A Return of Devotion

by Kristi Ann Hunter

“Carry on, Mrs. Brightmoor.” His voice was tinged with exasperation as Daphne blinked away her mental list of places that might entice the marquis away from Haven Manor.

  “Carry on?” she asked.

  He tilted his head to give her a quizzical stare. The directness of his blue gaze had her pulling her cloak a bit more tightly around her. She didn’t like being the focus of anyone’s attention, much less someone she didn’t really know. It didn’t matter how similar the faces, Benedict had never possessed the power and confidence to turn his gaze into a lethal weapon like this man could.

  “With the tour?” he replied. “You said it was vital I understand the town if I was going to live here.”

  “Right. Yes.” She twisted her hands in her cloak and searched the area. Where to take him? She couldn’t turn around, so onward into town was the only way to go. Hopefully she’d come up with something soon. “This way.”

  What did she really have to show an aristocrat? There was a reason they used Marlborough as a resting stop on their way to somewhere more exciting. Cheese factories weren’t especially interesting, and he was hardly going to care about the location of the poorhouse. The common field where the local children played was of no matter to him either.

  Really, the only places Daphne ever went in town were Nash’s office—and taking the marquis there when the solicitor wasn’t expecting him seemed cruel—and Mrs. Lancaster’s. Many people found the unique store interesting, but would Lord Chemsford want to see it? He wasn’t going to be doing the shopping.

  “We’ve a few schools.” A sense of accomplishment filled her as she waved in the general direction of the other end of town. Aristocrats were always interested in education and such, weren’t they? Of course, The Ivy House, which housed the Marlborough Academy, couldn’t be seen from their current location. The other schools weren’t even on this street. Should she walk him in that direction?

  “I’ve no children, Mrs. Brightmoor. And if I did, my sons would be attending Harrow, as I did.” His gaze narrowed as he looked around the town.

  Was it from the sun or was his head paining him again? Only a few hours ago his head had hurt enough to keep him awake. Perhaps such a long walk wasn’t such a great idea.

  Daphne’s palms grew sticky with sweat, and she tried to discreetly wipe them on the inside of her cloak. She should get him indoors. If the sun was bothering his head, the shade and coolness inside a building would help. But where?

  She looked up and down the street. Would any of it interest a peer of the realm?

  No. Inns and taverns were the only places in Marlborough catering to his kind. That left Nash and the grocer as her only options. Just once, she’d love to have a decision laid before her that wasn’t about selecting the better of two terrible options.

  She guided him to the side of the road shaded from the morning sun, gesturing occasionally at one building or another. As they approached the multi-paned window of Nash’s office, she strained her neck to peer inside.

  Empty. Well, empty of people. She was a bit relieved that she didn’t have to introduce Lord Chemsford to Nash quite yet. Even though the solicitor was more than able to handle a surprise or two, it did seem polite to warn him of the previously unknown connection first. She also wanted the marquis to be in a better mood so his first instructions to Nash weren’t to find Daphne’s replacement.

  She needed to make him so happy that he would forget her rather questionable antics since his arrival.

  “Do you like licorice?” she gasped out.

  “Licorice?” he asked with a lifted brow.

  “Yes.” Daphne swallowed and took off marching down the pavement. “Lancaster’s has the best licorice around.”

  That might be a complete and total fabrication. Daphne hadn’t any idea if anyone else in town even sold licorice, much less if it was any better. What she did know was that Mrs. Lancaster had some and it was good because whenever she slipped a piece to the children, they closed their eyes in bliss and floated about the rest of the day. More importantly, the old woman never let anyone leave her store unhappy.

  Daphne hadn’t a clue how old Mrs. Lancaster actually was. For as long as they had been acquainted, the grocer had possessed a bit of grey hair and wrinkles. Lots of wrinkles. Wrinkles formed from an excessive amount of time smiling at neighbors and guests. Her husband had died years before Daphne had come to town, and she’d been running the store ever since.

