He wondered if Carew would have any interest in marrying his daughter to a destitute nobleman.
It was not unheard of. There were many instances of wealthy gentlemen’s daughters marrying impoverished noblemen for their titles. Perhaps this was what the Carews had in mind, although Nash could see that his rough visage was not particularly appealing to the young lady.
Miss Carew was flawless, and would surely have drawn the attentions of every young bachelor in London. Nash wondered why her prosperous father had decided to remove her from London society to rusticate here in Cumbria. A scandal, perhaps?
Her beauty, along with a good reputation, might be preferable in a wife, but both were completely unnecessary to Nash’s purpose—unlike the dowry, which was essential.
Nash decided to foster his acquaintance with these people, for both father and daughter were likely to be of great value to him. He relaxed in his chair as he considered the possibilities. “Ashby is in need of some careful husbandry, Mr. Carew. I’d be interested in getting your advice on a few of the issues we’re facing here.”
Carew laughed good-naturedly. “No doubt you can use some good counsel, my lord. Ashby lands have been slowly declining especially since your brother—since Arthur—inherited it.”
“Arthur was smart as a whip, but never much of a manager,” Nash said, resenting Carew’s assessment of his brother, honest though it might be. It was well enough for Nash to admit his late brother’s shortcomings, but he didn’t appreciate hearing it from an arrogant stranger.
But he tempered his annoyance. Horace Carew was obviously very successful, and Nash decided he wanted the man’s goodwill. He might even court the man’s daughter.
“I’m pleased to find you willing to ask for advice. Intelligent as the last Lord Ashby might have been, advice was something to which your brother had a severe—and quite detrimental—aversion.”
Nash rubbed his forehead as the early twinges of a headache daggered through his skull. “Do you know of anyone in the district who has a good dog or two he’d be willing to part with?”
“Hmm,” said Carew, his formidable brows coming together in thoughts. “Metcalf Farm, down east of Keswick. You probably know Sir William.”
“Oh, aye. I once knew them well.”
“I would not be surprised if he had a few spare dogs.”
Nash reminded himself it was past time for a visit to the old squire who’d been a friend of his father all those many years ago. Perhaps the older man even had some opinion on what had occurred the day Hoyt had died.
Carew turned to his daughter. “My dear, you were going to ask Lord Ashby . . .”
“Oh yes.” She faced Nash, but he could sense her reluctance to do so. “Are you planning on joining the social circuit here in the Lake District?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it, Miss Carew.” He took in her graceful posture and perfect manners. She would make an ideal wife—if she could ever become accustomed to his face.
He ought to court her. Ought to see if he could charm her beyond her aversion to his appearance. Nash had an unholy urge to inform her that all his important parts were in good working order. If he hadn’t been certain before, his interactions with Mercy Franklin had proven it was true.
He returned his attention to the conversation. “Hasn’t everyone already gone to London for the season?”
“Not everyone goes south, my lord,” said Carew when his daughter did not immediately reply. “There will be some folderol at the assembly hall in Keswick next week, and after that, I’m sure there will be house parties and whatnot. Plenty to do. There always is. Am I right, Helene?”
The young lady nodded.
“That’s good to know. I was thinking of hosting a house party here, to reacquaint myself with my neighbors.”
“I’m sure that will be a very welcome event, my lord,” said Miss Carew. Her skin was as clear as white porcelain, and her golden hair framed her face in intricate ringlets. Nash could not imagine a more beautiful woman . . .
And then his thoughts turned again to Mercy Franklin, whose quiet beauty would turn heads if she ever loosened her hair and donned something less severe. Showed a bit more skin, as Miss Carew did.
