by Sophia Nash
Oh, this entire situation had gotten out of hand. She should be planning her escape. She prayed Sarah had evaded Pymm’s men as well. Elizabeth had to leave before the soldiers thought to search this place. How much time would pass before someone would think to follow the lead that captain would be sure to offer?
The sharp clang of a bell echoed in the distance. “That be the end of the auction,” Mrs. Vernon muttered, refusing to lift a finger. “Best be ready. Footmen will come to haul it all to the men’s dining hall.”
“And Mr. Manning?”
“Takes ’is supper on a tray. But ’e doesn’t fancy eatin’ wot the others eat.”
“Really?”
The cook enjoyed having all the answers and appeared pleased to quite obviously withhold a few. “’e dines in his working quarters.”
The footmen, eyes round with wonder, disappeared with the vast quantities of food for the stable workers. Elizabeth arranged a tray for Mr. Manning, abundant with the foods she had prepared with such care. The man had to have an enormous appetite given his great height.
A footman reappeared. “Mr. Manning will see you now, ma’am. Let me help you with that. It smells delicious. Thank you for preparing such fare for—” The brawny young man, who appeared to be the sole employee proficient in the King’s English, stopped after a glance at the cook got the better of him. He escorted Elizabeth to Mr. Manning.
On the other side of two tall ornate doors, Elizabeth found herself in a stately long room. Bronze figurines of dozens of racehorses graced the tables and shelves separating her from the man sitting in the distance. A long series of equine paintings decorated the dark paneled walls. Rowland Manning was ensconced at the end of the room at a desk devoid of any sort of ornamentation. That one plain bit of furniture appeared out of place given the gilded pieces in every corner.
When Elizabeth approached, Mr. Manning didn’t bother to raise his head from a neat pile of paperwork. “Set it here,” he said, indicating the side of the desk. “Wait over there.” He waved a dictatorial hand toward a bow window and then continued to address his attention to his work.
She did as he bade without a word. After settling herself, she allowed her gaze to wander back to him. He had removed his coat and rolled up the shirt linen of his sleeves. His darkly bronzed and muscled forearms spoke of long hours of physically demanding labor in the sun. They were not covered with the profusion of hair like those of the men she had known in the military. Instead, they were corded with veins and sinew. His hands moved to spread wide over a ledger; his fingers, long and strong—suddenly gripped the ends. She shivered. He would be capable of snapping someone’s neck. These were the same hands that had held her firmly in place beneath him in the carriage. The same hands that he would want to use to extract payment for his efforts to hide her. She wrenched her gaze away.
The vast expanse of Manning’s yards beckoned to her beyond the three windows. It should be so easy to slip away. A mere fraction of an inch of glass separated her from freedom.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him turn a page. But the same thoughts that plagued her in the storeroom dogged her now. Where would she go? She had no more coin, and she didn’t dare return to Helston House. Surely there would be a watch there. Well, she would just have to hope Lefroy was an honest man and would get her note to Sarah.
What on earth was that smell? Rowland switched his attention from the ledger back to the purchase documents in front of him. Without thought, he unwound the fork from the plain napkin and paused to continue reading. Damn, Lord Vesington had gotten that filly off of Edelweiss for a song. He shook his head. He had spent far too many hours training this particular horse, who showed so much promise.
A pox on Wellington for his bloody ill-timed moment to end the war. Rowland would be a dead man if the cavalry did not live up to the terms of the contract now that the damned frogs’ emperor was penned on Elba. He stabbed blindly in the direction of the plate of food on the side of the desk. How in hell was he to meet the staggering construction costs at this rate?
With a blaze of potency, something hideously delicious registered on his tongue, and a flood of hunger was loosed. He immediately tossed the fork aside with a clatter. “What the devil is this?” He looked toward the beautiful fraud at the bow window.
Wide, startled eyes met his own. “Pardon me? Are you addressing me?”
“And just who in hell else would I be speaking to?” He picked up the small dish containing a dark brown breadlike square with white froth on top. Crossing the expanse of floorboards separating them, he slipped the dish in front of her. “I said, what the devil is this?”
“Why, gingerbread, Mr. Manning. Don’t you like it? Most gentlemen do. But you should save it for last.”
He hardened his face into a cold smile. “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why I have a disgust of it.”
She stiffened before his eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“I think we both know I’m no gentleman, Mrs. Ashburton.” He placed the dish on the low table in front of her knees and walked back to his desk. “Return it to Mrs. Vernon when you go. And tell the cook I will sack her if she dares to make anything remotely like this again.”
He sat down and resolutely picked up a bill of sale in one hand and his fork in the other. He was annoyed he could sense her eyes on him as he took another unseen bite from the tray. Oh God…he carefully returned the fork to the tray and pushed the entire affair aside.
“You don’t care for the meat pie either, Mr. Manning?”
“No.”
“I suppose I should admit that Mrs. Vernon cannot be blamed. If I’d had a bit more time, perhaps I could have prepared something more to your liking. I realize I’m in your debt and I was hoping to thank you properly with this simple meal.”
Rowland gave up any hope of finishing his accounts and pushed back slightly to balance on the back legs of his chair. “I should have guessed. And where in hell is Mrs. Vernon?”
