A Lady without a Lord (The Penningtons Book 3)

by Bliss Bennet

  The viscount came to an abrupt halt on the threshold, eyes darting between Harry and Haviland. Was the tension between them that palpable?

  “Has your father taken a turn for the worse, Harry?” Theo set the bottles down on a side table with a frown. “Shall I fetch Mr. Baldwin back?”

  Harry sighed. Palpable, yes, but attributed to the wrong cause. “No, my lord. But I would like to sit up with him, to make sure there is no change.”

  “Naturally. You must be wishing us both to the devil. But I will have a maid sent up, to keep watch with you.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “I insist.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Haviland said, as if the favor were being conferred upon him rather than on her. He opened the door to her father’s room, too, giving her cautioning look as she stepped inside.

  Harry leaned back against the wood panelling, staring at her father lying so still in the bed. She could hardly believe a man as kind as Theo Pennington would condemn her father to the horrors of an insane asylum. But she’d been wrong about the intentions of other kind men before, hadn’t she? And at no small cost to herself.

  Cost. The missing money, that was the key. Find the money, and the danger to her father would disappear.

  It would not be found in the account books, of that she was certain. But where to look next?

  “My lord. Please, come quickly!”

  The footman burst into Theo’s chamber without even the courtesy of a knock, interrupting him at his morning ablutions. “Good God, Parsons, whatever is the matter?” he asked, dropping his razor and grabbing a towel to wipe down his face. Why had he left his valet in London?

  “It’s Mr. Atherton, sir. Mr. Baldwin insists he remain abed, but he’ll have none of it.”

  Through the now-open door, Theo could well hear Mr. Atherton “having none of it,” the steward’s indignant growls of protest growing ever louder, almost drowning out the soothing murmurs of his daughter and the surgeon. Theo ground his teeth at the thought of Harry being skewered yet again by her father’s uncharacteristically sharp tongue. After pulling on a coat, Theo strode down the passageway, buttoning up his waistcoat as he went.

  His gray-haired steward stood next to the bed where Theo had laid him yesterday evening, temple bandaged and arms akimbo, ringing a veritable peal over poor Mr. Baldwin. “Three days abed for a simple fall? Who has ever heard the like? Next thing you’ll be telling me I’ll not recover because I wasn’t baptized at night, you superstitious old woman! Now, get out of my way, before I summon the magistrate and have charges brought against you.”

  Baldwin jerked back from the steward’s shaking fist. But Harry Atherton grabbed at her father’s arm before he could make another threatening move. “Father, please. You were not even awake when they brought you home, and there was so much blood! Surely it will do no harm to stay in bed a little while longer.”

  “No harm? When Strickland has gathered almost enough support to do away with Oldfield Feast entirely? He’ll push it through at this afternoon’s vestry meeting if I’m not there to speak against him, you see if he doesn’t. I’ll never be able to face your mother again.”

  Lord, was Atherton raving, thinking his wife still alive? The last thing Theo wanted was to become involved in a domestic dispute, particularly one with a man whose wits had been addled by a fall. But Harry’s pained expression drove him into the room as fast as a bark from Laban’s Moss drove the sheep.

  “While I doubt you’re in any danger of meeting your heavenly reward, sir, I would feel more comfortable if you followed the surgeon’s advice. We can send word of your accident back to Oldfield with Mr. Baldwin, and Mr. Strickland will table the discussion until a later date.”

  Harry shot him a glance of gratitude, but her father only shook his head. “He’s postponed it once already on your account, Saybrook. But your disinterest has only made him all the more determined to push through his own views on the matter. No, I have to attend.”

  “Sir, I must protest,” Baldwin argued, though from a safe distance. “Your color is much too high, and I fear your humors will become unbalanced.”

  Theo could not but agree with Baldwin’s observation. All his childhood memories of Mr. Atherton were of a quiet, soft-spoken man, but the steward’s fall seemed to have brought his choleric tendencies to the rise.

  “I’ll be at the meeting, father,” Harry said. “Tell me what you would say, and I’ll speak on your behalf.”

  “Bah,” Mr. Atherton spit out. “As if Strickland would pay any more heed to a woman’s words than he would to the clucking of his chickens.”

