It seemed as if Miles Strickland had been running for ages. First, it had been from Prudence in Philadelphia, to avoid the plans she had made for them. Then the Shawnee, during his brief idea to go West and seek his fortune.
He had run from the Iroquois on the way back.
He had been two steps from the altar and one step away from debtors’ prison when the letter had arrived from England and convinced him that his luck had finally turned. His kin had been American far longer than that country had existed and in none of that time had they mentioned the noble family tree they had sprouted from. But now, the British branches had died, leaving him heir to lands and a title.
Visions of wealth and comfort filled his head as he boarded the ship to cross the Atlantic. And then, he’d spoiled it all by actually becoming the Earl of Comstock. Apparently, the English Stricklands were no better off than the Americans. His family’s debts had been minuscule compared to the ones attached to his new title. And there was no hope in clearing them, since a lord was not supposed to work. Instead, he was expected to collect rent from tenants even poorer than he was and take a seat in a government he knew nothing about. His brother, Edward, had been lucky that the English navy had got to him first. If he’d lived, he would have been press-ganged into Parliament, as Miles had been.
He had no patriotic loyalty to the government he was expected to join and even less faith in this antiquated inheritance of power without money. There was to be no magical solution to his previous problems. Instead, everyone expected he would sort out the mess left to him by his distant relatives.
Worse yet, there had been a stack of tear-stained letters from Prudence that had beaten him across the Atlantic on a faster ship. The situation was dire. He was her last and only hope. He must return home to Philadelphia immediately.
But would he be allowed to do so? He did not think that the Prince who was currently running things would drag him back to the House of Lords in leg irons. But after what had happened to Ed, he could not be sure. His brother had gone to Barbados in an attempt to turn the family fortunes by investing in sugar. The next any of them had heard, he’d been impressed into the British navy. In his last letter home, he had begged Miles to watch over Prudence until he could return to her.
Shortly after that Pru had got the news that she was an impoverished widow. And now, the moment Miles was not there to watch her, she had made things worse. She was an exceptionally foolish girl and probably deserved what she got. But she was his responsibility, more so than these English strangers were. She needed him. What could he do but run back to Philadelphia, as fast as he had run from it?
It did not seem likely that Miles could leave from any of the ports around London, without someone noticing. So, he’d left the city making a vague reference to visiting the Comstock property while omitting the rest of his plan, which was to keep going until the entire country was no more than a distant memory.
He’d set off at a gallop and the fine blood he was riding was eager to carry him at full speed. It was the best horse he’d ever sat, much less owned. He’d had no trouble buying it on credit, since earls did not bother using actual money.
He must find a way to return it to its previous owners. In England, peers who could not pay for the things they bought suffered nothing more than embarrassment. But in America, he’d have been hung as a horse thief. His guilt when he looked at the bill to Tattersall’s was almost too much to stand.
What did bother him even more than the debts was having strangers scraping and bowing and calling him my Lord Comstock. He wanted to shout, ‘You don’t know me.’ If they did, they would realise that they had made a mistake in thinking a common ancestry qualified him to do the job they had foisted upon him.
After half a day’s journey, he passed the marker that indicated the edge of the Comstock holdings. There was no denying that the land he’d inherited was pretty, with rolling farmland and a village full of thatched-roof cottages. The view was spoiled when he paused to realise that he was responsible for keeping those roofs from leaking. But at least the tavern served a decent ale and did not enquire about his past, despite his accent. The last thing he needed was to be identified as their new lord and master before he could finish his drink.
After a light lunch he rode on towards the estate. But as he came around a turn in the gravel drive he saw two houses: the great house on the hill and a second house, large by normal standards, but dwarfed by the manor beyond it.
The smaller one must be the dower house that he’d been told of. It had been described as almost beyond repair, which meant it was unoccupied and unattended. If there was a couch, or at least a dry patch of floor to lay out his bedroll, he might stay there unnoticed. It would save him the trouble of making excuses to the servants at the great house about his sudden arrival and equally sudden departure.
And if there happened to be a set of silver left in a sideboard, he might still see some profit from this unfortunate trip. When pawned, a saddlebag full of second-best decorations would at least be enough to buy a ticket for home.
He dismounted, looped the reins over a nearby tree branch and approached the house. But before he’d got within ten feet of the door he heard a familiar angry bark and felt a fifteen-pound projectile strike his calf. He stared down at the little black-and-white head, with the equally small fangs sunk ineffectually into his boot leather, and resisted the urge to kick.
Instead, he reached down, grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and tugged it free, then lifted it to eye level, glaring at it.
The dog returned the sort of look normally reserved for cats and creditors.
‘I do not know what possessed me to rescue you at the docks, since this is all the thanks I’ve got for it. If this is how you treated your previous owner, I understand why he was trying to drown you.’ It had been instinct that made him drop his luggage and grab for the burlap sack that the boy had been trying to fling off the gangplank of the Mary Beth, assuming that the child’s father had told him, harshly but sensibly, that a sea voyage was no place for a dog. By the time he’d turned to assure the little attempted murderer his pup would be safe, the boy had vanished and Miles had been the owner of the most ungrateful cur in the New World.
