“That might be good enough. I would like the names of your oldest pensioners, and where they live.”
“Only the living ones?”
“I think so, to start.” It would be better to learn anything directly, but if she failed to discover something, perhaps she would see if any of those old servants had told stories to their families.
It did not take long for Mr. Roberts to make the short list. “Here it is. The oldest one is at the top of the list. He’s been getting a pension as long as I have been working here, it seems to me.”
She folded the list. “Thank you. I should tell you that I will be taking the phaeton out tomorrow, very early.”
“I will tell Rufus to be prepared.”
“I won’t be needing him. I learned to drive it myself today. Brentworth taught me.” She took her leave, but stopped at the door. “Speaking of the duke, there is no need to bother him with a report on my visiting you, Mr. Roberts.”
“I understand, Your Grace. And I have received instructions to hire gardeners to fight that wilderness out there. I thought you’d like to know.”
She took her list to her chamber, to do some calculations. The news about the garden pleased her. She supposed she should be content that the duke was taking an interest in this house at least, even if she would never be the great passion in his life. That had not been part of their arrangement, had it?
* * *
Davina woke with the dawn, dressed and went below for breakfast. None had been prepared yet, so she wandered to the kitchen and obtained some bread and cheese from the sleepy cook. Then she put on her pelisse and her bonnet and went in search of a groom.
She did not hide what she was doing from Brentworth. She merely neglected to tell him about it. To his mind, the problem regarding their conflicting claims on the property had been solved by saying those vows. He would find it unnecessary, perhaps even annoying to hear she planned to ride all over the countryside, seeking more proof when she no longer needed it.
But she did need it. He thought this was about her wanting to enrich herself. While no one would mind having a birthright of many acres of land, she also wanted to know if her family had lived here and belonged here. She wanted to know if those old portraits were her ancestors. She wanted to trace her father’s lineage, no matter where it took her. She ached to know who her people were.
She climbed into the phaeton when the groom brought it out. He handed over the reins. “You said you know how to manage this? It is not your typical carriage.”
“His Grace taught me and said I had become quite good at it. I will not go fast.”
He shook his head, then shrugged.
She got the horse going and jostled along. The carriage seemed very light without Brentworth beside her. She took it to a slow trot and followed the drive to the lane. When they rounded the corner of the house, a dark figure waited for her, hands on hips. She just barely managed not to trample him.
“That is a bad place to stand,” she scolded. “I did not see you until I was upon you.”
“It is an excellent position to grab the horse’s bridle.” His hand closed on it as he spoke. “Where is Rufus?”
“I did not need him. Nor do I need you. I am not going to tend to anyone sick.”
His lids lowered. “Then where are you going?”
“For a ride. To try my new skill with reins and whip on the lane and road.”
He strode around the horse and got in beside her. “I will go too, in case you find you are not expert enough to get home. Do not under any circumstances use the whip. The horse will bolt, and you have no experience in controlling him then.”
He crossed his arms again. His expression fell into one of magnanimous tolerance. Her lord and master would indulge her but was not pleased.
What a bother he was. Even her father had not been this intrusive, and since his death, no one at all had told her what to do.
“Don’t you intend to go for that ride?” he asked when they had not moved for several minutes.
“I am not sure I want to anymore.” She let the reins go slack. “Did Roberts tell you? He depends on you for his situation, so if he did, I can’t blame him too much.”
“Tell me what? Are you and he plotting together? Only about gardens, I trust. If he has shown any other interest, that would be unfortunate. He is one of the men I would prefer not to kill.”
She laughed at that. He didn’t.
She handed him the reins to hold and dug into her reticule. “This is a list of retainers of this house who are now pensioned. This man at the top is the oldest. I intend to speak with him.”
She saw his response in his eyes. There is no need. The question has been resolved. Made moot. Been dealt with.
“Where does he live?” he said instead.
“Harrow Ridge.”
He sighed. He climbed down and came around to her side. “Move over. That is at least seven miles from here. I will get us there faster than I dare let you do it. You can practice on the way back if there is time.”
He moved the horse to a fast trot.
“You were joking, of course, about killing a man who showed an inappropriate interest in me.”
“Not at all.”
“That is hardly necessary. If anything actually happened, you could divorce me, then pick a new wife during the next season to replace me. Your reaction would not be rational.”
“My dear Davina, you are irreplaceable, especially by one of those children lined up on the marriage mart. The mere thought of losing you turns my mind black. If it were due to another man, there is no telling what I would do.”
The little speech stunned her, especially coming here and now. It was the first time he had ever said she mattered to him. He found her acceptable, yes. He enjoyed pleasure with her, it appeared. He had indicated that their conversations did not bore him. But as for truly mattering to the point where he feared losing her—Perhaps even his not wanting to risk her to illness not only derived from his sense of obligation and responsibility, but also because he did not want to lose her?
She had nothing to say that would not sound as if she begged for more declarations of her value. Much as she would like that, she just leaned over and kissed his cheek.
