by Diana Quincy
“It means you are a donkey,” she whispered back.
Hunt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you calling me a jackass to my face?”
Her eyes blazed. “I cannot think of a more accurate description.”
“Someone has to behave like an adult in this situation, and it is very clearly not going to be you.” He spoke very softly, keeping an impartial expression plastered to his face for the sake of the other guests. “I am trying to speak honestly and face our dilemma head-on. Unlike you.”
“Are you? Really? Right now? Right here?” She smiled graciously when she met the eye of a guest seated several seats away. “Do you think this is an opportune time?” she asked from behind a clenched smile.
“You avoid me at every turn,” he whispered furiously. “And even if you didn’t, is there ever going to be a good time to discuss how I cannot stop thinking about making love to you when I am supposed to be courting your stepdaughter?”
“That’s it!” she burst out, jumping to her feet.
The noisy conversation halted. Guests wearing puzzled faces turned in unison to gawk at Leela. Even the attending footmen paused momentarily to stare before quickly returning to their duties
“Excuse me, Lady Devon?” the earl asked in very deliberate tones from his end of the table.
“That’s it for the ladies.” Leela collected herself enough to speak in a measured manner. “It is time for us to withdraw. Ladies, let us leave the gentlemen to their port and conversation.”
The ladies looked slightly stunned. Baroness Wallace exchanged a questioning look with Lady Helene, who raised her eyebrows in return. The men came politely to their feet despite the fact that the fruit and nuts had just been laid out. They’d barely had time to fill their plates, much less empty them. Hunt caught Mrs. Paget discreetly grabbing a handful of nuts before hiding the contraband in her clenched fist somewhere among her skirts.
“Shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, Leela marched out through the double doors, leading the procession of ladies into the drawing room.
Hunt watched her run away. Which was becoming her specialty. But no matter how far and fast she went, she couldn’t outrun the truth.
Neither of them could.
Chapter Eleven
“Shoo had?” Hashem asked.
“It’s called Parkwood.” Leela stared up at the dower house’s tranquil ivy-covered brick exterior. The century-old structure seemed completely at ease with itself; in the way of an elderly person who’s lived so long they’ve stopped caring what people think about them. “We’re moving in.”
“Han?” Hashem scratched his head as he scanned the gravelly path that widened into a circular drive before the house. “We do not go to London?” he asked in heavily accented English.
As an interpreter for travelers to Arab lands, the older man spoke a little bit of just about every language. But his command of the King’s English had improved considerably after spending two years in Leela’s company.
Leela pushed the paneled front door open. “We’ll be here for at least two weeks.” She certainly wasn’t going to spend the next fortnight residing in the same place as Huntington. Moving into the dower house allowed her to distance herself from the man without actually running away.
This way, she wouldn’t be forced to share every meal with the duke. Or constantly risk bumping into him in the corridors or gardens. She’d even given up walks in the garden for fear of encountering Huntington. Here at Parkwood, she’d finally be able to regain her equilibrium.
She wandered into the dower house, home to widows of the Earls of Devon since the first earl built Parkwood for his mother more than one hundred years ago. She’d never been inside before now. Douglas’s mother passed years before Leela married him so she’d always assumed the house was closed up.
The cozy high-ceilinged entryway led to a generous reception room with pale yellow walls, white plasterwork and wide, soaring windows. Leela released a breath. “It’s perfect.”
“Mumtaz.” Hashem nodded his approval. “Bait hiloo.”
“It is a pretty house.” She surveyed the assortment of chairs, sofas and tables of all styles crammed into the room. “But first we must clear some of this furniture. And then we’ll move a desk in here. This chamber will be an excellent place to write.”
They roamed through the three-story dwelling. The furnishings were exposed even though the place remained uninhabited. No one had covered the chairs, tables and sofas to protect them from dust. Not that it was necessary. The floors and surfaces sparkled. The cleaning duties of the Lambert Hall staff clearly extended to the dower house.
Leela’s excitement grew as they explored the rest of Parkwood. She’d expected to spend the day preparing the house for occupancy, and had even worn one of her faded old travel dresses to accomplish the task. But the house was ready for her to move in immediately. Parkwood possessed all of the modern conveniences needed for daily living, including a small but functional kitchen, sunny dining room and comfortable bedchambers abovestairs.
She and Hashem got to work, putting linens on the four-poster bed in the main bedchamber, where Leela would sleep. Moving downstairs, they shifted the chairs and sofas into more inviting arrangements. They stored some of the pieces in the small formal salon across the hall until Leela could hire workers from the village to carry the furniture to the attic. Or perhaps to the storerooms at Lambert Hall. She’d have to consult with Edgar about what to do with the extra furniture. Technically, everything on the estate, including Parkwood and all its contents, belonged to the Earl of Devon.
In a small study at the back of the house, they discovered a Chippendale writing table with two small drawers on each side that would be ideal for writing. Leela searched for rags to put under each intricately carved ebony leg in order to slide the desk into the large front reception room where she envisioned spending most of her time.
