Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

  Stunned, Lady Catherine blinked. ‘You’re mad! I would be mortified to do so!’ She sat bolt upright, her hands twisting in her lap, her expression one of dawning dismay.

  Martin quelled an unexpected urge to comfort her. She would have to learn that the youth who left this house thirteen years before was no more. ‘I hesitate to point out that any embarrassment you might feel has been accrued through your own machinations. It would be well if you could bring yourself to understand that I will not be manipulated, ma’am.’

  Unable to meet his stern gaze, Lady Catherine glanced down at her crabbed fingers, conscious for the first time in years of an urge to fuss with her skirts. Suddenly, Martin looked very like—sounded very like—his father.

  When his mother remained silent, Martin continued calmly, his tone dry. ‘As for your second point, I can inform you that, having become thoroughly acquainted with my inheritance, I’ve rescinded all the appointments made by George. Matthews and Sons and Bromleys, our brokers, together with our bankers, Blanchards, remain. They date from my father’s time. But my people are now in charge of this estate and the smaller estates in Dorset, Leicestershire and Northamptonshire. The men George hired were bleeding the estate dry. It’s beyond my comprehension, ma’am, why even you did not question the story that estates of the size of the Merton holdings were, within two years of my father’s death, mysteriously no longer able to support the family.’

  Martin paused, tamping down the anger simmering beneath his calm. Just thinking of the state of his patrimony was enough to summon his demons. Surmising from his mother’s stunned expression that she needed a few minutes to adjust to his revelations, he let his gaze wander the room.

  Lady Catherine’s mind was indeed reeling. A niggling memory of the odd look old Matthews had given her when, angry at Martin’s inheriting, she had given vent to her frustrations in a long catalogue of his shortcomings, returned with a thump. She had been taken aback by the man’s quietly tendered opinion that Mr Martin was just what the Merton estates needed. Martin, expensive profligate that he was, was hardly the sort she had expected Matthews to support. Later, she had learned that Martin had engaged the same firm his family had long used to represent him in his business dealings. It had come as something of a shock to realise that Martin had the sort of dealings with which a firm such as Matthews and Sons would assist. Matthews’ comment had bothered her. Now she knew what he had meant. Damn him—why had he not explained more fully? Why had she not asked?

  After gazing at Melissa’s bent head, pale blonde flecked with grey, and recalling his conclusion of years before that nothing much actually went on inside it, Martin turned back to his mother. As he guessed rather more of her thoughts than she would have wished, his lips twisted wryly. ‘You’re quite right in saying that I’ve little experience in running estates of this size—my own are considerably more extensive.’

  Confirming as they did that her third son had changed in more ways than met the eye, his words seriously undermined Lady Catherine’s composure. They more than undermined her plans.

  At her thunderstruck look, Martin’s grin converted to a not ungentle smile. ‘Did you think your prodigal son was returning from a life of deprivation to hang on your sleeve?’

  The glance she threw him was answer enough. Martin leant back against the window-ledge, long legs stretched before him. ‘I’m desolated to disappoint you, ma’am, but I’m in no need of your funds. On my return to London, I’ll instruct Matthews to call on you here, to assist in redrafting your will. I pray you hold to your threat to disown me. Damian will never forgive you if you don’t. Besides,’ he added, grey eyes gleaming with irrepressible candour, ‘he needs the support that the news that he’s your beneficiary will bring. If nothing else, it should relieve me of the necessity of repeatedly rescuing him from the River Tick. As far as I’m concerned, he may go to the devil in whatever way he chooses. If he uses your money to do it, I’ll be even better pleased. However, regardless of what you may choose to do, no further monies from your settlements will be used for the Merton estates, in any way whatever.’

  Martin examined his mother’s face, sensitive to the encroachments of age on past beauty. After her initial shock, she had drawn herself up, her eyes grey stone, her lips compressed as if to hold back her incredulity. Despite her ailment, there was a deal of strength and determination still discernible in the gaunt frame. To his surprise, he no longer felt the need to strike back at her, to impress her with his successes, to demonstrate how worthy of her love he was. That, too, had died with the years.

