She stepped around him and peered into the first room leading off the hallway. A parlour, of sorts, furnished with a sofa and a chair and table for eating. The room at the end of the hallway was a small kitchen with a door out to the garden, the path leading to a shed at the end, which might be assumed to serve as a stable. There were holes in its thatch and boards missing from the walls.
‘You can’t stay here,’ he said as she turned back.
The glance she gave him caused him to close his mouth with a snap.
He followed her up the stairs. Two bedrooms. The one at the front a decent size. He trailed her into the one at the back. It overlooked the untidy garden.
‘Is there an attic?’ she asked. ‘For servants?’
He went out to the landing to check. ‘Not that I can see.’
‘You’ll stay in this room, then.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll stay with the horses.’ He didn’t trust himself to sleep so close to her. ‘We have enough explaining to do.’
Was that disappointment he saw in her face as she turned away to look out of the window? Surely not?
‘You can’t sleep out there,’ she said.
He huffed out a breath. ‘Well, I canna sleep in the house. There is no excuse for it. And Mrs Pockle will need the room when she arrives.’
‘What if the smugglers come after us?’
‘They willna’.’ He huffed out a breath. ‘But if they do, I’ll hear them long before they get close. Dinna fash about that.’ He gave her a mischievous grin to take the force out of his words. ‘And Pockle will ha’ to sleep out there, too, since there’s no separate quarters for servants.’ It wasn’t right for married servants to cohabit with a single mistress. What could Jones have been thinking?
‘Poor Mr Pockle.’ Her eyes were large and sad, her smile tight. ‘As you wish.’
Dammit, it was nothing to do with what he wished. It was what was right. ‘It won’t take me long to repair the worst of the holes and we’ll be as snug as bugs for a night or two. Then you will send a message to the duke and tell him that this really won’t do.’
‘I can’t afford to stay at the inn.’
‘But the duke—’
‘Mr Jones was very clear. This is all the duke is prepared to give until my claims are settled. I am to stay here and await his pleasure.’
‘It isna’ right.’
She turned to face him. ‘I know. And that is what makes me think there is something underhanded going on. I intend to get to the bottom of it.’
The determination on her face made him want to smile. ‘I can’t argue with your sense of unease. I have it, too.’
She frowned. ‘I am to wait here until the duke sees fit to receive me. In the meantime, I have only sufficient funds either to hire a maid or to buy food.’
‘I have what is left of your husband’s money,’ he said.
‘But he gave that to you.’
‘He gave it to me to see you safe home to his relatives.’ He winced. ‘There isna’ verra much left.’
She sighed. ‘Samuel was not blessed with the ability to hang on to his coin.’
‘Or yours.’
Her smile was brief and pained. ‘And what about you? Do you not need the money to continue your journey? It seems once you have answered the duke’s questions you will have more than met your obligation. Indeed, the money is yours by right. You must keep it as payment for your service.’
He stiffened. ‘I didna’ do it for pay.’ It was guilt that drove him. But that was something she did not need to know and so he lied. ‘The money is yours.’ He pulled the pouch from his pocket and held it out to her.
She looked at it for a long moment. ‘My honour tells me I should refuse. My need tells me I do not have the luxury of honour.’
The bitterness in her voice struck a painful chord deep in his chest. He knew that feeling only too well. ‘You can pay me back, then. When things are settled.’
‘I will.’ Determination filled her voice. She turned away, but not before he saw her cheeks flush with embarrassment. At being in debt to him, no doubt.
‘I’ll light a fire in the kitchen and take care of the horses, then see if I can snare some fresh meat,’ he said, as if he had not noticed. ‘The Pockles are sure to be here in the morning with our luggage.’
She turned away from the window with a sigh. ‘I had hoped they might have arrived before us. I do hope they are not lost.’
Or attacked by the smugglers. He tried to look confident. ‘Pockle’s travelled the route many times before, winter and summer, he told me so.’