  She’d been meddling in the lives of everyone in town since she could talk. Or so she claimed.

  Mrs. Lancaster was also one of the very few people who knew Daphne was Benedict’s mother. She’d taken in Daphne and Kit when they ran away from London, cared for them, gave them a temporary place to live, and taught them how to survive on their own. She’d held Daphne’s hand through the birth of her son. There was no one in town Daphne trusted more.

  Now she only had to hope the woman wasn’t so old that she would keel over after one look at the marquis.

  “This,” Daphne said as she pushed open the door to the shop, “is where we buy our supplies and foodstuffs.”

  He stepped in after her, sighing at the slight relief from the sun and heat, but he turned immediately back to the window. “Is that a saddlebag?”

  “Yes.” Daphne shifted her weight from foot to foot. How to explain Lancaster’s? In addition to food, spices, and other edible products, she stocked a selection of market wares, allowing the townspeople to work their own stalls during the market and purchase other items during the week.

  Over the years it had become a place for townspeople to gather and work out their woes as much as a place to shop. Whatever one needed, Mrs. Lancaster could probably find it.

  Fortunately, the shop was currently empty, aside from the proprietor. Mrs. Lancaster bustled about behind the counter, filling bins and checking shelves as she hummed to herself.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Lancaster,” Daphne said.

  “Greetings, dear.” The woman turned around, a kind smile splitting her face into grooves made all the deeper by the lines and wrinkles of age. When her gaze landed on Lord Chemsford, her eyes widened, and for the first time Daphne could remember, the open smile was replaced by a look of complete surprise that quickly gave way to a stern scowl. One wrinkled hand reached back and curled around the handle of her broom as if she were prepared to shoo the marquis right back out the door.

  Daphne surged up to the counter, heart in her throat. If Mrs. Lancaster kicked them out, she had no idea where to take the marquis next or how to handle his questions about the incident. “This is Lord Chemsford. He’s newly moved to the area. He has no connection to it.”

  He cleared his throat and frowned, not at the store or the scowling old woman, but at her. “If that is how you intend to introduce me, Mrs. Brightmoor, I’d thank you to leave me to my own devices.”

  At the fake name, Mrs. Lancaster’s eyes narrowed further. She looked back and forth between Daphne and Lord Chemsford. “No,” she said slowly as her face cleared of disgust and her normal smile returned, “believe me, it’s a more proper introduction than you would believe.” A bit of a glint entered her eye. “It’s a quirk of small towns, you know. We’ve our own language.”

  “Oh?” He looked at the grocer and then back at Daphne. The irritation had faded and something suspiciously close to a glimmer of humor softened the hardness.

  Daphne swallowed. How could he possibly find this amusing? She was very much concerned her heart was going to explode and cause her to expire right then and there.

  He leaned a bit closer to Mrs. Lancaster. “What is the hidden message my guide has just relayed?”

  “If I told you it wouldn’t be very hidden, would it?” Mrs. Lancaster bustled around the counter, her right foot dragging slightly with each step. “We can’t be sharing the town’s secrets with every handsome newcomer who wanders in the door.”

  Daphne blushed as if she’d been the one to declare the marquis handsome instead of the shopkeep
er. Not that she could deny the statement. She hadn’t lost her head with his cousin because she found him ugly, and the marquis was definitely the better looking of the two.

  Still, she could do without the opinion being announced while she was in his presence. It was difficult enough to ignore the fact that she could all too easily imagine him in another time and another place, whisking her onto the dance floor without a single intent to ruin her.

  Yes, if the world would just conspire to help her ignore his appearance, she would be exceedingly grateful.

  “I’ve every intention of staying in the area for a while,” the marquis was saying, head inclined toward Mrs. Lancaster. “I’ve an estate just over the river.”

  Mrs. Lancaster’s eyes widened, and she jerked a glance at Daphne. “Have you now? I thought there was nothing that way but farms and forests.”

