Ledger in hand, Ada walked to the stable yard at midmorning, eager to meet Archie. She saw the cart drawn by a single horse and wondered if the boy might even teach her how to drive. That would be a very useful skill for an independent young woman like herself.
A head popped up from the back of the cart, and she nearly tripped. There was no mistaking the brooding expression even with a hat pulled low over his brow. She’d always found hats attractive, and in this case, it gave Lord Warfield a dashing air.
And dashing was not a word she ever would have used to describe him. Cantankerous. Unhelpful. Antagonistic. Also enigmatic and alluring. Did she only think so because she was burdened with overactive curiosity? She decided it didn’t matter why she thought that.
“Good morning,” she called as she approached the cart. “Did you come to see me off?”
“No.”
Of course he hadn’t. That would be so out of what she knew of his character that she was surprised she’d even asked. “You’re driving me to London, aren’t you? Well, I won’t go.”
He stared at her a moment. “I said you could stay the fortnight provided you didn’t annoy me.”
“I was all but certain I’d continued to be a thorn in your side.”
“My side, my neck, my eye, my bloody arse.” He grunted. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to be crude.”
Now he was apologizing? “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“Nothing. I thought I would drive you around the estate, but perhaps that’s a bad idea since it seems you are—”
“No, no,” she interrupted, not at all interested in hearing what he thought she was. Beyond annoying, she was sure. “I’m thrilled you’ll be driving me today.” Indeed, she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. “Who better to tell me everything I need to know?” Except he probably didn’t know everything she needed to know. Not if he’d been as uninvolved in his estate as it seemed.
From what she could piece together from the former steward’s notes, the viscount’s father had died about the time his lordship had left Spain to return home due to his injuries. The new viscount, his lordship’s older brother, had soon followed, dying only days before Warfield arrived.
The new new viscount had spent months recovering from his wounds, and had, understandably, taken little interest in the estate. However, that hadn’t changed as he’d recovered. As far as Ada could tell, the current viscount had never completely assumed his new position.
She had to assume he didn’t want it. How she longed to ask.
As expected, he didn’t respond to her rhetorical question. With a faint growl, he offered her his hand to help her into the cart.
Her gaze fell upon his appendage, covered in black leather. His hand was large, the fingers long. He looked as if he could break something quite easily.
Yet, when she put her hand in his, he helped her into the cart with a gentle strength that said he wouldn’t harm her. Not that she was afraid he would. He was grumpy and beastly, but she wasn’t frightened of him.
When she was seated, he went around and climbed in beside her. Without a word, he drove them from the stable yard and out to the front of the house.
“I understand Stonehill was once a castle,” she said, hoping he might finally engage in cordial conversation.
“Yes.”
She’d take a one-word answer over his signature grunts. It was a good start, anyway. “Do you know which of your ancestors built it?”
“None of them. The first Lord Warfield was given the property by Charles the Second after his restoration. My ancestor was elevated to the peerage and awarded this estate for his loyalty to the crown. The castle was in ruins by then. The first Lord Warfield tore the remainder down and built a new house, which my great-grandfather almost completely demolished and rebuilt. That’s the house that stands today. Some of the castle stone was used for the cornerstones.”
She bit her tongue before noting that might be the most he’d ever said to her. And without irritation. “How fascinating. Does the house sit where the castle did?”
“No. The castle was up on the rise south of the current house. It wasn’t terribly large—just a small keep and the surrounding walls. There are a few stones still there. If you look hard enough and use some imagination, you can see some of the wall.”
A thrill of anticipation shot through her. “I’d love to see it. I have plenty of imagination.”
“That has absolutely nothing to do with your errand here.” There was his disagreeability. She knew it had to emerge sometime.
“No, but do you really expect me to work all day, every day?” That was precisely what she’d done, even yesterday on Sunday. “I don’t do that at my regular position.”
They left the drive, and he steered them onto a dirt track. The day was warm with a light breeze, and the scent of wildflowers was in the air.
“Where are we going first?” she asked.