‘Let us hope he was telling the truth. The duke might not be pleased if we have somehow mislaid his cousin.’
Drew narrowed his eyes at the thought. Hell, it might even give the duke the excuse he needed to refuse to acknowledge her at all. It seemed nothing about this affair was straightforward. ‘If that time comes, I will see to it that he is found.’
‘It seems I do nothing but accept your help, Mr Gilvry.’ She pressed her lips together for a moment, then released a breath. ‘Would you leave if I told you to go?’
‘No.’
‘Then it seems I have no choice but to accept your assistance. Thank you.’
Feeling very much like an intruder, he turned and clattered down the stairs. ‘I’ll be back with something for supper.’
* * *
What was she going to do? Rowena turned in a circle at the bottom of the stairs, looking at the little house in which she was supposed to live. A house that was hers, yet belonged to the duke. In the middle of nowhere.
She loved the Scottish countryside. The grandeur. The wildness. From a distance. She’d been raised in Edinburgh and lived there all her life. A city full of culture and education. How could she live in a place like this?
She could not. Not for very long, at least. Somehow she would have to find a way to see this reclusive duke and either convince him to honour the settlement left by her husband, if any, or seek another position.
Having come to a decision of how to proceed, she set about dealing with her circumstances. When the Pockles arrived, she would have a change of clothes. In the meantime, if Drew was going to hunt, she was at least going to make the place habitable.
She turned up her sleeves and went into the kitchen, the only warm room in the house, and gazed in disgust at the dust and the dirt. First things first. Water.
She trudged through the snow in the garden to fetch water from the little stream to fill the kettle. Hands on hips, she surveyed the shed, now containing the horses. It was worse close up than it had been from a distance. It was barely good enough for a horse, let alone a man. And so she would tell him. Her heart sank. Perhaps he preferred to be out here, rather than inside with her. Perhaps he feared she would attack him while he slept.
She wouldn’t. She wasn’t that bold. Not now that she knew he found her unattractive. An antidote. Bad enough to make a husband run off to America.
She sighed. No, he wouldn’t stay in the house, even if she begged him. She struggled back to the house.
Very well. She was on her own. An independent woman. Not even the duke could take that away. And if there was some money owed to her from Samuel’s will, perhaps she could start her own little school. For girls. Teach them to think for themselves. She blinked. Could she?
A sound at the front door sent her heart leaping in her throat. She ran to the window in the parlour that overlooked the front door.
A short middle-aged man stood on the step, knocking the snow off his boots and looking perfectly respectable. And behind him, at the gate, stood a cart. The man knocked.
Smugglers wouldn’t knock. But still her heart raced painfully. The man knocked again and stepped back, looking up at the second storey as if he thought she mig
ht be still abed. He must know someone was here given the smoke no doubt issuing from the chimney.
Taking a deep breath, she left the room and hurried to the front door. She pulled it open and stepped back warily. Whoever he was, he might think she had no right to be here.
‘Yes?’ she said.
The man doffed his hat. His gaze took in the kerchief on her head and the rag in her left hand. ‘I am here to see Mrs MacDonald.’
Startled by the use of her name, she stared at him. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jeffrey Weir. Duke of Mere’s steward. To see your mistress, if you please.’ She took the card he handed over. The duke’s steward. Just the man she wanted to see. And since it seemed unlikely he posed a threat, she gestured for him to enter. ‘Come in.’
She led him into the parlour.
He sat down. She followed suit. He frowned as if puzzled.
‘I am Mrs MacDonald,’ she said.
He popped up from his seat, looking thoroughly discomposed. ‘I beg your pardon, madam.’
She raised a brow. ‘Who else did you expect to answer the door?’
He swallowed and tugged at his neckcloth. ‘Your servant?’
