Читать книгу The Regency Season Collection: Part Two - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 38
ОглавлениеThe housebreakers’ voices faded as they went back up the stair arguing. Tom felt Miss Trethayne tense as if getting ready to creep after them and wondered if the wretched female had some sort of death wish.
‘Let them go,’ he murmured as urgently as he dared.
‘Coward,’ she accused in a bitter little whisper, and he was surprised how sharply the accusation stung.
‘If you were a man, you’d meet me for that,’ he replied gruffly.
‘Then go after them before they can get away,’ she said, quite unimpressed by his offended dignity, and this time he had to muffle a startled laugh.
‘And do what?’ he demanded laconically.
‘Find out what they are doing here.’
‘Oh, why didn’t I think of that? Let’s just go and ask the nice housebreakers why they’re searching an empty house in the middle of the night and how they got in to do it in the first place then, shall we?’
‘I admit they won’t want to tell us, but I’m sure you can awe them into it.’
‘And what will you do while I’m busy?’
‘I could hold your sword if only you’d thought to bring one,’ she mumbled crossly, as if seeing the foolishness of her scheme, but still refusing to admit it.
‘How remiss of me,’ he murmured as he stifled the fantasy of impressing her by confronting two villains with bare fists and the few wits she’d left him.
‘Yes, it was,’ she agreed and surely that wasn’t a huff of suppressed laughter?
‘Next time we embark on one of your nocturnal adventures, I’ll make sure I’m armed to the teeth,’ he said solemnly, and her hand relaxed in his as they fumbled their way back the way they’d come. ‘First we’ll plan it a little better,’ he added when they were by the side door again, and she fumbled for the key.
‘I want to know how they get in and out.’
‘Patience, Miss Trethayne, we need to know who our enemies are before we let them know we’ve smoked them out at the time that suits us best.’
‘Why not catch them first and ask questions after?’
‘At least I know now that the legendary impulsiveness of the Trethaynes hasn’t been exaggerated,’ he murmured, determined not to admit he was unwilling to let her risk injury and worse at the hands of an unknown foe. Nothing was more likely to send her smashing recklessly back into the house to confront danger than knowing she was being kept out of it for her own good.
‘They made me angry,’ she admitted with a shrug once they were on the other side of the door, and he slid the key back in his pocket before she could appropriate it again. ‘We may be beggars, but we don’t scavenge in the dark, stealing whatever we can lay our hands on. They come and go as they please while we stay out of the way of the magistrate as if we’re in the wrong. What right do they have to look down on us when we work every hour God sends not to be a charge on the parish?’
‘If I tell the authorities you have my permission to live at Dayspring, nobody will be able to tramp about the place willy-nilly in future.’
‘And you think men like that will take notice? The law is run by and for the rich, Lord Mantaigne. It takes a dim view of those who’re too poor to pay it to look the other way.’
‘There are plenty of good magistrates,’ Tom argued lamely.
‘Luckily for us, Mr Strand is an indolent one. He’d turn a blind eye to anyone not robbing or murdering in front of his nose rather than leave his fireside on a night like this one.’
‘Which must have been a good thing for you at times,’ Tom pointed out absently, frowning at the notion any criminal who wanted to run tame about the area had a virtual carte blanche to do so if the local magistrate was as lazy as she claimed.
‘True, and luckily he’s terrified of Lady Wakebourne. A royal scold from her has saved us from eviction more than once.’
‘I will let him know Dayspring is my business and who does or doesn’t live here has nothing to do with him.’
‘A nicely ambiguous reply—have you ever thought of taking up your seat in the House of Lords?’
‘How do you know I haven’t?’
He heard her snort of disbelief at the very idea and tried not to let her opinion of him as an idle and useless fool hurt. It was true he disliked politicians in general and avoided allying himself to the Whigs, Tories or Radicals, but he had a conscience and often voted on it. He even spoke out about causes close to his heart on occasions, for all the good it ever seemed to do. Since he had met Miss Polly Trethayne’s incredible eyes earlier today, with that flash of contempt in them to make him wonder about himself more than was quite comfortable, he’d been wondering if it was time to stop taking life quite so lightly and properly espouse a few of those causes.
