Thomas

by Grace Burrowes

  The hell they had.

  “Greymoor and I have had few direct dealings. I bought the property sight unseen, on the strength of Fairly’s recommendation. He’s quite the canny businessman, though one doesn’t bruit that about. If I am discontent here, I will simply sell the place in a few years.”

  Linden wasn’t entailed and wasn’t the family seat. Thomas could do what he pleased with the entire estate… in theory.

  “We would miss such a pleasant fellow in our midst,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “Surely you wouldn’t tire of our company so quickly?”

  A small part of Thomas winced for his hostess, for any woman whose dignity didn’t inform her the time had come to give up playing the coquette. Loneliness and adult appetites were one thing, and if Mrs. Pettigrew had propositioned him on the strength of honest, friendly lust, he would have been politely flattered.

  But Claudia Pettigrew, regardless of her age, appearance, or standing, didn’t know Thomas, and didn’t care to know him. She didn’t want his company, she wanted control of a wealthy, titled, attractive conquest. Thomas recognized the type, because the very same mentality afflicted most of the male clientele who’d frequented Fairly’s brothel.

  Rather than bludgeon the woman with a pointed rejection, Thomas turned his attention to the young man working with the youngster in the arena before them.

  “Your son rides well.”

  Young Giles sat with easy grace, letting the gelding dance and carry on under him. Gradually, the horse became more interested in what Giles asked, and less interested in expending his energy on fruitless displays.

  Amid effusive reassurances that the horse was a good fellow and a brilliant study, Giles stepped down from his mount, whom the grooms were only too happy to lead away.

  “Did you see him, Mama?” Giles asked. “D’Artagnan will come ’round now. He simply needed to figure things out for himself. Giles Pettigrew, sir. Mama, introduce me to this fine gentleman.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew obliged with the civilities, though she shifted to stand upwind of her son.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular, Baron?” Giles asked when the hot weather had been discussed adequately. “Perhaps you need some dependable mounts for guests? Lord Greymoor entertained sizeable groups from time to time. I have several possibilities, if you’re after guest horses.”

  Thomas felt resentment rolling off his hostess, for Giles had what Mrs. Pettigrew lacked: a true love of horses and the true horseman’s willingness to talk his craft with anybody, particularly those similarly afflicted.

  After about two minutes, Mrs. Pettigrew turned a blazing smile on Thomas. “I will leave you two gentlemen to discuss horses, while I find our missing viscount.”

  Who was, fortunately, adept at not being found unless he wanted to be.

  “Madam.” Thomas bowed without taking Mrs. Pettigrew’s hand.

  “Baron.” She strolled off, walking like a woman who knew—or hoped—her retreat was being thoroughly perused.

  Giles, when mounted, was graceful, poised and athletic. Off the horse, he hadn’t yet grown into his frame, and perhaps he never would. He reminded Thomas of a gamboling puppy, paws and ears flapping in every direction.

  “You have good stock, and your property is attractive,” Thomas observed, though signs of wear were evident as well. The occasional gate sagged on its hinges, not a single pot of salvia graced the stable yard, the barn aisles were unraked. “But so far, I haven’t seen a horse I’d consider for Miss Tanner, which was one reason for calling upon you.”

  Giles put his boot up on the bottom step of the mounting block and swatted the dust from the toes with a limp handkerchief. The exercise was pointless, dust being the order of the day, but Thomas had the sense Giles needed a moment to compose himself.

  “Come with me to the barn, Baron, and I’ll introduce you to Aquitaine and Saxony.”

  They were four-year-olds, a colt and a filly, with differing temperaments. Aquitaine, called Ace, was big, bay, and full of himself. Saxony, called Saucy, was a chestnut of equally impressive bone and size, but sweet, flirty, and easygoing.

  “Saucy would make a good mount for Miss Tanner,” Giles said, “but Claudia does not approve of Miss Tanner, and might not be amenable to selling her Saucy.”

  Claudia, not Mama. Gone was the beamish boy, and in his place, an unhappy young man who was not yet in control of his life.

