by Julie Beard
"Grandpapa," he said, putting the glass back on the table. "If I do not help the Davis family disprove this accusation against them, a very lovely and extraordinary young lady will be forced to marry a man she loathes.
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You wouldn't want that to happen, now would you? I am begging you. I am humbling myself before you, sir. Please give them a place to stay."
Richard Hastwood shut his eyes. "I will be dead soon, John. But you are already dead to me. You can dance on my grave if you want, but until then leave me in peace."
Jack let out a short sigh. It was a pity, but no longer a tragedy. He silently wished his grandfather well, then turned to take care of the people depending on him.
Without so much as a farewell, Jack walked out of the room. The return journey down the hall went more quickly, for his mind was busy planning an alternative route. He went to the stable and told the coachman to pull around to the kitchen, where the Davises were fortifying themselves.
Giles greeted him at the door with obvious relief. "There you are, Mr. Fairchild."
"Did they eat, Giles?"
"Yes, sir. A fine repast." The clerk led him into the kitchen, where smells of beef broth and hearty ale abounded.
Jack surveyed the warm kitchen and nodded gratefully to Cook, a big box of a woman with a gentle smile. The Davises were gathered around a chopping block, looking anxiously at him for word of their fate.
"What is the verdict, sir?" Jacob asked at last.
Jack scratched the back of his neck. "Well, Jacob, I am afraid the news is not good. Lord Tutley has declined to offer you hospitality."
"Lord, that's poorly done," Giles muttered.
Jack put a consoling hand on his shoulder. "Fear not, Giles. I will not rest until there is a roof over everyone's head tonight. Let's load up in the carriage."
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No one moved. The wind had gone out of their sails. How low could a family go, Jack wondered. And on their behalf, he allowed himself to flush with fury at his grandfather's refusal. With a little prodding from Giles, everyone resumed their place in the crowded carriage and the coachman cracked his whip. They had just wheeled around the front drive when a footman came running down the steps, waving at them. Jack rapped on the roof of the carriage and the coachman reined in his four-in-hand. Kirby came shuffling down in the rain, coughing and sniffling.
"Master Jack! Wait! Good news."
"What is it, Kirby?" Jack thrust his head out the window.
"Lord Tutley says you may use High Hill Abbey for as long as you need it."
Jack squeezed his eyes shut. Emotion clogged his throat. High Hill. It was too sweet, too perfect. He recovered his composure and reached a hand out the window. Kirby took it and both squeezed hard. "So the old man has a heart after all, eh, Kirby?"
"Indeed, sir. I've always known it. It's the rest of the world he must convince."
"Thank him for me, will you?"
"Oh, no, sir," Kirby said with a laugh, waving him off and stepping back. "I won't mention you at all. He might change his mind if he remembers who asked him for the courtesy."
Jack gave him a smiling salute and off the carriage went to High Hill, the home Lord Tutley had given Jack's parents as a wedding gift.
* * *
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The ride to High Hill was not far. The abbey lay firmly in the inner sanctum of the estate. Though it was high enough to be seen from afar, the convoluted pathway that led there discouraged accidental visitors. One of Jack's ancestors had purchased the abbey during the Reformation and transformed it into a home. With moss-covered stone archways casting long shadows in the cloisters, and an occasional stained-glass window, it still retained its contemplative qualities and was a tranquil abode.
Tutley's gardeners still tended to the greenery and flowers that beautified the peaceful cloisters, and several fruit orchards planted by the monks of old still thrived on the hillside. The rambling stone building was nestled in woods so dense that the pre-Reformation inhabitants might just as well have been tree-worshiping druids rather than monks.
Jack and his parents had lived there until the falling out. It had gone unused since then, except by an occasional important guest. Jack was surprised to see how well his grandfather had maintained the abbey. It was pleasant to be back here again. He led the Davises to their rooms in the wing that had once housed monks' cells, and then rejoined Giles at the stables.
