The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3)

by Grace Burrowes

  “I can see to that,” Anna said. “Why don’t you wash off the dust of the road, and I’ll have your luncheon served on the terrace.”

  “Join us?” the earl said, laying a hand on her arm.

  Her eyes met his, and she saw he would not argue, but he was asking. She nodded and made for the kitchen, trying to muster a scold for giving in to his foolishness. At Willowdale, she’d been a guest of the Marquis and Marchioness of Heathgate, as Heathgate served as the local magistrate. There she’d been treated as a guest and as the earl’s respected… what? Friend? His fiancée? His… nothing. Certainly not his housekeeper. Anna had allowed the fiction out of manners and out of a sense it was the last chapter in her dealings with Westhaven, an unreal series of days that allowed them a great deal of freedom in each other’s company.

  And at night, he’d stolen into her room, slipped into her bed, and held her in his arms while they talked until they both fell asleep. He’d told her stories of growing up among a herd of the duke’s offspring on the rambling acres of Morelands, of his last parting from his brother Bart, and his suspicions regarding a second ducal grandchild.

  She told him what it was like to grow up secure in her grandparents’ love, surrounded by acres of flowers and hot houses and armies of gardeners. But mostly, Anna had listened. She listened to his voice, deep, masculine, and beautiful in the darkness. She listened to his hands, to the patterns of tenderness and possession they traced on her bare skin. She listened to his body, becoming as familiar to her as her own, and to the way he used it to express both affection and protectiveness. She listened to his mind, to the discipline with which he used it to provide for all whom he cared for.

  She listened to his heart and heard it silently—and unsuccessfully—plead with her for her trust.

  “And there be our bird,” the dirty little man cackled to an even dirtier little boy.

  “So you’ll tell the fat swell we seen her?” the child asked, eyeing the pretty lady with the flower basket.

  “I will, but happen not today, me lad. He pays good, and we’re due for another installment when I call on him tonight. Too hot to do more than stand about in the shade anyways—might as well get paid fer it, aye?”

  “Aye.” The child grinned at the soundness of his superior’s reasoning and went back to getting paid to watch.

  “You tell old Whit if the lady goes out, mind, and be ready for yer shift again tomorrow at first light.”

  “You use the same employment agency as Her Grace,” Hazlit began, his eyes meeting the earl’s unflinchingly. “So I started there and eventually found copies of references your housekeeper brought with her two years ago. They all came from older women, ladies of quality now residing in York and its surrounds, so I went north.”

  “You went north,” the earl repeated, needing and dreading to hear what came next.

  “On her application,” Hazlit went on, “Mrs. Seaton put she was willing to work as a housekeeper or in a flower shop, which caught my eye. It’s an odd combination of skills, but it gave me a place to start. I took her sketches and what I knew, and wrote to a colleague of mine in York. Some answers essentially fell into my lap from there.”

  “What sketches?”

  “Mrs. Seaton goes to the park occasionally, the same as most of London in the summer,” Hazlit said. He opened a folder and drew forth a charcoal sketch that bore a striking resemblance to Anna Seaton.

  “It’s quite good,” the earl said, frowning. Hazlit had caught not just Anna’s appearance but also her sweetness and courage and determination. Still, to think Hazlit had sketched this when Anna was unaware rankled.

  “It is your property.” A flicker of sympathy graced Hazlit’s austere features.

  “My thanks.” The earl set aside the portrait, and gave Hazlit his full attention. “What answers fell into your lap?”

  “Some,” Hazlit cautioned, “not all. There are not charges laid against her I could find in York or London, but her brother is looking for her. Her name is Anna Seaton James, she is the oldest daughter of Vaughn Hammond James and Elva James nee Seaton, who both died in a carriage accident when Anna was a young girl. Her sister, Morgan Elizabeth James, was involved in the same accident and indirectly lost her hearing as a result. The heir, Wilberforce Hammond James, was the only son and resides at the family seat, Rosecroft, in Yorkshire, along the Ouse to the northwest of the city.”

  “Granddaughter to an earl,” the earl muttered, frowning. “Why did Anna flee?”