  ‘And now to your last stipulation.’ He pushed away from the window-ledge, glancing down to resettle his sleeves. ‘I will, of course, be residing for part of the year in London. Beyond that, I anticipate travelling to my various estates as well as visiting those of my friends, as one might expect. I also anticipate inviting guests to stay here. As I recall, during my father’s day, the Hermitage was renowned for its hospitality.’ He looked at his mother; she was staring past him, plainly struggling to bring this new image of him into focus.

  ‘Of course, such visits will have to wait until the place is refurbished.’

  ‘What?’ The unladylike exclamation burst from Lady Catherine’s lips. Startled, her gaze flew to Martin’s face, her question in her eyes.

  ‘You needn’t concern yourself about that.’ Martin frowned. There was no need for her to know how bad it really was; she would be mortified. ‘I’m sending a firm of decorators down once they’ve finished with Merton House.’ He paused but his mother’s gaze was again far-away. When she made no further comment, Martin straightened. ‘I’m returning to London within the hour. So, if there’s nothing further you wish to discuss, I’ll bid you goodbye.’

  ‘Am I to assume these decorators will, on your instruction, redo these rooms as well?’ The sarcasm in Lady Catherine’s voice would have cut glass.

  Martin smothered his smile. Rapidly, he reviewed his options. ‘If you wish, I’ll tell them to consult with you— over the rooms that are peculiarly yours, of course.’

  He could not, in all conscience, saddle her with the task of overseeing such a major reconstruction, and, if truth be known, he intended to use this opportunity to stamp his own personality on this, the seat of his forebears.

  His mother’s glare relieved him of any worry that she would react to his independence by going into a decline. Reassured, Martin raised an expectant brow.

  With every evidence of reluctance, Lady Catherine nodded a curt dismissal.

  With a graceful bow to her, and a nod for Melissa, Martin left the room.

  Lady Catherine watched him go, then sought counsel in silence. Long after the door had clicked shut, she remained, her gaze fixed, unseeing, on the unlighted fire. Eventually shaking free of her recollections, she could not help wondering if, in her most secret of hearts, despite the attendant difficulties, she was not just a little bit relieved to have a man, a real man, in charge again.

  Downstairs, Martin briskly descended the steep steps of the portico to where his curricle awaited, his prize match bays stamping impatiently. A heavy hacking cough greeted him, coming from beyond the off-side horse. Frowning, Martin ignored the reins looped over the brake and, patting the velvety noses of his favourite pair, rounded them to find his groom-cum-valet and ex-batman Joshua Carruthers propped against the carriage, eyes streaming above a large handkerchief.

  ‘What the devil’s the matter?’ Even as Martin asked the question, he realised the answer.

  ‘Nuthing more’n a cold,’ Joshua mumbled thickly, waving one gnarled hand dismissively. He gulped and stuffed the handkerchief in his breeches pocket, revealing a shiny red nose to his master’s sharp eyes. ‘Best get on our way, then.’

  Martin did not move. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘But I distin’ly ’eard you say nuthin’ on earth woul’ induce you to spen’ the night in this ramshackle ’ole.’

  ‘As always, your memory is accurate,
your hearing less so. I’m going on.’

  ‘No’ without me, you’re not.’

  Exasperated, hands on hips, Martin watched as the old soldier half staggered to the back of the curricle. When he had to brace himself against the curricle side as another bout of coughing shook him, Martin swore. Spotting two stable boys gazing in awe, whether at the equipage or its owner Martin was not at all sure, he beckoned them up. ‘Hold ’em.’

  Once assured they had the restless horses secured, Martin grasped Joshua by the elbow and steered him remorselessly towards the house. ‘Consider yourself ordered back to barracks. Dammit, man—we wouldn’t get around the first bend before you fell off.’

  In vain, Joshua tried to hang back. ‘But—’

  ‘I know the place is in a state,’ Martin countered, sweeping his reluctant henchman back up the steps. ‘But now I’ve got rid of that wretched factor, the rest of the staff will doubtless remember how things should be done. At least,’ he added, stopping in the gloomy front hall, ‘I hope they will.’