Giles was patting the flanks of one of the sweaty geldings that had carried them safely here. The scents of tangy manure and sweet hay were strong in the courtyard. Jack breathed it in, and realized he'd nearly been holding his breath since they left Middledale.
"Shall I ride back and tell Miss Cranshaw where you are?" Giles inquired. "I could change the horses at the castle."
"No, I can't spare you now." Jack put his hands in his pockets and looked out thoughtfully at the treetops that
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stretched like a green carpet down the hillside. "Miss Cranshaw will know when her father and Lord Barrington return empty-handed that I succeeded in stowing away the Davises. Harding is in Fielding. You and I need to conclude our investigation."
"I've spoken to Beauchamp, sir." Giles eyed him with a glimmer of pride.
Jack cast a radiant smile. "Well done, lad!"
"You didn't think I would ignore such an important lead, did you?"
Jack clapped him heartily on the back. "Good man! What did Beauchamp say?"
"He remembers the night of the fire. He saw Lord Barrington's man of affairs running away from the fire. He's certain of it."
Jack nodded with satisfaction. "Good. But he may not be so certain if he's threatened into silence by the viscount."
"He was afraid to say anything before, but he wants to help Davis now that the chandler is determined to stand up for himself."
"Barrington won't back down on the word of a butcher. I still need undeniable proof, Giles. Either that or a miracle from Harding. I hope he comes back from Fielding soon. Meanwhile, I want to speak privately with Annabelle Davis. My gut tells me she may hold a small but critical piece to this puzzle."
Giles frowned. "Annabelle? How could she possibly help you?"
"She may know more about the viscount's misdealings than she cares to admit."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
arding had arrived in Fielding three days earlier. It had taken him a full day on the mail coach from Waverly to reach the quaint little town in Somerset. He arrived just as the umber sun spilled dark sunlight on the hillsides that rose and fell around the village in a patchwork of green and brown. The town itself sat in the shadow of Huntly House, which was nestled into a nearby hillside. The stunning Elizabethan great house was the seat of the earl of Osborn.
With a determined air Harding exited the carriage next to a whitewashed inn whose name was displayed on a worn, hand-painted wooden sign that read REARING HORSE INN.
Harding appreciated the cleanliness of the cobblestone street, but this was no leisurely pleasure visit. He had to find information quickly. This was the only inn in town, and that would make his information gathering simple. He'd always found that innkeepers knew everything worth knowing.
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Harding tugged smartly on his new coat and headed into the establishment. He engaged a room for the night and then ducked under a low door into a cozy, smoky public room filled with farmers and laborers. Though as finely dressed as he would ever be, Harding chose this room over the parlor, where the genteel dined. Common folk would be more inclined to gossip, he hoped. The innkeeper, a man who introduced himself as Mr. Teele, joined him at a rough-hewn table with a pint of ale.
"If ye need anything at all, sir, just let me know." Mr. Teele straddled a bench, nodded his bulbous red nose, and winked at Harding. "Ye're a right fine gentleman, I can tell. Go on into the parlor, sir, and I'll serve ye there. Ye'd have the place to yerself."
"No, no, my good man," the secretary replied. "I was hoping to strike up a
conversation with someone who might lead me to where I want to go."
"Oh, I was born and raised here, sir. What is it ye want to find?"
Harding sipped his bitter, warm ale and exhaled with satisfaction. "I can't say precisely. I am looking for someone who hails from these parts. Her name is Desiree."
The chatter and laughter and the click of dice and the shouted orders for more ale continued to mingle merrily in the room, but it was the wary silence from Mr. Teele that followed his declaration that Harding noticed the most. The innkeeper rubbed his chafed lower lip with a calloused thumb and his eyes winked wistfully.
"Desiree. I haven't heard her name in years. What do ye want to know fer?"
Harding swirled the ale in his mug and pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "That's a very good question, Mr. Teele. I work for a solicitor who has...