  “As best my colleague and I can piece together,” Hazlit replied, “the old earl tied up his money carefully, so the heir was unable to fritter away funds needed for the girls and their grandmother. The heir managed to do a deal of frittering, nonetheless, and I took the liberty of buying up a number of his markers.”

  “Enterprising of you,” the earl said, reaching for the stack of papers Hazlit passed to him. “Ye Gods…” He sorted through the IOUs and markers, his eyebrows rising. “This is a not-so-small fortune by Yorkshire standards.”

  “My guess, and it’s only a guess, is that Anna knows of the mishandling of her grandfather’s estate perpetrated by the present earl, and she made the mistake of trying to reason with her brother. Then too, the younger sister, Morgan, is very vulnerable to exploitation, and if a man will steal from his sisters, he’ll probably do worse without a qualm.”

  “You manage to imply a host of nasty outcomes, Mr. Hazlit,” the earl observed, “though nothing worse than my imagination has concocted. Any advice from this point out?”

  “Don’t let them out of your sight,” Hazlit said. “It is not kidnapping if you are a concerned and titled brother looking for sisters whom you can paint as flighty at best. He can snatch either one, and there will be nothing you or anyone else could do about it. Nothing.”

  “Can he marry them off?”

  “Of course. For Morgan, in particular, that would be simple, as she was arguably impaired by her deafness, and marriage is considered to be in a woman’s best interests.”

  “Considered by men,” the earl replied with a thin smile. “Well, thank you, Hazlit. I will convince the ladies to remain glued to my side, and all will be well.”

  Hazlit stood, accepting the hand proffered by the earl. “Better yet, marry the woman to someone you can trust to look out for her and to manage Helmsley. The situation could resolve itself quite easily.”

  “You are not married, Mr. Hazlit, are you?”

  “I do not at this time enjoy the wedded state,” Hazlit said, his smile surprisingly boyish. “I do enjoy the unwedded state.”

  “Thus sayeth we all,” the earl said, escorting Hazlit to the front door. “Those of us in expectation of titles sometimes particularly enjoy the unwedded state—while we can.” Something briefly shone in Hazlit’s dark eyes—regret? Sympathy?—it was gone before the earl could analyze it.

  “Good day, my lord,” Hazlit said, his eyes drifting to the huge bouquet on the table, “and good luck keeping your valuables safe.”

  The earl retreated to his study, penned a note asking Val to return to the townhouse at his earliest convenience, and another thanking Heathgate for the recent hospitality. For all Hazlit had been informative, though, Westhaven had the sense there were still answers only Anna could provide.

  So he sat for a long time, sipping his sweetened lemonade, contemplating the bouquet in the fireplace, and considering how exactly he could keep Anna Seaton—Anna James—safe when her valise was packed and sitting on her bed, just as it had been the night they’d been called out to Willow Bend.

  When darkness was beginning to fall, Westhaven was pleased to see both his brothers would be joining him for dinner. Val, with music books, wardrobe, and horse in tow, had rejoined the earl’s household, claiming the duke was bloody well enough recovered to drive anybody to Bedlam.

  Dev was clearly trying to contain his questions about the fire out in Surrey, but when the meal was consumed, sweets and all, the earl asked his brothers t
o take an after-dinner stroll with him to the stables. Once there, away from the house and its balconies, he explained what Hazlit had told him and enlisted his brothers’ support in seeing to it Anna and Morgan were kept safe.

  “But you can’t keep them under surveillance every minute,” Dev protested. “They are intelligent women, and they will soon know we’re up to something.”

  “I’ll talk to Anna tonight,” the earl said. “She has to be made to see reason, or I’ll bundle her off to Morelands myself, there to be confined until she’ll marry me.”

  Val exchanged a look with Dev. “So the ducal blood will out, and you’re taking the Roman example of seizing and carrying off your bride.”

  Westhaven sighed. “I am no more willing to force a marriage on Anna than she would be willing to take her vows on those terms. I would live down to her worst expectations were I to even attempt it.”