Since they exchanged that hasty kiss in the darkness her low opinion of him stung even more, and he fought off an urge to plead for her understanding and a better opinion of him. Her contempt was a useful shield between them, her scathing opinion of his morals and motives might keep him from falling on her like the ravening beasts he’d hated the very mention of when she spoke of the casual violence she’d met on the roads before she got to Dayspring and a sort of sanctuary. He sighed and wished her warmth at his shoulder and her scent on the air wasn’t quite so intimate and endearing and that he wasn’t quite so drawn to the prickly female. Begging sometimes seemed a fine idea if it would win her over and get her back in his arms for a lot longer than she had been tonight.
* * *
‘What on earth have you two been doing in the dark all this time?’ Lady Wakebourne demanded the instant they approached the still-burning lamp he had hung by the old steward’s lodgings. She had obviously grown tired of waiting for Miss Trethayne to come in and was keeping watch for her ewe lamb to make sure she was safe from the big, bad wolf.
‘Suddenly I know exactly how your Mr Strand feels,’ he murmured and heard that delightful huff of feminine laughter again and felt the warmth of it to his toes.
‘Terrifying, isn’t she?’ she whispered back, then stepped forward to greet her mentor with a serene smile. ‘You did mean us to settle some differences and make everyone else less uncomfortable, didn’t you, Lady W.? We had a lot of differences to sift through and it took some time, but I think we have finally agreed on a truce of sorts, have we not, Lord Mantaigne?’
‘Indeed,’ he said as solemnly as he could with the thoughts of what they had actually been about crowding into his mind. ‘Miss Trethayne has agreed to take me and Peters on a tour of the closest parts of the estate, starting tomorrow,’ he added.
It might test that truce to the limit, but she couldn’t run round trying to find out more about tonight’s unwanted visitors on her own if she was with them. With any luck it would take days to familiarise himself with his estates and in the meantime he and Peters could find out what the devil was going on here and do something about it while she was busy.
‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you, my lord?’ she spat so softly he was sure Lady Wakebourne had no idea how far from a truce they were.
‘No, being clever is far too much effort. It must be low cunning,’ he muttered before bowing to her with such exquisite grace and wishing her a good night, so she had to curtsey back and return it with such overdone sweetness he knew she secretly wished him anything but a good night.
* * *
Polly had no choice but to follow her ladyship into the little entrance hall, but she went past the wretch without letting even a thread of her gown touch him. In the kindly shadows cast by the single candle he was as immaculate and exotic as he’d been at dinner. She told herself it was a timely reminder how far apart they truly were. Awareness of his subtly powerful body sent prickles of unease shivering across her skin like wildfire and yet he looked calm and unaffected as if she had never fallen on top of him and felt the brilliant jag of attraction shock between them.
She took the lamp and held it lower to hide the flush that was making her cheeks glow and told herself it was as well if her ladyship didn’t look too closely at his lordship’s once-immaculate clothes. She’d kissed the man, for goodness’ sake, sunk down and seized his mouth in a hasty snatched kiss that still sent shivers of awareness and want through her like a fever she couldn’t seem to break.
‘For heaven’s sake, girl, I can hardly see a foot in front of me,’ Lady Wakebourne chided so Polly had to raise their lantern to light the way after all.
Lord Mantaigne gave a warm and almost sleepy-sounding chuckle that made her think even more darkly sinful thoughts of rumpled bedsheets and sleepless nights of far too much intimacy. What had the wretched man done to her? She heard her own lips let out a muffled moan of denial as the thought of waking up beside him crept into her secret thoughts and settled in. No, he was an impostor—a rich and idle aristocrat, but not quite the harmless and noble gentleman he pretended to be. Nothing about his gaze—smoky with shadows as well as hungry and mysterious in this soft light—seemed either safe or gallant.
He knew he was a handsome and powerful man in his prime and she was painfully aware she was an awkward and gawky female, aware of him in every inch of her lanky body. All the time her head was trying to block him from her senses, she’d felt the power he could hold over her wilder senses, if she let him, and ordered herself to be very wary indeed.
He could walk right over a woman’s most tender hopes and dreams and make them his before either of them realised it, then he’d walk away. Whatever else he was capable of, a deep-down sense of fairness told her he wouldn’t inflict pain on another human being in pursuit of his own pleasure. She wondered about all the women who’d loved him, then watched him go without a backward look. The shudder that racked her at the very idea of being one of them was a powerful antidote. She imagined the desolation he’d leave in his wake when he left her and recoiled as if he’d brandished a lethal weapon instead of that rueful smile.
