Lord Haven's Deception

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Her pleasure died for a moment, remembering the awkwardness back at the cottage earlier. His talk of kidnapping and abduction had brought it back to her. Gerry had been about to tell Mary about the missing Miss Dresden, she was certain. It was only her own quick, purposeful clumsiness that had deflected the conversation and stopped that line of talk. But it could only be a momentary reprieve. There would come a moment when he would be alone with Mary and would ask her if she had seen a girl, a stranger wandering the moor, or if she had heard of such a creature, and then Mary would know who she was and be forced to turn her in. It was coming and perhaps as quickly as that very afternoon, when they returned from their walk. And then she would be forced to deal with the viscount and her aunt and the whole mess she had made by running away so precipitately.

  She took a deep breath of clean, crisp air. So she would enjoy the moment. The Yorkshire countryside was a delightful surprise, the undulating swells of the grass-covered fells a welcome sight to eyes that had only ever experienced the closed and somehow smaller landscape of the south. “What is that?” she asked, shading her eyes and pointing at a far building that huddled on the moorside like a knot on a log.

  “A shepherd’s cottage. In season, if the flock is staying out, the shepherd needs shelter betimes. I, uh . . . his . . . his l-lordship provides for his men well. Keeps the cots in good shape. Some owners provide little more than tumble-down sheds.”

  “Is he a good master then?” Jane asked idly, wondering why Gerry stumbled over the viscount’s name always.

  “He is accounted to be,” Gerry said, with a smile that was somehow secretive.

  It said to Jane that he would not criticize the man even if he had cause, and she honored him for it. She would not question him further, for loyalty ran deep in such a man, she suspected. “May we . . .” She hesitated and gazed at him. A wicked little grin turned her lips up at the corners. “May we run?”

  “Run?”

  “Yes, run!” She hesitated only a moment more, but then gathered up her skirts and raced down the last slope toward the Lesley.

  Gerry caught his breath, enchanted at once by the fey expression that had crossed Jenny’s face in the moment she decided to run, and by the vision of her, skirts flying, hair streaming. He raced after her, catching up with her just as she tripped on a hummock of thick grass near the riverbank and tumbled down. His heart pounding, he threw himself down at her side. “Miss Jenny, are you all right?”

  She was laughing and panting, her skirts splayed out around her and her hair tumbled over the grassy ground. He was seized with a strong urge to kiss her, to gather her to him and make love to her, and it must have showed on his face, for her expression changed to one bordering on alarm and she sat up suddenly, then bolted to her feet, moving away from his side. Damn his expressive face! Mary had always said she could read him as if the words were in his eyes. If Jenny had read the desire in his expression it was no wonder she was nervous. For all the connection he felt between them, she still barely knew him.

  He stood, leaving the space between them. He forced a smile and said, “Now that you have that urge out of you, how about that walk by the Lesley?”

  Jane acquiesced but her mind was racing. The intent look in his eyes; what had it portended? For one brief second she had thought he was going to kiss her, and that would never do. She was not afraid of him. She didn’t think he would . . . her mind shied away from that which she was not afraid of with him. But still, it alarmed her to think of his well-molded lips pressed against her own, his heavy body touching hers, his strong arms pinning her to the heath; it alarmed her because it sounded enticing and inviting. How far would she allow such transgressions? As a young lady of the ton she had never been so alone with a man, never been so free, so able, if she desired, to indulge in behavior that would “ruin” her in society’s eyes. But what of other classes? Did they indulge their whims? Were they freer with their affections?

  She tidied her tumbled hair as best she could and demurely took his arm again, walking with him like the lady she was. Her heartbeat returned to normal and the odd light in his eyes died, she noted when she stole a glance at him. He spoke of the area, giving her more information than she would ever need to know about sheep farming, telling her that he had hoped she would see an example of sheep herding that afternoon, as it was a fascinating art. She couldn’t have cared less about shepherding. And yet it was pleasant listening to his voice, a rumble of deep sound that she could feel in her arm as he held it close to his body. He could have recited the biblical “begats” and she would not have minded.