  “Does not approve of Miss Tanner?” Thomas pressed, bending to inspect the mare’s feet and pasterns. “Because she is my steward?”

  Thomas might have glossed over the reality:

  Because Miss Tanner has tried to hold the reins in her father’s absence.

  Because Miss Tanner has done what she could for Linden, given the limitations of her gender.

  But the truth was, Loris Tanner was a better steward than her father had ever been, and Thomas… proud of her. Damned proud, and also protective.

  Fairly’s words came to mind: I pried, I poked, I casually observed. You know how it’s done. Though little prying was necessary: Claudia Pettigrew could not approve of a prettier, younger woman, much less one who’d found an honorable, if unorthodox, path to self-sufficiency.

  “Perhaps,” Giles said, “the problem is that Miss Tanner tries to be a good steward.”

  And she succeeded. “You know this how?” Thomas straightened and walked around to stand right against the mare’s tail, so he could sight down her spine.

  “Because I know Loris Tanner,” Giles said, quite on his dignity. “You mustn’t judge Miss Tanner, Baron, for she’s only a woman. When sober, her father was very skilled at his trade, and she learned a great deal from him. She’s doing the best she can, though I’m sure you’ll find another better suited to the position in due course.”

  No, Thomas would not. He might find another competent steward, but Loris loved the estate she called home. Thomas still did not understand entirely why.

  “You believe Tanner’s daughter is as skilled as he was?” Thomas walked to the horse’s head and pried open the mare’s teeth, only to have her pull her lips back, swish her tail, and stick her nose in the air.

  “That’s hardly a fair question, Baron,” Giles said, mopping his brow with the dusty handkerchief and leaving a streak of dirt over one blond brow. “Miss Tanner hasn’t her father’s years of experience. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Miss Tanner doesn’t deserve the talk that’s spread about her. She works very hard, far harder than a lady ought. I’m confident she’ll make the right man a fine wife, and eventually, this queer start at Linden will be behind her. Talk always dies down, over time, particularly if a woman makes a superior match.”

  Talk died down if overly helpful neighbors stopped discussing a woman behind her back.

  “Let’s put these two under saddle,” Thomas said, rather than respond to Giles’s outburst. The colt ignored the filly, which was odd, but perhaps they enjoyed the equine version of sibling indifference.

  While the grooms dealt with Ace and Saucy, Thomas took a draught of lemonade from his flask.

  Time for more prying, poking, and casually observing. “I’m told Mrs. Pettigrew has definite ideas about her breeding stallion’s care.”

  Giles’s gaze strayed to the far side of the arena, where Nick was visiting with a lone black horse housed in a small shed. No trees shaded the building, and the heat inside would be brutal.

  “Papa is rolling in his grave,” Giles spat, “to think his precious Johnny is never let out, never allowed to romp, never given a pasture-mate for company.”

  The stallion made a half-hearted attempt to nip at Nick, who dodged easily. “Johnny?”

  “Jonathan Swift,” Giles said, rolling back the cuff of his sleeve and pulling on riding gloves. “Haddonfield mentioned you might bring us your draft mare to breed. I sneak Johnny what attention I can and insist on riding him from time to time, but the lads will peach on me to Claudia if I change his routine at all. She’s not stupid.”


  The last was said with more than a little petulance, yet another warning regarding Mrs. Claudia Pettigrew.

  * * *

  Thomas Jennings, who’d strolled frequently—and without any visible interest—among a house full of the loveliest sexually available women in London, apparently missed his steward.

  David, Viscount Fairly, noticed what others did not in part because he missed his viscountess with a low, grinding ache.

  Thomas glanced frequently in the direction of Linden, discreetly consulted his pocket watch on three occasions, and declined all offers of refreshment and hospitality. The situation gave a viscount cause to hope, when for nearly a decade, Thomas Jennings had been a monument to male independence.

  He was not indifferent to the fairer sex—Thomas was as protective as a mama bear with one cub when a woman’s welfare was imperiled—but he’d always been in command of himself, whether in a barroom, a brothel, or a ballroom.

  Until now.