She raised her chin and met his eyes with as much indifference as she could summon. He stepped back and nodded as if to admit she couldn’t take a lover of any sort and certainly not one like him. His bow said she might be right and he gently closed the door before either of them quite took in the fact he was gone.
‘The boy has far too much charm for his own good,’ her ladyship murmured and ignored Polly’s sceptical snort with the queenly indifference of a true lady.
‘If you say so,’ Polly replied in as neutral a tone as she could after such a day and gave a weary sigh as she lit her ladyship back upstairs and whispered a soft goodnight before running up the next flight of steps to her own room.
* * *
She slept well only because she was exhausted by a day of toil and tension, but woke with a feeling of unease and the half memory of unquiet dreams. She scrambled into her work clothes, sparing a cursory glance as she brushed, then plaited, her hair. Once she was as ready to face the day as she would ever be she looked round her cosy room in the eaves, just in case this was the last time it was her home and not an old attic most would think old-fashioned and inconvenient. If they had to leave here, she would miss it more than her childhood home, but there was so much about Dayspring she had learnt to love and its owner obviously hated. This wasn’t a significant part of the castle, but there was a wonderful view of orchards and parkland and a glimpse of the sea even from this side of the castle.
Going downstairs, Polly could almost sense the people she knew falling into places none of them had taken any notice of for years. A gap was yawning between those who had lived here as equals until yesterday. Soon she would have to don petticoats and whatever jumble of skirts they could put together out of the attics as a matter of course. She tried to picture herself looking clumsy and overgrown in the narrow skirts and high waist of the current mode and had to smile wryly at the very idea. Put ostrich feathers on any bonnet of hers and she’d make a sight to frighten small children and skittish horses.
Not that she could afford fashion, she reminded herself, and batted away the thought of Lord Mantaigne stunned speechless as she swept into the room dressed in a gown designed to make the best of her queenly height instead of the shabby and ill-fitting monstrosity of last night. Nonsense, of course. The most dazzling beauties of fashionable society must fawn on him like bees round honey and Miss Trethayne of nowhere at all still had too much pride to join in even if she could.
* * *
‘Good morning, Miss Trethayne.’ Mr Peters rose politely from the breakfast table to greet her, then looked significantly at her brothers until they stood as well.
‘Good morning, sir, and a very fine morning it is too, but who are these polite young gentlemen? I can’t say I recognise them.’
‘It’s us, Poll,’ Henry told her wearily, as if wondering about her eyesight.
‘May we sit down now, Sis? I’m hungry as a horse,’ Toby asked.
‘Of course you are, love, please carry on before you fade away in front of me,’ she said, exchanging a rueful glance with Mr Peters that probably looked intimate to Lord Mantaigne when he strolled into the room.
‘Good morning,’ he said coolly, and she had to have imagined a flash of anger in his lazy gaze before it went unreadable again.
‘It’s going to be a lovely day,’ she offered because she didn’t want the boys to pick up on her worries about the future, or her jumbled feelings towards the marquis.
‘Indeed, but the sea is still cold,’ he said, helping himself from the pot of porridge set by the fire to keep warm.
‘Don’t say you’ve been for a swim, Mantaigne?’ Mr Peters asked, seeming as startled as Polly that his employer would indulge in such bracing activity.
‘I believe it’s allowed if you have skill enough not to drown,’ he said as if there was nothing unusual about a fashionable beau battling the full force of nature on such a bracing morning. Although the sun shone there was a lively breeze and taking on the waves must have been hard going.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ his secretary said with a shudder, ‘I can only imagine the fuss if you drown when I’m supposed to guard your back.’
‘A task that should never have been set to you, my friend,’ Lord Mantaigne drawled, but there was steel under all that careless élan.
Polly had spent years picturing the Marquis of Mantaigne as a spineless fool, ready to whistle his magnificent heritage down the wind on a whim. Under the expensive clothes and effortless elegance was a dangerous man, and last night proved how seductively the real Marquis of Mantaigne called to a wildness in Miss Paulina Trethayne she’d thought long gone. It would be as well if she avoided him as often as she could when this morning’s ride about the estate was over.
