by Sophia Nash
As the vestiges of the day began to etch their vibrant colors upon the darkening azure of the sky, Rowland Manning approached the edge of the pasture on his return from the disastrously unproductive encounter with Lieutenant Tremont, a man who would last less than a minute before the heat of the cannon. Perversely, it was men like Tremont who always lived to a hundred and two while serving their country on the other side of a desk. It was enough to make Rowland wish he were a bloody revolutionary-minded Frenchie. Yes, watching a few lordly heads introduced to Madame Guillotine would restore his good humor very well—especially if one tonsured crown belonged to a certain Lieutenant Tremont, second son of a minor baronet.
As he neared the stables, Rowland slowed his young bay gelding to a walk to cool him. This one showed much promise. He wouldn’t do as a carriage horse. Too small and slight. But he was a pretty boy, with easy daisy-cutting gaits. Perfect for the flood of young ladies who arrived each season looking to cut a dash in Hyde Park. A vision appeared unbidden…of Elizabeth Ashburton mounted on the gelding, trotting along a manicured avenue, her emerald eyes sparkling as she laughed gaily. He ground his teeth and forced the image from his mind.
Now, if he could just train eight hundred plus heavy-boned cavalry horses to be just like this well-mannered gelding…Christ. How he had counted on that bloody contract. And he’d thought himself so brilliant in hedging his bets by forcing that bribe from his half brother’s besotted fiancée all those months ago in exchange for arranging Michael’s release from Newgate prison. Perhaps his half brother had eventually been able to prove he’d been innocent of the murder charges Rowland had brought forth against him. Yes, Rowland had gone soft, returning every last ha’penny to the countess—albeit grudgingly.
In either case, he would have had enough to see him through the end of the next quarter. Instead, he might very well be taken before the magistrate, his enterprise broken and auctioned to the highest bidder. Indeed, the prospect of the poorhouse loomed or—
All at once he saw in the distance a bit of gray muslin hurrying through the exit of the stables to cross behind the large oak, closest to the main building. What in hell? He made his way to the nearest stable boy and tossed the reins to him. “Walk him out, Jimmy.”
Quietly, he approached the other side of the wide tree trunk. The thick, unbound, multicolored locks of Mrs. Ashburton’s hair fluttered in the late-afternoon breeze. She was extracting something from the billowing skirt of her gown. He spied her profile as he came around the tree.
She turned, and before she could alter her countenance, he saw such bleak desperation lining her face—the same expression worn by every last person of his childhood. It failed to produce a single drop of compassion from him. It had all been milked from him decades ago in the poorest of the filthy maze of London’s rookeries.
He nodded to the letter in her hand. “More intrigue, Mrs. Ashburton? Glad to hear it. Life was far too tedious and dull before you arrived. Although I must say your fondness for secret notes is wearing a bit thin.”
“I suppose it was too much to hope you would not plague me again today.” She quickly refolded the letter.
Color returned to her intriguing face, making him thank God he wouldn’t be forced to pretend concern.
“Dare I ask what that letter is about, Mrs. Ashburton? I do hope you’re not contemplating an ill-advised escape from our cozy little coterie here?”
“Why ever would you think that?”
“You have that look about you.”
“And what look is that, Mr. Manning,” she asked stiffly.
“Of a scared rabbit trying to fling herself through a gap in the garden fence to avoid the edge of the farmer’s trowel.”
“Perhaps it’s you I’m trying to avoid—and your clichéd ideas.”
A gust of cooling wind rushed through the leaves overhead. “Give that to me,” he insisted quietly.
She stuffed the note in her pocket mutinously. “No. It has nothing to do with you and it’s private.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Everything and everyone on this property concerns me, Mrs. Ashburton.”
She picked up the untouched tray and began to walk away from him, and he strode in front of her, forcing her to stop.
“Damn you,” he muttered. “What in hell does it say to have you looking like a wretched pickpocket before the noose?”
“You have your secrets, Mr. Manning, and I have mine.” The light of something very like mischief stole across her face. “But since you are so curious, shall we make a bargain?”