“Ah, there’s a farm just up ahead.”
She suspected he didn’t know the names of who lived there. “What do they grow?” She waved her hand, anticipating that he didn’t know that either. “Never mind. I’ll pester them with my questions instead of you. What else do you know of Stonehill Castle?”
“Nothing. I’ve shared the extent of my knowledge.”
“Aren’t you interested to learn more?”
“Not particularly.” He slid her a glance. “You seem quite fascinated by the past.”
“I love history. There’s something comforting about knowing that your family has roots in a particular place, that the land is part of your ancestry—your blood, even.”
“It’s not, no matter how it may seem with entailments. Stonehill Castle didn’t belong to my family. I have no connection to it whatsoever. Honestly, I feel no connection to the current estate either.”
Ada held her breath. She’d never imagined he’d share such sentiments! She wanted to ask why, but feared he wouldn’t answer, even if he’d been more loquacious this morning than in any of their previous encounters. So she’d ask him something he could answer the way he preferred—with one word. “Is that because you didn’t expect to inherit?”
There was a beat of silence—save the birdsong coming from their right—in which she felt the air shift. Had he drawn in a breath?
“Yes.”
“Yes, you didn’t expect to inherit?” she clarified.
“My brother should have been the viscount. I’m a soldier, not a landowner.” He grunted. “At least, I was.”
“I’m sorry about your brother,” she said softly. “And your father. My father died when I was ten.”
“That can’t have been easy.”
“No. My older brother went to sea then, leaving my mother and me with my three younger sisters.” She glanced at him, seated on her right so that the scarred left side of his face was completely exposed to her. She noticed he wore his hat at a slight angle, as if he could shade that side and prevent people from seeing his disfigurement. What would he say if she told him she wanted to touch it, to feel the ripples in his flesh? It looked as though he’d sustained a burn, but what kind?
“You seem to have come out all right,” he said gruffly.
“So far.” But the path hadn’t been easy. She’d been foolish and paid a price. Still, she’d survived, and that was more than she could say for her mother and one of her sisters. The terrible old guilt threatened to grip her, but she held it at bay. No good would ever come of that.
Pushing the dark thoughts away, she lifted her face to the sky, closing her eyes as she inhaled. “I love summer, don’t you?”
“No. I prefer the cold and rain.”
“I don’t mind those either. I like snow the most, I think.”
He snorted. “I’m beginning to think you like everything. Is there nothing that peeves you?”
“Grumpy viscounts with disdain for romance novels.” She laughed softly.
He shook his head and drove from the track onto a narrower lane. “If I peeve you, it can’t be for long.”
“Life is too fleeting to harbor ill will. Besides, feeling angry or upset isn’t pleasant. I’d much rather be happy.”
He brought the cart to a stop in front of a small stone cottage and several outbuildings. His gaze met hers, and her breath stalled at the intensity in his expression. “You can simply decide to feel happy whenever you want?”
“It’s not always simple, but I do try.”
He got down and came around to help her out. By the time they moved back to the other side of the cart, a woman had emerged from the cottage. Of medium height with a tidy cap atop her gray hair, she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Good morning,” she called out as they approached.
When the viscount said nothing, Ada moved swiftly toward the woman. “Good morning. I’m Miss Treadway, ah, secretary to Lord Warfield. And this is his lordship.” She swiveled her body to see where he’d ended up.
He stood a few feet away, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“My goodness,” the woman said softly, but not so softly that Ada couldn’t hear. She dropped into a curtsey. “What an honor to receive you at our humble farm, my lord.”
Warfield said nothing, but he at least inclined his head. Couldn’t he say good morning? He didn’t have to smile, though that would have been nice.
Ada turned back to the woman and smiled on his behalf. “He’s delighted to be here. You are Mrs. Spratt?” She guessed one of the names she recalled from the estate ledgers.
“Yes, indeed,” she said warmly. “Would you care to come inside? I just took some bread from the oven.”
