by Amanda Scott
“Surely, you didn’t mean to go riding, my lady!” His gaze drifted from her shoulders to her feet. “You are hardly dressed for it. Or do you generally keep company with stableboys? I should have thought your tastes a trifle more elevated than that.”
Her cheeks burned at his tone, but Colin had heard his voice and now ambled toward them, speaking before her unruly tongue could betray her again. “Have you the time, Uncle Nick? We don’t want to miss dinner.”
With a sharp look at the boy and a rather rueful one at Sarah, Nicholas obligingly drew out his watch and flicked open the gold case. “You have approximately twenty minutes to make yourself presentable. Do you make it a habit to drag your lady friends along when you visit the stables?”
Colin met his gaze unblinkingly. “Do you not like her being here, sir? If so, I must apologize, for it is indeed my fault. I wanted to ask Jem about having one of my horses reshod with—lighter shoes, and it seemed a good time. Her ladyship and I were walking when the notion struck me, and she said she wouldn’t mind a stroll to the stables.” He paused, eyeing his uncle carefully. “If you do not care for it, I shan’t bring her again.”
Nicholas glanced again at Sarah, who was exerting iron control over herself. But if her color was a trifle high, he no doubt put it down to his earlier words and did not hesitate to apologize.
“I should not have said what I did, Countess. I didn’t realize Colin was with you, but I should have known you would not have come here unattended. I beg your pardon.” His tone was stiff, and he turned away immediately, striding off toward the house.
She looked at Colin, who was grinning unabashedly, and dissolved into laughter. “Of all the plumpers!” she exclaimed when she could draw a breath. “How did you dare to offer him such a tale! And now you will have to have one of your horses reshod besides!”
The boy shrugged. “It was the first thing I could think of when I saw he didn’t like you being here. Do you suppose it’s on account of thinking you were here alone or because he didn’t want you finding out about Jeremy Oakes?”
“Jeremy Oakes?”
Colin nodded. “Our mysterious stranger. Jem told me his name. Said he asked about Tom and Beck, how long they’d been here, if they were around when the old earl was done in. Asked a lot of silly stuff, Jem said. Did we have any priest holes and such? Like he was looking for treasure or something, he said.”
“Treasure!”
Colin nodded again with a musing frown. “That’s what he said. You don’t suppose there could be a buried treasure around here somewhere, and Cousin Darcy found it and got murdered for it, do you?”
Sarah stared at him. Buried treasure on Finchley Common seemed utterly ludicrous, but just as flat denial reached her lips, she remembered the contradiction of Darcy’s attire and London life style to his supposed poverty. Surely, he must have had some means of supporting himself. His clothes were the height of fashion, and despite the creditors at the funeral, she didn’t think he had been very deeply in debt, or his reputation would have been quite different when she met him. But wherever the money came from, it was clear he hadn’t spent much of it here, so he must have wanted his possession of it kept secret from the local people.
“Lots of families hid valuables during the Cromwellian period,” Colin said thoughtfully, breaking into her thoughts. “Perhaps our family treasure was never recovered, and Cousin Darcy found it.”
“But I should think he would, have told everyone he could tell!” Sarah protested.
“Not if he was afraid he might have to share it or prove his claim to it,” Colin said. “That would have cost a great deal of money. Better to keep mum and have it all to himself.”
It was farfetched, but Sarah could believe that Darcy might have been devious enough to have kept such a matter to himself. “How would your Jeremy Oakes have discovered about the treasure?” she asked.
“He’s hardly my Jeremy Oakes,” Colin chuckled. “I don’t know how, but he did, and it’s my belief he’s the murderer. Killed Cousin Darcy and then couldn’t find the lolly. So now he’s skulking about.”
“What did he learn from the stable boys? Did they tell you?”
“Not much. They’re all new, you know. Couldn’t tell him a thing, except that Beck left in a snit.” He paused, thinking. “Jem also seemed to think that Oakes had Uncle Nick’s permission to be here, but I don’t see how that could be.” He didn’t seem to expect Sarah to respond, and she was grateful, for her mind was suddenly struggling with a thought that had sprung up totally unbidden. “Why do you suppose Uncle Nick didn’t want you down here?” Colin asked, his words following her own train of thought so nearly that she almost answered him with that dreadful, encroaching idea.