  “Glad you comprehend that much,” Dev said. “Best of luck convincing her she needs bodyguards. Morgan, at least, can’t argue with us.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Val said, his expression preoccupied. “I have missed my piano though, so I’ll leave you, Westhaven, to reason with Anna, while I bare my soul to my art.”

  “Damn.” Dev watched his youngest brother depart and smiled at the earl. “And here I’ve been baring everything else to the wenches at the Pleasure House. Which of us, do you suppose, has it right?”

  “Neither.” The earl smiled. “When it comes down to it, I’m having to admit in the things that matter most, it’s the duke who has gotten closest to the mark.”

  Devlin cast him a curious glance then ambled off to tuck in his horses. Westhaven was alone in the darkened alley when he heard the barest thread of a whisper summoning him farther into the shadows.

  “This is short notice, your lordship.” Hazlit studied the Earl of Westhaven by the light of the candles in the man’s library. It was a handsome room, and Hazlit had noted at their earlier meeting the whole house appeared well cared for. The bouquets were fresh, the wood work polished, the windows sparkling, and not a speck of dust to be seen.

  “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, Hazlit,” the earl said. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “You may.” Hazlit accepted the offer, in part because the quality of the drink served told him about a man’s character, but also because he had the sense the earl was offering not in an attempt to manipulate but out of sheer good breeding.

  “Whiskey or brandy?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” Hazlit replied. “I assume we meet to discuss the same matter?”

  “We do,” the earl said, handing Hazlit a generous tot of whiskey. “To your health.”

  “Yours.” Hazlit sipped cautiously then paused. “Lovely, but I don’t recognize it.”

  “It’s a private label.” The earl smiled. “Heathgate owns the distillery and calls this his bribing vintage.”

  Hazlit nodded. He had sampled this vintage before but not often, and it wasn’t something he’d admit about one client to another. “My compliments. Now, how can I assist you?”

  “Shall we sit?” The earl gestured to the long, comfortable-looking leather sofa, and Hazlit sank into one corner. The earl took up a rocking chair, his drink in hand. “I have become aware my house is being watched, front and back. I had a very interesting discussion last night when I went to bid my horse good night. I was accosted by an urchin loyal to David Worthington, Viscount Fairly, who was picketed in my mews unbeknownst to me.”

  Hazlit merely nodded, his eyes locked on the earl.

  “More significantly,” the earl went on, “I was informed my house is also being watched by the minions of one Whit, who is in the employ of two gentlemen from the North, one of whom is obese.” The earl paused to sip his drink. “I recently purchased a modest property a short distance from Town, Willow Bend by name. The stables there were burned last week, and other buildings were soaked with lamp oil. By chance, acquaintances happened to see the stables burning and summoned help before the rest of the property could be set ablaze.

  “Fortunately, the place was not yet occupied, and only the stables were lost. I hired a runner, who was able to deduce that two men, well dressed, one quite portly, bought a quantity of lamp oil the day before my stables burned, from the last likely source before one leaves Town for the Surrey countryside.”

  “You suspect these men were sent after Mrs. Seaton,” Hazlit suggested.

  The earl met Hazlit’s eyes. “I suspect one of them of being her brother, the earl. Is he reported to be portly?”

  “He is not.” Hazlit fished in a pocket of his coat, and brought out a small pad of a paper. “Have you a pen?”

  The earl got up and went to his desk, setting out ink, pen, sand, and knife on the blotter. Hazlit brought his drink to the desk, assumed the earl’s wingback chair, and with the earl looking over his shoulder, sketched a figure of a man.

  “Helmsley,” Hazlit said tersely, tearing off the sheet and starting another sketch, this one of the man’s face. While Hazlit sketched, the earl studied the little ink drawing.

  “Helmsley has bulk to him,” Hazlit said as he worked. “He’s close to six feet, and bad living is going to ensure middle age is a short interlude before the man’s shoulders are stooped, his gut sagging, and his face lined. There.”

  Hazlit tore off the second drawing. “He bears a slight resemblance to your housekeeper around the eyes and perhaps in the texture and color of the hair.”

