Chapter Three

 

Her heart beating too fast for comfort, Lucinda took Sophia’s hand. They wandered along the forest path. It was the near disaster that had her heart racing, not her enormous landlord astride his magnificent stallion. It had nothing to do with the way his gaze had lingered on her body like a caress. A huge man, with harsh manly features and the body of a seasoned warrior, the Earl of Wanstead engendered the kind of admiration one might have for a well-crafted sword. Not the least bit friendly, he’d sat his stallion like some knight of old defending his land. When he’d dismounted, his sullen glare and taciturn commands might have terrified her, had he not petted his horse with such a gentle hand.

The trees opened out onto a rolling vista. Lucinda and Sophia ploughed through long grass stretching toward the ornamental lake and its flock of hungry swans. Slowly, the rhythm of her heart slowed. She glanced up at the Grange. Hopefully, he would not resent this further intrusion. Surely, a simple walk across his land did no harm, and she’d promised Sophia they’d feed the swans today.

She sighed. And he really was a beautiful man. Well, she wasn’t blind. She couldn’t be blamed for appreciating a handsome man—from a distance. Her heart gave a little skip. A foolish flutter of appreciation. She choked down a laugh at the mad flight of fancy that he’d found her attractive. The heat in his gaze was all about anger. Obviously, Lord Wanstead had disliked her on sight. Never one to strike admiration in any man’s breast, she found that his instant hostility rankled, just a little. To be sure, the man was a great surly bear and best avoided.

Sophia pulled free of Lucinda’s hand and crouched at her feet. “Daisies,” she said. She pulled the heads off two of the white flowers struggling through the grass.

Lucinda picked another one and held out the pink-fringed petals for Sophia to see. “Like this, sweetheart. So you have a long stalk.” She smiled at the eager little face surrounded by wispy blond curls. “You try.”

With a frown of concentration, Sophia bent over another cluster of flowers. This time she plucked the stem and a few blades of grass. “Daisy,” she crowed and handed it to Lucinda.

“Good girl. Get another one.” She dropped to the ground, sitting cross-legged with her skirts smoothed over her knees as she had in the old days at home with her younger sisters. How they had giggled and teased in their youthful innocence. She pushed the memory away. Those days must be put aside, only to be brought out and dusted off at some time in the future, when she felt easier in her mind.

Sophia trotted back and forth, dropping the little flowers in Lucinda’s lap one at a time. Lucinda pierced each delicate stem with her thumbnail and linked them into a chain.

“Find a big one,” she said the next time Sophia arrived.

“Big one,” Sophia repeated, opening her arms wide like an angler describing his catch.

Lucinda chuckled. “Not that big.”

The child trundled off, carefully inspecting for bigness until at last one met her requirement. She skipped back, her little black shoes twinkling from beneath the edge of her pale blue skirts.

“This?” she asked with a baby lisp.

Lucinda tickled her tummy. “Let me see.”

Sophia giggled and hopped out of reach.

The stem looked sturdy enough. If it tore, they’d have to find another one to complete the daisy crown.

While Lucinda worked, Sophia wandered off. “Don’t go too far,” Lucinda called out.

A few moments later Sophia returned. “This?” She poked a yellow flower under Lucinda’s nose.

“Oh, no, that is a buttercup. Look, it is yellow, not white. Can you say buttercup.”

“Budderup,” Sophia repeated solemnly.

Lucinda smiled at the serious elfin face. Still far too thin, her child, for all that people seemed to accept the story. “Clever girl. Lift your chin.”

Sophia obliged.

Lucinda guided the buttercup against the baby-soft throat. “My, my, you do like butter.”

The little head nodded emphatically. “Bread.”

“Yes, bread and butter.”

Sophia held out the yellow flower. “You do?”

Lucinda tipped her head back. “Is it yellow under there?”

Sophia peered closely, her baby breath warm on Lucinda’s throat. “Lellow,” she said, although Lucinda wasn’t sure she knew what the word actually meant.

“Then I like butter, too.” Lucinda pulled Sophia close for a hug. The sweet, honest feel of the child’s little arms around her neck reminded her of all Denbigh had forced her to leave behind—her younger sisters, her parent’s love and respect. Don’t think of that now. She had made a new life for her and Sophia. But what if her investments in the Funds lost money? Even a small loss could render her destitute, and then where would they be?