  He had given orders that the household should conduct itself as it had previously, in his father’s day. Enough of the staff remained for him to expect a reasonable outcome. All locals, many from generations of Merton servitors, they had been overwhelmed by the outsider George had installed over them. Freed from the tyrannical factor, they seemed eager to return the Hermitage to its proper state.

  Joshua sniffed. ‘What about the horses?’

  Martin’s lips twitched but he suppressed the urge to smile, assuming instead a repressively haughty attitude. His brows rose to chilling heights. ‘You aren’t about to suggest I don’t know how to take care of my cattle, are you?’

  Muttering, Joshua threw him a darkling glance.

  ‘Get off to bed, you old curmudgeon. When you’re well enough to ride, you may take a horse from the stables and come on to London. It’ll have to be that hack of George’s; it’s the only animal remaining with sufficient resemblance to the equine species to meet your high standards.’

  Not at all mollified, Joshua humphed. But he knew better than to argue. Contenting himself with a last warning— ‘There’s rain on the way, so’s you’d best take heed’—he stumped down the hall towards the faded baize-covered door at its rear.

  Smiling, Martin returned to his curricle. Dismissing the wide-eyed lads, he climbed to the box seat and clicked the reins. The carriage swept down the weed-choked drive. Martin did not glance back.

  As he passed through the gateposts marking the main entry, through the heavy iron gates, half off their hinges, Martin heaved a heartfelt sigh. For thirteen years, his home had glowed in his memory, a place of charm and grace, an Elysian paradise he had longed to regain. Fate had granted him his wish but, as fickle as ever, had denied him his dream. The charm and grace had vanished, victim to the neglect of the years since his father had had it in his care.

  He would restore it—bring back the gracious beauty, the calming sense of peace. On that he was determined. Martin’s jaw set, his eyes glinted, grey steel in the afternoon sun. In truth, he was glad to leave behind the travesty of his dream. He would remain in London until the work was done. When next he saw his home, it would once again be the place he had carried in his heart through all the years of his roaming. His particular paradise.

  The road to Taunton loomed ahead. Checking his team for the turn, Martin cast a quick glance to the west. Joshua had been right—there was rain on the way. Pursing his lips, Martin considered his options. If he stopped at Taunton, London the next day would be a tough order. He would make for Ilchester—he and Joshua had passed the previous night at the Fox in tolerable comfort. Decision made, Martin dropped his hands, letting the horses stretch their legs. From memory, there was a short cut, just south of Taunton, which would see him in Ilchester before the coming storm.

  Two hours later, the curricle swayed perilously as the wheels hit yet another rut. Martin swore roundly. He reined in his team to peer ahead into the gathering gloom. The short cut, dimly remembered as a fair road, had not lived up to expectations. A low mutter came from the west. Martin scanned the horizons, barely visible beneath the low-lying cloud. He doubted he could even make the London road before the storm struck.

  He was gently urging the horses over the rutted stretch, dredging his memory in an effort to recall any nearby shelter, when a scream rent the air. The horses plunged. Rapidly bringing them under control, Martin leapt from his perch and ran to their heads. He caught hold of their bits just in time to prevent them rearing as a second scream sliced through the night. No doubt about it, a woman’s scream, coming from the woods just ahead. Swiftly, Martin tied the team securely to a nearby gate and, grabbing the pair of loaded pistols from beneath the seat, made for the trees. Once in their shadow, he took care to move silently, thanking the years of his misspent youth, when he had often gone poaching on his father’s preserves with young Johnny Hobbs from the village.

  Some distance into the wood, he froze. Before him lay a small clearing, a track leading into it from the opposite direction. Sounds of a struggle came from an ill-assorted trio, waltzing in the shadows in the centre.

  ‘Keep still, you little…!’

  ‘Ow! Gawd! She bit my finger, the doxy!’

  As one man pulled away, the group resolved into two burly men dressed in unkempt frieze and a lady, unquestionably a lady, in a silk gown which shimmered in the twilight. The larger of the men succeeded in grabbing the woman from behind, trapping her arms by her sides. Despite her efforts to kick him, he managed to hold her.