‘Prinny would take your land and fortune and give your title to one of his cronies,’ Mr Peters mused. ‘I’d have to tell the Winterleys how you met your end, though, so I’d really rather you didn’t perish at sea during my time here.’
‘Should your brothers need a schoolmaster I can recommend Peters as perfect for the role, when he’s not too busy lecturing a fool of eight and twenty who’s been going his own way far too long to listen.’
‘About eight and twenty years of his life, by my reckoning,’ Mr Peters murmured into his porridge, and Polly chuckled, then squirmed self-consciously under Lord Mantaigne’s impassive scrutiny. She only just resisted the urge to put out her tongue and set the worst sort of example to her brothers.
‘Thank you, but the vicar teaches Tobias, Henry and Jago. Josh and the younger boys have lessons with some of us here and I suspect Mr Peters has far too much to do already to join in with that thankless task,’ she said to fill the silence.
‘D’you think Mr Barker will tell us how he lost his leg today, Poll? He told Toby and I’ll soon be as old as he is.’
‘You’re five years younger than your eldest brother, Joshua Trethayne, and some things have to wait until I say so,’ Polly intervened before Toby and Henry could. ‘And don’t argue,’ she added firmly.
‘Why not? You’re only a girl,’ Josh muttered darkly.
‘No, she’s not, you ungrateful little toad,’ Toby told him.
‘No, for Miss Trethayne is your sister and for some odd reason she seems to like you,’ Mr Peters said solemnly, and Josh grinned delightedly at the implication it took a doting gaze to see past his worst traits. Polly wondered why she couldn’t be attracted to the man instead of his employer.
Oh, no, that was it, wasn’t it? She was conscious of Lord Mantaigne on too many levels. Why did she have to feel a warm shiver of perhaps run over her skin at the very idea of being alone with a nobleman’s secretary instead of the nobleman himself? Because she was a Trethayne, she supposed fatalistically, and they never did anything by halves. Falling headlong for the most unattainable man she’d ever come across would be a disaster bigger than any that had befallen her so far. There must be no more midnight adventures with him then and, after today, no daytime ones either.
‘Still here, boys?’ Lady Wakebourne asked from the doorway. ‘Jago and Joe and Ben have already got their boots on.’
‘And I expect Mr Partridge is waiting,’ Polly prompted.
Some of the squatters had found work in the village of Little Spring, but Partridge had insisted on walking there and back with the boys ever since lights were first seen in the cove below Dayspring. Toby and Henry bolted the last of their breakfast and ran off to join their friends at a nod from Polly, and Josh dashed after them. Wishing she could do the same, she made herself eat in a suitably ladylike manner despite the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Better to walk in Lady Wakebourne’s shoes this morning, but the lady was so determined not to trade on her title that Polly was careful not to impinge on her self-imposed tasks.
‘Shall we meet in the stable yard in half an hour for our tour of the estate, Miss Trethayne?’ Lord Mantaigne asked.
‘I’m ready now,’ she said, because it seemed better to get it over with.
‘Which of the spoilt beasts in your stable would you like saddled, then?’
‘I always ride the black cob, but he won’t let a stranger near him.’
‘He must be a hard ride, and I dare say he’s headstrong as the devil,’ he remarked, trying not to call Beelzebub an unsuitable ride for a lady.
‘He refuses to plough and I couldn’t endure the thought of him being abused as a carriage horse.’
‘Not to a coaching company or the mails, but I know a man who would treat him well and give you a good price. Can he be handled by anyone else?’
‘Once he trusts you he’s more amenable, but I found him wandering on the heath and he’d been beaten, so I could never let him go to someone who would try to break his spirit,’ she said carefully, wondering if she could refuse a reasonable offer for her favourite when she would soon be homeless.
‘I wouldn’t suggest he might find a home with my friend if I doubted his ability to tell a rogue from a spirited beast with his worst masculine traits intact.’
‘There’s a lady present, Mantaigne,’ Mr Peters protested, and Polly set him a little lower in her estimation and his master a little higher.
‘Miss Trethayne doesn’t want to discuss the latest fashions or how many fools crowded into Prinny’s last squeeze at Carlton House, Peters.’