  The more she experienced of this life the more she liked it. This day, taking care of Molly, learning from Mary how to bake biscuits, and now walking with Gerry Neville, gentleman farmer, was like a dream of the life that could have been hers if only she had been born someone else. But she was Miss Jane Dresden, niece of the baroness Lady Mortimer, granddaughter to the third Earl of Kantby and cousin to the current earl, with a portion of her own that would be adequate for her whole life if she was careful. She lived a life of ease, free from want, the dream, she was sure, of many a poor maiden without a portion, nor any hope of living without labor.

  And so why had she turned tail and flown like a flushed partridge? She was an intelligent, well-provided-for young lady. Why could she not just seize the life she wanted and damn the consequences? It would take courage to defy her family, and that, perhaps, was what she had always lacked.

  They entered a grove of trees just then burgeoning with a brilliant green unseen in a London park; their trunks were gnarled and twisted, probably from the persistent Yorkshire wind that swept down from the fells. The leafy glade was a verdant bower, a place where time and trouble did not exist. The turf underfoot was soft and springy, the new grass lush.

  Gerry loosened his hold on her arm and she turned, gazing up at the ceiling of green overhead. “Why would anyone prefer the confines of a great house when there is such glory in nature?”

  “You would not think nature so glorious if you saw this same grove in winter, with the wind howling between the trees and the snow burying the trunks up to the lowest branches, ofttimes.” His tone was wry, but he was smiling. “It’s treacherous in January, but I have been here then, rescuing a sheep that had escaped the flock.”

  She could hear the soft burble and gurgle of water ahead and the trees thinned, then parted ahead of her. A stream of crystalline water tumbled over smooth rocks, frothing and dancing, silver in the sunlight. She took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of clean water and sun-warmed grass. “I shall always remember this place in spring,” she said, sadness overwhelming her for a brief moment, tainting her voice with its melancholy tones.

  “Can’t you . . . won’t you stay, Jenny?”

  She shook her head, touched by the deep emotion held within his simple words. There was something between them, she thought, but they would never know what it was, would never have the time to explore their attraction to each other. Refusing to be gloomy on such a day, she tripped lightly to the stream edge. He raced to join her and grabbed her hand. “Be careful, Miss Jenny. These rocks can be treacherous.”

  His hand was warm around hers, folding it securely in his square palm. It felt natural, sweet, perfectly right. “You don’t sound like a farmer,” she said, gazing at him curiously. “I heard some of the men at the inn when I arrived in Lesleydale and their accents were thick, but yours is not. Why is that?”

  He colored, his cheeks turning ruddy as if she had asked him something extremely personal, and she did not think he was going to answer for a moment. “I was given a rather good education by the vicar in the village.”

  Perhaps he was the son of the estate steward, or some such almost-gentleman. Or he could be a nobleman’s by-blow; there was that Neville name, after all. But she could not think of a reason to pry further and didn’t want to ruin the perfect comfort into which they had fallen. They stood by the edge of the stream, their hands s
till entwined.

  “Why have you never married?” he asked suddenly.

  “I h-have never found anyone to my t-taste in my own . . . in my own c-class,” she stammered with perfect honesty, pulling her hand out of his. Abruptly, with his question, she realized how illusory their perfect harmony was, based as it was on his misimpression that she was of his same rank. If she asked him the same question the answer would likely be that he could not afford to marry. Most men of his situation could not until they were past middle age.

  “Oh.”

  “I suppose we had better be getting back,” she said.

  He cast a practiced eye at the sky. “Clouds gathering. We’ll have rain before nightfall. And I have work to do before then.”

  She realized with shame that this walk had probably taken him away from work that he would be in trouble for neglecting. “Will Lord Haven be angry with you for taking time away from your duties?” she asked as they moved back among the trees and to the hill beyond it. “I hope you will not suffer for this.”