“Oh, little one, how can I take care of you when I can scarcely manage to look after myself?” Her voice cracked.

“Mama cry?” Sophia looked anxious.

“No,” she said with a sniff. “Just something in my eye. Look, sweet, here is your crown.” She plopped the little wreath on the sun-bright curls. “You are a princess.”

Sophia jumped up and down. “Pincess,” she shouted. She twirled around, skirts flying with a smile like sunshine after gray skies and laughter so infectious that Lucinda jumped to her feet and swung the child in a circle, her own laughter spilling forth.

How lucky she was to find this child and to end up here in this perfectly idyllic backwater. She would not let a grumpy old earl spoil her day.

 

• • •

 

Hugo glanced around his father’s chamber. No. Not his father’s any longer. His. Thank God it looked clean enough, as well as dreadfully imposing with the large four-poster bed dab smack in the middle and the boar-and-roses coat of arms emblazoned on everything from the royal blue bed hangings to the carved chest of drawers. He couldn’t recall ever setting foot in this room.

With a strange guilty feeling, he approached the connecting door to the countess’s apartments, a suite of rooms he would never need to enter. The polished brass handle moved smoothly under his fingers. With his fingertip, he nudged the oak door open. He hesitated on the threshold of a chamber as familiar as his own. Nothing had changed, he realized with a savage sadness.

Had his father intended it as a shrine to its last inhabitant? It seemed unlikely. Or had he simply never set foot in here again? At least Father had the sense to never remarry. No. He had imposed that unpleasant duty on his son. And having tried it, Hugo would never attempt it again. He didn’t care about an heir. He certainly didn’t want any more deaths on his conscience.

Dust powdered the filmy fabric on the Louis the Fourteenth canopy. Hugo remembered burying his face in the delicate folds and his mother’s soft command to take care.

He’d been such a clumsy lout. Carefully, he lowered himself to perch on the edge of the bed the way he had as a boy. He’d tell his mother what he’d learned with his tutor each day, while she lay in her bed in her lacy cap and frilled gown with a wan smile. God. How ill she’d looked, even on good days.

Two Wanstead women sacrificed on the altar of genealogy in his lifetime. No more.

His gut twisted as his mind peered through doors he’d bolted shut. He stumbled around the bed and out into the corridor, searching for happier memories.

His steps turned east. The earl’s suite of apartments lay in the west wing and looked out over the tree-lined drive. In the opposite direction lay the room he’d chosen for his own when he left the nursery.

He strolled along the connecting gallery, nodding to the grim ancestral portraits ranged along the wall and then ducked into a narrow passage dark with ancient panels and blackened beams. He must have had a reason for selecting this side of the house, the oldest remnant of the original Tudor mansion. Perhaps his dreams of knights in shining armor had led him here. He sighed. More likely a need to be as far as possible from his parents and their misery.

The door to his old room opened on another shrine. This time, his. The wooden bed dented from battles with dragons occupied one wall. His desk stood guard by the mullioned window, marred by the obligatory initials of boredom carved by generations of Wanstead lads with varying degrees of artistic merit. He ran his thumb over his own effort, recapturing his satisfaction that his grooves were deeper than any of the others and thus more permanent. The diamond windowpanes never allowed in much light even on the brightest day, he recalled, hence the buildup of candle wax on the desk. A black stain on the Turkey carpet reminded him of the day, at the age of thirteen, when he’d toppled the inkpot because his knees no longer fit beneath the desk. His tutor had called him a great ox.

If he thought about it hard enough, he could feel the sting in the seat of his britches for that piece of clumsiness.

He strode to the window and stared down at the ordered rows of vegetables in the walled garden below. A movement on the unkempt grass beyond the wall caught his eye. The unmistakable and toothsome widow was frolicking on his lawn with her daughter.

Frolicking. Now there was a word you didn’t expect to use at the Grange. Even from this distance, he could see the laughter on their faces as she spun the child in her arms, her skirts molding to long, strong legs and full curvaceous hips.

A stirring in his blood caused him to frown. He had no business noticing her curves. He should turn away, not intrude on her privacy. He watched as she put the child down. Noticed how their long shadows stretched across the waving grass as hand in hand, they strolled toward a lake burnished by the sun to the color of copper. Lust, urgent and sharp, bit at his flesh. By thunder, he would do something about this disturbing woman and the child who called up memories too painful to bear. He wanted the pair of them gone.