“I do not make bargains with someone already in my debt.”
She sighed with exaggeration. “Mr. Manning, do stop being ridiculous. I’ve paid off my debt to you with interest. I’ve fed your men the last several days, organized your pantries and kitchen, and have even narrowed the pool of potential new cooks down to two. Now if you want to strike a bargain with me, I’m more than willing to satisfy your curiosity.”
He considered her words, balanced the pros and cons of it. With self-disgust, he ground out, “What are you suggesting?”
“For every meal of mine you consume before I leave, I shall tell you one of my secrets.”
He could not help but be slightly amused. With exaggeration he extended his arm toward the main building and bowed. “I accept, Mrs. Ashburton. Never let it be said I could not accomplish two things at once—eating and enlightenment—all on one plate.”
This was not going at all as he expected, he thought a mere quarter of an hour later as the witch placed a plate of ungodly food in front of him. They’d haggled over the fare. He had wanted his eggs, and she’d refused to open her bloody mouth until she’d selected a sampling of the dinner fare she’d prepared for his men.
“I shall want to meet those two cooks as soon as possible,” he’d said without trying to hide his irritation.
“Will this afternoon be too soon?” she’d replied with exaggerated sweetness.
A portion of fish bathed in a sea of some sort of red sauce lay in the center of a deep dish of creamed potatoes. Several spears of asparagus framed the elegant food. An exotic combination of scents reached his nostrils, sounding off a thousand alarms in his head.
“Now then, Mr. Manning,” she said softly as she seated herself next to him in his heretofore unused dining room. “I do hope you’ll like it.”
He’d constructed the chamber for formal entertainments in future, when he would have accumulated the blunt to lure more customers to his establishment.
“And what sort of fancy quid did you pay for this bloody exotic fish? You’re out to beggar me.”
“Pittance. I sent that handsome Joshua Gordon to wheedle the fishmonger’s daughter with half the amount your cook would have spent to purchase rotted fare.”
“You find him handsome, do you?”
She ignored him. “And this fish is not out of the ordinary. I’m surprised you aren’t familiar with cod—why, it’s the commonest fish in the world. Then again someone who eats only eggs and bread…”
“Hate fish.”
“Well then, I shan’t tell you what you want to know.” She suddenly smiled, and the radiance of her face dazzled his senses. It was the first time he’d seen her truly smile.
“Good God. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she replied with innocence.
“Forget it.” He steeled himself against her brilliant smile and those god-awful dimples, which spoke of a sort of happiness he knew nothing about. But then, there was nothing to interfere with the savory scents wafting from the elegant crockery. He exhaled roughly. “The first secret, madam?”
“Not until you eat.”
“I feel it my duty to inform that that unattractive, nagging way of yours will hurt your chances of finding a new husband, Mrs. Ashburton. Christ, I don’t have time for this. It’s ridiculous.”
“My sentiments exactly,” she murmured.
She leaned forward when he did not move and grasped the fork to gent
ly flake apart a section, revealing that the damned codfish was cooked to delicate perfection. Raising the fragrant morsel, which dripped with sauce, she held it before him.
“Give me that,” he said, annoyance lacing his words. “What do you take me for? A wet-behind-the-ears infant? He grabbed the fork from her hands, held his breath and introduced the food into his mouth.
It nearly killed him to chew slowly and not tear into the rest. He had acquired the ability at an early age to ignore food. His mother had taught him, and his siblings, although none had learned so well as he.
They had all known food was the way to madness. It was not to be talked of nor dwelled upon. It was parceled out when it was there and forcibly ignored when it was not. Sloth and gluttony were the besetting sin of the rich and titled, they were told. Hunger had the benefit of sharpening the mind, honing the senses, and it also compelled industrious instincts. One only needed the simplest and smallest amount of food to fuel the body, and it was a complete waste of time to spend more than a few minutes consuming it. He put down the fork.
