While Father had done nothing about his inheritance, he had apparently requested a review of the Brynmore property boundaries shortly before his death. Mother did find reference to that in Father’s private papers after the family was contacted by Howard, Markham and Shaw, but what Father intended to do with that information would probably never be known. To all appearances, he’d had no serious interest in the property, and the house had sat empty at least since his brother’s death. Looking at it now, Robert suspected the place had been unoccupied for far longer than that.
Robert started up the stairs, treading cautiously on the cracked and crumbled steps.
“I have the key, sir,” Comstock said behind him.
“I don’t think we’ll need it.”
The huge oak door sagged on its hinges and took no more than a mild shove to swing open with a horrid creaking noise that sounded suspiciously like the wail of a wounded beast.
“Not afraid,” Wilcox called. “Just smart.”
Robert chuckled and stepped into the house. The entry was spacious, dominated by a grand stairway that rose upward to the second floor. First floor in England, Robert corrected himself. Signs of neglect and time were evident in the discoloration of the marble floor and the peeling, shredded silk that still clung valiantly to the walls. The wood paneling was warped, and the smell of mold and mildew hung in the air. A heap of broken wood that looked like the remains of an armoire rotted off to one side of the entry.
“At least the windows let in a lot of light,” Robert said, trying to make the best of what was far worse than he had expected.
“Not just the windows.” Comstock stared at the ceiling, and Robert followed his gaze.
A large hole in the ceiling revealed water damage on the ceiling above. A small flock of birds, apparently disturbed by the men’s presence, flew past the opening.
“Gonna need a new roof,” Wilcox said in a matter-of-fact manner.
Robert glanced at him. “I thought you weren’t coming in?”
“Curiosity.” Wilcox shrugged. “It’ll kill you, you know.”
“If the house doesn’t get you first,” Comstock murmured.
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing here that can hurt any of us.” Robert strode to the stairway. “This is good English construction, built to last.” He emphasized his words with a firm pat on the banister, which promptly tipped over. “It just needs a little repair, that’s all. Let’s see the rest of it.”
An hour and a half later, the men returned to the front of the manor. They had been through the entire house, Comstock filling several pages in his notebook with notations on what needed to be repaired or replaced. Wilcox pronounced the structure of the building to be basically sound, but that was the only good news to be found on the premises. The hole in the entry ceiling—apparently the result of the floor being weakened by water and the armoire dropping through—was the largest hole but was by no means the only one. Most of the rooms were in disrepair, and there was evidence that any number of small creatures had called Brynmore Manor home. Rotting cloths covered the few pieces of furniture that remained in the building. The library was perhaps in the best state, with much of the woodwork remarkably intact and a fair percentage of the books protected behind unbroken glass doors. But a new roof was essential, the façade needed repair, and there was an alarming tilt to most of the floors.
“What now, sir?” Comstock picked a cobweb off his sleeve.
“Back to the village, my lord?” Wilcox asked a bit too eagerly. Wilcox had proven to be a great help, but he had looked over his shoulder at every new squeak or scurry, and it was obvious that the house made him uncomfortable. Understandable. Every step they took on every floor and in every room was accompanied by loud creaks eerily reminiscent of screams, as if the house was in a great deal of pain.
“I had expected this place to need some work, but this is worse than I imagined.” Robert and Drew had planned to use Brynmore Manor as a place to entertain, and hopefully impress, business associates from London with house parties and long weekends as well as serving as a vacation retreat for the entire family. Mother had mentioned how much she would enjoy spending time in the English countryside and was in fact already planning a trip sometime in the next few months. She had joined her sons on occasional business trips to London in the past and was delighted with the country houses of old school friends she’d visited. Father never accompanied them. “What do you think, Wilcox?”
“I think it’s a good thing you have money, my lord.” Wilcox shook his head. “Never seen a house this bad.”
“But you think the structure is sound.”
“Don’t know for sure until you start taking it apart.” Wilcox shrugged. “I’d like to think I’m right about that, but there’s a more than even chance that I’m wrong.”
Robert eyed the villager warily. “Any thoughts on how long putting this place back in order might take?”
Wilcox’s brow shot upward. “All of it?”
“At least enough to make it habitable.”
“Can’t say.” Wilcox frowned thoughtfully. “A lot of problems ain’t easy to see. A house like this—bound to be surprises.”
“So, what are we talking about?” Robert was almost afraid to ask. “A few months?”
Wilcox chuckled. “I’d say upwards of a year.” He paused. “Maybe more.”
“That won’t do.” Robert thought for a minute. He’d never liked having to wait for anything. Patience was not one of his virtues. His mother had her heart set on an English country house, and if truth were told, so did he. Even Drew and Sarah were intrigued by the idea. Not that anyone planned on taking up full-time residence, but one never knew what the future might hold. Regardless, Brynmore Manor was practically in ruins, and the property itself wasn’t what he had envisioned.
An idea popped into his head, fully formed.