At that precise moment, Ada got a noseful of the scent of fresh bread. Her stomach grumbled in response. “That would be lovely.” She looked back to the viscount and inclined her head toward the cottage.
Warfield appeared tense, his jaw tight as the muscles in his neck worked. Still, he walked toward the cottage, and when Mrs. Spratt stood to the side at the door, he went inside.
Ada followed their hostess into the small but neat main room. The kitchen area was in the corner, and the bread sat on a table where she clearly prepared food.
“Mr. Spratt should be here any time. He’s just finishing his morning chores. There’s so much to do, and it’s just the two of us.”
Opening her ledger, Ada took the pencil from her pocket and recorded the couple’s names as well as the information she’d already gathered. Then she asked a series of questions about the farm while Mrs. Spratt cut the bread. The woman answered as she slathered butter on the bread, then brought a piece to each of them—first to Warfield.
Ada held her breath, but he took it from the woman with a slight nod. He did not, however, immediately eat it. Ada had no such patience. She could hardly wait to take a bite. It smelled delicious, and she told Mrs. Spratt so.
“Nothing like fresh bread,” Mrs. Spratt said with a grin. “Ah, here’s Mr. Spratt.”
The door had opened and in walked the woman’s husband, a tall, rather fit man past middle age. Ada would guess them to be in their late fifties. Mr. Spratt removed his hat and clutched it in his hands.
“John, you’ll never guess who’s here,” Mrs. Spratt said, handing Ada her slice of bread. Ada snapped her ledger closed, clasping it and the pencil in one hand while she accepted the bread with the other.
“I can see it’s his lordship. What an honor to have you in my house, my lord.”
“The pleasure is his,” Ada responded before waiting to see if Warfield would respond.
“Yes, it’s my pleasure,” Warfield said, surprising Ada as she took a bite of bread and accidentally bit her cheek. “This is Miss Treadway. If you have any issues that require my attention, please convey them to her.”
Mr. Spratt looked at Ada in disbelief. “Is she the new steward?”
“No, she’s the secretary,” Mrs. Spratt answered. “She’s just making notes in that book.”
Ada hurriedly worked to finish her bread, both because it was the best bread she’d ever eaten and so she could get back to writing. Mr. Spratt still looked skeptical.
“Tell his lordship about the roof of the cowshed,” Mrs. Spratt urged her husband.
Mr. Spratt glanced toward the viscount. “Bah. I can fix it. I won’t bother him with that.”
Ada swallowed her next-to-last bite of bread. “Please, if you don’t mind, we’d like to hear about it.” She popped the last corner into her mouth and reopened the ledger.
“Mr. Spratt is also in need of some new equipment,” Mrs. Spratt said, looking to Ada, who made a note in the ledger.
“What equipment is that?” Ada wanted to record precisely what he needed.
“I can get by,” Mr. Spratt said, sending a slight scowl toward his wife. “We don’t need to bother his lordship.”
“It isn’t a bother,” Ada said cheerfully. “In fact, it’s his responsibility, and he’d be delighted to help however he can.”
All three of them stared at her, conveying that no one present believed the viscount would be delighted by anything. It seemed his tenants were aware of his demeanor. Was that due to gossip, or had he demonstrated his lack of…delight in front of them?
“Just tell us what equipment needs to be replaced,” Lord Warfield said, sounding either weary or perturbed. Or perhaps both.
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Spratt responded. Then he itemized a handful of tools, which Ada quickly documented. He glanced toward the viscount, appearing nervous suddenly. “I can show you the items, so you can determine if they really ought to be replaced.”
“I believe you, Mr. Spratt.” Warfield’s voice was deep and firm.
The farmer nodded. “I appreciate that, sir.”
“We should be moving on,” Warfield said.
“Thank you for your kind hospitality, and especially for the bread.” Ada closed the ledger.
“It’s our honor to have you here.” Mrs. Spratt went to the door and opened it for them.
Warfield gestured for Ada to leave before him. Then he followed her to the cart where he helped her onto the seat.
Mr. Spratt came out into the yard and thanked them for visiting. “I don’t need anything right away,” he said.