Taking herself forcibly in hand, Sarah replied carelessly, “Oh, I expect, as you said before, that it was because he thought I had come alone. He’s a rare stickler for propriety.”
“Don’t I know it!” Colin laughed.
“Then how did you dare to tell him such a whisker?” she demanded, glad enough to change the course of her own thoughts.
“Oh, that one was nothing,” he scoffed. “I can tell much better ones if necessary. I’ve had a good deal of practice.”
“Colin! How can you be casual about such a thing? Surely, you cannot boast about telling falsehoods!” She stared at the boy, shocked at such a possibility.
“Are you going to pretend you’ve never told a whopper?” Colin teased. Sarah opened her mouth to deny it before she remembered one or two episodes that would not bear repeating. He read the answer in her expression. “Just as I thought! I do not tell any that would hurt anyone else. Mostly, I tell them to save my own skin. The masters at my school are rather strict, you know.”
“I have heard it said,” she admitted. “But do you tell them often, Colin? I should think it would go much worse for you when you are caught out.”
“Ah, but I am never so foolish as to get caught,” he replied simply. “When there is no hope for it, I take the consequences. But my imagination, thankfully, is rather fertile,” he added with a twinkling look.
“I have a feeling,” she advised wryly, “that it would be wise to avoid telling falsehoods to your uncle. He has an uncanny way of reading one’s very thoughts.”
Colin chuckled. “I know. I very rarely try it on with him, but today it was to protect us both. I’ve a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate our investigation of Mr. Jeremy Oakes.”
They fell silent after that and soon parted company to prepare for dinner. Sarah’s thoughts were such that she felt an urgent need for solitude. Why would Nicholas dislike their discovering more about the ubiquitous Mr. Oakes? Could he possibly know something about the man that he did not wish them—or more particularly, Sarah herself—to know? Could Oakes have had something to do with Darcy’s death? Was he, in fact, the murderer? And if he was the murderer, did Nicholas know it? Had Nicholas perhaps even …
But here she forced herself to stop, appalled at the course her thoughts were taking. She could not—would not—think such a thing of him. She turned her thoughts instead to the possibility of treasure. That was almost exciting. She had a brief vision of herself and Colin discovering buried treasure in the garden or perhaps in the thick woods near the main house. Chuckling to herself now, she pushed open the door to her own bedchamber.
“Ah, here you are at last, love,” Miss Penistone said calmly, while in the same instant Lizzie demanded in strong Irish tones to know where in the name of the blessed Saint Patrick her ladyship had taken herself.
“For how I can be doin’ your hair when you’re nowhere to be found, I haven’t a notion!” she declared roundly. “Now, sit ye down, your ladyship, for we’ve little enough time, and you’ve been out and about in that wind, I see.”
Resigned, Sarah apologized and abandoned herself to their ministrations. Some ten minutes later, she was ready, and she and Penny walked over to the main house, entering through the library.
Nicholas ha
d poured himself a glass of wine and, rising, offered one to each of them as well. He smiled at Sarah when he handed her her glass, making her wonder just how she was supposed to know what to expect from him. Half an hour earlier he had been annoyed. Now, it was as though he had no memory whatsoever of the incident.
A few moments later, Colin entered, his shirt changed, his hands and face scrubbed to a rosy glow. Following closely upon his heels came Dasher to announce dinner, and they adjourned to the dining room, where the delicious smell of roast pork greeted them. The meal was simple, two courses only, but there were enough side dishes to tempt anyone’s appetite, and it was clear the new cook was to be a success. Conversation ambled lightly from one topic to another, until Colin suddenly turned to his uncle and announced that his form had been making a study of Charles I and Cromwell.
“Indeed,” remarked his uncle.
“Yes, sir. It must have been very difficult for the noble houses during the transition.”
