“Thomas, Thomas!” Charles Saunders dashed by Mr. Lanning’s long-suffering clerk. “I’ve just had a note from Sir Gilbert—”
“Go away, Charles. I have a meeting with Nathan Rothschild in an hour.”
“There’s trouble at Pevensey—”
“I don’t want to hear about it. I’ve washed my hands of Miss Trevor and her precious Park.”
“But, Thomas, you can’t!” said Mr. Saunders, appalled. “You promised.”
“I have made my reputation on being able to distinguish sound investments from foolish ones. I will not go to Kent.”
“Foolish? Are you mad? Pevensey is one of the best-run estates in England, its income unrivaled by properties twice its size.”
“It comes with a life sentence I do not choose to undertake. Good-day, Charles. I have work to do.”
“But Sir Gilbert has had a letter from Miss Trevor this morning. Lord and Lady Hubert have moved into Pevensey Park, along with The Terrible Twyford.”
Thomas Lanning dropped his head into his hands, his fingers combing his dark brown locks. He swore, long and colorfully.
“Shall I order up your white charger?” Charles inquired blandly. “Your sword and lance?”
“Don’t forget the chainmail.” Thomas sighed.
~ * ~
Chapter Five
To Miss Trevor’s infinite relief, Twyford Trevor did not return to Pevensey Park for two days. But the night before, in the wee hours of the morning, she had heard him stumbling up the stairs. For the first time in her life she had locked the door to her bedchamber.
So this morning she was bent on escape. Wearing a mourning gown the color of an imminent thunderstorm, and with spirits to match, she strode briskly across the sloping green park in front of the great Palladian house. The sun highlighted her dark hair, confined solely by a blue velvet ribbon tied at the nape of her neck. In spite of her stiffened shoulders and brisk pace, she looked absurdly young. A drab waif lost in a vast expanse of green.
Time had just run out on her husband-hunting. Her problem was now so tangled she was caught in a vortex of conflicting emotions. In order to think, she had to escape the house. Escape the oppressive atmosphere that radiated from her aunt and uncle. Escape the imminent appearance of her cousin, who was likely to pop out of the woodwork at any moment.
Relia paused on the top of the high point of the arched wooden bridge. Gazing upstream toward the cascade, she managed a weak smile. At the time the park had been reconstructed by the eager devotee of Capability Brown, the natural slope of the stream had been enhanced by dredging, and a cascade constructed of layer upon layer of flat stones. The stream now fell in a tinkling waterfall over three natural-appearing terraces, which were framed in ferns and other graceful water plants, with a willow tree at the top of the cascade, adding its picturesque droop to the man-made scenic beauty. Relia closed her eyes, letting the soothing rush of the water slide into and over her bruised soul.
Her cousin Twyford wasn’t truly evil. Overindulged, selfish, wilful, were the words that came to mind. Even as a child, he would do whatever was necessary to get his own way, regardless of the rules his elders had attempted to impart—whether the rules of God from the vicar, the rules of polite society from his governess, or the rules of mathematics from his tutor. Twyford, in short, could not be trusted. Relia sincerely doubted her cousin would go as far as rape, but a midnight visit—if only to demonstrate how easy it would be . . .
If only to demonstrate her total vulnerability.
Relia tore her mind from the brink of the abyss, moving abruptly across the bridge to the open rotunda, with its circle of six columns topped by a classic domed roof. But the fancies of her childhood were only distant memories. Security. Why had she never appreciated it while she had it? Gazing down at the deep pool of water at the foot of the cascade, Relia pictured her papa sitting in his library, surrounded by his books, her mama writing letters at the marquetry escritoire in the morning room overlooking the terraces.
A crow broke through her wishful thinking, jabbering angrily at a squirrel, an ugly sound, amply suited to the day. The bird’s garb was darker and shinier than her own, Relia noted idly, his voice louder and more strident. Fortunate bird, to deliver his epithets and be able to fly away, leaving his annoyances far behind. Relia heaved a sigh, for she feared her problems had gone far beyond the realm of annoyances. And she was earthbound. Powerless.
Unless . . .
