to host you.”
“We’re neither murderers nor thieves,” said the woman. “And Jenks has irked us for a week now, as we traveled north in his wake. Or he in ours.”
“He does have that effect.”
“I’m a physician,” said the man. “Hugo . . . Crowe. We told Jenks you would give me a job. I don’t need one, but I do need a reason to be here for a time.”
“And what is that? No, don’t tell me. You’ve gold dust in your eyes, both of you. But it doesn’t matter. Mr. Crowe, you’re my physician now.”
Freddie turned to Georgette. “And you? What do you do?” He was foolhardy, he knew, to welcome perfect strangers into his home. But he’d done so with Jenks, and already he liked this pair far better. They had, for lack of a better word, bollocks.
Passion Favors the Bold Page 10