More to the point, Royal couldn’t figure out what she wanted from him. More than once she’d come to him, as if needing comfort and protection, but then she’d pushed him away and claimed she never want to see him again. The confounded girl was as mysterious as the bloody Sphinx.
Then again, she had written to him three times this winter, hadn’t she?
Victoria’s gaze was astute. “You will never know how she feels unless you ask her directly.”
“She’ll probably demonstrate her feelings by smashing a vase over my head.”
“That is a distinct possibility, I admit,” said Victoria. “But whether she is worth the risk is a question only you can answer.”
“Lady A has my vote,” said Kade, “despite what anyone else says about her. She’s a corker, if you ask me.”
Clearly, a second Kendrick male had fallen under the spell of Ainsley Matthews’s considerable charms. And since the lad was probably the smartest of them all…
“As it so happens, little brother, I agree with you.” Royal hauled himself to his feet, a surge of unfamiliar energy coursing through his body. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must pack a bag for my trip.”
“Oh, good,” Kade said, reaching for the tea tray. “More cake for me.”
Chapter 2
Royal pulled up his horse outside the half-open iron gates fronting the drive to Underhill Manor. The gates would have been imposing were they not almost rusting out of the brick walls that marked the boundaries of the secluded estate. The gatehouse was equally neglected. It’s sagging appearance, with cobwebs stretching over the door, signaled that no one had been in residence for some time.
Lady Margaret Baird, Ainsley’s eccentric great-aunt, was apparently as unwelcoming as her reputation suggested.
The journey to Cairndow had been a slog. Normally an easy, half-day ride, the deplorably bad roads had forced him to slow Demetrius to a walk any number of times. Bad enough to have a lame rider, a lame horse as well would have been completely ridiculous.
Royal had made a quick stop at the local tavern where he’d watered his horse, downed a tankard of ale, and quizzed the publican for information about Lady Margaret. The fellow had been remarkably closemouthed, grouchily offering that her ladyship minded her own business—as did everyone else who knew what was what.
An odd statement, since gossip was the lifeblood of small Highland villages, especially when it came to the lords and ladies who exerted so much influence over the lives of the locals. Whether the fellow was simply loyal, bad-tempered, or indifferent, was difficult to gauge, and no one else in the tavern had seemed inclined to talk to a stranger.
He clicked his tongue, nudging Demetrius forward. “Come along, old son. With a little luck, there’ll be oats at the end of this drive and maybe even a warm stall if we’re lucky.”
His roan’s snort sounded as skeptical as he felt. If the rest of the estate was as rundown as the gatehouse, they might end up foraging in the woods for their supper. He found it ever harder to imagine Ainsley willingly spending a week, much less the winter, in so remote and gloomy a spot. Even the rutted drive had a sad air, surrounded as it was by dense woods of beech and elm, the underbrush thick and tangled around their trunks.
The fact that Ainsley had come willingly was not in doubt. Despite her vociferous complaints that her father had exiled her to the Highlands for refusing to marry Cringlewood, Royal had sensed relief on her part. She’d been so eager to leave Glasgow she’d fled almost as if a wolf pack was snapping at her heels. When Royal asked her to explain the hasty departure, she’d responded by telling him to mind his own confounded business.
Typical Ainsley.
Demetrius shied when two red squirrels darted across the leaf-strewn path in front of him. Royal brought the horse quickly under control.
“Pay attention, you idiot,” he muttered to himself.
There would be plenty of time to ponder Ainsley’s odd behavior when he arrived at Underhill. Then again, it was still quite possible she’d refuse to see him, or her eccentric aunt would throw him out on his ear.
He ignored those possibilities as he rounded a bend in the road and crested a small rise. Beyond the woods lay a large pasture, dotted with sheep and shaggy ponies, all amicably grazing. The drive meandered down a gentle incline to curve past hedges and some spectacular azaleas in fulsome bloom. Clumps of daffodils lined the road, lending an additional note of spring cheer to the landscape.