With a nod, Warfield climbed onto the seat and drove away from the farm.
“Have you never visited them before?” Ada asked.
“Once. Before my steward left, I toured the estate with him.” He sent her a curious look. “How did you know their name?”
“Utter luck—I’d read the names in the ledgers, but I’d no idea they were the Spratts. I was quite amused by that, actually. Don’t tell me the names of the next tenants either. Perhaps I’ll get that one correct too.”
“I couldn’t tell you anyway. You know I am completely uninvolved in the management of this estate. I don’t know anyone’s names, what they farm, what they pay in rent, or when their leases are up.” He spoke matter-of-factly, without a hint of remorse.
“It doesn’t sound as if you care either.”
When he didn’t respond, she sat in silence for several minutes, enjoying the pastoral view as she wondered how this man existed. What did he do all day? What motivated him to even get out of bed in the morning?
“Did you eat your bread?” she asked rather absurdly, recalling that she hadn’t seen him actually eat it.
“No. I set it on a table. You were too busy gobbling yours down.”
“I’m so disappointed,” she said, shaking her head. “You could have given your piece to me. It was really good bread.”
He made a sound like a snort. But it might have been a grunt because he was him. She really hoped it was a snort—the kind that was akin to a laugh.
They fell quiet again, and she thought back, trying to determine when he’d abandoned that lovely, lovely slice of bread. “You didn’t say much,” she said.
“You seemed to have things well in hand. Besides, you’re the one who wanted to make these visits, not me.”
She exhaled. “I suppose. Still, you could be more amenable. Perhaps you can try at our next stop.”
“What would you have me say?”
Ada lowered her voice to a deep rasp. “Good morning, I’m Lord Warfield and this is my secretary, Miss Treadway.”
“You are not my secretary.”
She grunted in response, mimicking the way he did it. “This is my annoying houseguest, Miss Treadway. She’s going to open her annoying little book and ask several annoying questions. Then she’ll scribble in her book and perchance ask you even more annoying questions. She will also eat all your bread.”
Ada watched him as she imitated his low, grumbly tone. The barest of smiles flashed across his lips. She nearly leapt from her seat with a delighted cry.
His scowl moved back into place. “Don’t say a word, or I’ll never do it again.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth and swallowed her giggle with great effort. There was a happier gentleman underneath his brusque exterior—she just knew it. If she could glimpse him by being silly, perhaps she could find a way to coax him free.
He steered the cart onto the drive of the next farm. This one was larger than the Spratts’, with a two-story cottage and a large barn not far from it. “They have sheep,” Warfield said.
“That’s helpful to know.” Ada tried to remember who had sheep and what the farmers’ names were.
As they neared the cottage, two small children ran outside and headed for them.
“What the bloody hell?” Warfield brought the horse to a swift halt. “They’re going to get themselves killed behaving like that.”
They both, no more than five years of age, ran right up to the cart—on Warfield’s side. Ada’s breath stalled in her chest, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch.
The cart stopped. There was no screaming or awful sound of wheels going over a small body. Surely Ada would have felt that. Carefully, she opened her eyes and saw the children standing next to the cart, their gazes fixed on the viscount. Thank God.
Drawing deep breaths to calm the frantic racing of her heart, Ada didn’t wait for Warfield’s assistance to climb down from the cart. She moved quickly to greet the children. The older one was a girl, and the younger was a boy. Both had dark hair and wide brown eyes.
“Good morning,” Ada said a bit more shakily than she would have liked. She realized it was surely afternoon by now, not that the children would notice. “I’m Miss Treadway and this is Lord Warfield.” Their eyes grew even wider as they looked at the viscount, who still sat in the cart, his gaze dark and unreadable as he stared at Ada—not the children. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her panicked reaction to the children.
Ada crouched down in front of the children to draw their attention from Warfield. “What are your names?”
The girl pointed to her chest. “I’m Daisy, and this is Jem.”
Ada smiled at them both, noting that Jem was still looking at Warfield, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“He looks angry,” Daisy said, pointing at the viscount.