No. He would not come. Thomas Lanning would cry off, she was knew it. The man had far more pride than she had expected. He’d actually been reluctant . . . reluctant to consider her offer. Her predicament had amused him! Only an invitation to view the Park had whetted the man’s appetite. The shocking nerve of the upstart merchant! No, she could not count on Mr. Lanning. She must, therefore, choose among Harry, Lord Hanley, and Mr. Pitney.
Nausea swept over her. Relia’s stomach cramped. She bent forward, arms locked over her mid-section, rocking in pain.
“Poor Cuz, have I come at a bad time?”
The worst possible. The only good thing about the arrival of Mr. Twyford Trevor at the rotunda was that the shock of seeing him stiffened Aurelia’s spine, transforming her acute attack of nerves into cold defiance. For if Lord Hubert resembled his brother Ralph, Twyford was nearly his uncle’s image. Indeed, he might have stepped straight out of the portrait of the young Lord Ralph, which was prominently displayed at the head of the great front staircase. This, of course, could only add to Miss Trevor’s general disgust at the thought of marriage to her cousin, making an alliance with The Terrible Twyford seem like incest.
There were few, however, who would deny that Mr. Twyford Trevor was a well-favored man, even though lines of dissipation were beginning to mar his classically handsome face. His figure was still slim, his clothing the work of Weston, his boots by Hoby, and his hats by Locke. Sandy hair, styled in the latest Brutus cut, topped eyes of the Trevor blue-gray. His mouth was, perhaps, a shade too thin, the lips of a man more given to petulance than to smiles. Grandson to a marquess and heir to a comfortable estate, if not a title, Mr. Trevor was generally considered a most desirable parti.
He made his cousin Relia’s skin crawl.
“Good morning, cousin,” Aurelia replied calmly enough, having managed to close a shell around her pain.
Hands behind his back, Twyford towered over her, looking thoughtful. “I believe we need to come to an accommodation, Relia. I have no more liking for the parents’ ordering my days than you do. Set a wedding date, and we shall be rid of them.”
“You forget—I am still in mourning,” Relia murmured, eyes downcast, so her cousin could not see the turbulent emotions that hovered there, threatening to burst forth.
“Six months of mama ordering your household? I think not. You forget, Relia. I have known you all your life.”
Clever of him, this attempt to put them on the same side, with Lord and Lady Hubert as the enemy. Was it possible her uncle and aunt were truly concerned about propriety and held only some vague hope propinquity would bring about the desired match between Twyford and herself? Or was their appropriation of her household all part of some diabolical plot to seize Pevensey Park?
How long did she have? Was her imminent birthday forcing their hands? Did they fear her legal right to say no? And did Gussie have the right of it when she declared Twyford was truly to be feared? And, if so, how long would he wait before he cornered her somewhere—perhaps here and now—and dragged her off into the woods, a deserted bedchamber, an empty cottage?
“I will consider the matter,” Relia temporized. “You are quite right, cousin. The situation is untenable. A solution must be found.” She managed a faint, but appealing smile, reaching out a hand, as if in supplication. “I know you understand what a surprise this has been—coming home to find you all in residence. I am certain you will grant a poor female time to gather her wits and decide what must be done.” She fluttered her long thick lashes and allowed
her voice to trail away to a whisper.
Twyford, who was far from gullible, gave her a sharp look. “Try your die-away airs on someone else, Relia. Three days only, and then we must set a date. You know quite well my father is a dreadful skinflint. There’ll be no money from Pevensey until the reins are in my hands. No, no, dear heart, spare me your protests. I’m well aware you’ve no taste for female fripperies, but just think, m’dear—if Lord Hubert has his way, cottage roofs may fall around your tenants’ ears, dams give way, the stables go to rack and ruin, the gardens grow up to weeds and the park remain unscythed.” Twyford leaned down until his solid bulk blotted out his cousin’s view. “You would not care for it, Relia, I promise you.” Abruptly, Mr. Trevor straightened. “Three days, Cuz. Do not forget.”
As Twyford turned on his heel and strode back across the park, air whooshed back into Relia’s lungs. Somehow—oddly—she trusted his word. She had three days of grace before he settled the matter by more nefarious schemes.