The chill emptiness in his chest seemed to expand.

He turned from the view outside to stare at his old bed and inhaled the smell of mildew. Not that it mattered. As earl, he would use his father’s chamber.

He closed the door on his childhood with a firm click.

 

• • •

 

“You wish to buy back Mrs. Graham’s lease?” Young Mr. Brown, a somber man of about thirty with an open expression and fine brown hair flopping onto his forehead, stared at him agape. Of middle height and weight, he stood in front of Hugo’s desk as stiff as a squaddy on parade. Unlike a private in His Majesty’s army, however, his voice held a tone of distinct animosity.

Hugo lifted a brow. Most of his erstwhile troops would have recognized the gesture as a herald to frosty anger. Apparently, Mr. Brown thought nothing of it, for he continued speaking.

“She paid in full for a year, with an option to renew. I would be going back on my word.”

“A word you gave without consulting me,” Hugo responded in a voice as mild as scabbarded steel. “You exceeded your authority.”

Brown visibly swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing above his stock. “I did what I thought best for the Grange, my lord, which I believe is my responsibility. Mrs. Graham is one of your best tenants.”

The rush to defend the woman took Hugo aback. Did the steward have more than a professional interest in the young widow? Hugo discovered he didn’t like the idea. “Is that so?”

“Indeed, my lord. She has even taken up teaching at the Sunday school in the village.”

And Hugo was the ogre for tossing her out of her home. “I am quite prepared to give her time to find a new property to rent.”

Brown’s lips thinned. “Meanwhile, where does your lordship suggest I obtain another tenant willing to pay such a high price for a house with so little to recommend it?”

Sarcasm? By Hades, this self-righteous young man needed some army training. Perhaps then he’d learn the wisdom of obeying a direct order without question. What the hell had happened to England these past few years? Hugo glared. “The same place as you found Mrs. Graham, I presume.” He laced his voice with enough ice to freeze the Thames.

The intrepid Mr. Brown took a step closer to the desk. “Her husband was killed in the war. She came here for peace. Surely you of all people can understand.”

The words rocked Hugo back. A soldier’s widow? He got up and went to the window. He stared at the tangle of weeds in the middle of the drive. In his mother’s day, it had been a rose bed. “I see.”

“She thought Blendon an ideal place to raise her daughter.”

Hugo turned and caught raw condemnation in the fellow’s eyes. Young Mr. Brown, the son of the steward who had served his family for years, found him lacking. No doubt he’d also found the old earl lacking. He narrowed his eyes. “Just what is your connection with Mrs. Graham?”

Brown frowned. “I don’t understand, my lord.”

“How shall I put it, Brown? You er . . . seem very interested in this woman.” There. Cards on the table. He preferred to do business that way. No sneaking around picking up gossip and rumor.

Brown stepped back, his jaw slack. “My lord?” The color ebbed from his face, and indignation shone in his eyes. “Mrs. Graham is a gentlewoman. The estate needed the rent to pay the servants and buy supplies.”

“How can that be?”

“Because your father decided to invest his money at the racetrack.”

Apparently, Brown didn’t soften his punches either. Hugo took the blow in the soft place in his gut, felt the sickness of lack of air, and breathed deep. Damn. What the hell had Father done? Well, no one ever accused him of being unfair. Strict about discipline, hard on liars and laggards, but never unjust. If Brown was telling the truth about the desperate state of affairs, then he had been right to lease the Dower House. Hugo didn’t suspect him of lying for a moment. “Very well. I will accept your advice.”

Brown blinked. “My lord?”

“However, please inform Mrs. Graham that she and her child are to stay out of the woods and off my property.”

The tension in Brown’s shoulders dissipated. A cautious smile broke out on his face. “I will make your wishes known, my lord. I am sure you will not regret your decision.”

One less regret would not make a ha’porth of difference. “I am sure she will be grateful for your powers of persuasion, Mr. Brown. Now sit down and give me the rest of the bad news.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Tell me why there are no crops or animals in my fields.”

Color leached from Brown’s face. He dropped into the chair. “As I understand the matter, not long after you joined the army, his lordship suffered a financial reversal on some horses he bought.”

Horses. His father’s passion. “I see.”

“Yes, my lord.” Brown inhaled. “Apparently, he tried to recoup his losses at the Newmarket races.”