Nash could easily imagine her delicate collarbones and the sweet hollow at her throat, and he could not stop himself from thinking about touching it with his tongue. A fancy ball gown would display her enticing curves far better than any frock he’d seen on her thus far, although the color of today’s gown set off her magnificent eyes to perf—
Carew cleared his throat and gave his daughter a pointed look, just as Mercy Franklin walked past the door with her young charge. Nash could still feel the anger radiating from her skin. It seemed not so very different from the heat he’d felt as she stood so close to him in the middle of the night, wearing only her thin night rail.
His mouth went dry and his body reacted just as it had the night before. Miss Franklin was nothing like the cool, practiced socialite who sat before him now, with her eyes trained on a spot somewhere behind him. He had an implacable desire to take Mercy to his bedchamber and remove her clothes, piece by piece while he kissed her.
“Would . . . would you like some assistance, Lord Ashby?” Miss Carew said, and Nash wondered if she had lost her mind.
Then he realized that he was the one whose hold on sanity was compromised.
Chapter 11
“I-I mean . . . I could help you with your guest list.” Miss Carew made her suggestion hesitantly, pulling Nash’s attention back to his guests in the drawing room. He slid his suddenly damp hands down the tops of his thighs and gathered his thoughts while Miss Carew glanced from her father, then back to him. “I could provide you with a list of those whom you might wish to invite.”
“That’s most gracious of you, Miss Carew, and would be very helpful. But there are a good many details I need to take care of first.” Such as finding some satisfactory servants and a shepherd to manage the sheep. Getting them to shovel out the dust and mildew that had accumulated in the year since Arthur’s death. Putting Miss Franklin out of his thoughts and concentrating on wooing a suitable female.
“If we can be of any help, my lord . . .” said her father.
“Thank you. I’ll be certain to ask you. In the meantime, may I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?”
The visit lasted an hour, during which time Carew spoke of various neighbors and several improvements that were being undertaken all over the district. He mentioned the flooding in the Ashby acres that bordered Strathmore land, and asked if Nash had any plans to improve the area.
“Aye. But there’s a great deal more that needs to be done before I turn my attention there.”
“True enough,” he said. “What do you think of all the tales of boggarts down there on the ridge?”
“Boggarts?”
“Yes. People say they’ve taken up residence on the ridge there. Bob Danner says they made his mule go lame.”
“You believe that nonsense?”
Carew laughed. “Of course not. I . . . just didn’t want you to be surprised by the gossip.”
Nash didn’t recall any talk of boggarts on Ashby land in years past. The malicious fairies were real enough to the country folk, with run-ins and mishaps usually occurring after dark. And the injuries were always vague enough to be attributable to anything other than the victim’s clumsiness or foolishness. But Nash was no bumpkin who subscribed to the old superstitions. He didn’t believe in boggarts or curses, no matter what the townsfolk might say.
“I wonder if the boggart rumor keeps people from using the Ridge path.”
Carew nodded. “I believe it does, my lord.”
“That’s all right, then. I don’t fancy the notion of Gypsies or any other vagrants loitering on my land.” He had enough problems as it was.
Before Mr. Carew and his daughter took their leave, they extended him an invitation to sup with them in a few days’ time. Nash did not loo
k forward to an evening observing the ways in which Miss Carew could evade his glance, but knew he could do naught but agree to visit their estate. He saw them out soon afterward.
Walking outside with them, Nash could not help but take note of their lavish carriage and the handsome servants who’d accompanied them to Ashby Hall. Several of Nash’s men had come out to pass the time with Carew’s driver and footmen. It seemed only Lowell and Grainger were absent.
Nash walked outside and bid his guests good day as Lowell emerged from the house to escort them to their conveyance. Nash returned to the Hall.
If he was not convinced of Carew’s affluence before, his carriage and the servants in livery were proof that the man had a great deal of wealth at his disposal. Nash wondered if he knew anything of the deer stalking party during which Hoyt had been killed. Perhaps he’d been one of the hunters that day and knew more than what was contained in Peter Wardlow’s report.
The notion that Hoyt’s death had not been accidental would not leave Nash alone. He could not imagine what the motive for murder would have been, because there was no one to profit from Hoyt’s demise besides Arthur.