Beyond the hedges and the surprising splashes of color rose Underhill Manor, a large house that would have dominated the landscape if not for the presence of the loch behind it and the craggy hills on the other side. It was a typical Highland landscape of water, mountain, and sky, one he’d loved his entire life. Sublimely spare and harshly beautiful, it seemed the last sort of place one would find a sought-after diamond of the British ton.
Royal’s heart skipped a few beats in anticipation of soon encountering that highly polished gem, but he chose to ignore it. He was here to see a friend and possibly lift his own black mood. If there were anything that could kick him out of his frustrating mental state, it was the sharp side of Ainsley’s tongue.
He set the roan to trotting and made his way down the hill. For all the neglect he’d seen up to this point, the areas surrounding the house presented a better picture. The fences along the pasture were in good repair, the hedges trimmed, and the sheep looked champion—fat and healthy even after a long winter. Around the ewes gamboled a fair number of lambs, and the ponies, obviously work animals, looked sturdy and well cared for under their coats.
Lady Margaret might not give a damn about some appearances, but it was clear she cared about what truly mattered. The pasturelands appeared well managed, and the livestock were in peak condition.
Whatever else was going on, Ainsley was not languishing away in eccentric poverty.
Royal tucked his head against a stiff breeze off the loch and urged the big horse into a canter. A few minutes later, he rode through a gap in the low stonewalls that surrounded the manor’s immediate grounds and into the courtyard that fronted the house. Bringing Demetrius to a halt before the front door, he glanced around the eerily deserted space with a frown. The unease that had dogged him in the woods returned full force.
Underwood was a typical seventeenth century manor house, sturdy and dour. It had uneven rooflines with crow-stepped gables, crenellated walkways connecting two wings to the main tower house, and a number of fanciful-looking corner turrets. The stone had gone smoky with age, and the diamond-paned windows were dark, drapes grimly pulled against the day. If he didn’t know better, he would have assumed the house empty.
Incongruously, the front door was a bright, cheerful blue, a welcoming note in the otherwise lonely aspect. The only signs of life were the weeds growing up from the gravel and a pair of dippers flitting from turret to turret.
When no footman emerged to take his horse, Royal sighed. He swung his bad leg up over the saddle, grimacing as he made a sliding dismount, putting most of his weight onto his good leg. Thankfully, Demetrius was used to his awkward antics by now, so he did little but shake his bridle, impatient for watering and a feed.
Royal patted his neck. “I know, old fellow, we’ll get you squared away soon enough.”
Noting the absence of posts to tie up his horse, he dropped the reins to the ground. Demetrius was too well behaved to bolt.
He stalked up to the door and knocked, then peered up at the windows on the first floor. Several long seconds passed before a curtain twitched at one of the windows. He waited another few minutes, then once more thudded his fist on the blasted door. This time, he heard the faint echo of his knock.
Unfortunately, it failed to produce any additional proof of life.
He rubbed his forehead. Were Ainsley and her aunt no longer in residence? Was it possible she’d returned to London? She’d said in her last letter that she wouldn�
��t travel south before June, but she could be impulsive that way, and it was possible she’d decided to defy her father’s orders and return home early.
Or maybe she’d even changed her mind about Cringlewood and decided to marry the blighter. That seemed unlikely, given her apparent animosity toward the marquess. But she wouldn’t be the first woman to change her mind about a man, especially one who was rich, titled, and handsome.
And able-bodied.
Royal closed his eyes and pulled in a few deep breaths, trying to ease the tight feeling in his chest at the thought of Ainsley as another man’s wife. A loud whicker brought him back to himself, and he turned to find Demetrius regarding him with what he swore was equine sympathy.
“I hear you,” he said, returning to pick up the reins. “I’ll never find out the truth if I keep standing about like a pinhead. Let’s see if anyone’s around back.”