* * *
“I think you should stay away when I talk to him,” Davina said while he handed the reins to a groom outside a coaching inn in Harrow Ridge.
“You are forgetting our reason for both making this journey north. We hear and see what is learned together.” He helped her down.
“Then please let me ask the questions. Your presence alone puts them off, and your pointed questions help not at all.”
“You are just vexed that you could not sneak off alone.”
“I thought you would try to stop me. That you would say it didn’t matter anymore.”
He probably would have said that, or something similar. Damned if he would admit it, however. If she was determined to turn over every rock in Scotland looking for her proof, she would manage to do it no matter what he said.
It was already afternoon. They entered the inn and had a light meal in the public room. When they finished, he asked the proprietor where to find Mr. Rutherford’s house.
“He lives down the back lane. A woman there lets out some of her chambers. But you won’t find him there. He’s right out back, working with the horses.”
He returned to Davina and told her that Mr. Rutherford was at most a hundred feet away.
“He works with the horses here? He must be seventy years old. Eighty perhaps.”
“Some men don’t like gardening.” He looked down at her feet, glad to see she had worn her half boots. “Watch where you step if we are going into the stable yard.”
They circled the building and found the stable and the large yard and paddock next to it. Carriages of all sizes and kinds jammed the yard. Boys and men led horses to and fro.
“That may be him,” Davina said. “He looks very old.”
> The man she pointed to had a skittish horse in tow, a bay stallion. The old man wore no coat or hat, and his white hair blew around his face. Although barely half as high as the horse’s head, he held the bridle firmly, pulled the horse’s head down and looked to kiss its eye. The horse snorted twice, but stopped stomping at the ground.
Davina marched over to him. “Sir, are you Mr. Rutherford?”
The fellow ignored her while he kept his face close to the horse’s. One could almost see the horse calm in stages, until it appeared docile. Only then did the man turn to Davina.
“I am. Who might you be?”
“My name is Davina MacCallum.”
Mr. Rutherford’s gaze sharpened on hearing the name. He gave her a good, hard look.
“We have come from Teyhill. I was told you worked there many years.”
He nodded. “For the dukes.” He looked at Eric. “Your father, and his father.”
Since Rutherford had surmised his identity, he took the opportunity to introduce himself.
“Well, now, what would the current Brentworth want with me? Not going to complain that I am still working, are you? Nothing in the agreement said I couldn’t be a groom elsewhere.”
“No complaints. We seek information.”
His face, wrinkled and weathered, did not reveal much, but his eyes, sparkling slits showing a sharp mind, gave them continued scrutiny and showed some impatience.
“I am wondering if, when you worked there, anything ever happened to give you cause to think that the last baron’s son did not die,” Davina asked, getting to the heart of it right away.
Rutherford turned to pet the horse’s nose. “I never thought about it one way or another. But something happened that said someone else thought that.” He turned back and peered at Davina. “Man came one summer. I heard he was in the area, doing odd jobs and such. Nothing to think about. Only one day he came to the house. I was at the stables, and this man just walks past, as if he knew what he was about. Wasn’t a gentleman from the looks of him, but—there was something to him that said leave him alone. Had this determined look in his eyes and walked like he spoiled for a fight.”
“Where did he go?”
“Into the garden, through the back portal. I didn’t think much of it after that, except later, he comes back the same way, carrying a big box. He was a thief, and a bold one at that. He was much bigger than me, but I said he had to put it down. If he did, I wouldn’t say nothing, and he could leave peacefully.”
“He didn’t put it down, did he?” Eric said.
Rutherford shook his head. “He turned to me and said I’ve more right to it than anyone in there. A birthright. He just kept walking. I went to the house and told the steward, but nothing was done that I know of. No search for him. No magistrates came. And that was that, for the most part.”
“When was this?” Eric asked.
“Oh, long ago. Well before the war with Napoleon. I had, let me see, maybe thirty-five years. I wasn’t even head groom yet.”
“I don’t suppose you know what was in the box?” Davina asked.
“Nothing too heavy, from the way he carried it. He didn’t labor under it much, so it wasn’t the family gold and silver. It wasn’t too big. Not a trunk. Just a good-size wooden box.”
Davina looked disappointed. “Thank you, Mr. Rutherford. For your time and your help.” She came back to Eric. “I think I will return to the inn now and warm myself.”
He let her go, then went over to admire the stallion. “You are one of them, aren’t you?”
“One of what?”
“It is said there are some Scots who have a special way with horses. Whisperers. I thought that was folklore.”
“I’ve a knack with them. Always have.”
“If you ever want to return to Teyhill, you are welcome. There should be more horses there soon.”
“I’ve settled here now. It suits me. Lots of different horses every day. It’s more interesting. Also, I’ve a woman friend who would mourn my leaving.”
“It is also said the whisperers have a way with women.”