Three days. Whether Lord and Lady Hubert were part of a plot or merely greedy bystanders, she could not count on them for help. Her need for a dragonslayer was immediate. Which was why she had dashed off her urgent note to Sir Gilbert. But Mr. Lanning was busy with his own affairs. He did not really want her. He would not come.
And that left Harry Stanton. She would ride to the Stanton’s at once! But when Aurelia reached the stables, the head groom, abjectly apologetic, informed her that Lord Hubert had given orders she was not to ride or drive out until further notice, a punishment for her headstrong jaunt to London.
Once again, James, the footman, was called upon to smuggle out a note. But, that night after supper, the tick of the ornate brass and mahogany clock on the mantel in the drawing room seemed to grow louder with each passing minute, counting down to her moment of doom. She hated being female, Relia decided. She hated Pevensey Park. In Medieval times she might, at least, have gone off and joined a nunnery. Men were the very devil. That she should be dependent on one to rescue her was intolerable.
No matter whom she married, she would hate him forever. Because, by an accident of birth, the world considered him superior. Not only in strength, but in wisdom, education, training—
Impossible! Miss Aurelia Trevor threw the embroidery hoop Lady Hubert had thrust into her hands after dinner halfway across the drawing room, where it came close to knocking over an Imari vase of which she was quite fond.
Nonsense! When Harry called on her in the morning, she would throw herself into his arms and beg him to save her. She would grovel. She wanted Pevensey Park, and she wanted children. Since not only the laws of England but the laws of nature decreed that a man was necessary, then a man she would have. And to the devil with the Hubert Trevors and all their machinations.
But Miss Trevor, caught up in the desperation of her plans, had forgotten she no longer had the ordering of her household. When Mr. Harry Stanton rode up the driveway, promptly at ten the following morning, and handed his hat, his gloves, and his riding crop to Biddeford, before waving the butler away with the hearty assertion there was no need to announce him, Aurelia’s anticipation of a private interview with her old friend was immediately quashed.
“You may show our guest to the drawing room, Biddeford,” Lady Hubert declared as she paused, with regal stance, on the gallery above the entry hall, her nose almost visibly aquiver as she sensed a challenge to her fondest wishes. “You may then inform Miss Trevor we have a visitor.”
Mr. Stanton, agog at this high-handed usurpation of rights at Pevensey Park, followed blindly on Biddeford’s heels, where he was relieved to find Relia and Miss Aldershot eagerly awaiting his call. But before he could do more than utter polite greetings to the ladies, Lady Hubert swept into the room. Harry, who had just taken a seat close to Aurelia, shot back to his feet.
“Good morning, Mr. Stanton,” Lady Hubert declared. “To what do we owe the honor of so early a call?”
Harry, who had been up since seven, gulped, shot a desperate look toward Relia, swallowed hard, and stammered, “Was out and about, ma’am—my lady. Thought I—I’d drop by. Known Relia—Miss Trevor—since she was in the cradle, don’t y’know.”
Lady Hubert, after an audible sniff, waved Mr. Stanton back into his chair. After the necessary pleasantries about his parents’ health were accomplished, an awkward silence descended. Miss Aldershot, sitting as straight as the uncompromising lines of her Chinese Chippendale chair, exchanged a significant look with Miss Trevor. A look Aurelia ignored, as she and Gussie had found themselves in strong disagreement that morning, with Miss Aldershot insisting that Mr. Lanning would not let them down, and Miss Trevor insisting he would. And, besides, they did not have time to wait on Mr. Lanning’s pleasure. Far better Harry Stanton than cousin Twyford.
“Harry,” Relia burst out, “you will recall the matter we discussed the last time you were here?”
For a moment Mr. Stanton looked puzzled, then his gaze sharpened, focusing on Miss Trevor’s anxious face. “Is it possible you have changed your mind?” he inquired, Lady Hubert’s inimical presence forgotten.
“Indeed, I—”
“Ah, here you are!” declared Twyford Trevor, striding into the room with the supreme confidence of the grandson of a marquess defending his turf from the upstart son of a squire. “Young Stanton, is it? Haven’t seen you in years, m’boy. How are things in the countryside? As bucolic as ever, I trust.”