‘Grrr...’ The animal made a snap at the empty air, trying to reach him. Miles had told himself for weeks that the dog’s bad temper was caused by close confinement and the constant rocking of the ship. But he appeared to be no happier on the dry land of England than he had been in America.
‘When I sent you on ahead with the Dowager, I hoped we might never see each other again. Have you managed to get yourself banished from the main house already?’
The dog squirmed in his hands, taking another snap before wriggling free and jumping to the ground. Then, he turned towards the dower house and leapt through a broken window, still barking.
Miles sighed. ‘I am not climbing in after you. There is a perfectly good door.’ He walked to the front of the house, reaching into his pocket for the ring of keys, before noticing that it already stood open a crack.
‘You can come out on your own,’ he called. ‘You have four good legs on you and no longer need my help.’ He listened for a scrabbling of paws or any other sign that the dog had heard and meant to obey him. If he planned to stay here, it might be handy to have the little beast chasing down rodents for him. With the door left ajar, the place was probably crawling with them. But since the dog loathed him and tried to bite each chance it got, he was probably safer putting it outside and trying to befriend the rats.
As he stepped into the house, it surprised him that there was no sign of the dog, nor the sound of barking from deeper inside. Was there a chance that it had fallen through a weak floorboard, or injured itself on broken glass? He was a fool to care for a thing that wanted no part of him. But at least there was no one around to witness his softness. He advanced into the house. ‘Where are you, you little bastard?’ With luck, he could lead it back towards the open door without incurring any damage to boot or hand. Then, he could block the window and lock the door against it until it gave up harassing him and found its way back to wherever it was being kept.
Miles looked around him at the entryway to the dower house. Except for the dog, the place would not be a bad one to hole up in, until he decided what to do with himself. The Dowager had spoken of repairs too expensive to render the place liveable. But she was a great lady, used to comfort and entertaining. To a man used to sleeping rough, it was near to a castle. It was damp, of course. But a fire would help that. And the furniture had been covered to protect it against time and the elements, which would likely enter through the leaks in the roof. He would not trust the mattresses to be dry, but in the rooms he passed on the way to the dog, there were no end of tables and chairs, and probably a few long benches and sofas that would make a decent bed if one was tired enough. It would do nicely, even if he couldn’t find any silver worth selling.
A streak of black-and-white fur passed by the doorway ahead of him. There was another familiar bark as the dog came to the end of whatever course it had set for itself. Then a moment’s pause before it pelted back across the opening in the opposite direction. The creature had played a similar game on the ship, running back and forth down the companionway, dodging curses and kicks from angry sailors and passengers before racing back into his cabin and falling into an exhausted heap at the end of his bunk.
It had been amusing the first time. Now it was just annoying. But before he could shout at it, someone else said, ‘Pepper! Be still.’
He froze. Though it had the strength of a general, the voice was definitely female. Was it the empty house that gave it such an unusual tone? It seemed to echo, yet was strangely muffled. He approached the room in front of him with caution, not sure if it was better to confront her, or sneak away unnoticed.
When he passed the threshold, the explanation was obvious. The dog had halted his insane racing and was sitting on the hearth, sniffing at the pair of women’s boots standing on the andirons. As he watched, one of them lifted as the woman wearing them stretched her body upwards, reaching for something in the chimney.
There was a shower of soot and a muffled ‘Damnation.’
The dog retreated with a sneeze, waiting for the ash to settle. Then, as helpful as ever, he lurched forward and grabbed a mouthful of skirts, swinging on them to further unbalance their wearer.
Miles could not help it. He laughed.
Slowly, the boot lowered, seeking footing on the grate. ‘Whoever you are, if you mean to harass me, I have a poker and am not afraid to use it on you.’ If her arm held the same resolve that her tone did, any blow delivered would likely be strong enough to make him think twice.
‘And I have a pistol,’ he countered. ‘But I don’t think either of us need worry, because neither of us wishes to resort to violence. At least until we know each other better,’ he added. In the past, there had been more than one woman ready to crown him with cast iron. As yet he had given this one no reason.
The dog skittered away as the boots hopped off the grate. After some shifting and more falling soot, the rest of the woman appeared in the opening of the fireplace. The rest of the girl, rather. Though she could not have been more than twenty, she was fully, and quite nicely, grown. Her bespectacled face was rather plain, though he doubted the smudges of ash on it helped her appearance. But one would have to be a fool to call a woman with such finely turned ankles homely.
She had nice calves, as well, even under the thick stockings she was wearing. He’d caught a glimpse of them as the dog had tugged at her skirts. And though the sensible gown she wore made no effort to flatter her figure, it could not manage to hide a slim waist and a fine bosom. He was not normally given to debauchery, probably because he had never been able to afford it. But if the village girls in Comstock were all as comely as this one, it might be tempting to play lord of the manor.
As if the dog could sense what he was thinking, its hackles rose and it faced off between him and the girl, baring teeth and offering a warning growl.