  “What an ogre you must think him,” Gerry said, chuckling. “No, he is the most lenient of masters.”

  “I heard him spoken of as dour and uncommunicative,” she said. “I rather thought that would denote a sour and harsh cast of character.”

  Gerry looked startled. “Dour? I have never—where did you hear that?” When she did not answer, he answered himself. “At the inn, I suppose, or in the village. He is not much understood in the village, although I think he’s well respected. I suppose he could be called dour. He’s not a chatterer. In Yorkshire that is considered a good thing, though some in London might think it connotes a bitter twist of mind, I suppose.”

  She had not said London, Jane thought. But it was best they left that subject behind anyway. It came too close to revealing what she had truly heard and where, and a maid, though she might have heard downstairs gossip, would likely not have heard about Lord Haven unless he was a guest of the household.

  They walked back up the long fell and through the new green grass mixed with brown from the year before. Rocky outcroppings burst through the soil here and there, and Jane followed with her eyes the long, gray, stone fences that curved and marked off squares of grassy ground. It was a long ways back and Jane was thoroughly winded by the time they walked in silence up the last slope toward Mary’s cottage, then through the gate, where Gerry stopped.

  “If you’ll say my good-byes to Mary and Molly, I’ll leave you here,” he said.

  Jane, feeling suddenly shy, cast her eyes down at the mud-splattered toe of her walking shoes. She rubbed at the mud with the toe of her other shoe.

  “Miss Jenny, may I walk with you another day?” he asked, in his voice the proof that it was the impulse of the moment that made him ask.

  She looked up to find his steady and hopeful gaze upon her. “You may,” she said, unable to conceal the joy in her voice. She wondered whether he would actually be back before she found it necessary to leave. At least he would not find out what a fraud she was that very day. She was safe for the time being, though that was a ludicrous way to think of it. If she was who she said she was, she would be hoping that this handsome farmer was bent on courtship. Her heart would be thumping as it was now, but with hope, not sadness.

  “I’ll be back, then, as soon as work permits, Lord Haven being an ogre and a slave driver,” he said with a smile.

  She felt her own lips curve up in response. His smile lightened his broad face until it was not just handsome, but breathtaking. He was not a man the girls of her acquaintance would think handsome; he was too bluff and square and strongly built. He was not elegant in any way, but he satisfied her notion of manly good looks. He took her hand in one of his callused palms and turned it over wonderingly. “So soft,” he murmured, and brought it up to his lips. She gasped at the feel of his lips and he turned her hand over and in a courtly gesture touched the pulse at her wrist with his lips. “Good day, Miss Jenny. I’ll be back, never fear.”

  With that he turned and sauntered down the path, his hands in his trouser pockets, a jaunty whistle trailing behind him.

  Chapter Six

  “Have you found anything out?”

  Gerry had no sooner walked through the front door of the Court than Lady Mortimer pounced on him.

  “Have you found anything out?” she repeated, her dark eyes fixed on his face and her hand clutching at his arm, wrapping around his wrist, vise-like. “Have you found what happened to her yet? Where she is?”

  “No, Lady Mortimer, I have not,” he said, feeling terribly guilty. He could still feel the imprint of Jenny’s small warm hand in his palm; for a few hours he had completely forgotten about the poor girl who had disappeared. The weight settled back on his shoulders and he gently said, “I will be just having my tea and then will go out again. A neighbor heard something from one of his men and I’m going over to his estate to talk to the fellow myself.”

  “If I was a man, I would beat him until he told me.”

  “Until he told you what?” Haven snapped, jerking his arm out of her grasp and slipping effortlessly back into his role as Lord Haven, viscount and landowner. “Until he told you what you wanted to hear? That is a brilliant way of conducting yourself, madam, if you only want to hear lies! I happen to want the truth about Miss Dresden’s whereabouts and I was under the assumption that you did too!”

  His voice had thundered through the great hall, and his grandmother limped out of her chamber, her cane tap-tap-tapping on the flagstone floor.