  Harry cringed, but was quick to school her expression into a semblance of calm. How could he say such a thing, and to his only daughter? Theo clutched his fisting hands to his sides, not trusting himself to keep his anger to himself.

  “I’ll go.” Lord, had those words truly escaped his mouth? His brainbox had certainly not given them leave. But instead of taking them back, he found himself adding, “I’ll attend Strickland’s meeting and speak on behalf of continuing the feast. But only if you promise to remain here, Mr. Atherton, and rest, as Mr. Baldwin and your daughter both advise.”

  “Yes, Father, please.” With a gentle hand, Harry guided the man back toward the bed. “Reverend Strickland may not value my opinions overmuch, but he will not be able to disregard those of the local lord. Just lie back down, and I’ll see about preparing you a breakfast tray.”

  Mr. Atherton shook his head, then grasped Theo’s arm. “You tell Strickland he’s a fool, young Theo, to even think of doing away with all that your mother and my dear Lucia have accomplished.”

  “Perhaps not quite in those words, Mr. Atherton.” Theo patted the man’s hand. “But I will champion the cause with as much enthusiasm and skill as I can muster. And with Miss Atherton to advise me, how shall I falter?”

  “You see, father? Lord Saybrook will make sure that all will be well.” Harry smoothed down the sheets and plumped the pillow. “Now come back to bed, and I’ll ring for a tray.”

  “Oh, very well,” Mr. Atherton said, his concession as peevish as a small child’s.

  “Camomile tea, mind you, none of the black,” Mr. Baldwin whispered to Harry as she passed.

  Theo moved out of the doorway so that Harry might ease by. But before she left for the kitchens, she stopped and raised her face to his.

  “Thank you, Theo. I appreciate your help, more than you will ever know.”

  He saw brown in those eyes, but green too, and, when he looked more closely, bright rays of gold, framing her pupils like the petals of a sunflower. Seeing them so wide and shining, and fixed on him, twisted something unfamiliar deep within in Theo’s chest. Was this what it felt like, to be looked at with hope rather than disappointment?

  “Ah, well, I can always stand a bit of amusement,” he said with a careless shrug.

  Her lip quirked up into the most disarming smile that had ever been bestowed on Theo. “Do not we all.”

  Theo stared at her tall, vigorous figure striding down the passageway, basking in the afterglow of her gratitude. If he swayed the people to Atherton’s side at the vestry meeting, he might even have a chance of seeing it again.

  If only the debate stayed well away from anything having to do with pounds or pence.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “And don’t be surprised if he makes the dubious claim that Sabbath-breaking is the first step on the path to a life of criminality,” Harry counseled as she guided Theo Pennington up Oldfield High Street towards the church. Now, what other possible arguments might Reverend Strickland use to justify discontinuing the annual feast? The new Lord Saybrook may not be able to speak on the subject with as much conviction as her father would, but he’d be prepared. If, that is, she could recapture the dratted man’s fickle attention.

  While they’d walked by themselves, he had paid her the courtesy of being an attentive listener. But now that they had reached the village, his gaze wandered, fixing
on a small child here, a shop window filled with matrons there. On any person, no matter his station, who came within his sight, greeting each with a quick smile and an affable nod of the head.

  She began to lose patience when he stooped to ruffle the ears of a stray dog that had been hanging about the village for the past few days. Any living creature seemed to be of greater interest to him than she at this moment.

  “Lord Saybrook, did you hear what I said?”

  Theo raised an eyebrow at her use of his title. “But of course I did, Miss Atherton.” He rose, but then doffed his hat to the young Misses Lacey with an elegant sweep of his arm. “Didn’t the last rector hold the vestry meetings on Sundays, after services? And at the Red Lion in Market Rasen, rather than in Oldfield?”

  “You’ve a good memory, my lord,” she said, shooting a quelling glance toward the twittering girls. “But Reverend Strickland conducts no business on the Lord’s Day. And he certainly will not encourage the imbibing of intoxicating beverages by holding a church meeting at a tavern.”

  “Ah, no wonder his sermons are so dry,” he quipped. “Or so I have heard.”

