“I think we’ll be moving on from here soon,” Arthur said to his valet the following morning.
“Indeed, my lord.” Clayton helped the earl into his coat.
“I have a feeling matters will be resolved satisfactorily.” He couldn’t suppress a trace of smugness. He’d wanted to rouse his nephew from his grief, and he’d done so with a vengeance. Or, rather, Miss Saunders had. Arthur gave credit where it was due. That young lady had turned out to be a much larger personality than he’d realized when he met her in a London drawing room. There’d been moments when he felt like a man whose cat had grown into a tiger. Arthur smiled into the mirror as he adjusted his neckcloth. A most inappropriate comparison. Miss Saunders’s eyes would snap at him if she heard it. He’d keep it to himself. “There are several other visits I’m eager to make,” he added.
“Because of the letters you received, my lord?”
“Yes. There’ve been some interesting developments.” Arthur went over to the small writing desk and unfolded a recent missive to look at it again. “What would you do, Clayton, if you found that a total stranger had received a large legacy in your parents’ will?” His valet would know, of course, that Arthur wasn’t referring to the elder Claytons, who’d kept a tiny village shop and had little to leave anyone. He would instead consider a hypothetical situation. Over the years, Arthur had discovered a sharp mind and a deep well of common sense in his servitor. Clayton had become a valuable sounding board when he was working out a course of action. Arthur reasoned better by talking aloud than through introspection.
“Perhaps this would be a distant relative, my lord?”
“No. No familial connection whatsoever apparently. A complete stranger.”
“I would wonder,” Clayton said.
“As who would not?”
“I would inquire, investigate why this came about, and who this person was.”
Arthur nodded.
“The clerk who wrote the will might have information.”
The earl flicked the letter with one finger. “Instructed to reveal nothing. Part of the terms of the will. Viscount Whitfield is…perplexed.”
Clayton considered this piece of news. “The viscount was at the dinner you held at White’s.” He didn’t specify which dinner. There was only one they referred to in this tone.
“He was.” Arthur folded up the letter and tucked it away. “How would you feel about this mysterious heir, Clayton, if it was your parents’ will?”
“Suspicious,” replied the valet at once. “Resentful, I imagine, depending on the details.”
“Precisely.” The earl ran his fingers over other letters lined up in a cubbyhole of the desk. “How far are we to blame for others’ actions, do you think?”
Clayton took a moment to digest the change of subject. “Not far,” he said then. “In most circumstances.”
“If your sister—assuming you had a sister, Clayton—behaved very foolishly and suffered for it, would you feel responsible?”
“I don’t think I would, my lord. Unless I had told her to do the foolish thing. Or made her do it somehow.”
Arthur shook his head. “Not the case here. And yet people do blame themselves.”
“Claiming responsibility,” Clayton said slowly. “If a thing is your fault, that would mean you are, or might have been, in control.”
“Rather than the victim of a malign fate. A telling point, Clayton. You are as incisive as ever.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You ought to have been a barrister or a member of parliament. You know my offer to help you into another profession still stands.”
“I’m very happy where I am, my lord.”
“Are you?” The earl examined his valet’s round face.
Clayton’s nod gave him the air of an equal rather than a servant.
Arthur accepted it in a similar spirit. “All the better for me. I’d be lost without you.” He picked up two letters he’d written and moved away from the desk. “What do you think of young Tom?” he added.
“Intelligent,” answered the valet at once. He appeared to be prepared for this question. “Enterprising. Never impudent even though he’s always…outspoken. And—what one notices most, I think—remarkably cheerful despite a hard life.”
“Well put. I agree.” Arthur considered the lad. “He talks of resuming his travels soon. Apparently he doesn’t wish to stay at Furness Hall, though I think he’d be welcome. I’ve thought of offering him a position.”
“What sort of position, my lord?”
“That’s the question. I don’t know. It just seems wasteful to allow him to wander off. Well, we shall see.” Arthur handed the letters to Clayton. “Send those off, would you?”