“I daresay. Do try some of these creamed onions, Miss Penistone. They are delicious.” Sarah hid a smile.
“Well, I was just wondering,” Colin persisted patiently as he passed the dish on to Miss Penistone, “how so many of them managed to retain family treasures—you know, art work and silver and such stuff—when Cromwell’s army was dashing about confiscating it for the good of the state?” He watched Nicholas hopefully, and despite the common sense which told her Colin’s notion was ridiculous, Sarah found herself waiting impatiently for the answer.
“They hid it, I suppose,” Nicholas replied. “Those old houses had no end of priest holes and hidden cellars. I daresay that’s where most of it went.” He turned his attention to his plate, and Colin cast Sarah a speaking glance.
“What about the Ashton family, sir?” he asked innocently. “Did they hide their treasures?”
Nicholas grinned. “I doubt there was much to hide, brat, but if there was, it was dug up long since to pay some Ashton’s debts. What are you about now, anyway? Trying to cozen her ladyship into believing in buried treasure since she scorned your ghost tales?”
“Not at all, sir,” Colin smiled. “I just wondered.”
“Well, it’s the first interest you’ve shown in your family history that I know about.”
“But if her ladyship does meet a ghost and insists upon hearing his pedigree,” Colin returned sweetly, “I would certainly like to know enough to prove or disprove his information.”
Nicholas chuckled, then eyed his nephew more sternly. “I thought I told you to put that ghost nonsense out of your head.”
“Yes, sir. And had you not mentioned it first, I should not have brought it into our conversation.”
“You are impertinent, Colin. I’d advise you to have a care.”
The boy subsided immediately with a murmured apology, and Sarah stepped bravely into the breach. “Don’t scold him, my lord. I’ve told you, I have no fear of ghosts. You refine too much upon boyish jesting.”
“Perhaps. Suppose we change the subject. Have you thought how you will obtain suitable shoes? You cannot wish to continue with what you are currently wearing.”
“No, my lord. I have my own shoemaker in London, of course, but until someone goes to Town … perhaps, there is someone in the village.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, “but there is no need to carry local patronage to such extremes. Give a list of your requirements and the address of your shoemaker to Dasher. He will see to it. What sort of riding boots do you have?”
“York tan.”
“Then you will need a new pair. Have you ordered a habit?”
“I didn’t know if you would approve,” she confessed.
“Don’t be nonsensical, Sarah! Of course you may ride, but you must be suitably attired. If you are referring to my displeasure this afternoon, your attitude is spurious, for you know perfectly well why I was annoyed. And I have already apologized for it.” He spoke as though they were the only two in the room, and a small silence followed his words.
Then Sarah cleared her throat. “I shall order a habit at once, sir. It will be pleasant to be able to ride again. By the way,” she added, deeming that a new subject was desirable, “I saw Beck with Sir William Miles at the funeral. Was he able to provide any useful information?”
“None at all, according to Sir William,” Nicholas replied evenly, “but you needn’t worry about Beck any longer, I daresay. Dasher surprised him later this afternoon, walking through the wood near Dower House, and sent him off with a flea in his ear. I have given orders that he is henceforth to keep away from Ash Park entirely.”
Sarah felt a strong sense of relief but made no comment, and Miss Penistone took up the conversation, remarking upon the fine bursts of scenery she supposed could be found in the neighborhood and drifting from that point to a concise description of her journey from Cornwall. By the time she finished, it was a simple matter to revert to the sort of small talk they had indulged in earlier. Soon, Nicholas called for his port and ordered Colin off to bed, and Sarah and Miss Penistone excused themselves to wander back to Dower House.