Whatever Arthur’s failings were, he wouldn’t have harmed Hoyt for any reason, much less for the Ashby title and estate. He’d had a very good living up near Thursby, and with all his connections, had begun to advance in the church. After Hoyt’s death, Arthur’s letters had conveyed his shock and dismay at the loss of their brother. He couldn’t have been responsible.
But who was, and why? Ashby was an entailed estate for the most part, although Nash’s grandfather had added hundreds of additional acres of land that were not part of Ashby proper. Hoyt had bequeathed it all to the next earl, so Arthur had inherited it all.
It made no sense, but Nash could not shake the feeling that someone had shot Hoyt intentionally.
He wondered if his brother had possibly offended someone. Maybe he’d broken a promise.
Or perhaps there’d been nothing at all, and the magistrate in Keswick was correct. Maybe Hoyt’s death had been a horrible accident after all, and Nash’s misgivings were entirely mistaken.
London, England
In a Fleet Street tavern, Gavin Briggs met with an old judge who remembered Daniel Hayes, the father of Windermere’s two granddaughters. “Hayes was a brilliant pleader. Very solid future ahead of him. Damned shame what happened.”
“Do you remember anything about his children?” Gavin knew it was a long shot, but he asked Judge Morton anyway.
“Children?” The old man shook his head. “I didn’t know he had children. But I met Mrs. Hayes. A stunner, she was. But he wasn’t exactly ill-favored himself.”
“Have you any recollection who Mr. Hayes’s associates were? Friends, perhaps? Business partners?”
The judge frowned. “Why do you want to know all this? The man is long dead. Twenty years at least.”
“There is some interest in finding out what happened to his daughters.”
“They’d have had relatives somewhere, would they not?” the judge asked, with typical legal curiosity. “The court would have appointed a guardian.”
Gavin evaded the assumption and hoped the judge would let it slide. “I don’t really have much information about them.”
The judge shrugged, and Gavin breathed easier for the moment. “Barker might know something. Davis Barker. Still in Milford Lane, practicing law. Brilliant man. He and Hayes were very good friends as I recall.”
As Gavin walked to the address given him by Judge Morton, the small hairs at the back of his neck prickled, giving him the oddest sense of being watched. He took a surreptitious glance around and saw no one suspicious. But after all his years of stealthy work for the crown, he knew better than to ignore his instincts.
He wondered if someone from his past life as one of Lord Castlereagh’s spies had caught up with him, but quickly dismissed the thought, realizing that someone else had a far more compelling motive for following him . . . for finding Windermere’s granddaughters.
His search for the lost Hayes girls suddenly became far more interesting than simply the means to a fat financial reward. He wondered if anyone besides Baron Chetwood might have an interest in finding Windermere’s granddaughters. He doubted it.
He’d checked into Chetwood’s background and found it was naught to be proud of. The man was a member of the infamous Hellfire Club, and spent his money on loose women, gaming, and racing. There did not seem to be any activity too depraved for the man’s tastes. His damned club had resources of the darkest, most corrupt kind.
Windermere’s heir was a poor candidate to become a duke of the realm, but it would not be the first time the highest title in the land was held by a scoundrel of the first order.
The Windermere estates were vast, but the duke also held a great deal of unentailed wealth and property. And he’d indicated he intended to give all that was not part of the entailment to his granddaughters. Gavin did not need to wonder how far Chetwood would go to ensure none of Windermere’s wealth—entailed or not—went to anyone but him. The man’s grasping character was obvious.
Gavin felt he was being watched, and could not shake the idea that Chetwood had sent someone after him to prevent him from finding the duke’s granddaughters.
Or worse, to find them first, and prevent them from being able to inherit. And there was only one way Gavin could think of to accomplish that.