“She slipped and hurt her spine.”
“Is that so?” He looked at her skeptically. “And just how did that happen?”
“In the kitchen an hour or so ago.”
He waited.
“On the floor I had just mopped.”
He dropped back to all four legs of his chair. “Mrs. Ashburton?”
“Yes?”
“Stop meddling. You’ll not pay off your debt to me in that fashion.” He looked at her with vexation. “Although, if you’d like to add to it, you’re doing a fine job.” It irked him no end that one female could cause such havoc in such a short frame of time.
“Mr. Manning?”
“Yes?”
“Did you not request that I help Cook with dinner?”
“I asked for you to help, not hinder, the cook,” he said dryly.
She appeared as if she was attempting to check her ire. “Do you think we might discuss this in a rational manner? I’ve had a bit of time to think about all of this and—”
“Go ahead, madam. I’m all ears. Just how do you propose to repay me for baring my arse and ballocks to a dozen of Wellington’s finest?”
He watched her swallow, before a coughing fit erupted. With a sigh, he stood and walked toward the sideboard. Extracting two glasses, he poured dollops of spirits from the decanter. “And more to the point, how shall we cipher in the danger of assisting a criminal?”
“I haven’t committed a crime.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely not.” The hint of a blush crested her cheeks.
“Mrs. Ashburton, your bravado mars the performance. Now, then. Why were those soldiers looking for you?”
She stared back at him with a mutinous expression, and he was certain he would not extract a single truth from her.
“I’ve changed my mind, Mrs. Ashburton. Don’t bother. I’m something of an expert on the art of lying, having done it every damned day of my life, and I really don’t wan
t to hear your trumped-up story. Shall we get back to the matter at hand? As I recall, you said I could have anything I wanted if I helped you.”
“I am not going to…to…”
“To what, madam?” He offered her one of the glasses and she accepted it.
“You know perfectly well what.”
“I should like to hear you say it.” It would serve as the first volley in this game. There was nothing like a little disinterest to arouse the opposite in delicate female hearts.
She took a gulp of liquid. He was impressed by her ability to govern a cool expression.
“What is this?” she finally asked hoarsely.
“Water of life.”
“This is the farthest thing from water.”
“Not in Ireland. And you’re changing the subject again,” he drawled.
“I will not allow you to do what you pretended to do in your carriage.”
“Now there’s an idea,” he growled to good effect. “But I’m not really tempted, madam.” That brought the color back to her cheeks. He wondered if she would be an easy mark, and hoped not. Most women succumbed far too quickly for any sort of serious sport.
“Really? And just what sort does tempt you?”
“Good, honest girls who enjoy being bad. Not bad girls pretending to be good and honest. Although…you might show promise if you could just dispense with that false mask of innocence.” It was fortunate that he was a far better liar than she—or anyone else for that matter.
The sparks darting from her eyes could light a fire at ten paces. “I’ve always thought it poor form to offer excuses for one’s behavior, Mr. Manning. And so I will offer you no explanations. I can only be grateful that neither of us is each other’s favored sort.” She muttered the last.
He laughed softly. “Come, come, Mrs. Ashburton, if you can’t even bring yourself to tell me what you’ve done to cause soldiers to be sniffing your trail, do you really think it fair to ask me such intimate questions about the sort of female I favor? And here you are a lady, and all. You are a lady, aren’t you?”
Her eyes darkened. “If I agree, then you are sure to think the opposite. I choose not to answer.”
“And your husband? Who was he?”
“Mr. Ashburton.”
He sighed heavily, enjoying the game.
“And your father?”
She paused, and lifted her chin. “A gentleman.”
“Really?” At least she did not scare easily or simper like the majority of the primped pusses he encountered in the occasional ballrooms of desperate lords who issued invitations in an effort to curry his favor. He would—
A damned knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes? Come.” Damn it to hell, was nothing to run on schedule today? He was not to be disturbed for two hours post auction.
A footman stuck his head inside the door. “Mr. Manning? Mr. Lefroy begs a word.”
Hat in hand, Lefroy approached.
“This had best be important. Is Gray Lady dropping?”
“No, sir. The men and I wanted to thank you.”
“For godsakes, why? I did not authorize any afternoon off until Michaelmas, and that’s six bloody months away.”
“Nay. For the dinner. For the gingerbread in particular. Most o’ the men ’ad never ’ad it afore.”
Without looking in her direction, he murmured, “Don’t say a word, madam.” To Lefroy, he continued, “Tell them they’d best not get used to such fancy fare, because I’ll not—”
Lefroy had the audacity to interrupt him. “I thought you’d want to know the men are so grateful they ’ave taken on the work o’ erecting the last o’ the fence posts and rails to save you the cost of the other crew of men, sir. They said they’d whitewash all the rooms, too.”
“That will be all, Lefroy.”
The stable master stared at him for a beat and then nodded before turning on his heel. Only the click of Lefroy’s boots against the floor and the door opening and closing could be heard. The weight of the silence became nearly unbearable to him until he heard her stand and carefully place the glass on the table. She followed the same path Lefroy had made toward the door.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“To make a list.”