With a strong sense of worse to come, Hugo rolled his shoulders. Did he really want to know? “What happened?”

Brown tugged at his collar. “Badly dipped, the fear of your demise and a dislike of your cousin drove him to the marriage mart. He entertained lavishly in London, my lord, with a view to finding a bride.”

Hugo sat bolt upright. “What?”

The steward swallowed. “He paid out a lot of blunt on the enterprise. I understand negotiations were all but complete when . . . when he . . .”

“Dropped dead. Served him bloody well right.” A chill settled over the room. Feeling as if he had been punched in the gut, Hugo collapsed against the chair back. He leaned back and stared at the low wooden ceiling embossed with sixteenth-century coats of arms of every noble house in England. “You old dastard,” he murmured, when he managed to catch his breath. “Knowing what could happen and still . . .” He shook his head.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Hugo brought his gaze back to the steward. “Now what the hell do we do?”

The man gave an embarrassed cough behind his hand. “His lordship might have been on to something, my lord. There are City gentlemen, bankers and such, or manufacturers from the north country, who would be only too glad to embrace a scion of English peerage in their families, along with a golden handshake, so to speak.”

Hugo stared at him. “You would sell me off, like some prize bull? No, Brown, I think not.”

The steward looked distinctly disappointed. “I am sure we could get a very handsome settlement. You being a war hero as well as an earl.”

Hugo brought his fist down on the polished wood. “No,” he roared. “Mention it again and I’ll be looking for a new steward. Understand?”

Looking suitably crushed, Brown ducked his head. “Yes, my lord.”

At last the fellow was listening. “Good.” He snatched up the decanter and slopped brandy into a glass. He swallowed it in one swift gulp. Raw heat burned his gullet. “Now tell me just how badly off I am. Straight from the shoulder.”

“It’s difficult for me to say, my lord. Not being privy to all of his lordship’s dealings.” His ears turned red at Hugo’s sharp stare. “I believe there may be some debts of honor outstanding.”

“I see.” He had come home for peace, only to discover he’d been unknowingly involved in a war at home. Father, it seemed, had won the first battle.

“I could sell off my carriage horses. Trent is bringing them down. I’ll let the hunting box go. There may be some jewelry of my mother’s to be sold.”

Brown shook his head. “I believe the jewelry is gone. As for the horses, the fastest way for a gentleman to let the world know he is in dun territory is to get rid of his stable, my lord. Something your father discovered.”

A feeling of impotence welled up in Hugo. He slammed his fist down on the desk. “Dammit. Don’t sit there telling me what can’t be done; offer me something useful.”

Brown looked thoughtful. “You need an infusion of funds. That was one reason I leased the Dower House to Mrs. Graham. She paid the lease a year in advance. More tenants like her would be a godsend.”

“Mrs. Graham seems to be a paragon of all virtues.”

Brown pressed his lips together.

Hugo raised a hand. “Never mind.”

“If your lordship would consider taking out a loan?”

“More debt?”

Brown grimaced. “If the money is used wisely, if we have a good harvest . . .”

“None of it a certainty.” Hugo rubbed the back of his neck. “How much would it take? Do I have credit at the bank?”

Brown pushed a document from the corner of the desk to the center. “A year ago, I prepared a report for your father, my lord. He refused to look at it and became quite incensed when I suggested that we let a couple of fields to the squire for hay and another to Mr. Masters at High Acre for grazing sheep. I believe he didn’t want it known he was badly dipped.”

Written in a neat careful hand, most of the figures on the paper were red, all except the number beside Mrs. Graham’s name. It wasn’t a question of tolerating her presence, for Christ’s sake. He needed her money. A powerful blow to his pride. He felt like an idiot. Heat scalded his face as he stared at the damning numbers. He straightened his shoulders. “Very well, Brown. I appreciate your honesty and your help. Take me through your suggestions.”

 

• • •

 

Lucinda grasped her umbrella tightly in one hand and Sophia’s little fingers in the other, all the while valiantly ignoring the damp creeping up her skirts and the wet petticoat wrapped around her calves.

“Sophia, darling, try not to step in the puddles.” She guided the child onto the dryer verge while sheltering her from the rain.

The little girl peeked up from beneath her pink bonnet with a mischievous grin.