  “It’s been empty for a while now, but I intend to change that. How long until I become a local and earn my way into the inner circle of knowledge?”

  “It’s not so much about time, my lord.” Mrs. Lancaster reached her hand into a bin on the wall. “It’s about knowing you’ll do your part to protect us.” She pulled her hand out and held up a piece of candy. “Licorice?”

  Chapter ten

  William was fairly certain he’d never been inside a grocer’s shop. He was completely certain he’d never visited a grocer’s shop like this one. There probably didn’t exist another grocer’s shop such as this. He slipped the licorice into his mouth and chewed carefully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten the candy, but he recalled not caring for it.

  He still didn’t care for it.

  But as he’d already been declared something of an interloper, he wasn’t about to turn down the offered treat.

  While he wasn’t entirely sure how his housekeeper had convinced him to let her take him on a tour of the town or why it vaguely felt like it had even been his idea, he liked Marlborough. It was comfortable and clean without the pretentiousness he often encountered in London or even the stately homes where he’d been staying in Ireland. There was nothing bold about it or even all that remarkable. It simply was.

  “What can I get for you today?” the old woman asked his housekeeper.

  Mrs. Brightmoor blushed a bit and dropped her gaze to the ground. “Um, nothing. I’m . . . giving Lord Chemsford a tour of town.”

  The shopkeeper blinked at her and then at him. “You brought him all the way to town for no reason?”

  William officially liked this woman. She may be strange, but she was smart, and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind in front of him. He had a feeling she’d just as openly berate him as she had the housekeeper, who was now crossing her arms and setting her mouth in a determined, flat line.

  “It’s important for a man to know his town.”

  “And when the town gets to know the man?” Mrs. Lancaster asked.

  It was yet another cryptic conversation passing between the two women. Would they speak plainer if they thought he wasn’t listening? It was worth a try. He turned his back and strolled away from them a bit to peruse some of the goods that were almost unusual enough to actually distract him from the conversation at the counter.

  “Are you sure about him?” the shopkeeper whispered.

  William examined a teacup and tilted his ear toward the women while he held his breath.

  “Mrs. Lancaster, of course I’m certain.”

  “Yes, yes, you wouldn’t make a mistake about that.” A long, shaky sigh. “Why bring him here?”

  “Where else would I take him?”

  Where else, indeed. Why did she need to take him anywhere, though? Was there something back at the house she was trying to hide? Something being hidden even now?

  “I’ll make him a bag of sweets,” the old woman said, her voice a bit louder as she moved back behind the counter. “That will keep him happy as you walk around.”

  “But I don’t know where to take him,” the housekeeper said. Well, that’s what he thought she said. She’d moved to the end of the counter with the shopkeeper, so it was a bit more difficult to make out the sentences.

  “Take him to Nash’s . . . talk business all day.”

  William cocked his head. The solicitor in charge of the house’s care was named Nash Banfield. Was that whom they were referring to? Their knowing him wasn’t a surprise, as Mrs. Brightmoor worked at the house and the town itself was fairly small. But to refer to him by his Christian name?

  His housekeeper’s response was too quiet for him to hear, but it made the old woman chuckle and pat her on the head, causing her to reach up and adjust the fuzzy brown topknot.

  He wandered the store a bit more, unsure how long to leave the women to their conversation. The shopkeeper seemed to be a voice of reason, so perhaps she could calm whatever had gotten under the skin of his housekeeper. Then they could return to—or perhaps create—a normal working relationship. One where she quietly went about her job and he was able to forget she was there.

  When phrased like that, the normal social system sounded a bit pompous. If he were to start treating the servants as equals, though, his house would fall into chaos. He employed them, paid fair wages, and didn’t expect an undue amount of labor.

  In fact, if he began paying attention to his servants it likely would be as awkward for them as it was for him. Just picturing asking Morris to sit down for tea and a chat made William chuckle. The valet likely would faint on the spot.