“Because I am,” Warfield answered, climbing down from his seat. Both children moved back. “You shouldn’t have run toward the cart. You could have scared the horse and caused an accident injuring us or yourselves. Don’t you know any better?”
Though he sounded frightening, Ada was glad he’d said it. They could have caused injury. Ada closed her eyes against the distant memory.
“Papa did say not to bother horses,” Daisy answered somewhat sullenly. “We didn’t mean to be naughty.”
Ada exhaled, her pulse finally returning to normal. “You weren’t naughty. But you must be safe. We’ve come to speak with your parents. Are they about?”
“Mama’s inside with the baby. They’re sick. Papa is with the sheep.”
“I’m sorry to hear they’re sick.” Ada wondered how ill they were. It was no wonder these children were running about. Plus, they were children. They tended to run about.
“Perhaps we should come back another time,” Warfield murmured.
Ada turned to him and spoke in a low tone. “I want to check on their mother to see if she needs any help. I’d like to know how sick they are.”
And who would help them if they needed it? It wasn’t as if Ada could send someone from the house. There was no one to be spared. Perhaps they could hire someone from the village. If not, she was tempted to come herself. The thought of these children putting themselves in harm’s way was untenable.
“Don’t bombard her with questions,” he said sternly.
“You can’t think I’d do that,” she said with a touch of incredulity. “I’m glad you thought to caution me, however.” That indicated he wasn’t completely incapable of recognizing appropriate behavior. “I’ll be as brief as possible.”
Ada looked to Daisy. “Will you take me to meet your mother?”
Daisy skipped toward the house, and her brother followed as if tied to her by a string. Inside, Daisy led Ada to a room at the back—the kitchen, where her mother stood holding a sleeping babe who appeared to be nearing a year. The woman’s dark hair was lank, her face pale. She looked exhausted. Her eyes widened upon seeing Ada.
“This lady came here with a lord,” Daisy said.
Ada didn’t think the woman’s pallor could worsen, but it did. Any remaining color in her face completely drained away. “Yes, I’m here with the viscount,” Ada said brightly. “We’re visiting tenants.” She realized she hadn’t brought her ledger, but then she wasn’t going to query her. She’d make notes about the family when she returned to the cart.
The woman appeared relieved. “Oh. As you can see, we aren’t fit for visitors at the moment. The babe’s got a fever.”
“So do you, Mama,” Daisy said helpfully.
Her mother cast her a beleaguered stare. “Will you take your brother outside, please?”
Turning, Daisy skipped out of the kitchen, her brother trailing after.
“Have you been ill long?” Ada asked gently.
“Nearly a week.”
Ada took in the unwashed dishes and general chaos of the kitchen. “Looks like you could use some help while you and the babe recover. Do you need medicine?”
The woman shrugged. “Haven’t seen a doctor.”
“Then I’ll make sure one visits. Today.” Ada recalled the names of the farmers who kept sheep. “You’re Mrs. Niven?”
“No, the Nivens are on the other side of the estate. I’m Mrs. Kempton.”
“Ah yes, thank you for correcting me. You’ve three children? I ask because I want to hire someone to come help until you’re well. I just need to know what sort of person to hire. Or if you perhaps need more than one helper.”
Mrs. Kempton’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, and she adjusted the baby in her arms. “I can’t afford any help.”
Ada gave her a reassuring smile. “You needn’t worry about that. His lordship will pay for it.”
Surprise followed by skepticism flashed across Mrs. Kempton’s weary features. “Are you certain of that?”
“Yes.” Ada would pay for it herself if she had to. Or get Lucien to—he’d be horrified to learn that Warfield wasn’t taking care of his tenants. “Don’t doubt it. I promise.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but his lordship has been absent since coming into the title. The old viscount—his father—was attentive. He was a good landlord. I don’t have much faith that this one will pay for medicine, let alone someone to help us.”