“I mean it,” Lucinda said with a shake of her head. Unfortunately, she could not resist a smile of her own. Sophia loved to splash in puddles. Sad to say, these puddles were filled with bottomless mud and stretched the half mile between her and the row of stone laborers’ cottages huddled at the end of Mile Lane. His lordship really ought to do something about this lane. It needed drainage. Never had she seen anything so ill-kept on her father’s estate. She peered through the drizzle at the leaden sky, half-minded to turn for home. The other half of her mind, the half that knew where duty lay, pressed her forward.

The sooner she accomplished the task of bringing succor to those less fortunate, as the vicar had phrased it, the sooner she could go home to a nice hot cup of tea and a warm fire. Flaming June had forgotten to blaze.

With mud increasingly heavy on her half boots, she plodded on. Only the first cottage in the terrace showed signs of occupation, she realized as she neared her goal. The others seemed to have been abandoned, shutters swinging free, doors open to the weather. A waste of perfectly good housing when there were so many homeless in the city. She rapped on the wooden door. A young lad of about thirteen with a shock of red hair, a freckled snub nose, and big green eyes opened the door a crack. An odor of musty damp wafted out along with a trickle of smoke.

The boy’s eyes popped open as he took in his visitors. Sophia ducked behind Lucinda’s skirts.

“Is Mrs. Drabet home?” Lucinda asked.

“Yerst,” the boy said.

“Good,” Lucinda replied. “I am Mrs. Graham. The vicar asked me to call to see how your mother does. May we come in?”

“Who is it, Tom?” a tremulous voice called from inside.

“Some lady from the vicar,” the boy called back, seemingly reluctant to open the door any wider. “She wants in.”

It wouldn’t take much strength to push past the boy, who had arms and legs the circumference of willow twigs and a painfully thin chest. But even the poorest of folk were entitled to believe their homes were castles, Mother had always said.

“I brought gifts for the baby,” she said with a smile at the lad. “And bread and cheese for your mother.”

The boy’s face lit up like a candle in a well. Bribery worked so much better than force.

“Can she come in, Ma?” he yelled. “She brought sommat for the baby.”

After a short pause, the voice came back in a weak whisper. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”

Not a very warm welcome, but a welcome nonetheless.

The boy threw back the door. Lucinda ducked beneath the lintel and stepped inside. The cottage was very similar to those on her father’s land, a single living room downstairs sporting a few sticks of homemade furniture, a curtained-off scullery at the back, and a ladder leading to the family sleeping quarters in the loft.

Mrs. Drabet, a woman who had been pretty in her day, sat on a low stool by a pitifully small fire in a blackened hearth. Cradled in her arms, she held an infant, red of face and wrinkled beneath tufts of orange hair.

A truly beautiful sight.

Lucinda’s arms had never felt so empty, useless appendages on an equally useless body. The room blurred as if a fog had rolled in from outside or the chimney had started to smoke. Liar. Babies always brought forth her tears. She blinked hard.

Finger in her mouth, Sophia crept forward. “Baby,” she whispered. She touched the baby’s head with her other hand. “Pretty,” she whispered. Beside Sophia’s healthy pink skin, the infant looked a little blue.

“How do you do, Mrs. Drabet. I am Mrs. Graham.” Lucinda smiled at the wilted mother. “And this is my daughter, Sophia. The vicar asked us to call in. He wanted to come himself, but he had an urgent call to Mr. Proudfoot.”

The woman raised her gaze from the child in her arms and nodded. “Old man Proudfoot won’t be pleased for the reminder he ain’t long for this world, but it’s a good thing, the vicar callin’ in an’ all.”

Lucinda glanced around for somewhere to deposit her basket. Despite signs someone had tried to sweep the dirt floor recently, the cottage definitely smelled of damp. Too damp for a baby and a new mother. She frowned at the water trickling down alongside the window.

“The roof only leaks when it rains,” Mrs. Drabet said. “I usually sweeps in here every day. Dick said he would bring ’ome fresh straw later, if he could filch a bit from the Red Lion stables.” She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “I mean borrow it.”

“Does Lord Wanstead know your roof leaks? Surely he will have someone make the repairs?”

The woman shook her head. “My Dick told Mr. Brown about it last winter, but he couldn’t do naught. His lordship’s orders. I mean the old earl, like. Dick said it were better to say naught to the new lord, in case he says we can’t stay here no more.” The words contained no rancor, only dull resignation.