“Certainly, my lord.” Clayton took them and left the room. In the corridor, he encountered Sarah Dennison. She was carrying a small canvas bag, held well away from her skirts. The smell suggested that it held the contents of a feline sandbox. “Are you cleaning up after the cat? That’s not your job.” He felt offended on her behalf.
“No.” She looked rueful. “But who’s to do it? There’s no bootboy or footman. The housemaid is run off her feet as it is. And I—and my mistress—have to be in the room where the cat is.”
Clayton nodded his understanding. “The staff’s not what I’m used to on a country house visit.”
“Well meaning, but overwhelmed,” agreed the lady’s maid.
They exchanged a commiserating glance. “Still carrying those scissors, I see,” said Miss Dennison.
He couldn’t restrain a sigh. “I do hate to see a nobleman—closely related to his lordship, too—so ill-kempt. But Lord Furness absolutely refuses my services.”
Sarah Dennison shook her head. “Even though he can see—as we all do in Lord Macklin’s turn-out—that you’re a master.”
“Thank you. Miss Saunders’s coiffure is immaculate since you arrived.”
They took a moment to bask in mutual approbation.
“I might have an idea,” said the lady’s maid then.
“Really?” Clayton didn’t see what she could do.
“You might try telling Lord Furness that my young lady is very particular about hair, considering the trials she has with her own. And that she appreciates a neat appearance.”
“You think that might change his opinion?”
“I think there’s a good chance of it.”
Clayton absorbed the implications of her suggestion. “Is that the way things are trending then?”
Miss Dennison shrugged. “It’s not my place to say anything about that.”
He thought some more. “You like Somerset?”
“I don’t mind it.”
“Furness Hall offers a good bit of…scope, considering the state of the household.”
“I expect it might.” She sounded just a bit complacent.
“And the earl’s…family would most likely spend some time in London each year as well.”
“The nobility is fond of the season.”
Clayton didn’t smile, but his expression showed appreciation. Here was a sharp wit who could carry on an oblique conversation. He’d missed that at Furness Hall. “Thank you for your advice.”
“Happy to be of service, Mr. Clayton. I must get on now and be rid of this.” She held the odiferous bag well away from her person.
Clayton watched her go. If her idea proved useful, he’d owe her a favor, in the intangible currency of belowstairs. He didn’t mind. Indeed, he was pleased to add her to his long roster of connections in the households of Lord Macklin’s far-flung family.
• • •
Geoffrey’s first expedition on Fergus was allowed that day, due to his incessant requests and because he’d taken to riding as if horseback was his natural element. The boy, wildly excited, had argued for going back to the gorge, but his father had ordered a much shorter circuit around the neighborhood.
The party set off at midmorning to make a turn about the nearby lanes. Geoffrey took the lead with Tom at his side on Molly; the others followed, keeping to the pace of his pony.
“That boy might be half centaur,” said Lord Macklin as they watched Geoffrey chatter to Tom as he rode.
“He seems bound to be a fine rider,” their host agreed.
Jean, silent in her crimson riding habit, tried to keep her mind off kisses. Despite the turmoil this man’s touch had roused, the thrill of them came back to her all too often, as they were doing right now when she and Lord Furness rode side by side. She gave him a sidelong glance. She wanted more, even as she shied away from the tumultuous results. And so she was frozen, suspended between desire and apprehension. “When will you hire a new nanny for Geoffrey?” she asked. The question dropped into the conversation like a stone tossed into a still pond. “Lily is a sweet girl, but he doesn’t listen to her.”
“Would he to anyone?”
“He would if it was my old nurse,” said Lord Macklin. “She was born to be a master sergeant, I think. She had a certain tone of voice that made any child within range spring to attention and obey. Even if they’d never met her before.”
“I don’t suppose she’s available,” joked his nephew.
The older man smiled. “Long gone, I’m afraid.”
“There are agencies in London, I believe,” said Jean. Again, she sounded stilted. She tried to soften her tone. “Perhaps in Bristol as well?”
“I could write to my daughter,” said the earl. “She might know of someone.”