As she and Hashem maneuvered the table through the front hall, someone came in the front door.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” the man said. “We were under the impression Parkwood is not occupied.” The man, in his late thirties, wore a brown suit and matching top hat. A woman in a burgundy day dress and matching pelisse accompanied him.
“Not as of yet.” Leela swiped a tendril of hair away from her face. She must look a mess, perspiring from exertion with her hair falling down. “But it shall be soon.”
“Indeed it shall,” the man said. “I know it is premature, as occupancy does not officially begin until the first of the month, but I thought to show Parkwood to Mrs. William today. She is keen to view the furnishings.”
The woman wandered past Leela and Hashem and into the reception room. She circled the room. “This will do.” Her attention went to the writing table that they’d pushed halfway into the large chamber. “Oh no. I do not want that in here,” she said to Leela, making a shooing motion with her hand. “Please take it away.”
“I am sorry,” Leela said, “but who exactly are you?”
The woman’s gray eyes widened. “Aren’t you an impudent one? Asking questions of me is not your place.”
Mr. William lifted his chin. “Is your master present?”
Leela straightened, understanding dawning. “I have no master.”
“All servants have masters,” he said irritably. “Now go and fetch yours unless you want to be turned out of this house without reference.”
“Ya kalb,” Hashem said pleasantly as he cursed the man. “Kol khara.”
Mrs. William stared at the servant as if a snake had slipped out of his mouth. “What did he say?”
“That is none of your concern,” Leela said. “And I am afraid the only person who is going to be turned out of this house is you.”
Mrs. William’s pale cheeks reddened. “How dare you! I do not know who you think you are—”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” Leela cut in, using her frostiest manner. “I am the Countess of Devon. You
may address me as ‘My lady’ or refer to me as ‘Her ladyship.’”
Confusion filled the man’s face. “Now see here—”
“You are Lady Devon?” The woman’s questioning gaze took in Leela’s disheveled appearance. “That cannot . . . How is that . . . What are you playing at?”
Leela understood their confusion. She’d encountered it before, especially when she wasn’t dressed to play the part of a noblewoman. She remained quiet while Mr. and Mrs. William grappled with the idea that the untidy olive-skinned woman before them in a faded old dress could truly be a countess.
Mr. William finally ventured to speak. “I have reached an agreement with Lord Devon to lease this property.”
Leela frowned. “Lease?” Edgar had rented out the dower house without consulting her?
“Yes.” His manner grew more tentative. “We are to move in on the first of the month.”
“Devon has no standing to lease this property to you, Mr. William. This is the dower house and it is my right as the widow of the last Earl of Devon to make my home here.”
“Tozz feek,” Hashem added in a mild voice for good measure.
“What did you say?” Mrs. William asked suspiciously.
“Sorry.” Hashem held out his hands, palms up. “No English.”
Leela suppressed a smile. “He hopes you haven’t been too inconvenienced.”
She decided against informing them that her manservant had not only called them dogs, but also suggested they partake of excrement and go fornicate themselves.
After all, Mrs. William appeared affronted enough as it was. “My husband will take this up with Lord Devon. I want this house.” Leela couldn’t blame the lady for being disappointed. Parkwood was lovely.
“As you like,” she said in her most Countess of Devon voice. “Now, if you would kindly see yourselves out. I am not at home to callers.” She dismissed the interlopers by giving them her back, pointedly ignoring the indignant huff of Mrs. William’s breath as Mr. William ushered his wife out the door.
Then she and Hashem slid the writing table to the exact spot where Leela wanted it, into the beautiful reception room of the lovely house that would make a perfect little hideaway for the next few weeks—until the Duke of Huntington was gone for good.
Edgar stormed into Parkwood several hours later. “What the devil do you think you are doing?”
“Hello, Edgar.” Leela, already hard at work at the writing table, was not surprised to see him. “What took you so long?”
“What are you doing here?”
“At the moment?” She adjusted some papers on the writing table to conceal her manuscript. “I’m writing some letters.”
“Do not jest with me. You know what I am asking. I do not know what you think you’re up to, but I will not have it.”
“I am merely asserting my privilege, as the widow of the late Earl of Devon, to stay at Parkwood.”
His mouth twitched. “The hades you are. You will pack your things and vacate the premises posthaste.”
She shifted in her seat to face him, placing her arm over the back of the tufted tapestry chair. “And why would I do that?”
“Because I have leased this property to Mr. William for the next two years.”
“You’ve leased the dower house without consulting me?”
“Your place now is to live with your brother at his home.” Edgar rolled his eyes. “If the man truly exists. One never sees Brandon about in society.”
“My brother prefers the country. He has no interest in London or the ton.”
“All the more reason for you to go and live with him. He’d no doubt appreciate the company.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Leela replied. “However, as a widowed Countess of Devon, I have certain rights. And that includes staying in the dower house for a few weeks if I so choose.”
“The hell it is. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in Parkwood.”
“But I am showing one now.” She certainly had no intention of returning to the main house with Huntington there.
“You have had your fun playing house,” Edgar said. “But it is time to stop this nonsense. The tenants are moving in at the beginning of the month.”