Once again, Harry bobbed to his feet. “Trevor,” he said with a cool nod.
“Oh, do sit down, man. Mustn’t stand on ceremony with old friends, what? Must make m’father’s apologies, I fear. Too early for him. A two bottle man, don’t y’know,” Twyford added, tapping the side of his nose.
Harry, still stiffly erect, said, “No doubt it takes a while to become accustomed to country hours.”
“Now what may we do for you?” Mr. Trevor inquired, settling onto the striped gold and cream settee next to his mother, where he leaned back and stretched out his feet, very much the picture of the master of the house.
“I merely stopped by to pay my respects to Re—Miss Trevor and Miss Aldershot. Now that I know your family is visiting, Trevor, I will make the squire aware of your presence.”
“We are not visiting,” Lady Hubert pronounced with considerable emphasis. “We are here to provide the proper background for Aurelia as she returns to society, now that she is out of her blacks.”
“You are going to live here!” Harry exclaimed in a tone his dear mama would have deplored.
“Indeed.” Twyford crossed his long legs at the ankles. And smiled at Mr. Stanton.
“Mr. Thomas Lanning,” Biddeford intoned.
Thomas was never quite sure why he had insisted on leaving London late the previous afternoon, thus sentencing himself to a night at a hostelry which in no way met his standards. But, somehow, there had been such a note of urgency in Sir Gilbert’s communication . . . almost as if the cousin the solicitor referred to as “The Terrible Twyford” would actually stoop to coercion. Or worse. So he had set out immediately, even though more than a little chagrined by his urge to charge to the lady’s rescue. It was only as his coach drove through the vast Pevensey acres, past the pointed cones of the oast houses, past fields of fall vegetables and orchards full of fruit, and finally turned into the long drive toward the great house itself, that Mr. Lanning wondered if he was off on the most egregious wild goose chase of his life. The owner of all this could not possibly need his help, and, even if she did, he did not belong here. This was not his milieu, by God. No, indeed!
And then he saw the house. And groaned. It was too much. If he married her, the arrogant young chit was welcome to it. No wonder Pevensey Park had as many productive arms as an octopus. It must take them all to support the blasted house and grounds!
Fortunately, the butler seemed to recognize a man of substance when he saw him, even as his slight frown indicated he could not quite place Mr. Thomas Lanning on the customary lad
der of precedence assigned to callers. But he had heeded Thomas’s wave to silence as they stood in the doorway, catching the last part of the conversation in the drawing room.
Two suitors already on the scene, Thomas noted. Perhaps Miss Trevor needed him, after all. Certainly, if the look on her face, when she saw him, was any indication . . . Thomas cast a hasty glance over his perfectly fitted jacket, waistcoat, pantaloons, and boots. Was it possible Miss Trevor had caught a glimpse of shining armor beneath his conservative London attire?
“Mr. Lanning,” Miss Trevor breathed, as she dropped into a curtsey worthy of His Majesty himself.
“And who might you be?” roared a voice from a doorway at the opposite end of the imposing drawing room.
“Good morning, uncle,” Relia trilled, her fears and desperation unaccountably flown on the breath of fresh air that accompanied her latest visitor’s arrival. “Mr. Lanning is an expert from the City. He is here to offer advice on the business of running Pevensey Park.”
“Advice? I asked for no advice,” snapped Lord Hubert as he stalked across the deep pile of the Axminster carpet. “Nor need it,” he added on a decided grumble.
“It was Miss Trevor who consulted me,” Thomas responded in his most conciliating tone, the one he used while finalizing negotiations that always seemed to end to his vast benefit.
“My niece had no right to do so.” Lord Hubert made violent shooing motions with his hands. “So go back where you came from. We’ve no need of you here.”
Mr. Lanning, evidently a trifle slow-witted, did not seem to take offense. “But I am vastly interested in the workings of Pevensey Park, my lord, and Miss Trevor promised to show me the many enterprises under her command—”
A Gamble on Love Page 5