Miles braced himself for impact.
‘Pepper. Sit.’
As if by miracle, the dog responded to her command and dropped to its tiny haunches, still staring at him.
‘If you try anything, I will set my dog on you,’ she said, giving him a look as fierce as the terrier’s.
‘Your dog?’ he said, surprised.
She hesitated. ‘The Earl’s dog, then. But since he is not here and I am a member of his family, Pepper’s responsibility and affection have transferred to me.’
He opened his mouth, ready to argue that the owner of the ungrateful cur was right in front of her, should the animal choose to acknowledge him. But since Pepper was incapable of loyalty, obedience, or any other canine virtue, it refused to claim him.
Then he remembered that if his goal had been to slip on to the Comstock property and off again, unnoticed, he should not announce himself to the first person he saw, especially if he had been fortunate enough to meet a family member who did not immediately recognise him.
She was staring at him with narrowed eyes. ‘And now that I can look at you, it is apparent that you are not the common tramp I was fearing.’ She tipped her head. ‘By your accent, you are American. I’d think you were a member of the Earl’s party, but I was told he travelled alone.’
‘We came on separate ships,’ he said, falling easily into the first lie that came to mind. ‘I was to arrive first, but the seas were rough.’
‘You are the auditor, then,’ she said. There was no triumph in her voice, just a flat acknowledgement of the assumed fact.
He nodded, relieved to have his work done for him. But the auditor from America needed a name. ‘Potts,’ he said, automatically. He must look like the name suited him, for Greg Drake had mistaken him for just such a fellow when they’d met. ‘Augustus Potts, at your service, ma’am.’ He bowed to hide his wince at the Christian name that had popped into his head. Hopefully, the lie would not be needed for long. Who in their right mind would want to spend any length of time as Augie Potts?
‘Mr Potts,’ the girl replied, in the tone of one used to ordering servants about.
‘And who do I have the honour of addressing?’ he said, already suspecting that he knew the truth.
‘Miss Charity Strickland. Your employer’s distant cousin.’
He nodded in acknowledgement. He’d met her sister Hope, already. With some effort, he could see a resemblance. They shared the same wide brow and pointed chin.
But where Hope was uncommonly pretty, Charity was not currently so blessed. There was something too grave in her expression and the look in her eye was too discerning for one so young. Though she was not a lovely girl, he suspected she would age into her beauty and become a rather handsome woman.
‘Were you sent to inventory the main house?’ she said, in a matter-of-fact way to remind him that it was not his job to be standing here, staring at her.
‘And the dower house, as well,’ he said.
‘There is nothing of value here.’
In a pig’s eye. Her response had been a trifle too quick and too specific for his taste. She had come here to retrieve something or to hide it. And people did not normally take the time to hide things that were worthless. ‘If the house is empty, it makes me wonder what you were doing here, halfway up the chimney.’ He gave her a subservient smile. ‘Is there something I can assist you with?’
‘Birds have been coming down it and into the house. I was attempting to close the flue.’
‘I see.’ That was an even bigger lie than her last words had been. But if he was claiming to be Augie Potts, he could hardly point fingers. Instead, he stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. ‘Give me the poker, then. My arms are longer.’
‘That is all right,’ she said hurriedly.
She was far too eager to handle the matter herself. ‘Then, at least let me go up to the house and find a footman. A member of the family should not be doing servants’ work.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ she said, not bothering to try to charm him with a smile. ‘I think I have managed the matter well enough.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I did not interrupt you before you could complete what you were attempting?’
Her lips tightened ever so slightly with annoyance. ‘Certainly not.’
‘Then, allow me to give you a ride back to the main house.’
‘That will not be necessary, either,’ she snapped.
‘But we are both going the same way,’ he reminded her. ‘Since I have never been to the manor, I would appreciate a guide.’
‘It is not possible to get lost,’ she said. ‘The house is barely a mile away and you are on the drive already.’
She was trying to get rid of him. He had no reason to care why, for he was as eager to be gone as she was to have him so. Yet for some reason, he could not resist annoying her. ‘That is likely true. But it would be helpful if you could introduce me to the rest of the staff.’ He glanced out the window. ‘And a storm seems to be gathering. It has grown darker as we have been talking. I would not want to leave you here in the rain.’
‘I can wait inside until it passes,’ she countered.
So she had not finished what she had come to do. Since there was nothing in her hands, it seemed likely that she was searching for something rather than secreting something she’d brought with her. In either case, there must be some hidey-hole in the bricks worth investigating, once he had got her safely out of the way.
He smiled at her. ‘I am sure the Earl would have my head if I left you here in the rain.’ Then he stepped to the room’s doorway and waited for her exasperated huff of defeat.
It did not come. Other than a slight narrowing of her eyes, she gave no sign that his attempts to thwart her were annoying her. ‘If the Earl wishes it, then very well, Mr Potts. I would never go against his wishes.’
Then she walked past him towards the front door, the terrier following obediently at her heels.
Copyright © 2018 by Christine Merrill