  Harry sputtered, half-groan, half-giggle, then pressed her free hand against her mouth. As if she had any chance of catching back the ridiculous sound. And after she’d frowned at Lucy and Letitia Lacey for tittering, too.

  Theo cocked a grin, then guided her up the steps and pushed open its arched wooden door.

  The simple stone church, with its wooden pews and white painted walls, always gave her a sense of calm. When she’d lived in Brighton, she and Great Aunt Lucretia had attended Sunday services at the far grander, and far more crowded, Church of St. Nicholas. But her spirit felt more at home in the smaller, more intimate confines of Oldfield’s medieval chapel.

  “Lord Saybrook!” Sir John Mather bustled over from the knot of men gathered in front of the vestry door. “How glad I am to see you here. These townsfolk have no sense of tradition, no respect for the past. Only a fellow gentleman such as yourself can understand why continuing with the feast is vital to the well-being of our community. The true problem is not moral, as Strickland would have it, but financial.”

  Financial? Surely not. But she didn’t have the time to argue the point, not if she wanted to buttonhole the Saybrook estate’s banker without Theo overhearing.

  She slipped aside, allowing the Sir John to take her place, then moved toward the knot of men milling by the vestry door.

  “Mr Thrapson?” Harry curtseyed to Lincoln’s most prominent banker, who stood beside Oldfield’s two elderly churchwardens and its newly appointed Overseer of the Poor. “Might I have a word?”

  “Miss Atherton, isn’t it?” Thrapson asked, his eyes grazing over her before turning to search the nave. “Does Mr. Atherton accompany you?”

  “I’m afraid my father has met with a minor accident. But I am come in his place, to ask you to wait upon him at Saybrook House early next week. I believe there is a question about deposits in the Saybrook account?” If the fault were not in estate books—and she was convinced it was not—then perhaps the bank’s records might reveal where the missing funds had gone to.

  “At Saybrook House? Not at the bank?” Mr. Thrapson frowned. “Highly unusual.”

  “My father may not be able to walk or even ride for some days.” She glanced over her shoulder at Theo. “And Lord Saybrook, you see, is anxious to have the matter resolved as quickly as possible.”

  At the heavy-jowled banker’s frown, she added, “It is not our manner here in the country, I know, but Saybrook is used to London ways. Bankers in town regularly conduct business at the homes of their aristocratic patrons, I am given to understand.”

  She offered her friendliest smile to Mr. Thrapson, feigning unawareness of the goad underlying her words. The banker often spoke with scorn of London manners, but more out of jealousy than true disdain, she was certain.

  The banker’s lips thinned. “Of course, Miss Atherton. After I check my appointment calendar at the bank on Monday, I will send word when I am able to come.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but the man had already moved on to speak with Theo. No matter. She had achieved her first goal.

  “Come, gentlemen,” called Reverend Strickland from the open vestry door. “It is time to begin.”

  Now, if only the second would prove as simple.

  Theo came to her side and ushered her into the room. Mrs. Lacey, relict of the church’s last incumbent, had taken her usual chair, halfway down the table. She would have joined her there, but his hand on the small of her back guided her to the far end of the room. After seating Harry to his right, he took his own seat at the foot, opposite Reverend Strickland. Theo might not be so adept with numbers, but he clearly knew enough about the workings of meetings to claim a position of power for himself.

  Reverend Strickland clapped his hands to call the meeting to order. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your attention. And ladies. And my Lord Saybrook, you are very welcome, too. Especially as your late father was not able to devote much of his valuable time to the doings of the parish.”

  The older members of the vestry shuffled in their seats at this hint of lack of respect for their own aristocrat. But Theo simply gave a short nod.

  “The purpose of today’s meeting,” Reverend Strickland continued, “is to discuss the problem of the Oldfield Village Feast. Mr. Amcotts, as the senior member of our community, will you give us your opinion on the matter?”

  Of course, Strickland would ask Amcotts to speak first; elected by the incumbent, he could always be counted upon to parrot Strickland’s views.