“What about the house next door?” he asked without thinking. Odd. He was not prone to impulse. Robert glanced at Wilcox. “Do you think the owners would be willing to sell?”
“Nimway?” Wilcox’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Oh, I wouldn’t think so, my lord. Nimway has been in the same family for generations.” He paused. “But life is hard all over these days.”
“And everything has its price.” Optimism rang in Robert’s voice. “Let’s pay a call on the owners and see what they have to say.”
“Excellent idea, sir,” Comstock said eagerly, but then Robert suspected the man would have agreed with him about anything.
“Well then, to Nimway it is.”
Chapter 2
These were not the hands of a well-bred lady. At least not anymore.
Alexandra Edith Hayden rocked back on her heels and studied her hands. She knew she should have worn gloves, but it was difficult to be exact with gloves on. This was not her first day of yanking persistent weeds out of the front gardens that greeted visitors upon their approach to Nimway Hall, but it did seem an endless chore. Pity she’d had to let the gardener go as well as most of the house and stable staff, but she’d had no choice. Nor did she have any choice but to take on this particular job herself. Mother had directed the planting of all the gardens at Nimway, and should Mother and Father appear unexpectedly—as was their habit—Mother would take one look at the gardens and know things were not as they should be at Nimway. And know as well, the trust she put in her only daughter had been misplaced. Even if Alex had to do every blasted job on the entire estate by herself, she would not allow Mother to think her daughter had failed.
Worse yet—Mother would be right.
When Mother had at last decided to turn over Nimway and the ancient post of guardian to her only child, she had said she was fully confident Alex was up to the task. She and Father had then taken off to see what adventures the rest of the world held. On occasion, usually when Alex was least expecting it, Mother and Father would return to Nimway. Mother never warned her daughter about these visits in advance, claiming
they weren’t for purposes of inspection but simply because she missed Nimway as well as Alex. Alex only partially believed her.
She brushed an annoying strand of hair away from her face. The good thing about the manual labor she was now engaged in was that it was essentially mindless and allowed her to think. Unfortunately, it also allowed her to dwell on her problems. In spite of the country’s current difficulties, poor harvests, and low grain prices, Alex had truly believed, thanks to Nimway’s financial reserves, that if she could simply hang on, things would improve. And aside from one tiny mistake nearly two years ago—well, two mistakes, really, but they were inseparable and not precisely tiny—she might have managed it. Now she had no idea what she was going to do. How she was going to save Nimway. She’d once put her faith in the magic that was part and parcel of Nimway, but thus far, that had failed her. Apparently, the punishment for being a poor guardian was a complete and utter lack of anything the least bit magical.
“Good day,” an unfamiliar male voice called from the drive.
Alex jerked her head toward the voice. Damn it all, she’d been so caught up in her thoughts she hadn’t even heard the carriage approach. A tall, dark-haired man leapt out of the vehicle and strode toward her.
Perfect. The very last thing she wanted at the moment was visitors. Still, it couldn’t be helped. She rose to her feet as gracefully as possible under the circumstances, brushed bits and pieces of vegetation off her skirt, and patted her hair in a futile effort to improve her immediate appearance. “Good day.”
“I’m looking for the owner of …” He glanced at the carriage driver.
“Nimway, sir,” Brian Wilcox said and cast her a barely suppressed grin. Brian was ten years older than Alex, and she’d known him all of her life. There was nothing Brian liked better than a good joke, although his idea of humor had always been suspect.
“Yes, that’s it.” The newcomer nodded. The man was obviously wealthy. The cut and quality of his clothes were impeccable. He was exceptionally attractive as well with unruly brown hair, badly in need of a trim, piercing blue eyes, and broad shoulders. He was the kind of man who looked as if he was as comfortable in the out-of-doors as he would be in a grand parlor. “Nimway.” He glanced around. “Nice place.”
“You’re American,” she said without thinking.
“Yes, I am.” He grinned. Dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth, and amusement sparkled in his eyes. “Clever of you to notice.”
“Your accent is unmistakable.”
He laughed. “And I was thinking your accent was unmistakable. But then I suppose you’re right—I’m the one with the accent here, not you.”
She really didn’t have time to be amused or charmed, and the American was certainly charming enough. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“As I said, I’m looking for the owner.”
Alex glanced at Brian, who refused to meet her gaze. “Might I ask why?”
“I’d much prefer to discuss that with your employer.”
Brian choked.
The man thought she worked here? She narrowed her eyes. “My employer?”
“Yes, the owner of the property.” He grinned in an intimate manner obviously designed to make even the most resistant woman swoon with anticipation. Alex had been down that road before. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to him?”
“Better yet, Mr. …?”
“Curtis. Robert Curtis. Well, Lord Brynmore now, I suppose.”
“Oh, surely not.” She scoffed then realized she had said it aloud.
He chuckled. “I’m afraid so.”