  “What are you roaring about, Haven?” she said, but there was an appreciative glint in her eyes.

  “I am attempting to reassure Lady Mortimer that I am doing my utmost to find out what has happened to her niece.”

  “Well, of course you are! Only an imbecile would think otherwise.”

  The baroness’s face had frozen into an icy glare, and with a muttered imprecation she swooped out of the hall and strode up the carpeted staircase that curved upward to the gallery overhead.

  The dowager Lady Haven chuckled. “Fubsy-faced old turnip,” she said, making a face after the retreating baroness. “Come have tea with me, Haven. Tell me what you have been up to today, for I’ll warrant it was not completely taken up with searching for poor Miss Dresden. I saw you coming up the walk just now, and you had a look of moon-dreams on your face.” She turned, assuming he would follow, and he did.

  The dowager, though her home was nominally at Haven Wood, the dower house behind the manor house, had a room on the main floor of the Court, carved out of a section of the great hall. It was decorated in the heavy, ornate style of her youth, with large carved furniture and brocade-covered walls. An enormous screen portioned off an area near the fire for her bedchamber, but she had a sitting area near the window, and it was there that she retreated, pulling a bell-cord and ordering tea from the footman who answered the summons.

  “Who is she?” the dowager said the moment the door closed behind the footman.

  “She who?” Haven said irritably. He paced to the window and scrubbed his face with one hand, suddenly weary. He stared out at the leaden sky, but remembered the celestial blue overhead while he walked with Jenny.

  “‘She who’! Do not try to cozen me, Haven. Is she a new barmaid at the Swan? You had the same look on your face as the first time you came home from a tomcat expedition to town. Tupping a lightskirt behind the inn? Eh?”

  Haven flushed as he always did at his grandmother’s earthy wit. “No, I was not. I wish you would not speak that way, Grand. It’s crude and not befitting a lady.”

  The dowager made a rude noise. “Not befitting a lady! Humph. So, not a lightskirt, and not one of our maids. You never were one to break in the girls. You leave that up to the footmen. No little by-blows of yours running around that we know of, eh?”

  Haven flushed deeper and gave his grandmother a quelling look. She laughed, sputtering and gurgling as a footman brought in a tray, setting it on the table in front
of her. She dismissed him and poured herself a cup, dumping some in her saucer to cool it and drinking directly from the saucer.

  “I’ll not embarrass you more, lad,” she said kindly, sitting ramrod straight in her chair, her white hair dressed in the elaborate style she favored, even though in the country there were few to see it. “Your wenching shall remain a secret.” Her smile died. “I was glad to see you put that horrible Lady Mortimer in her place, Haven, but she has a right to be worried about her niece, for all she is a fussy old cod. The aunt, not the niece. What have you learned?”

  Haven sat down across the ornate gilt and enamel table from his grandmother. She poured tea for him with a barely quavering hand and he sipped it, finding solace in the smoky depths of the cup. He could wish it were stiffened with a good shot of brandy but would not quibble, especially since her tea was many times stronger and better than the anemic brew his mother served.

  “I have found a puzzling lack of information, Grand. Miss Dresden seems to have started down the stairs toward the kitchen of the Swan and never arrived at the other end. I have heard not a single scrap of information to suggest that anyone saw a well-dressed young lady being seized or assaulted anywhere near the Swan. And I cannot believe that she would have been hauled away without a soul seeing anything!”

  The dowager frowned. “Almost as if she wanted to disappear,” she murmured.

  He nodded. “I must say I have considered that, but still, Grand, even if that were true, where would she have gone? A well-dressed young lady just walks out of the inn? Someone would have noticed her. I would like to think she left of her own volition but I don’t think that’s possible. And we cannot discount the note that was found in the stable.”

  “I suppose not,” the old woman said. “D’you have the note?”

  Haven took it out of the pocket of the disreputable jacket he always wore when out walking his own land and smoothed it out on the tabletop, sliding it across to his grandmother.