“Surely there’s another property you can offer them. Because I’m certainly not leaving by the end of the month.”
“You little upstart.” His eyes snapped with anger. “Who do you think you are?”
Her resolve hardened. Why should she cower before Edgar? “Maybe that is the problem.”
“What is?”
“Maybe the problem is that you have never known who I am.” She stood up to face him. “I am the daughter of the late Marquess of Brandon, sister of the current holder of that title, and widow of the late Earl of Devon. I am the Countess of Devon. I know my place. It is you who doesn’t know yours.”
He flushed. “I own this land and everything on it. Including this house.” His fists clenched at his sides. “If you do not agree to vacate the premises posthaste, I will physically toss you out myself.”
“While we are discussing my rights as your father’s widow, I would like to know where my share of the estate income is.”
“What?” Edgar spluttered. “Surely you cannot be serious.”
“I think it is far past time I assert my dower rights.” She was weary of being bullied by Edgar and Helene. “I am no longer the little girl your father brought home as his bride.”
“You think you are clever.” Fury contorted Edgar’s features. “But I assure you this is a fight you will not win.”
“We shall see about that.” She was done allowing this tase, this stupid, stubborn goat, to deny her what was rightfully hers. “You owe me my dower rights. That’s one-third of the estate’s profits for each of the past two years. And I intend to collect everything I am owed.”
Chapter Twelve
“Good day?” Hunt called out, venturing into Parkwood.
Where were the servants? Someone had left the front door ajar. The delicious aroma of fresh-baked bread reached him. He surveyed the dark and narrow front hall. So this was where Leela had run off to. “Lady Devon?”
He heard voices the moment he stepped inside the house. Devon immediately appeared in one of the doorways that opened onto the front hall.
“Huntington?” The earl’s forehead wrinkled. “What brings you here? Is Victoria with you?”
“No, she’s gone into the village with some of the other guests. But she sent a package to Lady Devon.”
Devon’s eyes went to the wrapped parcel tucked under Hunt’s arm. “Why are you delivering it?”
“I was going out for a walk anyway, so I offered to bring it along. Has Lady Devon truly relocated here?”
Devon shook his head. “No—”
Leela appeared beside the earl. “Yes indeed.” Her eyes glittered and her cheeks were flushed. Something leaped in Hunt’s chest at the sight of her. “Please come in, Your Grace.”
She almost seemed happy to see him. Her manner was extremely cordial. Hunt wondered what she was up to. “Welcome to my home,” she added.
He followed her into a spacious sunny room. It was an informal and inviting space decorated with comfortable, slightly faded, furnishings. Papers littered a generous-sized writing desk. “You are living here now?”
“Yes,” she said brightly. “This is the dower house and I am the widow of the late Earl of Devon. Isn’t that right, Edgar?”
“Indeed,” Devon said stiffly. He was flushed as well. There was an undercurrent of something in the room that Hunt couldn’t quite interpret.
“I imagine it’s rather smaller than you are used to,” Hunt said to her.
“Not at all. It is the perfect size for me.” She gestured toward his package. “You mentioned having something for me?”
“Yes.” He handed her the packet.
“I had forgotten about this.” She took it with both hands. It was not exactly light. “It was very thoughtfu
l of Victoria to send it along. Won’t you sit? I’ll ring for tea.”
“That isn’t necessary.” Edgar ground his jaw. “I’m leaving. Huntington?”
Hunt wanted to stay. Not for tea, but to talk with her. To apologize. It felt like he’d forced her to decamp to the dower house by insisting they speak about unspeakable things. But he stood. “Yes, I’ll go out with you.”
Leela saw them to the door. She seemed quite cheerful, yet also unsettled. He did not care for the charged silent conversation he detected between her and Devon.
“I trust all is well with Lady Devon,” Hunt remarked to Devon as they walked toward the earl’s mount.
Devon was clearly rattled. “Yes, you know how women can be,” he said lightly. “Most confounding at times.”
The earl took the animal’s reins into one hand. “I’ll walk back with you.”
When Hunt saw that Devon intended to proceed on foot in order to accompany him, he waved him on. “Please don’t walk on my account. I enjoy the solitude of a stroll.”
Devon seemed uncertain. “As you wish,” he finally said. After Devon mounted and rode off, Hunt circled back to Leela.
A wizened older man answered the front door. “Yes?”
“I would like to speak with Lady Devon.”
“Who is it?” Leela’s voice called from somewhere in the bowels of the old house.
The man responded in Arabic. Hunt remembered him then. He was Leela’s dragoman. The same man who’d accompanied her to the Black Swan. She replied in the same tongue, and Hunt found himself being escorted into a sunny breakfast room.
Leela was seated at the round table sipping her tea. Bread and some other strange foods were laid out before her.
“I suppose there’s no escaping you,” she said by way of greeting. Looking beyond him, she said something to the old dragoman, who nodded and left them alone.
She regarded Hunt over her teacup. “You might as well sit.”
It wasn’t the most gracious invitation he’d ever received, but he’d take it. He slipped into a carved chair, its seat covered in red Morocco leather. “I came to ensure that you are well.”