Their days fell into a sort of pattern. Betsy prepared their breakfast and a light luncheon, while they continued to take their evening meals at the main house with the earl and Colin. There was still much to be done before Sarah would consider the Dower House comfortable, but she rather enjoyed the work of setting it to rights. The new materials soon arrived and patterns were selected for curtains and bed hangings. New linens and blankets were likewise acquired, and the rest of Sarah’s clothing and footwear were finally delivered. She was particularly pleased with her new riding habit, for although it was black like everything else, it was made of light wool and fitted her exquisitely. The buttons were silver, and daringly, she had had her hat made without a veil and embellished with a jaunty silver feather. To Miss Penistone’s gentle hint that a veil was expected, she rejoined lightly with the necessity for unimpaired vision. Thankfully, nothing was said about the feather. Her first opportunity to wear the new outfit occurred when she met Colin, his eyes brimming with excitement.
“I say, my lady, that Oakes bounder has been round again!”
“Are you certain?” Sarah asked. “I’ve not seen him.”
“Well, Jem did,” he replied. “On one of the tenant farms. He must be nosing about everywhere. But this time maybe we can discover just what he’s about. It’s the Randolph place, and that family’s been here since the Conqueror.”
“The Conqueror?”
“Well, near enough,” he grinned. “But what do you say, ma’am? Shall we investigate?”
She was eager to do so as much for the ride as for the possibility of discovering anything and quickly ran upstairs to change. Moments later, she rejoined him, and they hurried to the stable, where a fresh problem awaited them.
“His lordship has said nothing further about my riding,” Sarah said then. “I’ve no idea which mount would be most suitable.”
“We’ll ask Jem,” Colin decided. “How well do you ride?”
“Competently,” Sarah replied. “I’m not a neck-or-nothing, mind you, but I daresay I can contrive to stay on any animal that’s had a modicum of training.”
Colin was perfectly satisfied with this response and spoke to Jem immediately. The result was that Sarah was soon mounted upon a spirited young ginger gelding. She was very well pleased with him, and he soon proved to have a smooth, even gait and strong forward action. They let the animals have their heads down the main drive and were soon galloping across the Common itself. When Colin signaled a halt at last, Sarah was nearly breathless.
“That was wonderful!” she cried. “It has been donkey’s years since I have ridden like that, for you must know that to do so in Hyde Park, where I usually ride, is not at all the thing. One is expected merely to ride along sedately, stopping now and again to pass the time of day with one’s acquaintances.”
“Sounds devilish slow to me,” pronounced Master Colin.
�
�Oh, indeed it is,” Sarah agreed fervently. “This is ever so much more stimulating. Are we near to the Randolph place yet?”
“Over that hill yonder,” he replied. “We could have taken the woods path. It’s a bit shorter, but we couldn’t have had our gallop. The path there is not conducive to speed.”
Ten minutes later they rode into a tidy farmyard. It looked as though the little cottage at one end had been newly thatched and painted, and three men were in the process of repairing the gate leading into a paddock of sorts. Colin rode up to the group and hailed one of the men, a burly and ruddy-faced fellow with bristly gray hair and side whiskers, who detached himself from the others at once and came smiling to meet them.
“Master Colin, as I live,” he bellowed. “Welcome. Get ye down, lad, and come in to see Marthy. She’d not forgive me an I neglected t’ show her how big ye’ve growed. Servant, ma’am.” He ducked his head at Sarah.
“This is Lady Moreland, Sam,” Colin informed him, whereupon Mr. Randolph’s complexion became a deeper shade of red and he bowed lower, effusive in his apologies.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Randolph,” Sarah said politely, jumping down from her horse. “How nice everything looks.”
“Thank ’e, my lady. Feels good to be puttin’ it t’ rights again. The missus would be honored to make yer acquaintance, if ye’d condescend to enter our cottage.”
Sarah happily complied and discovered Mrs. Randolph to be a feminine replica of her husband. Gray-headed, slightly florid, and a bit on the plump side, she exclaimed cheerfully over their entrance into her tidy kitchen and sought to wipe the flour from her hands.
“There now, if you didn’t just catch me settin’ my bread to rise,” she chuckled. “Another few hours, and you could have had a slice still warm from the oven with butter meltin’ all over it, like I know you likes it, Master Colin. ’Tis unusual for me to be adoin’ it so late, but with all the extra work goin’ on’, I seem to get behinder every day. And we had a visitor this mornin’ to boot.”