  After a hot, humid eternity of flirtation from the widow and enthusiasm from Giles Pettigrew, Thomas climbed onto Rupert’s back, and Fairly could almost hear Nick Haddonfield’s echoing sigh of relief.

  “You abandoned me,” Thomas complained as their horses ambled along in the direction of Linden. “That woman all but crawled into my pockets, and where are my trusted friend and my stable master? Out chatting up the lads and flirting with the mares.”

  “Two of the lads,” Fairly said, “used to work for you. They were all too happy to find any sort of employment, much less at a place where their immediate superior does not chide them with a bullwhip. They say Chesterton is still in the area, and talking all manner of nonsense against you and Miss Tanner.”

  Dark brows lowered gratifyingly. Had Fairly been a betting man, he’d have predicted that Thomas’s bachelorhood would be among the goods harvested before winter.

  As would Miss Tanner’s spinsterhood.

  “Giles mentioned the talk,” Thomas said. “Nicholas, anything to report?”

  More gratification, to see that the fellow who’d spent years delivering reports knew how to ask for them as well.

  “That stud is growing mean,” Nick said. “I’ve half a mind to steal him and put him in hands that will treat him properly. He’s a decent fellow at heart, and deserves better. Some of the staff imply Mrs. Pettigrew poisoned her spouse, you know. Arsenic’s easy enough to get hold of.”

  “My, the things a man learns about his neighbors after he’s purchased a property,” Thomas mused. “Horse thievery is a hanging offense, Nicholas.”

  Nick dropped his reins on the mare’s neck and stretched up in the saddle, while Fairly was plagued again with a nagging sense of having seen Nick before.

  “A hanging offense, indeed—if I’m caught.” Nick settled back and took up his reins. “You will excuse me please, gentlemen. I left Jamie and Beckman to handle all of the afternoon chores, and I’m sure I’m needed in the stable.”

  He touched his hat brim and cantered off, his mare kicking up a trail of dust.

  “Don’t say it,” Thomas muttered as the hoof beats faded. “A plain stable master does not joke about hanging felonies, much less contemplate them seriously. Nick showed up shortly after Micah Tanner disappeared, and the coincidence bothers me.”

  “Loris Tanner bothers you more,” Fairly observed.

  Casually. Letty would have expected some finesse from her husband, after all. She treasured Thomas and had great hopes for him.

  “Loris Tanner bothers me without ceasing. She’s haunted by her father’s disappearance, and I can’t abide that.”

  “Your own family isn’t haunted by yours?” Fairly asked with the cavalier unconcern of a true friend whose affairs were in order and whose reflexes were lightning fast.

  Fortunately for Fairly, the afternoon was apparently too hot for brawling in the dirt.

  “Miss Tanner doesn’t even know her mother’s name, Fairly. Did her father wander off, willingly leaving her in that state of ignorance?”

  Fairly tipped up a flask, and gave himself a moment to choose his words.

  “Tanner left his daughter in ignorance regarding her mother for the first two decades of Miss Tanner’s life, didn’t he? Some people live as if they have all the time in the world to resolve familial problems, when in fact, in a single day, two cousins can meet their maker, and everything changes. A title befalls one, wealth, responsibility…”

  This was meddling, but Fairly was haunted, too, by the memory of his ever-competent Thomas clinging to composure by a thread, staring at his brandy, and looking like the world’s largest, most bereaved orphan.

  Thomas had likely forgotten those few bad moments, but Fairly never would.

  “None of us lives forever, Thomas.”

  “I will allow you to remain on your horse, Fairly, because you miss your wife and that turns you into an idiot. Moreover, Letty would take it amiss did I pummel you to flinders, though you deserve pummeling, and I’m just the fellow to tend to it. I will resolve matters at Sutcliffe in my own time, on my own terms. For now, pass me your flask. I’m parched, my own flask is empty, and I’m plagued by mysteries on all sides.”

  Fairly obediently passed over his flask, which had exactly half a swallow of tepid water left.

  “What mysteries?”