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er. .. some family business to conclude for one of his clients. Does Desiree live nearby? Perhaps I could call on her now."
The innkeeper eyed him suspiciously, then he laughed good-naturedly. "I don't think she'll make herself available to ye, sir, if ye don't mind me saying so."
Harding tipped up his chin at the insult, then remembered that Desiree had some sort of salacious reputation. Harding blushed furiously. "I'm not looking for... I don't want... look here, this is strictly business, mind you."
The innkeeper threw his head back and laughed. "Don't get yer cravat all starched up now, sir. No offense meant. The best person for ye to speak to is Lord Osborn."
"Lord Osborn." Jack had said Desiree was the mistress of a nobleman. "I see. That's her..."
"I think ye take my meaning." The innkeeper let out a guttural laugh.
"I'm not sure I'm prepared to speak to his lordship."
"He's an earl, but a fine gentleman who takes the time of day to speak to anyone. A first-rate gent, he is. Go to Huntly House first thing in the morning, sir, and ye can ask his majordomo for an appointment."
"But I don't have a letter of introduction."
Mr. Teele winked conspiratorially. "Just mention Desiree and that will be introduction enough, I avow."
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The next day Harding hired a hackney coach to take him to the great house on the hillside, all the while worrying how he would wring out an audience with an earl on such short notice. But if there was a way, he'd find it.
Soon the clip-clopping horses carried him over the cobblestone drive that wended through the meticulous
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grounds of the enormous Elizabethan mansion. It wasn't until the coachman came to a stop at the two flights of stone stairs that led to the giant front door that Harding began to perspire in earnest. What the bloody hell was he doing here? Did he actually think he was going to introduce himself to an earl and then ask him intimate details about his mistress? The notion was absurd. But he had to do this, for Miss Cranshaw's sake. Lord knows she deserved saving. What a lovely lady she was. She'd make someone a perfect wife. Just as her dear aunt would. Harding stopped on the second stair, his foot grinding into the worn stone, struck with a realization. Why couldn't he marry Mrs. Brumble? And why couldn't Jack marry Liza? Of course, Jack couldn't do much of anything as long as he was in debt, but if he could reconcile with his grandfather, all would be well. Heavens, why hadn't Harding thought of it sooner? He had hoped Mr. Fairchild would become a celibate country lawyer, but that idea was far-fetched. Marriage was the perfect way to kill a man's sexual appetite! And marriage was just what Jack Fair-child needed.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Harding ran up the rest of the stairs, took a moment to catch his short breath, then knocked on the door. It opened at the hands of two fancifully dressed footmen, and he was greeted in short order by the majordomo, a prudish and unhappy-looking man whose displeasure was etched plainly on his thin, gaunt cheeks.
"May I help you, sir?" he said, his lips pursing in obvious condescension.
Harding smiled bravely and tugged self-consciously on his coat, which suddenly seemed inadequate. "I should
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very much like to see his lordship. I come on ... personal business."
"I see. Perhaps you'd care to leave a card, sir. The earl is unavailable."
"Ah." Harding bit his lower lip, then added, "That's disappointing. You see, it's about Desiree."
The majordomo's lips remained pursed, and the hawklike frown appeared to be permanently fixed, but something almost imperceptible shifted in his demeanor. "Very well, sir. Come back tomorrow at one and the earl will see you."
The moment was a defining one in Harding's mind. The word Desiree was the key that had opened the lock to Pandora's box. Suddenly he felt significant. He leisurely agreed to the majordomo's terms and went away happy as a lark. Finally, Jack Fairchild would get somewhere.
Harding returned the next day at the appointed time and waited a quarter of an hour in an ornate carmine-colored drawing room before the majordomo returned and led him to the earl's billiard room. Huntly House had been built by the first Earl of Osborn to receive the enormous entourage of Queen Elizabeth I in the late 1500s. It was so ornate and large that by the time they reached their destination, Harding was completely agog and slightly winded.