Lucinda stared at her. “Not stay here? Isn’t Mr. Drabet employed by his lordship?”

Mrs. Drabet shrugged and hugged the baby close as if to protect it from bad news. “There’s been no work for nigh on two years. No pay, neither. Everyone else left and went up north, but Dick was hoping sommat would come along.” The baby gave a thin wail, and she rocked it. “I couldn’t travel, not expectin’, I couldn’t. Dick’s been helpin’ out at the Red Lion. Puts a bit of bread on the table for the lad here.”

No wonder the vicar had been so anxious for someone to visit this family today.

“We ain’t seen hide nor hair of his lordship since he came back,” Mrs. Drabet said.

Nor had anyone else. Since her encounter with Lord Wanstead in the woods three weeks before, no one in the village had seen his lordship. Not even in church. He seemed to have gone to ground. The gossips hinted he didn’t like company. Some even said he was a bit of a hermit. How dare he leave his people to starve? Especially such a tiny baby. She swallowed her words. Railing about the lord of the manor would only serve to upset the fragile Mrs. Drabet.

“Do you really have bread and cheese in there?” the Drabet boy asked, staring at the basket.

She set the basket on the plank table pushed against one wall. “I do, and a few little gifts for the baby. I hope you do not mind, Mrs. Drabet? Miss Crotchet made a nightdress, and there are some nice bits of flannel for swaddling, and a knitted blanket from Annie Dunning. The bread is fresh baked this morning. The vicar sent a round of cheese and Mrs. Peddle a flagon of stout. That last is for you, Mrs. Drabet, to set you up.”

The woman’s eyes grew rounder with each word Lucinda spoke. “Well, I never. It’s all that there vicar’s doin’. I said to my Dick, he’s a good man.” She cocked her head on one side. “Needs a wife, he do. ’Tain’t right for a vicar to live alone.”

Others had made similar suggestions. Mrs. Dawson, the squire’s wife, in particular. Lucinda had simply ignored the hints and retained her half-mourning attire as a form of defense.

She glanced from the smoking hearth to the Drabet boy eyeing the bread and cheese with his hands clasped at his chin and looking like a hungry squirrel. “Do you have more fuel for the fire? It really is chilly in here for the baby.”

“There’s some peat at the back door,” Mrs. Drabet said, “But it’s got to last us through the winter. I shouldn’t be having a fire, ’ceptin’ the baby looked chilled first thing this mornin’, poor little mite.”

Poor little mite indeed. The blanket would help, and so would the food. “Send your boy down to the Briars tomorrow,” Lucinda said on a whim. “I have some chores he can do in exchange for some kindling and a bucket of coal. In the meantime, young man, stoke up this fire.”

After a longing glance at the items on the table, the boy knuckled his forehead and shot off.

Oh, heavens, by tomorrow she would have to think of something for the lad to do. She glared at the dark trail of moisture winding down the stone wall. Or Lord Wanstead would have to find the boy’s father employment. Now that was an interesting thought.

“I’ll bid you good day, Mrs. Drabet,” Lucinda said. “Please do not forget to send the boy down tomorrow. Come along, Sophia. We have another call to make.”

She stepped out, careful to close the door quickly to retain the fragile heat. Next they were going to call on an unthinking landlord who allowed his people to live at the edge of starvation. Just the image of the blue-lipped baby started her blood boiling all over again.

By the time they reached the Grange, the drizzle had ceased, but Lucinda’s mood was as black as the clouds rushing toward the horizon.

They met Albert crossing the stable yard. He raised a set of grizzled brows, the wrinkles in his forehead joining with those on his weathered bald head to form what looked like a miniature plowed field above two curiosity-filled black eyes. “Good day, Mrs. Graham. Miss Sophia. How be you this day?”

“Good afternoon, Albert. We are well, thank you. Is his lordship at home?”

“Got back from Maidstone an hour ago, he did. None too happy, if you ask me.”

Lucinda winced. Could she put off her visit for a day when she might find his lordship in a better mood? Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today—the gospel according to Mother. “I’m glad to find him in.”

“Aaah. Well, there you’ll be lucky most times. He don’t go much beyond the estate. Would you like me to take care of the little lady here while you visits his lordship? Take her to see the horses?”

Sophia, who was flagging after their protracted walk, gave a little hop. “Horsy.”