Rutherford grinned. “Is it, now?” He took the horse’s reins. “I doubt the blood who came in on this horse would sell him, but if he would, you should take him. That young pup doesn’t know how to handle him. Uses the crop too much.” He began to walk the horse to the stable entrance.
“You said that after you told the steward of the theft, that was it for the most part. What was the lesser part?”
He paused his walk and thought a bit before replying. “No telling it was connected at all, of course. It was years later. Twenty or so. But your father came to visit the property—he was duke then—and he had me called in and asked about that theft. The man, the box. A little late to start caring about it, seemed to me, but I told him all of it that I remembered. Then, after he goes, maybe two weeks later, the steward tells me I am being sent out to pasture. A nice pension, though. Good money, secured by a trust. Well, I was not even past my prime and even by normal ways it was too early. It had been decided, however, and here I am.”
“Do you think it was connected? That you were sent away because of what you knew?”
“Wouldn’t make much sense, would it? Those who owned the house were the victims, not the thieves. No reason to send me away.” He turned and took the horse into the stable.
* * *
“It was my grandfather,” Davina said as they rode back to Teyhill. She had the reins now and, at his command, they traveled more slowly. “So was the man the minister saw, the one who looked like me. I thought it was my father, of course, but my father would never have been here as early as Mr. Rutherford says this man was.”
Eric murmured agreement while she worked out what little they could surmise from Mr. Rutherford’s memories. Most of his own thoughts were on that pension.
“And my grandfather would leave home at times. Once for a good, long while. It was assumed he would not be back. This is where he came. It seems on one of those visits, he entered the house and found what he needed.”
Eric did some mental calculations. The theft took place as best he could guess in the eighties.
“Brentworth, I think he took the Bible. That was what was in the box. Some families keep their Bibles in one.”
“It probably burned in the fire, Davina.”
“It was that or something important that would help him prove who he was. I think whatever he took, he sent to the king.”
“Possibly.”
“Just possibly? You could say that about anything. You think I am right, don’t you?”
“I agree it was your grandfather. However, he could have taken anything. Jewels, silver, anything at all. If he had convinced himself that he was the baron’s son, he would believe he had a right to it, and that it wasn’t theft.”
She did not care for that view of things. “I don’t know what you expect when you speak of proof. Do you want someone to come back from the grave and say I know the baron’s son did not die and was fostered in Northumberland?”
Something like that would be useful, impossible though it might be.
Upon returning to Teyhill, Davina said she would start on her packing for the journey back to London.
“I do not think we will leave until late morning,” he said.
“I assumed you would want to be off at dawn.”
“There are a few things I need to attend to tonight. Enough that I won’t be at dinner.”
“Then I will take mine in my chambers and see you in the morning.”
She went up the stairs. Eric instead headed past the library, on to Roberts’s little apartment. The steward was not in his office, but came out of his sleeping chamber when he heard Eric enter.
“Do you need something from me, Your Grace?”
“Your time, and your records.” He shed his coat and hung it on a peg. “I am going to walk back in time and you will be my guide. Make room on your desk for us. We will both have to do the sea
rch if we are to finish tonight.”
“Search, Your Grace?”
He explained what he wanted to see. Roberts turned to the shelves.
Having someone rise from the dead would be the best proof, but a note sent from beyond the grave could work just as well.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Davina sat with the duchesses in the same drawing room where she had met Brentworth. No other guests attended tonight except he and she. With the informal dinner finished, the gentlemen were talking in the dining room, and the ladies had sequestered her in the drawing room.
They both almost ate her alive with the curiosity in their eyes. It had been that way all through this impromptu evening at Stratton’s house, put together the night after their return to London. At the meal there had been much wheedling at Brentworth for information, and many leading comments that begged for the particulars.
“You are going to tell us now, aren’t you? How you left here an enemy and came back his wife?” The Duchess of Stratton—please address me as Clara now—asked.
“Did he seduce you?” Langford’s duchess, Amanda, blurted out. “Forgive me. That was too forward. But matters moved very quickly, and it seemed to me that—” She flushed and twirled her finger absently in one of her dangling dark curls. “That is what Gabriel thinks too.”
What to say? She was not accustomed to confiding in other women, and these other women were not ordinary ones. Neither was she, officially, although right now she felt very commonplace.
“She doesn’t want to tell us, Amanda. That is fine, Davina. You don’t have to. Our husbands will get the story out of Brentworth and we, in turn, will learn it from them.”
“That would be better,” she said. “I will say that even when I left London, he and I had been less enemies and more two people in disagreement over an important matter. There is a difference.”
“Absolutely,” Clara said.
“Definitely,” Amanda said. “Here is the puzzle, though. I hope you will not mind if I am direct, because you and I have a friendship. It is Brentworth, Davina. Brentworth. The unassailable, unapproachable, cut-from-rock Brentworth. However this came about, I hope that you think you can be happy with him.”
Never Deny a Duke Page 24