They walked around the west-facing wing to find a well-maintained set of stables and two smaller outbuildings. There was also a large kitchen garden, tidily kept and showing evidence of spring planting. Beyond the boxes of vegetables and herbs were ornamental gardens and a lawn that ran down to the loch. The flower garden and the lawns, however, looked poorly tended. In fact, some of the sheep had wandered over from the pasture and were calmly wrecking havoc in the flowerbeds. Royal couldn’t help wincing at the wreckage. Perhaps Lady Margaret had been forced to economize, spending only on those things that supported the estate.
Or perhaps she was as barmy as everyone said and didn’t give a damn about appearances.
One of the stable’s double doors opened and out clomped a stooped-shouldered man dressed in breeches and a smock. His boots were so deplorable it was as if he’d been mucking out the Augean stables. He looked seventy if he was a day but stomped over with a fair degree of energy, even if the scowl on his face suggested he suffered from the rheumatics.
“Here, now. Who are ye to be sneakin’ aboot like a cutpurse?” he barked. “Her ladyship weren’t expectin’ no visitors. Be on yer way, or I’ll be forced to fetch me pistol and have at ye.”
Since there was no pistol in sight, it wasn’t much of a threat. But Royal gave the old fellow full marks for effort. “Your precautions, while laudable, are entirely unnecessary. While I may not be expected, I’m sure Lady Margaret will see me.”
“Then why didn’t ye say that?”
“I just did,” Royal said.
“Bloody nob with yer breaktooth words,” the old man muttered. “I doubt her ladyship will be wantin’ to see the likes of you.”
At least she was home. “I’m a friend of Lady Ainsley Matthews, who is expecting me.”
It was an out and out lie, but he had no intention of leaving until he was sure she was safe. His instincts were now practically screaming at him.
His wizened nemesis gaped at him. “Ye know Lady Ainsley is here?”
Royal frowned. “Of course I do. It’s not exactly a secret, is it?”
“Who are ye, if ye don’t mind me askin’?”
“Royal Kendrick. I’ve ridden up from Castle Kinglas to call on Lady Ainsley and her aunt.”
The old man snorted. “One of the Kendrick lads, eh? That explains it.”
Royal wasn’t sure exactly what it explained, but he suspected that the twins’ wild reputation might have made it to this little corner of the Highlands. Still, he fancied that his interrogator’s hostility abated a jot.
“And who do I have the privilege of addressing?” Royal asked with exaggerated politeness.
“Darrow, stablemaster and coachmen to her ladyship. And groom,” he added in a disgruntled tone. “When young Willy is off on errands.”
Lady Margaret must be verging on destitution if she could only employ one decrepit coachman and one groom.
Darrow’s expression suddenly switched to one of professional interest. “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh ye have there.”
“He is, and I would be most grateful if you could see to his needs. If you’re up to it,” he added a moment later. “If not, I can do it.”
“Of course I’m up to it,” the old man snapped. “I’m no in the grave yet. Will ye be stayin’ the night?”
Royal pulled off his hat and scrubbed his head. “I have no idea. I’ve yet to talk to anyone in the house.”
“Why the bloody hell not?”
“Because no one the bloody hell answered the door when I knocked.”
“Och, that’ll be Hector, for ye. Useless,” Darrow said. “All right, I’ll see to this laddie’s needs and get him settled.”
“Thank you.” Royal patted Demetrius. “I’ll come check on you in a bit, good boy.”
The horse nickered and then docilely went off with the old man, who handled the animal with practiced ease.
“By the way, how do I get into the house?” he called after Darrow.
The coachman pointed past one of the outbuildings. “Go ye to the kitchen and knock. Mrs. Campbell or Betty will let ye in and fetch her ladyship. If ye try the front door again, ye’ll be waitin’ all bloody day for Hector.”
Clearly, Lady Margaret had a servant problem. Royal found it hard to believe that Ainsley would put up with the likes of the mysterious Hector.
The kitchen was easy enough to find, since several large windows were opened to catch the breeze, and the smell of apple pie and baking bread wafted out in delicious waves. Lady Margaret might preside over a madhouse, but it appeared that Bedlam had a competent cook.
