Tristan Sykes had not encountered the madwoman before. After just a few minutes with her, he felt enormous relief.
She was nothing like the heiress Greta Hamilton-Holmes, who last year had been coerced into an unhappy marriage with the unwitting assistance of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation. The unfortunate circumstances of her stay here had alerted the entire village that perhaps the enrollment process and instructional methods needed some adjustment and modernization. Not everything was always as it seemed. The foundation’s governors were wary now of believing everything that was reported about their Guests.
Poor Greta had been an innocent, a pawn in her ambitious mother’s game to marry her child off to an earl. But Lady Sarah Marchmain was no innocent. Any man who married her would have to sleep with one eye open and a dagger under his pillow.
She was cunning. Devious. Sly. A consummate actress, even though she was so young. She probably should be shut away where she couldn’t cause anyone harm. Her father the duke was at his wit’s end, her fiancé the viscount bereft. She’d already been in Puddling beyond the usual amount of time, with no sign of progress.
She was headstrong. Spoilt. Wicked. But rather attractive all the same.
Those pants...well. If women were allowed to wear them on a regular basis, men would not be responsible for their actions. The world would go to hell in a handbasket.
Tristan clouted himself mentally. Now that he was in charge of the foundation in his father’s absence, he had to be responsible. He owed it to the village. He was not about to fall for the lures of an unrepentant hoyden and her derriere.
Those flirtatious, foxy lashes, the tremulous pout, those enormous br—. He lifted his eyes to the shop ceiling where it was safe from feminine pulchritude.
No cobwebs were to be seen.
He knew all about dukes’ daughters. His grandmother had been one. Triston had loved her, but one had to acknowledge that Granny Maribel had been headstrong, spoilt and wicked, too.
Her son and his father, Sir Bertram Sykes, trusted Tristan to repair the family’s and foundation’s reputation while he was away, and so far, Tristan had. The Guests this year had returned to society whole, healthy and ready to make something of their lives. The new vicar Tristan had hired, a man married to his wife for over fifty years, was not going to forget his vows and fall for a scarlet-haired vixen in his care. Mr. Fitzmartin was a steady, sober old fellow, and if his sermons were not riveting, neither were they revolutionary. Puddling was back to normal, even if Sir Bertram remained in Paris.
Tristan was content to be left alone at the Sykes estate. The grounds were coming along, particularly the memorial garden Tristan had planted for his younger brother Wallace. Poor Wallace had died before he’d had to shave regularly. It had been a wretched waste, and Tristan wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself for not paying enough attention to the boy while he’d lived.
Wallace had worshipped him, which Tristan had found rather absurd. He was nothing special then and he was nothing special now. Apart from his green fingers, Tristan Sykes was a most ordinary man. The only distinctive things about him were his fierce eyebrows, and all the Sykes males share that familial trait. The females sometimes too, poor things.
Despite his time in London, he was a country man to his scuffed boots, and luckier than most. His family was rich and influential, and he had a substantial fortune of his own left to him by his imperious grandmother. If living year round in Puddling-on-the-Wold was not precisely thrilling, he at least felt useful taking his father’s place at the foundation and on the school committee. If Sir Bertram never returned, Tristan was prepared to lead.
His next instance of leading meant he probably should take the madwoman home. The two Stanchfields were unequal to handling her—they’d already given her candy. They had no difficulty steaming envelopes open and destroying correspondence, but face-to-face dealings with the Guests had never been their forte.
He turned from the quivering couple. “Lady Sarah, allow me to escort you back to Stonecrop Cottage.”
She blinked those unusual eyes. He’d surprised her. Had she been planning more caterwauling? Another flop to the floor? Her dramatics were tedious in the extreme, and he was most averse to dramatics.
And Tristan suspected they were deliberate. She’d made an effort to defy her treatment and remain in Puddling. She was probably no more deranged than he was.
But if you pretended to be deranged, didn’t that actually make you deranged? It was a conundrum. Both the vicar and Dr. Oakley had advised she continue her course of rehabilitation. If today’s behavior was any indication, she’d never be fit to go home.
“To Stonecrop Cottage?” She sounded like she’d never heard of the place.
“Yes. Your temporary home in Puddling.” Tristan emphasized the “temporary.” It was imperative they cycle Guests in and out of the three cottages that were available to them as quickly as possible. Puddling’s fortune depended upon it, and the waiting list was long. There were many, many crackpots in the best families of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland who needed redirecting and restoration.
“Now? But I haven’t finished my walk.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Sykes, but Lady Sarah climbed in the backroom window this morning. The other governors should be informed.” Mr. Stanchfield tried to puff out his chest at peaching upon their troublesome Guest but failed. There simply wasn’t much to puff.
Tristan noted the green fire that flashed from Lady Sarah’s eyes, and the grocer’s flinch. “I thought we were friends, Mr. Stanchfield. I expected better of you.”
“Mr. Stanchfield is obligated to report on your activities, Lady Sarah. We all are. It’s for your own protection.”
“Protection! Hah. As if any of you really cared.” Her lower lip thrust in mulishness. It was very...pink. Had anyone ever said no to her before? Likely not.
“I assure you we take our responsibility for your health very seriously. We have an obligation to your father.”
“My father! You should be obligated to me! My father wouldn’t care if I fell in a vat of boiling oil as long as he got his hands on some money.”
Tristan lifted an eyebrow. “The duke is very concerned for you.” The man had written nearly daily inquiring about Lady Sarah’s progress, and had been bitterly disappointed to learn that she was enrolled in a second month of rehabilitation.
Tristan was aware of all the particulars—how Lady Sarah defied her father, eschewed marriage, and created scandal wherever she went. Tristan could sympathize with the first part—he had no interest in the institution himself. After Linnet, he was unwilling to find himself in a woman’s coils again. But Lady Sarah should marry and have children—it was what women did, whether they were duke’s daughters or grocer’s girls.