Lord Furness accepted both ideas with a nod. “We need just the right sort of person. Someone Geoffrey can like and respect.”
How his tone had changed since she arrived, Jean thought. That was good. She’d accomplished that much.
“He couldn’t go to school in his present state,” their host added. “He needs a bit of…polish first. Fortunately, there’s time.”
“Polish,” echoed Lord Macklin, his smile widening. “A curious way of putting it. A touch of town bronze for the nursery set?”
“Smoothing a few rough edges,” his nephew answered.
Geoffrey shouted “Heigh-ho!” and kicked Fergus’s sides. The amiable animal responded with a quick trot and then, with more urging, a gallop. The others hastened to catch up, their larger mounts well able to close the gap. Geoffrey leaned over his pony’s neck, eyes shining, whooping with delight, perfectly in control even at speed. They pounded over the turf like the field at Newmarket in the heat of a race, the adults holding back so that Geoffrey could lead.
Like a wave of marauders, they rounded a small copse and came face-to-face with another riding party traveling at a far more sedate pace.
Disaster loomed. Collision seemed inevitable. With an eye on her companions, Jean managed to swerve to the left. Tom came with her. The two men went right, and they flowed around the new group in two surging streams. Geoffrey, on the other hand, pulled Fergus to a halt right under the new horses’ noses. One of them shied; another tossed his head and sidled. The strangers struggled to maintain control.
It took a few minutes for everyone to get sorted out. They backed and milled and finally gathered in one larger group next to the copse.
They’d nearly run down two gentlemen and a young lady, Jean saw. She judged that they were neighboring gentry, a father and his offspring, most likely. All three had pale hair and slender frames, with blue eyes and the easy seats of people at home on horseback. The woman wore a habit far more fashionable than Jean’s.
“Furness?” said the older man. He seemed surprised.
“Hello, Wandrell. How are you?”
“Very well. Good to see you out in company.”
Lord Furness hunched a shoulder. “Allow me to introduce my uncle Macklin and Miss Jean Saunders, who are visiting, as well as my son, Geoffrey, of course.”
Geoffrey received curious looks.
“My nearest neighbors,” Lord Furness continued. “Mr. Theodore Wandrell, his son, Teddy, and his daughter, Anna.”
The parties exchanged mounted bows. The younger Theodore Wandrell looked about her age, Jean thought, his sister a bit younger. The latter was eyeing her, maneuvering her horse closer. “You’re staying at Furness Hall?” she said when she was nearer.
“Yes.”
“How funny. We’ve heard that no one visits there anymore.” Miss Wandrell’s gaze was sharp, running over Jean’s antiquated dress and tricorn hat. Her hair was straining at its bounds, Jean thought, eager to spring out and embarrass her; an escaped curl twining down her temple. “You’re here with your mother?” Miss Wandrell added.
Jean suppressed a start. What had her mother to do with it? “My mother? No, she’s dead.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry.” Her interrogator sounded more inquisitive than regretful. She awaited further information. Jean gave her none. Rather, she turned to the gentlemen.
“Yes, Geoffrey is trying out his new pony,” Lord Macklin was saying.
“Got away from him, did it?” replied the elder Mr. Wandrell. His tone was patronizing. “Best to keep youngsters inside fences at his age, I always found.”
“Geoffrey was doing splendidly,” said Lord Furness.
“He nearly barreled into us,” replied his neighbor.
“And yet, he did not.”
“Are we going on soon?” Geoffrey asked.
The adults looked down from their taller mounts. Geoffrey should have seemed dwarfed in their midst, Benjamin thought. But somehow he didn’t. The Wandrells clearly didn’t approve of his complaint, however.
“Come over here,” said Tom, putting a hand on Fergus’s bridle. They moved to the edge of the trees. Tom set Geoffrey practicing his mounted turns.
“Mama will be so glad to know you’re receiving visitors again,” said Anna Wandrell in a caressing tone. She spoke to Benjamin, but she had her eyes on Miss Saunders.