Since the door stood wide, Royal ducked his head under the lintel and took the few steps down to the flagstone floor. A middle-aged woman, her brown hair tidy under a neat cap, was slicing potatoes at a wooden table in the middle of the old-fashioned but well-organized kitchen. She quietly sang an old Highland ballad that Royal’s mother used to sing, although she broke off when a clattering noise erupted from a door on the other side of the long, low-ceiling room.
“Och, Betty,” she exclaimed. “Ye’ll not be dropping any more of the crockery, I hope. Not after ye broke my best mixing bowl, just last week.”
“Never fear, Mum,” answered a cheery voice. “Just puttin’ the trays away.”
A moment later, a young woman emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. “I was…” She pulled up short when she saw Royal. “Mum, who’s that?”
The cook spun around. “Excuse me, sir, but how did ye get in here?” Then she winced before trying for a smile. “I mean, how can I help ye?”
Royal doffed his hat. “I’m sorry if I startled you, ma’am. I’ve come to see Lady Margaret. When I knocked on the front door, no one answered.”
The women exchanged a glance. “Hector,” they said, simultaneously.
“Indisposed again, the daft fool,” Mrs. Campbell muttered.
Indisposed, no doubt, imbibing a wee too many drams of whisky.
“I beg yer pardon, sir. Willy has gone into the village on an errand,” she said apologetically, “else he would have answered it.”
Betty, a bonny girl with a pretty smile and flaming red hair, gave Royal a flirtatious wink. “Or I would have, if I’d heard ye. Ye can be sure I would have answered.”
“Er, thank you,” Royal said.
“None of that, lass,” her mother said with heavy disapproval. “He’s a gentleman, dinna ye ken? Not one of yer flirts down at the tavern.”
“Sorry, Mum,” her daughter said, not sounding the least bit sorry.
“Is Lady Margaret at home?” Royal asked with some exasperation.
“And is her ladyship expectin’ ye?” Mrs. Campbell asked a mite warily.
“Not entirely,” he hedged. “But Lady Ainsley will not be surprised to see me. We’re good friends.”
The cook eyed him, clearly dubious.
Royal gave her a coaxing smile. “Perhaps you could tell Lady Margaret or Lady Ainsley that Royal Kendrick has ridden up from Castle Kinglas. I
apologize for appearing so abruptly, but my brother, the Earl of Arnprior, asked me to convey his greetings.”
As might be expected, invoking Nick’s title tipped the scales in his favor.
“Betty, take Mr. Kendrick straight up to the front parlor,” said the cook. “Then see if Lady Margaret is available.”
“Aye, Mum.”
“Take him straight to the parlor,” the cook reiterated.
Betty rolled her eyes, but nodded.
Royal followed her through a swinging door, then up shallow steps and into a narrow corridor running toward the front of the house. They emerged into the entrance hall, a handsome, somber space with stone floors and paneled walls covered with large, ornately framed portraits of presumably Lady Margaret’s ancestors. He could swear they were eyeballing him with the same suspicious regard he’d encountered from the servants.
None of it made any sense.
Betty opened a door off the hall. “Please wait in here, sir.”
He limped past her into the room. “Thank you. And if Lady Ain—”
“I think Lady Margaret is takin’ a nap,” the girl interrupted. “I’ll pop up and check.”
“Could you please tell her I’d like to see her as soon as possible?” he asked, grasping the fraying ends of his temper.
“If she’s awake, I’ll do just that.” She flashed him a cheeky grin before smartly shutting the door.
Royal muttered a few curses to relieve his spleen, then made his way to a red velvet chaise by the fireplace. If only he’d thought to ask Betty to fetch some tea—or, better yet, whisky, since the long day had taken a toll.
Easing down onto the settee, he looked around the spacious and well-appointed drawing room. With expensive, rather old-fashioned furnishings, good carpets, and splendid silk drapes swagged back with extravagant gold cords it was obviously for formal use. Still, despite it’s splendor, there was an air of rather sad, faded gentility. A thin layer of dust coated the furniture and no fire was laid in the grate, suggesting little use.
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