Ada wanted to rail at Warfield. These people depended on him, and he was letting them down. How could he not realize that? Well, she’d make sure he knew it now—and that things had to change.
“You can trust me,” Ada said firmly. “I’ll pay the doctor before he even comes here today. Will that ease your concern?”
Mrs. Kempton nodded. “Thank you. Truly.” She kissed her baby’s head, and Ada felt a pang of loss that made her breath stutter.
Ada walked outside into the bright day and took a long breath. This one visit was threatening to steal every bit of positivity she had. Her gaze found the viscount standing away from the cart, his attention on the ground.
Moving toward him, Ada frowned, as she meant to admonish him for his treatment—or general ignorance—of his tenants. But the closer she got to him, the more she realized something was amiss. He was wholly fixated on the ground and didn’t even seem to register her approach.
She followed his gaze and saw a bright red ribbon lying in the dirt. Hadn’t that been in Daisy’s hair? “Where’s the girl?” she asked as the bottom of her stomach seemed to drop away.
He didn’t respond, and Ada looked up, glancing around the yard. There she was—not too far distant, crouched down with her brother investigating something. Ada exhaled with relief. She wasn’t sure what she thought had happened, but something about Warfield’s demeanor was off.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
It took a moment before he finally turned his head toward her. His eyes were glassy, his skin pale. His full lips had seemed to thin. “Let’s go.”
He turned and strode toward the cart, moving quickly so that Ada had to practically dash after him. She stopped short. “Wait.” Pivoting, she went back to fetch the ribbon, then took it to Daisy.
“Thank you,” the girl said in astonishment, clearly unaware she’d lost the ribbon. “Mama would have been upset that I lost it.”
Ada made a mental note to bring more ribbon for them. “Here.” Ada tied it back into the girl’s hair. “All fixed.”
Daisy smiled widely, then twirled around, her skirt billowing. Her brother did the same, but of course he had no skirt to make his movements look elegant. Or perhaps it was because he immediately got dizzy and fell down. Chuckling, Ada helped him up. “All right?”
He nodded, but didn’t speak. Then he smiled at her. “Pretty.”
“He’s only two,” Daisy said as if that explained everything.
“Thank you, Jem. You take care of your sister now, all right?” Ada ruffled his hair, then gave Daisy a pat before hurrying to the cart. Thankfully, Warfield hadn’t left without her.
“I said we needed to go.” He didn’t sound like his typical irritated self. There was a hollow, worrisome quality to his tone. Ada didn’t like it. She also wasn’t about to take him to task for not paying attention to his tenants. She’d have to do that later.
She climbed into the cart on her own since he was already seated. She was barely situated before he started driving.
Casting sidelong glances in his direction, she tried to read his expression. That was impossible since he didn’t have one. He looked as if he were carved out of stone, a statue. But who would create a statue with such a flawed face?
That thought made her angry. Why not create a statue with a scar? He was a war hero, was he not?
“Did something happen?” she finally asked, his tension swirling around her until her shoulders felt tight.
“No.”
She realized they were driving back to the stables. “We’re finished with our visits?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” She tried to stifle her disappointment and failed.
“Because I never wanted to make them in the first place. You’ve been nothing but an irritation since you arrived. I want you to—no, I need you to—leave me the hell alone. Stop trying to make me smile, stop trying to trick me into engaging with the estate, and for the love of fuck, stop being so bloody nice.” He stopped the cart abruptly and turned toward her. “I am not a good man, Miss Treadway. I’ve done things that would make you scream in terror. I don’t want your kindness or your help. Just make your damn notes and leave me alone.”
All while he’d spoken, a low, horrible fury burned in his voice. His eyes flashed with anger, but something else too—pain. He hid it quickly, kept his features schooled into an impenetrable mask of disdain.
He started driving again at a slightly faster clip. Ada fought to keep still, clasping her hands together lest she try to touch him in comfort. He wouldn’t want that, even if he probably needed it.
Mrs. Bundle had told her there was a different man beneath his façade. Ada was certain she’d just glimpsed him.
And there was no way she was leaving him alone.