So much hope blossomed in the child’s face that Lucinda didn’t have the heart to say no. Besides, it would be easier to talk to his lordship if she did not also have to keep an eye on a bundle of mischief. “If you are sure you have time?”

Sophia grasped the gnarled hand held out to her. “Naught else to do, Mrs. Graham, except watch the hay settle in the manger, so to speak. Not ’til the rest of the master’s horses arrive.”

And no doubt the horses would be better kept than the people who lived on his land. The thought stiffened her spine and propelled her toward the iron-studded front door. She lifted the circular knocker and banged twice.

A few moments passed before the door swung in to reveal an aged butler who peered at her through pale rheumy eyes. “Mrs. Graham,” he said.

Everyone knew everyone in Blendon. “Mr. Jevens,” she replied. “I’m here to see Lord Wanstead.”

“His lordship is not at home,” the butler said without a great deal of conviction.

“Nonsense. Albert informed me he returned from Maidstone an hour ago.”

The sagging skin on the butler’s red-veined face flushed. “I mean he is not at home to visitors, Mrs. Graham.”

It was all the excuse she needed to turn tail and run. “Is he ever home, Jevens?”

The faded eyes warmed to a faint twinkle. “No, Mrs. Graham. Never.”

“Then let us consider this a business call, shall we?” She stepped forward and into the hall, brushing past the old gentleman, who tottered backward. Now he would be quite truthful in saying that she pushed her way in, should his lordship think to enquire.

“Where is he?”

“In his study.” Jevens nodded at an oak-paneled door leading off what had once been a medieval great hall. The stone fireplace at one end was big enough for a man to stand up in. A suit of Cromwellian armor guarded the bottom of a great carved staircase blackened by age, and an enormous iron chandelier hung from the hammer beams overhead. Magnificent and draughty and . . . she raised a brow . . . exceedingly grimy. Why, she couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror for the layer of dust on its face.

Jevens made no move to announce her.

If that was the way the wind blew, she would announce herself. Her footsteps rang out on the flagstones as she approached the door. Pausing to run her hands down the front of her gown, she composed her expression into pleasant but firm friendliness. The last time she had smoothed her skirts outside a door had been the last time Denbigh raked her over the coals. The recollection struck like a slap to the face. She drew in a quick breath. In those days, she had been nervous, afraid of saying the wrong thing. Since then, she had taken her life into her own hands. The coming interview might not be pleasant, but she wasn’t afraid, even if her knees did feel a little weak and her heart pounded. Good gracious, you’d think she was about to beard a real bear in its cave.

She rapped on the door.

“Come.” The voice on the other side was deep, pleasantly so, resonant, and very male.

She inhaled a quick breath and strode in.

Little outdoor light penetrated the room despite the open shutters. A candlestick lit the seated figure at the desk. With his head bent over a scattering of papers, the flame casting gold highlights among the dark brown of his hair, Lord Wanstead continued writing.

Lucinda closed the door.

“Yes?” Lord Wanstead said. He raised his head, blinked, and rose slowly to his feet. The pen slipped from his hand. His glance traveled from the hem of her waterlogged gown to her head in one swift pass, stopping when their gazes clashed. Heavy brows slowly lifted in question. Green eyes splashed with brown, eyes the color of cool summer forests, stared. The expression in their depths really did remind her of a bear. The one she had seen as a child at Astley’s amphitheater, puzzled and wary, as if waiting to see what trick the world would play next.

The gaze hardened and darkened to the color of evergreens in winter. Lucinda’s heart thumped against her chest as if it would prefer to be anywhere but in this room with this apparently angry male. “What the blazes—”

“Mrs. Graham, my lord,” she said, annoyed at the quaver in her voice. “We met in the woods some two weeks ago. I am the tenant—”

“I know who you are, Mrs. Graham. What I don’t understand is how you found your way in here.” He left the desk, heading for the fireplace and the bell pull, no doubt intending to have her thrown out. An enormous gray dog emerged from behind the desk, hard on his heels. Its white-fanged smile and lolling pink tongue looked far more welcoming than its master’s expression.

“Belderone,” Wanstead said. “Sit.”

The dog sank to its haunches.

“If I could beg your indulgence, my lord. There is a matter of some importance I must address with you.”