“Delicious, Mrs. Ashburton. Really. A meal fit for a king. Now, what do you have to tell me?”
“You have to take at least five bites before I’ll tell you. Five full bites,” she said pointedly.
He sighed heavily. “You seem to be under the impression that I do not know how to eat, Mrs. Ashburton.”
Those mesmerizing eyes of hers stared back at him and she remained silent.
“Oh, for Christ sakes.” He picked up the fork and ate three more bites very carefully, eyeing each bite with disdain. And then…well, he just couldn’t make himself stop. He proceeded to brutally violate each and every rule he had set since a long ago day he refused to remember.
He ate with a vengeance bordering on gluttony. He ate until there was not a morsel of cod, or potato, or even a drop of sauce left on the plate.
He ate until he was satisfied.
It nearly made him ill.
The fork clattered into the empty dish and he threw the napkin over the lot of it.
He stared at her.
“I am not a widow,” she murmured.
Well, well. He inhaled deeply. “And why would this matter to me? You said you would tell me something of importance, madam. Although…you will tell me now if I am harboring a runaway wife.”
“One meal, one secret.”
Warm relaxation filled his body, a sensation unknown. “In exchange for eating that sodding fish sauce, I want a great deal more than your marital station.”
“Well, I want a good deal more—”
A soft knock at the door heralded the entrance of a footman. “There is a gentleman who would have a word, Mr. Manning. Shall I—”
“Oh, by all means, show him in. Just in time for the tea service—now that all that oily fish is gone. Fetch the gin. Oh, and Joshua?” He’d always liked the blind obedience of the young man.
“Yes, sir?” Joshua replied with reverence.
“Stay away from the fishmonger’s daughter. I’ll not have a footman smelling of eel in my employ.”
Joshua Gordon grinned and nodded as he turned on his heel.
Elizabeth Ashburton, or whoever the hell this woman was beside him, reached to collect the damn plate and brushed his arm in the process. He yanked his limb away.
“Admit it, you liked it,” she murmured.
“I’d as soon lie as you, my dear.”
The door to the chamber opened again before Elizabeth could form a retort. Her breath caught. She hadn’t known how much she longed to see one of the familiar faces of her group of friends from Portman Square. With a clatter, she released the crockery she’d just grasped and rushed to Michael, the Earl of Wallace as he strode into the dining chamber. She stopped a foot away from him.
“Oh, my lord.”
“What? In a week’s time you’ve forgotten my given name, Elizabeth?”
She swallowed. “I wasn’t sure if…oh, I’m so happy to see you, Michael.”
He opened his arms and she rushed to accept the warmth and comfort they offered.
“Are you all right?” he whispered into her hair. “He hasn’t harmed you, has he? I told Lefroy—”
Elizabeth heard the long squeal of a chair drawn back in a deliberate manner. “No, of course not,” she replied quietly, looking directly into his concerned gaze.
“Sorry to interrupt this tender little reunion, but I’ve the matter of a hundred things to attend to,” Rowland Manning drawled. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Brother dear?”
Elizabeth studied the Earl of Wallace as he advanced toward his half brother. She had thought the earl taller than Rowland, but she realized she had been wrong. While Michael carried the most brawn, it was Rowland who had the advantage in height. Where Michael was a man in his prime, Rowland was gaunt of frame. His cheekbones and jaw were more prominent, his flesh a deeper bronze from the sun. Rowland was sinewy, harsh splendor to Michael’s rugged brute strength.
“Your welcome never fails to amaze, Rowland,” Michael said, with a smile just a hint less than it should have been.
“Already tired of playing the bridegroom, are you? Or perhaps you’ve come to your elder for advice on how to keep your bride happy?”
“Grace sends her compliments,” Michael ground out, ignoring him. “And her thanks for aiding one of the dowager’s widows.”
Elizabeth endured the cool silence of Rowland Manning, surprised he didn’t immediately divulge the secret she had just revealed. “It’s all right, Mr. Manning. The earl knows the truth; I suspect he just wasn’t sure if you did.”