With a theatrical sigh, she glanced around. ‘This house hasn’t seen a servant in months, if ever. As the duke’s steward, you must be aware of that fact.’ She really shouldn’t be so cruel to the poor man, whose face was now as red as a carnation, but she could not help it. If he was the duke’s steward, then it was his responsibility to ensure the house was habitable, surely?
‘A couple by the name of Pockle,’ he managed to gasp. ‘They were to accompany you, I understand.’
‘Ah, yes, the Pockles,’ she said with a lift of one brow. ‘Unfortunately, they became separated from me on the road, where I was subsequently attacked by smugglers and forced to flee in the middle of the night. By the good offices of Mr Gilvry did I escape with my life. Only to arrive at a derelict house.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I had intended to be here several days ago. The duke sent me with supplies, but with the snowstorm...’ He gestured vaguely at the window. ‘The Pockles...’
‘At this moment, I have no clue what has happened to the Pockles.’
He swallowed. ‘Mr Samuel—’
‘His remains are with them.’
‘Yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Yes, of course. But the duke is most anxious to see his cousin appropriately interred, you understand. Most anxious.’ He gave her a look askance. ‘If it is his cousin.’
She stared at him and narrowed her eyes in a sudden suspicion. Was this what they planned? To find a way to deny that Samuel was really dead? ‘Of course it is.’
‘The body must be properly identified. To the duke’s satisfaction.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. The man was sweating despite the room being as cold as charity. ‘And the date of death properly established.’
The date? Aha. Now they were back to the date. ‘Then the sooner I and Mr Gilvry, who knows the date, meet with the duke, the better.’
Sounds emanated from the kitchen. Loud sounds. Drew returning. The steward sent her a questioning look.
Rowena smiled calmly, folding her hands in her lap.
The next moment Drew appeared in the doorway, glowering at her guest. ‘Who is this, then?’
‘This is the duke’s steward, Mr Weir,’ she said, ‘sent to see if I am pleased with my new accommodations.’
Weir, who had been staring at Drew’s face with a kind of fascinated horror, rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘You must be Gilvry.’
Drew looked him up and down with a dismissive expression. ‘I hope you have apologised to Mrs MacDonald for the dreadful state of this property. Not a stick of wood or a bite of food in the place. Not to mention the dirt.’
‘I...I have indeed begged her pardon,’ Weir said in a choking voice. ‘I have brought supplies.’
‘How long will it take to get to Mere from here?’ Drew asked.
‘It is a day’s journey, on a good day, the roads being what they are. I set out yesterday, but was delayed by the storm.’
‘As were we,’ Gilvry said in a voice as dry as dust. ‘Come on, then, man, let us see what you have. You can give me a hand to unload.’
The steward stiffened. ‘I...’
Drew glared at him. Only by dint of will did Rowena stop herself from grinning when the little man seemed to deflate as Drew ushered him out.
Chapter Nine
Something was wrong. Drew could feel it deep in his bones. And in the bitter taste on his tongue.
He stomped out of the front door and made his way to the back of the cart. When he’d heard about the house set aside for her on the ducal estate, he’d assumed it meant a dower house in the grounds, near the duke’s abode, not some cottage in the middle of nowhere.
It was almost as if the duke had decided to isolate her from the world. As if she was some sort of dirty secret.
He threw back the tarpaulin. A cage full of chickens fluttered and squawked in panic. His gut fell away as he stared at the rest of the contents. Flour. Salt beef. Ham. A barrel of apples. Winter supplies. And those were the things he could make out at a glance.
He swung around to face Weir, grabbing the man’s lapels, bringing him close to his face with a snarl. ‘What the hell is going on?’
The steward leaned back, ineffectually batting at Drew’s hands. ‘How dare you, sir? Release me at once.’
Drew shoved him away. ‘Well? Answer my question.’
‘I do not take your meaning, Gilvry.’
‘I mean,’ he said, holding on to his anger, just barely, ‘she is the widow of the duke’s cousin, damn it. Why is she being treated like some sort of pariah?’