Gavin continued on his way, behaving as though naught was amiss as he went into a paved courtyard that abutted Milford Lane. A number of law offices bordered the courtyard, as well as a few narrow alleyways between buildings. Gavin slipped through one of them and came out into Milford Lane, doubling back a good distance from where he’d ducked out. If anyone had been following him, he was behind them now.
He hastened into Barker’s office and found it a beehive of activity, with clerks working at desks and orders being called out from the offices in the rear. Looking back through the heavy pane of glass in the door, he saw no one come out of any nook or cranny in pursuit of him.
He removed his hat, turning to face one of the clerks. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Barker, please.”
“Have you an appointment, sir?” the man asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. His expression was harried and he looked as though he’d raked his fingers through his overly long hair one time too many.
“No, but I will take only a moment of his time.”
“We are getting ready to plead a very important case, sir. There is no spare time.”
“Honestly. Two minutes. Please just tell him I’m investigating the whereabouts of Daniel Hayes’s daughters. I’m sure he’ll speak with me.”
Clearly put out by the request, the clerk went to an office door and knocked. A muffled voice beckoned the man inside, and he closed the door behind him. A moment later he stepped out and summoned Gavin. “Only a few minutes, mind you. We are on a very tight schedule. What’s your name?”
“Captain Gavin Briggs.”
The clerk returned to the office, announced him, and beckoned Gavin inside.
Barker was not quite as old as Gavin’s father, but seemed as prosperous as he was harassed. The weight of the law seemed to rest upon his thin shoulders. His hair was the color of dull steel, and a pair of magnifying spectacles rested upon the end of his nose. Thick law tomes lay open on Barker’s desk alongside stacks of notes with scribbles and ink stains. He rose from his chair and shook hands across the desk, removing his eyeglasses as he sat back down. He speared Gavin with a razor-sharp gaze. “I understand you’re asking about Daniel Hayes? Or more rightly, Hayes’s children.”
Gavin nodded and took out a letter with Windermere’s seal on it, and showed it to the barrister. “I’ve been asked to look into the disposition of his grandchildren.”
Barker narrowed his eyes. “Disposition? What do you mean?”
“Do you know what happened to them?”
A deep crease formed between Barker’s brows.
“It was a long time ago.”
But Gavin doubted the man ever forgot anything. “About twenty years.”
“Right. I remember Mrs. Hayes’s father was a duke. But they were estranged. He sent someone . . . Give me a moment . . . Newton, I think it was. A Mr. Newton— No, it was Newcomb. Mr. Newcomb came for them. Took them from their nurse and escorted them up to their grandfather in the lake country.”
“Correct. Newcomb was the duke’s estate manager.” What Barker told him was information Gavin already had. He needed something more. “But the manager did not take the children to the duke.”
“The duke was named guardian. Are you saying the man does not know where his grandchildren are?”
Gavin gave a nod. “The estrangement extended to his daughter’s children. Now he wants to find them. Reconcile with them.”
Barker sighed. “I assume there is some reason the old man can’t ask Newcomb. Dead, probably.”
“Right again. And the duke has found no record of where Newcomb took the children.” Neither had Briggs. There’d been no pertinent information in Newcomb’s papers.
“Not that the old man deserves it,” said Barker, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “but you might be able to track down the Hayes nurse. Nelly Thornton was her name. She could very well have had more knowledge of the events after Hayes’s accident.”
“Nelly Thornton?”
“I happen to know she went to work for another colleague right afterward—Mr. and Mrs. John Payton.”
“Are the Paytons still in London?”
Barker dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write on a sheet of foolscap. “Yes. I know them well, and they—or their children—have likely kept in touch with Miss Thornton. Here is their address. Tell them I sent you.”
“Thank you for your time, sir,” Gavin said before he stood to take his leave. “By the way . . . I am the only agent with authority to search for Windermere’s grandchildren. If anyone else comes around asking, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention any knowledge of the children.”
Seducing the Governess Page 10