Michael’s astute gaze traveled from her to Rowland and back again. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, for what you have suffered. But we are determined to help you. I was chosen to come to you for there are officers keeping watch at Portman Square, and following all of us. Indeed, there are two outside, but—”
She started.
“No, no. You’re not to worry. They assume I’m here to see my brother for a horse, most likely. And in fact, I shall decamp to the yards before I leave.”
“So kind of you to pay your respects. Perhaps you could shoe one or two while you’re here,” Rowland said sourly.
Elizabeth had been as shocked as the rest of her friends to learn that Michael had apprenticed as a smithy for Rowland when he’d been just a boy on the run from his aristocratic, disaster-filled past.
Again, Michael ignored the jibe. There was much animosity between the two men—each jostling the other in the soft underbelly of his pride. “Rowland, you are to take part in helping Miss Ashburton and Mrs. Winters depart London.”
Rowland half smiled and cocked a brow. “Miss Ashburton? No secret cruel husband, then? Just an imaginary spouse? Hmmm. Too bad. I was so counting on another dose of gothic drama. So if you’re not a spy or a runaway bride, my guess is you’re just a lady in need of a rich nob to pay your gaming debts. Surprised your cooking skills haven’t enticed more candidates.”
“I knew you liked the fish.” Elizabeth smiled smugly as his cool expression changed to a scowl.
Michael darted a glance at her. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. “I thought he knew—”
“No. It’s all right,” she insisted.
“And I take it Ashburton is your real name since Michael is using it?” Rowland pressed.
Her face grew warm. “I’m not as creative as you think, Mr. Manning. Of course Ashburton is my name.”
“Well, any fool would have changed their name if they were hiding from someone.”
“I’m sorry that my capability for deception does not meet your exacting standards,” she retorted archly, but bit back the real reason she had kept her name. When Sarah and she had arrived in London nearly destitute, they’d immediately paid a visit to the only person either of them knew—Sarah’s mother’s godmother, the Dowager Duchess of Helston. Of course, they’d been forced to use Sarah’s true name during the introduction and so it had seemed pointless for Elizabeth to assume a di
fferent moniker.
Michael hardened his expression and cut in. “Rowland, you are to provide an unexceptional carriage for Miss Ashburton the day after tomorrow as well as a suitable man—not you of course—to play the part of her husband. And this”—he pulled an elaborately braided black-haired wig from the portfolio he carried and handed it to Elizabeth—“is for you.”
She inhaled sharply. “And where am I to—” she began.
“The Duke of Beaufort’s wedding to our mutual friend, Victoria Givan,” the earl finished.
“But it’s the last place I should go. Everyone will be there. They’re calling it the wedding of the century!” Her stomach clenched in horror.
“Who or what the devil is she trying to avoid?” Rowland’s voice was as cold and demanding as a pick hammering at a block of ice.
A frost of silence shivered the air following his blast. The earl slowly withdrew a pouch from his portfolio and spilled the golden contents onto the gleaming wooden table. “For the carriage…among other things.”
Chapter 5
It was far too much money. Elizabeth now truly was ill. She would never be able to repay her friends. She had no doubt that her friends in the widows club—Grace, Georgiana, Rosamunde, or Ata herself, had provided the combination bribe and payment. “No,” she whispered to the earl, “I cannot possibly let you—”
“Oh, yes, you will, Miss Ashburton. I insist.” With the sweep of his hand, Rowland pocketed the guineas. “Oh, and Michael? I’ll want a second payment in the same amount if this farce plays out without disaster.”
“Your gallantry knows no bounds,” Michael ground out. “Now, if you will, I require a word with Miss Ashburton. Alone.”
Rowland’s false smile did not quite reach his mysterious eyes. He finally stood. “Of course. But you shall not dally with Miss Ashburton any longer than ten minutes. As her abigail,” he drawled with a slight smile curling his lips, “I really cannot allow it.” His cool laughter held something more that just mocking. It almost seemed as if his well-hidden sensibilities were bruised for not being asked to stay.