All of the Wandrells awaited Benjamin’s answer, another sign of the speculation his long period of mourning had roused in the neighborhood. A flood of intrusions loomed. “Not really,” he said. “Family only.”
This made Miss Wandrell frown. Questions showed in her expression.
“We should move along,” Benjamin added, signaling his horse with his knees. He bowed from the saddle and smiled as if all was well. He also got away as quickly as possible, turning back toward home. His party followed along, while the neighbors sat still, watching them ride away.
Alice hadn’t particularly liked the Wandrell family, Benjamin remembered. She’d remarked on Mrs. Wandrell’s malicious tongue and more than once said that Anna bid fair to be just like her mother. He had no doubt that they’d make inquiries about Miss Saunders and soon discover that their relationship was vanishingly distant—no excuse to dispense with chaperones. The isolation he’d thrown over his household was broken.
The Wandrells habitually went up to London for the season, where they could question many more people and spread whatever story they concocted even farther. And tongues would wag more furiously because he’d made himself such an object of curiosity. Benjamin felt a flash of rage. They had no right to target Miss Saunders.
Her voice drifted into his thoughts. “No, I never had a pony when I was small.”
Benjamin turned to look. His houseguest and his son rode in tandem on his right.
“How did you learn to ride?” said Geoffrey. “You do very well,” he added with the air of a connoisseur.
“Thank you,” said Miss Saunders gravely. “Our head groom taught me, on a barrel.”
Geoffrey gazed up at her, his interest definitely caught. “A barrel?”
Her head was far above his son’s, but her tone wasn’t the least patronizing, Benjamin thought. Nothing like Wandrell’s condescension.
“We didn’t have many horses,” she answered. “None I was allowed to use. But Matthew thought I should know how to ride. So when I was a little older than you, he fastened a small cask to a rail fence, with reins tied to the post. He showed me how to sit and hang on.”
Benjamin was touched by the picture this presented. The implications were more concerning. Why hadn’t she been allowed to use the horses?
“That’s smart,” commented Geoffrey. “Were you very poor?”
Miss Saunders looked nonplussed.
“Tom said he had no horses when he was young because he was poor.”
“Ah. We weren’t poor like Tom. We were”—she groped for a word—“careful.”
Geoffrey looked confused.
“We had to practice economies,” Miss Saunders added.
Her flat tone gave Benjamin the notion that most of these economies had involved her.
“What’s ‘econ-omies’?” Geoffrey asked. “Are they hard to practice? Lily says practice makes perfect.”
“It means deciding which things you can afford to have, and which you can’t.”
The boy thought about this. “You deciding? Or somebody else?”
“Somebody else,” Miss Saunders answered tonelessly.
Geoffrey nodded. Benjamin watched the two of them exchange a look of perfect understanding. A simple glance, conveying worlds.
Benjamin felt something twist in the region of his heart. Suddenly, in a moment of absolute clarity, he knew exactly what he should do.
The riding party reached Furness Hall a few minutes later. Geoffrey stayed with Fergus in the stable to help with the pony’s grooming, and young Tom joined him. The three adults walked up to the house together. Jean was eager to change out of her riding habit and to be alone for a bit. She couldn’t quite absorb the fact that she’d never felt so thoroughly understood as in the recent exchange she’d shared with a five-year-old boy.
Lord Furness said, “May I speak to you in the library, Miss Saunders?”
“In the library?” She stopped. “Why not right here?”
Instead of replying, he put a hand on her back. Warmth seemed to spread from that light touch through Jean’s entire body. It made her want to nestle into the curve of his arm. Lord Macklin walked on as if nothing was happening, and Jean let herself be guided into the book-lined room where the portrait of her cousin Alice presided. “Sit down,” Lord Furness said with a gesture.
Jean moved a few steps away from him. She didn’t care to be commanded. “No, thank you.”
“It’s not always necessary to argue, you know.”
But quite often it was, Jean thought. That or be trampled by other people’s whims. Not arguing had been the bane of her early life. “What is it?”