  ‘Listen, missus. The master said to hold you ’ere and not to harm a single hair of your head. Now how’s we to do that if’n you don’t stop still?’

  The exasperation in the man’s voice brought a sympathetic smile to Martin’s face. The clearing was too large to allow him to creep up on them. Quietly, he worked his way around so that the man holding the woman would have his back to him.

  ‘You fools!’ The woman and her captor teetered perilously. ‘Don’t you know the price for kidnapping? If you let me go, I’ll pay you double what your master will!’

  Martin’s brows rose. The woman’s voice was unexpectedly mature. Clearly, she had not lost her head.

  ‘Maybe so, lady,’ growled the man nursing his finger. ‘But the master’s gentry and they’re mean when crossed. No—I don’t rightly see as how we can oblige.’

  Holding both pistols fully cocked, Martin stepped from the trees. ‘Dear me. Haven’t you been taught to always oblige a lady?’

  The man holding the woman let her go and swung to face Martin. In the same moment, Martin saw the second man draw a knife. He had a clear shot and took it, the ball passing into the man’s elbow. The man dropped the knife and howled. His comrade turned to the source of the sound and so missed the pretty sight of ex-Major Martin Willesden, soldier of fortune and experienced man at arms, being laid low by a right to the jaw, delivered by a very small fist. Martin, his attention on the man he had shot, did not see the blow coming. His head jerked back from the contact and struck a low branch. Stunned, he crumpled slowly to the ground.

  Helen Walford stared at the long form stretched somnolent at her feet. God in heaven! It wasn’t Hedley Swayne after all! The discharged pistol, still smoking, was clutched in the man’s left hand. His right hand held a second pistol, cocked and ready. She darted forward and grabbed it. Catching her skirts in one hand, she leapt over the sprawled form and swung to train the pistol on her captor, hampered in his efforts to reach her by the body between. ‘Keep your distance!’ she warned. ‘I know how to use this.’

  Noting the steadiness of the pistol pointed at his chest, the man who had held her decided to accept her word. He glanced back at his accomplice, now on his knees, moaning in pain. He threw Helen a malevolent glance. ‘Blast!’

  He eyed her menacingly, then turned and stumped over to his mate. Helping him up, he growled, ‘Let’s get out of this. The master’s bound to be along shortly. To my mind, h
e can sort this lot out hisself.’

  His words carried to Helen. Her eyes widened in shock. ‘You mean this man isn’t your master?’ She spared a glance for the still form at her feet. Heavens! What had she done?

  The men looked at the crumpled figure. ‘That swell? Never set eyes on him afore, missus.’

  ‘Whoever he be, he’s goin’ to be none too pleased with you when he wakes up,’ added the second man with relish.

  Helen swallowed and gestured with the gun. Grumbling, the two rogues made their way to the edge of the clearing where stood a disreputable gig pulled by a single broken-down nag. They clambered aboard and, whistling up the horse, departed down the rough track.

  Left alone in the gloom with her unconscious rescuer, Helen stood and stared at the recumbent form. ‘Oh, lord!’

  Thus far, her day had been a resounding disaster. Kidnapped in the small hours, bundled up in a distinctly odoriferous blanket, bustled from one carriage to another until the sounds of London had been left far behind, she had spent the day being battered and jostled, tied and gagged, trussed and trapped in a worn-out chaise. Her head was still pounding. And now she had been rescued, only to lay her rescuer low.

  With a groan, Helen pressed a hand to her temple.

  Fate was having a field day.

  Chapter Two

  The back of his head hurt. Martin’s first thought on regaining consciousness convinced him he was still alive. But, when his lids fluttered open, he realised his error. He had to be dead. There was an angel hanging over him, her golden hair lit by an unearthly radiance. A sudden twinge forced his eyes shut.

  He could not be dead. His head hurt too much, even though it was cradled in the softest lap imaginable. A delicate hand brushed his brow. He trapped it in one of his. No spectre, his angel, but flesh and blood.