  William circled back around to the front of the store, as fascinated by the place as he’d been when he first walked in. The shopkeeper gave him another face-splitting grin and beckoned him over to the counter.

  “What do you do, my lord?”

  From the time he was very young, William had learned it was best not to show surprise. Over the years he’d gotten a great deal of practice with this, as people had delighted in sharing with him the latest gossip and exploits, particularly those of his father. He used every bit of that ability now to keep his face impassive. A glance at his housekeeper revealed she didn’t think the older woman insane. As far as he’d noticed, Mrs. Brightmoor wore every emotion known to man plain on her face.

  She appeared nothing but curious now.

  Perhaps both women had a few attics to let.

  “What do you mean?” he asked carefully. “I’m a peer of the realm. What do you expect I do?” He did what all the other peers did—or at least the responsible ones. He managed his estates and investments, considered politics, and did what he could to improve the community around him by providing employment and occasional structure improvements. He had visions of modernizing the marquisette so it would continue to perform those duties for years to come.

  Those responsibilities usually demanded a bit of respect, but all he was getting from the shopkeeper was a frown. William wasn’t accustomed to being frowned at. People didn’t often frown at a marquis.

  The frown was gone as quickly as it appeared, though, replaced once more by an engaging smile as the woman held out a paper bag. “You’re a human being before you’re a peer, aren’t you? Take these as a welcome present. Sweeten up your day a bit.”

  He took the bag and the question to save for later. The bag slid easily enough into his coat pocket, but the question about his humanity lingered in the back of his mind.

  All his life, he’d been the heir apparent, the man who would be the marquis, who would help rule the country, who would provide the livelihoods of hundreds, but he’d never given much thought to who he was because he’d always assumed that was who he was. While he wasn’t entirely sure anymore, he did know he wasn’t his father, and that might have to be enough.

  His housekeeper was ridiculous. Or maybe William was ridiculous because he was still following her. When they left the shop, she took him on a circle of town. So far he’d seen a white horse carved into a hillside, a few empty stalls ready for use at Saturday’s market, and the green where the town children played on sunny afte
rnoons.

  And he still didn’t know why he’d needed to see any of it.

  Perhaps, to a woman such as she, these were important and meaningful places. It was possible the woman had never been farther away from Marlborough than the house where she now worked and, in her eyes, the oldest house in town that had somehow managed to avoid the fire hundreds of years ago was truly an impressive sight to behold.

  But he’d seen the ocean, the cliff country, and London. While he appreciated the simplicity of Marlborough for the retreat it brought him, he didn’t find it extraordinary.

  “There’s an interesting well down this street —”

  “No.” William held out his hand. They’d finally made it back onto High Street, and he was putting an end to this farce. “We’re stopping at that inn for something to eat.”

  He gestured to one of the nicer-looking establishments he’d seen on their walk. Their very, very long walk. He was so tired of walking.

  And he was hungry.

  “Why?” Mrs. Brightmoor asked. She’d gotten bolder as the day wore on, almost as if she didn’t see herself as his servant but as his peer. It was impertinent, to say the least, and uncomfortable because there were moments when she’d made him forget as well, when he’d simply walked along, finding her to be pleasant company.

  Until he’d remembered who she was and the entire business became awkward.

  Perhaps it was time to remind her they each had a role and a place and that stepping out of those roles made the world messy. “Because I’m hungry, Mrs. Brightmoor, and the aroma indicates they serve food there.”

  The flustered version of the woman reappeared, and he almost wished he’d gone to see the well. She glanced at him, then at the inn, and back again, looking lost and perhaps even a bit frightened.

  Then she sucked in a deep breath and gave him a triumphant smile. “But you haven’t seen Mr. Banfield yet.”

  William jerked at the outburst. He couldn’t help it. She’d been looking so small that the last thing he’d expected was a bold outburst, as if the idea were going to run away if she didn’t pounce on it.