The little man’s moustache’s bristled. He tugged his coat straight. ‘She was Mr MacDonald’s responsibility. Not the duke’s. She has no official status in the family. He is being more than generous.’ He gestured to the house and the cart.
Drew’s fingers trembled with the strain of not closing around the other man’s throat and squeezing. Hard. ‘She’s a lady. Is she supposed to raise chickens? Keep a cow? Cook and clean?’
Weir retreated a step. ‘The Pockles were hired—’
He snorted his disgust. ‘The Pockles. A lazy good-for-naught and his slatternly wife and nowhere to house them decently. I demand that Mrs MacDonald be taken to the duke immediately, as is fitting.’
The little man stiffened. ‘Demand, sir? Demand? You are in no position to demand anything. Were you not the man who was present at Mr MacDonald’s death? And now the man who sticks like a burr to his widow?’ His lip curled. ‘And the pair of you giving the Pockles the slip? How many nights is it since the lady had any sort of chaperon?’
Drew’s hands curled into fists. Every muscle in his body tensed. ‘Are you accusing me of some sort of dishonourable conduct with respect to the lady?’
Weir hesitated, his beady eyes clearly calculating the odds of his escaping with his life. He must have realised they were not good. ‘No. Of course not,’ he muttered. ‘But you must see this from the duke’s perspective. A woman who the duke has never heard of arrives, announcing his cousin’s demise with the man who said he witnessed the death, and demanding settlement of her affairs. The duke is bound to be cautious. As are his advisors.’
Drew forced his hands to relax. ‘The duke owes her the courtesy of speaking to her in person.’
‘Perhaps if you and the lady could provide a little more definitive information.’ His smile was ingratiating.
‘Will her husband’s body be definitive enough?’
‘Once it is identified it will go part way to easing the duke’s concerns.’
Drew smiled, or at least bared his teeth in what might be in
terpreted as a smile, but clearly was not by Weir, who backed up hard against the cartwheel. ‘It can be identified. I ha’ made sure of it, if the damned Pockles have not lost the body along the way. Perhaps the duke should be sending out a search party. Does he know there are smugglers using his land for convenient passage?’
‘Smugglers?’
‘Oh, aye, you know, all right. I can see it in your face. They set upon us at McRae’s inn last evening, which is why we have now arrived without the damned Pockles.’ A thought occurred to him. His gut clenched. ‘We can only hope the Pockles did not encounter them on the road.’
‘I doubt smugglers would have any reason to bother a coffin,’ the man said a little stiffly.
‘Unless that coffin is also a cask full of the best brandy to be found in North Carolina.’
Mr Weir turned green.
Drew glared at him. ‘Well, let us get this cart unloaded. We can continue our conversation while we work.’
* * *
Rowena watched as Drew piled two sacks onto the steward’s outstretched arms. The little man’s knees buckled, but he bravely staggered around the back of the house with his burden.
She stared open-mouthed at the crate of chickens Drew pulled off next. Live chickens? Was she supposed to keep them, or eat them? Her only experience of chickens was with a roast or a fricassee presented on a plate on the table. Or paying the butcher’s bill.
But without any servants, or money to pay them, she had the horrid feeling she might be learning a whole new way of dealing with them. She glanced down the lane in front of the house, hoping to see the Pockles riding to the rescue.
No. She couldn’t rely on anyone else to help her out of this peculiar situation. She must attack the problem head-on. Take on the duke. She ran upstairs and dug around in her saddlebag. Yes, here it was. The tattered remains of her journal and a pencil Samuel had purchased for her as a bride gift. He had one just like it, only his was bound in blue morocco leather, while hers was red.
What had happened to his journal? It might have shed some light on just what her husband had been doing out there in the wilds. It was completely out of character for a man like Samuel, who liked his comforts, to stray from the pleasures offered in town.
Return of the Prodigal Gilvry Page 12