  “Disgraceful. Disgraceful, such a profanation of the Lord’s Day,” the old man said in a quavering voice. “Erecting stalls, exchanging coin, tippling in the public-house—all tending only to disorder and riot. As churchwarden, it is my duty to enforce the laws for the better observation of the Sabbath. Given this, I must declare myself opposed to the continuance of the feast.”

  “But it is strangers, not Oldfield’s inhabitants, who cause the majority of the trouble, sir.” Mrs. Lacey laid a palm on the table. “Why punish our own people, when the fault lies not with them?”

  “What of our safety?” asked Mr. Peacock, the other churchwarden. Not so much in Reverend Strickland’s pocket, but still, a man who frowned upon the imbibing of any intoxicating beverages, not just strong spirits. Such as the ale that flowed like water at the Oldfield Feast. “Drunkenness and excess inevitably endanger, no matter who is doing the drinking. I am with Mr. Amcotts; the feast no longer serves the common good.”

  Harry caught Theo’s eye, silently urging him to speak before too many of the vestry declared themselves opposed.

  “I do remember a certain degree of tippling and carousing,” Theo said, folding his hands atop the table. “Did some of it myself, as many of you are sure to recall. Mr. Amcotts, do you remember that time you hauled my brothers and myself home in your cart, after your grandson and dared us all to match him tankard for tankard?”

  She stared down at her palms, carefully cupped in her lap. Was reminding them of his youthful misdeeds truly the best way to persuade the vestry members that the new Lord Saybrook was ready to take on the role of community leader?

  But much to her surprise, Amcotts chuckled as he stroked a hand over his balding pate. “Aye, my lord, and well I do. Young Parsons, that bull of a blacksmith, were in it with you, too. But you was the last one standing, you were. Always could hold your liquor.”

  Theo smiled. “And none of us, myself included, any the worse for it the next day. Besides a swollen head and a less than settled stomach.” Theo waited until the laughter died down before continuing. “Who among us has not got up to some boyish mischief in his day? And yet, Oldfield and its inhabitants still survive. In fact, I can recall nothing occurring at a village fete that would endanger the town or its people.”

  “Although it has been years since you last attended an Oldfield Feast, has it not, my lord?” Reverend
Strickland said before turning to the man on his right. “Mr. Thrapson, what have you to say to the matter?”

  “The drinking does not concern me as much as the cost. Given the present high price of provisions, does not the feast involve every peasant family in financial difficulties?”

  “Aye, and the genteel as well,” chimed in Sir John. “Do not forget it is the landowners who provide the food and the ale for the fete. A financial burden which is becoming more and more difficult to shoulder. I am not in favor of doing away with it entirely. But something must be done about its cost.”

  “The monetary aspects of the feast are not this vestry’s problem,” said Reverend Strickland, leaning forward in his chair. “It is morality with which we must be concerned. Breaking the Sabbath is bad enough. But of late, many make this so-called celebration an occasion of rioting, of nigh-rebelling! Do we wish the fate of France to befall of our own country?”

  Harry’s breath caught. She hadn’t anticipated that Strickland would put forth such an inflammatory argument. And not only Mr. Peacock and Mr. Amcotts, but Mr. Thrapson, too, were all narrowing their eyes, pursing their lips.

  By the heart, they needed to stamp out this line of reasoning now, or they’d lose the battle to save the fete. What would her mother have said?

  Before she could formulate a response, Theo had already risen from his chair.

  “You forget, I believe, gentlemen, the feast’s tendency to do away with the want of fellow-feeling which subsists among the different degrees of men. When we join together, all distinctions of rank are laid aside for a time, allowing rich and poor to meet as equals. Did my brothers and I not raise a felicitous glass with young Amcotts, the son of a tradesman, and Parsons, the son of a blacksmith?” Theo braced his hands on the table, resolute eyes pinning each vestry member in turn. “And did we not all return to our homes better able to understand each other, and more disposed to overlook each other’s faults? Yes, I say we did. Not to riot or rebel, but to live peaceably, and with respect for our fellow man, no matter his station in life. Now, let’s have no more talk of revolution, or of discontinuing the fete, but instead discuss how we may alleviate the problems likely to arise from any large gathering of God’s creatures, not just a village feast.”