“Of possible ways to repay me, dare I hope?”
“No. A list of goods needed for the kitchen and storerooms.”
He should have seen it coming. Nothing good came of helping a lady in need. Nothing good ever came of helping anyone in need. “And I suppose you now think this gives you license to sack the cook. Only pampered, lazy dandies require bloody gingerbread, Mrs. Ashburton. And I did not bring you here to take over my kitchens. I have other plans for—”
She stuck her pointed little chin in the air. “I regret to disagree with you. Even a beastly miser can see the benefits of a different sort of fare than Mrs. Vernon’s rotting concoctions. Now I shall stay for the next few days to arrange for your pantries to be restocked and also for several cooks to be interviewed. But, I leave it to you to attend to Mrs. Vernon.” She pushed back that magnificent mane of hair, lionlike in its wild hues. “And that, Mr. Manning, is how I shall repay you for your efforts this morning.”
“Really?” He took care to lower his voice to a growl. “I fear you’ve underestimated the cost of saving your pretty neck.”
“Oh, fear not. I never had any doubt what you would want, Mr. Manning, whether I’m your favored sort or not and whether you admit it or not. But as a lady, I never had any intention of repaying you in such a fashion,” she said acidly.
This was not how he played the game. He scratched the edge of his jaw. “The ladies I know never let their station hold them back. In fact, I’ve always found the grander the title, the bolder the wench. Duchesses, in particular, are a frisky, demanding lot,” he said with a smile that twisted one side of his mouth.
She collected the tray, not a ruffle out of place despite his outrageous words. “Yes, well, I’m not a duchess, so you have nothing to fear.”
He waved her away dismissively. “I’ve more important things to do than to fritter away the rest of the afternoon talking cock and bull to a widow, a lady, and a liar.”
He wondered if she had any idea how attractive she was to him. She was not conventionally pretty—in the soft, graceful way of most pampered aristos. Her eyes, farouche in that angular face of hers, showed hints of a brand of stubbornness he was all too familiar with since it stared back at him in his shaving mirror every morning. Any fool could conjure up the sort of woman she would be in bed.
She was trouble. He would do well to send her on her way this very minute. There was something about her that spoke of goodness despite appearances. But then, she was an amazingly guileless liar. If he did not enjoy skating on the thin ice of disaster, he would let her go. But he had glided on dark, melting regions for so long, it was where he felt most at ease.
Without missing a beat, she grabbed at the chance of escape. “In future, what shall I have prepared for you then, since you don’t fancy this fare?”
He stared hard at her. “Boiled eggs and bread. Twice a day. An apple or orange, on occasion.”
She gaped at him but was smart enough to not let another peep escape her pretty gob. Instead she edged toward the door.
“And by the by, Mrs. Ashburton. Dare you set one foot off my property before you repay me in a way I decide, I shall hunt you down myself and put a bow around your neck before delivering you to those officers or directly to General Pymm himself. I’m certain he’ll be happy to tell me why his men are searching for you.”
The merest hesitation in her step betrayed what her words did not. He didn’t doubt she’d bring a pretty penny…and God knew he needed more than a few of those. Yes, he had but a mere month or two before creditors might attempt to steal away all he had built—with satisfied smiles, no less. They would take great pleasure crowing to all and sundry that his spectacular fall was expected. Indeed,
his entire life he’d been told cunning bastards such as himself shouldn’t attempt to reach the sun. No, they should be happy scavenging the tidal flats like the mudlarks they truly were.
Chapter 3
Elizabeth scrambled from the narrow bed in the middle of the night. Her door was ajar, and a large shadow moved with stealth within the small, cramped room she had been provided.
Her heart in her throat, she ran to the tiny window and threw open the sash, ready to grab on to the large limb of the tree just beyond. She would not go with Pymm, she would rather—
“A little dangerous to your health, don’t you think?” Rowland Manning’s jaded amusement was evident the moment he spoke from the dark corner.
She whirled about and straightened her now much wrinkled wedding finery with as much dignity as she was able to muster given her fright. She hadn’t dared sleep in her shift alone. “I haven’t the vaguest idea what you mean, Mr. Manning. It’s hotter than Hades in this cramped room. Just require a little air—”
“Please tell me this is not how it’s going to go, Mrs. Ashburton?” He silenced her lie, his words steeped in doubt.
Elizabeth peered through the darkness of the chamber only to see something white in his hands. “I thought I locked that door, Mr. Manning.”
“And I thought I’d find a use for the spare key.” He continued. “Now then, am I to expect my beauty sleep to be disturbed every night at four in the morning by Lefroy reeking of guilt and skulking about your door? What exactly did you do to make my stable master hop to your beck and call? Well? What have you to say? Please, dear God, tell me you are not some sort of spy? Hate spy stories…all that intrigue, all the invariable martyrdom that comes part and parcel with it. Well? Cat got your tongue?”
She still reeled from her dreams of running from Pymm as she walked toward Mr. Manning. “No.” She pushed her tangled locks over one shoulder. “I’m just waiting for you to get all your questions out at once…and hoping you’ll run out of breath,” she added under her breath, “or maybe even die.”