  “He does.” The earl frowned. “He’s older than Anna?”

  “He is. He is not your portly man, though. He qualifies as well fed but not obese.”

  “Can you take this picture to the man who sold the lamp oil?” the earl suggested, picking up the second drawing. “And maybe get a description of the other fellow?”

  “I can. I can also go back north and ask around regarding the portly man.”

  “That will take some time.” The earl leaned against the arm of the sofa. “I hardly need tell you to spare no expense.” He appeared lost in thought, and Hazlit waited. “Do you think Anna’s grandmother is well enough to travel?”

  “She hasn’t been seen much off the estate since her husband died,” Hazlit replied. “That does not suggest good health, but it might also mean she’s a virtual prisoner.”

  The earl looked up sharply, and Hazlit had the sense his casual comment snapped something into place in the earl’s mind.

  “If we cannot establish Anna’s brother is here in London,” the earl said slowly, “then I want you to go north and figure out just where the hell he is. I believe he is the primary threat to Anna’s welfare, and his leverage is that he holds her grandmother’s welfare in his hands.”

  “And the fat man?” Hazlit rose. “We know he’s in Town and that he’s probably lying in wait for Mrs. Seaton.”

  “But waiting for what?” the earl mused. “For the brother to come to Town and have the legal right to reclaim his sisters, perhaps?”

  “Good question,” Hazlit agreed. “Let me take the sketches with me, and maybe by tomorrow, I can have some answers for you.”

  “My thanks,” the earl said, showing his guest to the front door.

  Westhaven sat in the library for long moments, sipping cold tea and staring at the first sketch. When Anna came in, he slid the drawing into a drawer then rose to meet her.

  “You are up late,” she observed, going into his arms. He kissed her cheek, and Anna squealed. “And your lips are cold.”

  “So warm them up,” he teased, kissing her cheek again. “I’ve been swilling cold tea and whiskey and putting off having an argument with you.”

  “What are we going to argue about?” Anna asked, pulling back enough to regard him warily.

  “Your safety,” he said, tugging her by the wrist to the sofa. “I want to ask you, one more time, to let me help you, Anna. I have the sense if you don’t let me assist you now, it might soon be too late.”

  “Why now?” sh
e asked, searching his eyes.

  “You have your character,” he pointed out. “Val told me you asked him for it, and he gave it to you, as well as one for Morgan.”

  “A character is of no use to me if it isn’t in my possession.”

  “Anna,” he chided, his thumb rubbing over her wrist, “you could have told me.”

  “That was not our arrangement. Why can you not simply accept I must solve my own problems? Why must you take this on, too?”

  He looped his arm over her shoulders and pulled her against him. “Aren’t you the one telling me I should lean on my family a little more? Let my brothers help with business matters? Set my mother and sisters some tasks?”

  “Yes.” She buried her nose against his shoulder. “But I am not the heir to the Duke of Moreland. I am a simple housekeeper, and my problems are my own.”

  “I’ve tried,” he said, kissing her temple. “I’ve tried and tried and tried to win your trust, Anna, but I can’t make you trust me.”

  “No,” she said, “you cannot.”

  “You leave me no choice. I will take steps on my own tomorrow to safeguard you and your sister, as well.”

  She just nodded, leaving him to wonder what it was she didn’t say. His other alternative was to wash his hands of her, and that he could not do. “Come up to bed with me?”

  “Of course,” she said and let him draw her to her feet.

  He said nothing, not with words, not as they undressed each other, not as they settled into one another’s arms on his big, soft bed. But when communications were offered by touch, by sigh and kiss and caress, he told her loved her and would lay down his life to keep her safe.

  She told him she loved him, that she would always treasure the memories she held of him, that she would never love another.

  And she told him good-bye.

  The next day started out in a familiar pattern, with the earl riding in the park with his brothers and Anna joining Cook on the weekly marketing. The women took two footmen as was their usual custom. Unbeknownst to Anna, the earl had taken both men aside and acquainted them with the need to serve as bodyguards and not just porters.