He stopped and turned, his dark brows lowered in a frown, his full lips a straight uncompromising line. “What is it, Mrs. Graham. A mouse in your pantry? Some shelves you wish installed in the D—at the Briars? Mr. Brown handles those requests.”

She stripped off her gloves and removed her bonnet. “Perhaps if we could be seated, we could have a civilized conversation.” Dash it. Not the right thing to say to a man in his own home, a home that looked as dark and dingy as a medieval castle. She inhaled a steadying breath and made for the chair in front of the desk, keeping a wary eye on the dog. When neither master nor dog indicated any objection, she sat down.

Wanstead stumped back to his large padded armchair. The dog rested its head on his thigh, while he picked up the pen and ran the feather through strong, square fingers. A shiver ran down her spine, as if the delicate fronds had touched her skin. “Do you require tea, Mrs. Graham?” he asked.

After tramping about in the rain in sodden skirts for half the afternoon, the thought of a cup of tea sounded lovely, but the edge in his tone warned her off. “No, thank you. I’m here in regard to the farm worker and his family who live in the cottage on Mile Lane.”

“What business are they of yours, may I ask?” The growl in his voice and the lowering of his head made him seem more bear-like than ever, a somewhat confused bear.

Tall as she was, large as she was, this powerful male made her feel tiny and vulnerable and just a little bit breathless in a strange fluttering kind of way.

“The vicar asked me to visit Mrs. Drabet this afternoon with some things from the ladies of the church for the new baby.”

“Drabet,” he said. “Dick Drabet? Good lord. I haven’t thought about old Dick for years.”

“That much is apparent, my lord.”

A flicker of shame darkened his eyes, and he glanced down at the papers on the desk. “I am a very busy man, Mrs. Graham. Please get to the point.”

A rude, overbearing, busy man. “My lord, the Drabet family is living in conditions not fit for animals, let alone humans, and especially not a baby.”

The stiffening of his shoulders, the flush high on his cheekbones, along with a spasm of fingers around the pen, signaled she had gone too far. Hadn’t she learned not to point out to any male his shortcomings? Apparently not.

She cringed inside, shriveling against the chair back as if somehow she could make herself small enough to disappear beneath the rug and creep away like a mouse. An apology sprang to her lips, but her dry throat refused to utter a word.

A lump of granite would not have looked more impenetrable than Lord Wanstead’s expression at that moment. She found it disconcerting, nerve-wracking.

“You are here to tell me that a building on my property needs attention?”

“Y-yes.” Put like that, it sounded dreadfully impertinent.

“I had no idea,” he said.

“Well, you wouldn’t. You have barely left your house since your return. Did you know that the other two cottages in that row are empty, and if you do not do something soon, they will fall down?” Amazed at her temerity, a pulse beating heavily at her temple, she waited for his roar of outrage, for the threats men used to keep women in their place. Bluster, she reminded herself, posturing.

He shook his head, tossing off her baiting words. “I have been busy.” Once more his gaze flicked to his papers. “I haven’t had time . . .”

Time? What did he do for the hours he spent locked up alone in this mausoleum of a house? It, too, needed attention. For once, her questions remained where they belonged, behind her teeth. She pressed her lips together just to make sure.

His gaze rose slowly to her face, as if seeing her for the first time that morning, as if until now she had been an annoying insect, not worth a second look. He looked weary, even a little shaken, as if something had cracked through his iron reserve.

She suddenly wished she had been a little less damning. “If there is anything I could do to help . . .”

Eyes shuttered, he straightened. “No. Thank you. I believe you have done quite enough.”

An obvious dismissal. And yet she had the sense that if she could just reach out to him, they would connect on some deeper level. Such nonsense. She shot to her feet. “Well, my lord. I really should not keep you from your urgent affairs. I bid you good day.”

He looked as if he might say something more, then rose and bowed with precise correctness. “Good day, Mrs. Graham.”

The dog’s tail thumped on the carpet, raising a small cloud of dust.

No invitation to call again, she noticed. But she had done her duty. No one could do more. At least, not without hitting the taciturn man over the head with a shovel and making him go and fix the roof himself.

She swept him a deep curtsey, perhaps a little overdone, but it suited her mood. She sauntered out of the room, if not in good order then at least with her dignity intact. Only when she marched up the Briars’ front path with Sophia in tow did her blood cool. Though whether it was meeting Lord Wanstead again or the excitement of standing up for what was right that had it simmering in her veins, she had no idea.