  “Where is Micah Tanner?” Thomas asked softly as the late afternoon shadows lengthened. “Is he guilty of rape? If not, why allow Loris to remain at Linden, working too hard, enduring mean talk and a meaner stable master? Who is Nick Haddonfield, and why do you think you know him? Why does Chesterton linger in the area when nobody will offer him work? Who is unlatching gates all over my property? Who sprung Rupert’s shoe?”

  The sun was sinking, but the land was so thoroughly baked that heat lingered in the air, thick and stupefying. Fairly thought longingly of a cool bath, and of his wife, while Thomas tried to solve mysteries years in the making.

  “You forgot the greatest mystery of all,” Fairly said, stuffing his flask back in the pocket. “What will you do if Loris Tanner refuses your proposal of marriage?”

  Thomas used his riding crop to tap Fairly’s mare gently on the quarters, and she took off at a trot toward her temporary home.

  A lesser man might have used that same crop on his nosy, meddlesome former employer, but Thomas was a gentleman.

  And he and Fairly were friends, after all.

  Chapter Twelve

  “That went well,” Giles said, opening a window to let some air into the library.

  “You stink, and you’ve brought your dirt into my house,” Claudia retorted, though she didn’t look up from whatever she was reading. She sat at Papa’s desk if she sat anywhere in this room. A tray bearing a bottle of wine and a half-empty glass at her elbow.

  Giles helped himself to a sip of her wine, though he preferred ale. “Everybody stinks in this heat. I’ve given the lads orders that Johnny is to be let out into the small paddock for two hours in the evening until the heat breaks.”

  The stallion was tough. He’d endure the heat without that indulgence, but Claudia needed to face the fact that her reign was coming to an end. Then too, an unfit stallion was more likely to suffer injury when a mare took exception to his advances.

  Claudia rose, skirts swishing. “You are not yet five-and-twenty, Giles, and this is my home.”

  In not quite two years’ time, her home would be the dower cottage, unless Giles could find some intrepid soul to marry her. That would require dispensing with the allegations she’d made against Micah Tanner, though, which was proving to be a complicated and time consuming process.

  “Your point, Claudia?”

  “You have no authority on this property for another two years, and even then, my boy, you will find cooperation with me in your best interests.”

  Not quite. The instant Giles married, Claudia’s authority vanished. Perhaps she’d forgotten this aspect of Papa’s final arrangements, or perhaps she’d hoped to keep it from her son.<
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  Giles took another taste of too-sweet wine. “I work myself to death here. I am cordial to all who seek to do business with you. I manage the stable help when your temper would have them in open revolt. In what manner do I fail to cooperate with you?”

  “I’m thinking of hiring Chesterton,” Claudia said, closing the window Giles had just opened. “Unlike you, he doesn’t tolerate laziness or insolence, not from a horse, not from the lads.”

  “It’s stifling in here. Open the damned window.”

  Claudia turned her back to the window and crossed her arms. The late afternoon sun slanting through the panes was merciless, revealing a softening under her chin, face powder, and lines of bitterness bracketing a thin mouth.

  “The dust comes in through the window,” she said. “If you want open windows, perhaps you should dwell elsewhere.”

  Giles’s father had explained to him that Claudia simply lacked maternal feeling. Her sole asset as a young woman had been beauty, along with a modest dowry. Her parents had accepted an offer of marriage for her from an older rural squire because that squire had owned nearly seventeen thousand acres of rentable land.

  Rents had dropped, the land had tired, much of it had been sold, and the squire had retreated to the pleasures of his hounds and horses before retreating from the worldly sphere entirely.

  How Giles missed his father, and how he raged at the old fellow now.

  “This is, in point of fact, my house,” Giles said. “It will never be your house, and you are the party who had best learn some cooperation before I turn five-and-twenty, Mama.”

  Her smile was smug, but in her eyes, Giles saw a rare and terrifying flash of uncertainty.

  In one of her tempers, she’d taken a knife to the portrait done of her and Papa shortly after their wedding. Giles had personally hung his favorite portrait of the late squire in his London rooms, and made sure Claudia never had a key to the premises.

  “What have you done, Claudia?” Giles set down his wine and opened another window, then another. She followed after him, closing them, one by one. “You’ve done something stupid, and you’d best tell me.”