Lord Furness looked aggrieved. He came closer and reached for her hand. “I could do this much better if you would sit,” he said.
Jean’s pulse stuttered and began to race.
“But I see that you won’t. Very well. I shan’t kneel then. I shall simply ask you to be my wife.”
“Ask?” His tone suggested a fait accompli rather than a request. Jean felt as if the eyes in Alice’s portrait were drilling into her back.
“It’s the obvious answer. Since you…erupted into my life, I’ve come to see many things differently. I need a change. This household needs a change. And Geoffrey requires a mother.”
“He needs a parent. He has one in you.” Jean’s lips felt stiff, as if she’d been out in the cold for hours, though the weather was clement. She pulled her hand from his.
“You could be another. Isn’t that what you wanted? You came here to take him from me.”
“To his grandparents’ house.”
Lord Furness smiled skeptically. “My uncle tells me the Phillipsons were never going to take charge of a little boy. He said Geoffrey’s care would have fallen on you.”
Jean shifted uncomfortably. That plan had never been well thought out. She was glad to be able to abandon it.
“As my wife, you can make sure he’s cared for as you think best.” He said it as if presenting an irresistible inducement.
Jean felt as if a heavy weight had descended on her spirit. “I don’t intend to marry. Marriage is a wretched state.”
“That was not my experience.”
The picture of Alice loomed even larger in Jean’s mind. His great love; his lost ideal. Alice had taken everything. There was nothing left. “You were fortunate. My views are very different.” Jean gathered the long skirts of her riding habit and turned to go.
“Geoffrey isn’t the only reason for my offer.”
Something sadly like hope fluttered her pulse. Jean stood still. If he kissed her now, she might waver. Even give in. Which made her want to go and to stay in equal measure.
“The Wandrells, the family we met on our ride today, will probably call here tomorrow,” he went on. “I can evade the visit. But that will just make them more likely to poke and pry and gossip about your presence here, unchaperoned.”
Jean was glad she had her back to him, because humiliating tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them back. “So you think we must marry in order to satisfy the proprieties?” It was the very reason her parents had been forced into marriage—yoked together in misery for the rest of their lives. She would rather give up society and live as the Duke of Hamilton’s hermit than settle for such a thing, Jean thought fiercely.
“We have rather crossed the line,” Lord Furness added. “More than once. But I didn’t want to frighten you with expressions of passion.”
Jean turned to stare at him. “Frighten me?”
“As I did the other night.”
She gritted her teeth. “I wasn’t frightened of you. I’m not frightened of anything! I told you it had nothing to do with that.”
“I wasn’t quite clear on what you were telling me.”
“You might try listening instead of making pronouncements.”
“I don’t think that’s quite—”
“The point is, I’ve seen the wretched results of a forced marriage,” she interrupted. “And I’d rather beg in the street.” She turned away again. “I’ll leave for London as soon as I can arrange for a chaise.”
“Miss Saunders, wait.”
She didn’t.
“Of course I also feel regard for you.”
Jean stood rigid, her hand on the doorknob. Regard. Was there a more pallid word in the English language? She stalked out. She did not, of course, slam the door. Such pettiness was beneath her.
Benjamin stood, stricken, under the portrait of his…first wife. He hadn’t thought of Alice in those terms before. Not until a young lady with stubborn curls and an indomitable spirit had shown him a new side of his son, and of himself. She couldn’t go. How could he keep her?
With that thought came the realization of just how badly he’d botched his proposal. He’d rushed in on a surge of emotion, roused by the look she and Geoffrey had exchanged. He’d been wild to cherish and protect. But the words that came out of his mouth had suggested a cold bargain instead. He was an idiot!
He sank down on the sofa and put his head in his hands.
She’d kissed him with such innocent fire. It made him wild to remember those kisses. And if she’d pulled away with more than a maiden’s concern, well, Benjamin understood the weight of the past. Didn’t he? Not enough to make his case, it seemed.
He sprang up, suddenly desperate. He needed time. He needed help.