Lady Sarah stomped off in the direction of the shop door, but not before knocking a basket of onions over. Without breaking stride, she apologized over her shoulder and pulled the door open.
Tristan was right behind her, watching her plaid bottom swing from side to side. He should have helped the Stanchfields pick up the produce but felt it was more important to get Lady Sarah back where she belonged. She appeared to be in a considerable temper, her cheeks very flushed. Who knew what she’d knock over next?
He had no trouble keeping up with her, but Puddling was an exceptionally hilly Cotswold village. By the time they got to the corner of New Street, they were both breathless. It was nearly as difficult to go down as up; one had to mind one’s steps or one would barrel right down the road like a runaway hedgehog.
He took a breath and steadied them both, tucking her arm firmly in the crook of his elbow. The air was perfumed by smoke; someone must be burning leaves. The early fall day was very fine—he could almost imagine them out for a normal stroll if she wasn’t struggling so against his control. She glared and descended even faster, nearly dragging him down Honeywell Lane.
And then she shrieked, tripped over the cobblestones and brought them both to their knees.
“What the devil are you trying to do now?” he barked, thoroughly annoyed. He cared nothing for his clothing, although she had managed to find the only patch of pumpkin pulp left for them to slip in. Tristan had paid for the road’s clean-up crew out of his own pocket.
She pointed up, speechless, and Tristan’s heart tripped.
Stonecrop Cottage was on fire.
Lady Sarah scrambled up before he had a chance to stop her. She dashed down the middle of the road, her hair unravelling from its mooring. It fell in sheets of copper and gold and rust past her waist, and it took Tristan a minute to forgo his metallic illusions and gather up his wits and follow her.
St. Jude’s church bells were now sounding throughout the valley, their particular cadence a call for help. Villagers were coming out of their houses, sleeves rolled up, aprons tossed.
They knew where they were needed. The black plume of smoke was obvious now that he was looking at the sky rather than his unwilling companion.
Puddling had no organized fire department, or any real emergency plans. An oversight, Tristan realized, which he would correct once the current crisis was over.
It was imperative to get water up from Puddling Stream, and he shouted orders as he ran down the hill. Horses were hitched, wagons dispatched. There was the Honey Well, too, older than the village itself, and not quite so far. Every cottage had a rain barrel.
It would have to do.
Where was the bloody madwoman? He half-expected to see her on her knees in the little garden howling again, but there was no trace of her. Smoke was pouring out of open windows, and he heard the sharp crackle of flames at the rear of the house.
The blue-painted front door stood ajar, its pebbled glass shining in the sun. It had been a beautiful, cloudless day until that moment.
She couldn’t have been stupid enough to enter a burning house, could she?
Tristan pulled his neckcloth up over his mouth and tore off his coat. Holding it over his head, he fanned the smoke away.
Tristan had been in this cottage dozens of times—he’d been on the committee when it was designed and built a few years ago. He was an architect, after all, even if the Foundation had not followed all his suggestions. He imagined Lady Sarah had to duck under the low lintels upstairs. One of Puddling’s previous Guests had knocked himself unconscious on a regular basis.
The little hallway was empty, the conservatory at the left untouched aside from drifting smoke. A wall of heat came from the kitchen straight in front of him.
And then he heard the howling. The hair stood up on the back of his neck.
He dashed into the kitchen, where the wall behind the range seemed to be on fire. Lady Sarah was bent over an inert body, attempting to drag it out of harm’s way.
Mrs. Grace, the housekeeper. The woman’s white cap was singed, her face the color of the thick smoke in the room.
“Get out of here! I’ve got her.” Tristan tossed his coat to the duke’s daughter and gathered up Millie Grace. A few villagers entered the kitchen, sloshing buckets of water in the direction of the fire. Tristan elbowed his way out, pushing Lady Sarah in front of him.
He laid Mrs. Grace on the garden bench by the koi pond. The air outside wasn’t much better than it had been in the cottage.
He turned to the madwoman. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Lady Sarah’s pale face was streaked with soot, but she stood tall and met his eyes.
“I don’t like her—in fact, she is the most hateful person I have ever met, and I’ve met a few. She’s worse than my old governess, always spying on me and saying something spiteful. But I knew she was inside fixing me some sort of bland, boring lunch.”
“She has your best interests at heart,” Tristan snapped. The bland, boring Puddling diet calmed the blood—everyone knew it. Softening, he added, “Thank you for trying to save her. Millie Grace is an integral part of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation.”
“You couldn’t obtain Attila the Hun’s services? No, I suppose not—he’s dead, isn’t he? She’s an absolute witch.” Lady Sarah looked down. “I’m going to loosen her collar. You should fetch Dr. Oakley.”
Damn her, but she was right, not about the witch part, but the doctor. Millie Grace was firm because she had to be. She’d had years of experience dealing with difficult Guests, and it wouldn’t help any of them if she was too soft-hearted.
Hell was paved with good intentions by weak-willed individuals, and it was Puddling’s steely mission to divert as many of its Guests to Heaven eventually.
After a few quick words, Tristan left the villagers to fight the fire and ran up the hill to Oakley’s house. He met the older man halfway; he’d heard the bells, too.
When they returned to Stonecrop Cottage, Mrs. Grace’s head was in Lady Sarah’s lap, and the duke’s daughter was massaging the housekeeper’s temples. Mrs. Grace’s hair covering had fallen to the ground, and her silver strands were as loose as Lady Sarah’s.
“There, there. They’re here, Mrs. Grace. Everything will be all right,” Lady Sarah said in a soothing voice. If Tristan didn’t know better, he’d think she actually cared.