‘I might,’ Polly heard herself say as if someone else had taken over her tongue.
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. Then I must rack my brains for the details as best I can at this hour of the day.’
‘You must know I have no knowledge of either subject,’ she said gruffly. ‘I would look ridiculous in London fashions and feel like a fish out of water at Carlton House, but a cat can still look at a king.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Mr Peters said with a wry look that won back some of Polly’s respect and seemed to sink him in his employer’s. ‘I often wonder if Prinny wouldn’t be happier if he’d been born on a fairground instead of in a royal bed.’
‘It must make a fine spectacle, but I would hate to take part.’
‘It’s hot as Hades and noisier than a parliament of crows. I’d certainly give a good deal not to sit through another of Prinny’s never-ending banquets,’ the marquis said with what looked like genuine revulsion for all that show and waste Polly had read about in the discarded newspapers that sometimes came her way at third-or fourth-hand from the local squire.
‘If your entrée to such places was withdrawn, I dare say you would feel the snub all the same,’ Mr Peters said quietly.
‘I expect you’re right, but if we’re all finished we might as well adjourn to the stable yard before the morning has gone, if you agree, Miss Trethayne? I hope you will ride one of my horses today. Although he will be nowhere near as fast or fiery as your own mount, you would be doing us a favour. A full stallion will never tolerate the presence of our hacks without a lot of fire and brimstone.’
He was right of course; Polly had been hoping Beelzebub’s antics at the proximity of other males, even if they were geldings, would put a premature end to the tour. She resigned herself to hours in the disturbing man’s company as both gentlemen stood back for her to lead the way, then carefully didn’t look at anything less than six feet off the ground lest they be accused of ogling.
Dotty Hunslow was sitting on the granary steps, smoking a short pipe and exchanging flirtatious glances with a wizened little man who looked like a former jockey. He jumped to his feet and did his best to look as if he’d been busy all morning, and a warning glint sharpened Dotty’s knowing gaze.
Unease prickled down Polly’s spine as all the risks of having too much contact with a lord like this one ran through her mind screaming. No, he wouldn’t give her a second glance if she was properly dressed and that was just as well. He could ruin her and her brothers’ slender prospects in life if she wasn’t very careful, and the throaty murmur of her inner wanton whispered it would be a very pleasurable descent, before sensible Paulina dismissed the idea as completely impossible. No, she would have to find time to search the attics for skirts long enough to hide her legs from him and his fellow rakes so he would turn his hot blue eyes elsewhere.
‘Please saddle the grey for Miss Trethayne, Dacre,’ his lordship ordered as if it was an everyday occurrence for a lady to ride astride.
‘He’s feeling his oats,’ the little man argued.
‘Miss Trethayne usually rides the black cob, so Cloud will seem like a docile pony in comparison.’
‘Cloud it is then, ma’am,’ the small groom said with a nod of limited approval.
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying not to feel self-conscious in front of the stable lads while she waited for the animal to be saddled. ‘Oh, you’re a handsome lad and a true gentleman, aren’t you, sirrah? I warrant you’d hunt all day if you had to,’ she greeted the powerful-looking animal as he arched his neck at her like a circus horse and waited to be admired.
He was as big a rogue as his master from the look of him and her opinion of Lord Mantaigne rose as he laughed at the grey’s antics and told him not to be such a commoner. He sobered as he cupped his hands to take her booted foot and boost her into the saddle.
‘I don’t hunt,’ he said, eyes flicking in the direction of the tumbledown kennels Polly knew lay on the far side of the yard so as not to disturb anyone in the castle with the restless baying of the hounds.
‘You don’t enjoy the exercise then, my lord?’ she asked a little breathlessly, trying not to be impressed as he boosted her into the saddle as easily as if she was a foot shorter and as slender as a fashion plate.
‘Perhaps I pity the quarry,’ he said lightly.
She was still wondering about that remark as they set off. She’d heard whispers that a miserable childhood had led to his hatred of Dayspring, but all that had mattered then was that he stayed away. Eyeing the powerful figure of the now very real Marquis of Mantaigne, Polly tried to see past it and wonder about the man under the careless elegance.