He'd never seen so much marble, oak paneling, heavenly frescoes, ancient tapestries, and richly painted walls in his life. There was one enormous stateroom after another, and each one was newly dusted and richly appointed as if the earl were awaiting the visit of the present monarch. The walls were littered here and there with portraits of somber and genteel-looking folk with broad mouths, flat pink cheeks, and long noses. There were paintings of ancestors wearing enormous powdered wigs,
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monarchs wearing glittering crowns, bishops wearing dignified miters, and government ministers wearing the invisible cachet of power, all of whom had doubtless visited here over the last two hundred years. And now came Harding. He was nearly weak in the knees as well as winded by the time they reached the billiard room.
The chamber was a giant rectangle littered with amusing devices. Scattered over a rich red carpet were card tables, a secretaire for letter writing, and a spectacularly large billiards table at the end of the room. His lordship played there by himself. At the sight of him, Harding felt like shrinking into invisibility, but he reminded himself of the importance of his task and stopped just inside the doorway while the prim servant announced him.
"My lord," the majordomo said in a clear, bored tone, "Mr. Clayton Harding is here."
The earl was bending over the balls and didn't look up until he'd studied them thoroughly and then made his next shot. The click of one billiard ball striking the other resounded pleasantly in the silence that followed. The earl watched to see where they would come to rest. Satisfied, he rose to his full height and turned to regard Harding, leaning lightly on his cue.
He had a kind, aristocratic face, one that must have been terribly handsome in his youth. There were deep vertical lines grooved into his leathery cheeks, indicating a tendency toward broad smiles. His hair was a short mixture of gray and copper, and his face and hands were dusted with rusty freckles.
He had a manly, though meticulous, air about him, and was pleasantly dressed in a silk robe and trousers. He was not afraid of looking a man in the eye, and he did so with
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a powerful presence now. It was all Harding could do to keep from gulping.
The earl reached in his pocket and pulled out an amethyst and crystal snuffbox. "Welcome, Mr. Harding. Do you take snuff?" His voice was gruff and friendly.
"No, my lord." Harding took the opportunity to snatch a breath and relax as he came forward. "It is a gentlemanly fashion in which I do not indulge."
The earl considered this a moment, then nodded, dropping it back in his pocket without indulging himself. "Tea? I take it you do drink tea?"
"Of course, sir. I'd be most delighted."
The earl waved a hand at the puffy
majordomo. "See to it, Hilary."
Osborn put aside his cue and motioned for Harding to join him at two matching armchairs by the fireplace. They sat and the earl stared at him for an uncomfortable moment before speaking.
"I must tell you, Mr. Harding, that no one has asked me about Desiree in a long time."
It was an opening gambit that Harding knew was designed to elicit information while divulging as little as possible in return. The earl's warm but sophisticated eyes watched him closely for his reaction.
When Harding played it coolly, the earl added, "What did you want to know about Desiree?"
Harding cleared his throat. "Well, sir, I come on the behest of my employer, Mr. John Calhoun Fairchild. He's a solicitor and the grandson of Lord Tutley."
"Hmmm." The earl grunted his approval. "Go on."
"I cannot say much, for in truth I know little, but Mr. Fairchild would like to know more about Desiree. In fact,
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I should very much like to meet with the lady in question myself on his behalf."
"That's impossible." He rubbed his nose with a forefinger.
"I assure you, my lord, that I will be most discreet. I simply need to know ..."
"Mr. Harding, Desiree has been dead for twenty-five years."
"... if anything ..." Harding was slow to register this intelligence, but petered to a stop when it penetrated. "Dead? Desiree is dead?"
The earl nodded and then looked out the window, where a soft rain was beginning to fall. In the laden silence that followed, an aging butler brought in a tea tray and set it on the low table at their feet. As he poured two cups, the sound of liquid filling china sputtered then quieted. He left without remark and the earl dragged his attention back into the room.