“From the neighboring estate? That Lord Brynmore?” There hadn’t been a Lord Brynmore in the neighborhood for longer than Alex could remember, although one could say he was responsible for her current difficulties. If one wished to place the blame on anyone other than herself.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“But you’re American.”
“We’ve established that.”
“An American viscount is …” Unacceptable was the first word that sprang to mind. Wrong was the second. Neither word seemed a good idea. “Well, unusual to say the least.”
“I hate being usual, don’t you?” His grin widened, and his eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Yes, I suppose I do.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you really the viscount?”
“I assure you I really am. Apparently, my late father was as well and his brother before him.”
“That explains it, then.” Although she would certainly send a letter to Aunt Viv in London, confirming his claim. Her aunt knew everything about everyone.
His tone was a shade less cordial. “Now, about your employer—”
“Allow me to show you into the parlor, my lord.” She nearly choked on the words. An American viscount? How utterly absurd. “If you will follow me.” She started toward the house.
“Tell me a bit about him.” The American followed behind her. “I hate to enter into any negotiation without knowing who I’m up against.”
“I would think Mr. Wilcox could tell you anything you needed to know.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But he said it wasn’t his place.” He paused. “What about you?”
“It’s not my place either.”
They stepped into the grand entry, and Pearson, Nimway’s butler probably since the beginning of time, appeared at once. Pearson and Mrs. Hopkins, the housekeeper, had taken on any number of new jobs in recent months. They, along with Mrs. Lamb—Nimway’s cook—a lone maid, and Fred Wiles, the stable master, had insisted on staying on at Nimway when Alex had let the rest of the staff go, as Nimway was their home, and they refused to leave Alex to fend for herself. She loved them for it.
“Mr. Pearson,” Alex said, catching the butler’s gaze, “Lord Brynmore is here to see the owner of the estate.”
Confusion flashed in the older man’s eyes, but he was too well-trained—and far too clever—to say anything.
“Why don’t you show him into the parlor and perhaps offer him some tea while I fetch the owner?”
Comprehension dawned on Pearson’s face, and he addressed the American. “This way, sir.”
“Thank you.” Brynmore smiled at Pearson.
It was a genuine, sincere smile, and it struck her that he might be a very nice man. One could always tell the true nature of a man by how he treated those beneath his station.
He glanced back at Alex. “And thank you.”
She nodded and resisted the urge to bob a curtsy. The moment he disappeared into the parlor, she sprinted up the stairs and headed for her rooms, the same rooms she had lived in all her life. Even though there was a lovely large suite designated for the guardian, Alex refused to occupy it until she had a husband with whom to share it. On that particular score, the prospects were bleak.
She headed for her armoire, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed. Good Lord! Her dark hair was disheveled and her clothes decidedly worn and even somewhat grubby. No wonder he thought she was a servant. And an unkempt one at that.
No matter. The man was an arrogant, overconfident interloper. Viscount Brynmore indeed. And an American to boot. Weren’t there rules about that sort of thing? About Americans having English titles? If there weren’t, there certainly should be. Americans had been more than eager to abandon England just over a hundred years ago. Now they were all flooding back, or rather, their daughters were. Every time one turned around these days, it seemed another American heiress was marrying a member of the British aristocracy. Not that marrying for fortune and position wasn’t something of a tradition. But it was an English tradition and therefore should be restricted to subjects of Her Majesty. Still, she could understand the temptation of a match with these rich Americans. She could certainly use marriage to a rich American herself, not that she would ever consider such a thing.
Alex studied the offerings in the armoire. What on earth did one wear to put an arrogant American
in his place? Thanks to Aunt Viv’s periodic additions to Alex’s wardrobe, her clothes were not entirely out of fashion. Well, not all of them, anyway. Life in Somerset did not require much in the way of fashion, and it had been months since she’d been to London. The blue day dress would do. She grabbed it and turned.
“Oh, I don’t think so, miss.” Millie Carter, several years older than Alex and the only remaining maid in the house, firmly plucked the dress from Alex’s hand then turned her attention back to the clothes in the armoire. “Mr. Pearson suggested you might need assistance. Obviously, he was right.” She returned the dress to its hook in the armoire. “This dress is entirely too, well, serviceable.”
“Serviceable?” A wry note sounded in Alex’s voice.
“Yes,” Millie said firmly. “It’s the sort of dress one wears if one has things to do and doesn’t particularly care how one presents oneself.”
“I like it.” Alex paused. “Is it really that bad?”
Millie scoffed and rummaged through Alex’s clothes. “This will do.” She pulled out a green walking dress. “This highlights the green of your eyes and complements your dark hair.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit too nice for an ordinary day in the country?”
“When a wealthy American comes calling, it’s not an ordinary day.” Millie spun Alex around and started unfastening the simple dress she’d been wearing.
“No doubt he’s simply here to introduce himself. He’s the new Lord Brynmore.”
“An American? Why, I never.”
“It’s absurd, but there you have it.”
Millie paused. “He’s quite handsome, though, isn’t he?”
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1888 - ALEXANDRA Page 2