He was relaxed in the saddle of his fine horse as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but she sensed wariness in him, an unwillingness to feel the appeal of this fine place on such a beautiful spring morning. Would a bright but abused boy learn to guard his thoughts and emotions from his persecutor? Yes, she decided, and any woman tempted to love him would have to fight her way past the shield wall he still kept them behind. She pitied her, whoever she turned out to be. To throw your bonnet that far over the windmill would mean being prepared to risk everything without any guarantee he would even want her once she’d done it.
* * *
Tom expected the parkland to be overgrown and small forests to blur the beautiful landscaped gardens his grandfather had paid Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown to design for him. Instead the park was close-cropped by sheep and a herd of cows grazed the meadow by the lake that dreamed under the spring sun as he remembered it doing on days when he’d escaped his prison to wander his own land like a poacher in constant fear of discovery.
Not even that sense of such freedom being short and forbidden spoiled the joy of a spring morning in this wide landscape then, but that was quite enough of the past. Today the trees looked as if they’d been kept tidy by foresters. He ought to ask Miss Trethayne how that could be when he didn’t have any, but he let himself feel all the promise of spring about them instead and saved the argument for later.
‘Where are we going?’ Peters asked and saved him the trouble.
‘To the Home Farm, through Cable Woods, then down into Days Magna,’ Miss Trethayne said concisely.
‘A neat slice across the closest parts of the estate,’ Tom conceded and saw from the tightening of her lush mouth how his pompous reply annoyed her.
Since he couldn’t make her his mistress, and she was nothing like any marchioness he’d ever come across, he told himself it was good to see the look of impatient contempt back in her fine eyes. He must do his best to keep it there for the next couple of weeks and then he could return to London or Derbyshire, leaving them both more or less unscathed.
‘Who has the Home Farm?’ Peters asked, and it was a reasonable enough question, so why did Tom feel jealous, as if he was the one who should be having easy conversations with Miss Trethayne and not Peters?
Perverse idiot, he condemned himself and urged his horse a little ahead, so he could leave them to talk while he watched this once-familiar landscape for changes. Yet he took in very little of it for listening to their conversation and keeping enough attention on the road in front of them to make sure he didn’t fall in the dust and make himself even more of a fool than he already felt as he fought the need to have all her attention focused on him and him alone.
‘The Allcotts have held it for generations,’ he heard her answer Peters question obliquely and wondered why she was uneasy about it.
‘And do I have a forester?’ he turned in the saddle to ask.
‘Several, my lord,’ she said, and there was that sense she wasn’t telling him the whole story again to pique his interest and let him convince himself his interest was nothing personal.
‘Don’t expect me to believe they come from the same family who felled trees here from the dark ages on, then. I well remember my guardian railing that he couldn’t keep a male worker on the estate thanks to the press gangs and fishing boats and quarries robbing him of manpower.’
‘I suppose those alternatives were more attractive,’ she said so carefully he knew her thoughts were busy with all the rumours she’d probably discounted about him and Grably and how bad it had been at Dayspring once upon a time.
‘Yet they came of their own free will once I ordered the place kept empty? Perhaps they fell my timber for nothing out of the goodness of their hearts,’ he said blandly, and her gaze slid away from the challenge, as if she didn’t want him to read secrets in them.
‘Maybe they wanted to keep faith with the Banburghs?’ she suggested.
‘My father died, and I turned my back on them. I can’t see the locals feeling aught but contempt for the Banburghs,’ he admitted harshly, conscious of Peters’s shrewd gaze as well as her discomfort with the subject.
‘Maybe they felt guilty?’
‘I hope not; the fifth marquis is dead and I don’t care.’
‘No, of course you don’t,’ Peters said, and Tom sensed the two of them exchanging rueful glances behind his back and fought temper and something a little less straightforward—surely it couldn’t be jealousy?
To be jealous he’d have to want Miss Trethayne as irrationally as Luke and Chloe Winterley had wanted each other during their decade of estrangement. So that meant he simply could not be jealous. He didn’t want to ruin or marry her, so he must be immune to her smoky laugh and everything that made her unlike the pursuing pack of would-be marchionesses he dodged so carefully at ton functions.
‘No, I don’t,’ he echoed as coolly as he could. ‘So let’s stop dawdling like a trio of dowagers and get on with our day,’ he added to put an end to the conversation.
