Freshly scrubbed and attired in dry clothing, Fredrick realized that he was starving. With a last glance in the mirror to check that his cravat was precisely knotted and his curls tamed, he left the room.
He closed the door behind him, his heart giving a sudden leap as he watched Mrs. Walker marching down the hallway.
For some unfathomable reason, he had been unable to thrust the thought of the woman from his mind. Strange, considering he was a man who never allowed himself to be distracted. How could he have possibly made such a success of his business if he could not concentrate fully on his goals?
On this evening, however, it did not matter how often he sternly turned his thoughts to his upcoming confrontation with his father, his mind refused to cooperate. Instead of plotting out a strategy, he had brooded upon the perfection of a sweet Madonna countenance and tender curves hidden beneath layers of ugly wool.
Mrs. Walker was not the first woman he had ever desired, but she was by far the most intriguing.
That aloof disdain. The air of unshakable command. The delicious femininity disguised beneath a layer of ice.
It was a challenge that no man could resist. Especially a man who preferred to earn his rewards rather than having them handed to him on a silver platter.
Unfortunately, his first attempt to discover the means of slipping beneath her fierce composure had accomplished nothing. Rather than the maid he had been expecting to tend to his needs, it was the surly Quinn who had brought up his bath and stoked the fire. The elderly man had made it clear that he had no intention of gossiping about his employer, at least nothing beyond confirming to Fredrick that the woman held men in contempt, and most particularly those from London.
It seemed, however, that his luck was just about to take a turn for the better, he told himself as he deliberately moved to block the narrow corridor.
With a scowl Mrs. Walker came to a reluctant halt, her expression revealing she was not nearly so pleased as himself with the stroke of fortune.
“Ah, Mrs. Walker.”
He slowly smiled, his gaze dipping down to discover she had changed her gown to one of a pale grey. Unfortunately, it was even less flattering than the brown monstrosity. The woman might be an extraordinary businesswoman, but her taste in clothing could leave a man limp at a hundred paces. Which was no doubt the object of the hideous gowns.
Thankfully, it took a great deal more to make Fredrick limp. Instead his cock hardened as lurid images of stripping off the thick wool to discover the satin beneath danced through his head.
“Good evening, sir.”
“There was no need to escort me to dinner. Not that I am complaining, mind you. I appreciate any opportunity to be in the company of a beautiful woman. Still, it does seem we should at least be properly introduced before we proceed any further.” He performed his most elegant bow. “Fredrick Smith at your service. And you, I presume, must be Mrs. Walker, the proprietress of this fine establishment?”
The blue eyes glittered with an artic chill. “I am. And as proprietress I have a number of duties awaiting my attention. So if you will kindly move aside?”
“I will just as soon as you answer a simple question for me.”
“What question?”
Fredrick took a step forward, startled to discover that beneath the scent of starch and wax was a lovely hint of roses.
A startling new piece to add to the puzzle of Mrs. Walker.
“To my knowledge we have never encountered one another before today. So precisely why have you taken me in such great dislike?”
The cool dignity never faltered. “You are mistaken, Mr. Smith. I do not like or dislike you. You are merely a guest at my inn who will soon be on your way.”
Fredrick swallowed a hasty laugh. Either she did not know much about men, or else the men she had dealt with were spineless creatures. Otherwise she would have known better than to blatantly toss down the gauntlet.
“Perhaps not so soon,” he said before he could even consider the words.
The frost briefly flickered. “What do you mean?”
Fredrick slowly smiled. Why not stay at the inn? It was less than twenty miles to his father’s estate. Close enough to conduct his investigation, but not so close as to cause his father alarm. This was as good a place to remain as any.
Indeed, it was far better than most.
What other place in all of England could include an exquisite widow just ripe for the plucking?
“I intend to remain in this area for the next few days, and, as you pointed out, your inn is clean, and if your food is as good as the smells coming from the kitchen, I shall be perfectly satisfied.” He gave a challenging lift of one golden brow. “That is, unless you have some objection?”
Less than half a beat passed before she tilted her chin to a militant angle.
“Certainly not. We can always use the business.”
“Then we shall have plenty of opportunity to discover precisely what you find so offensive about my presence,” he murmured smoothly.
“Oh, I doubt you will be staying that long, Mr. Smith.”
Ah, she was good, he acknowledged with a flare of anticipation. It had been a very long time since he had crossed swords with a woman with such swift wits.
“Perhaps it is only fair to warn you, poppet, that while I may not be the smartest, or wealthiest, or even the most talented of gentlemen, I am without a doubt exceedingly patient. When I set myself a task I do not waver until it is completed.”
The blue eyes hardened to chips of sapphire. “Let me return the favor, Mr. Smith ...”
“Fredrick,” he interrupted smoothly.
“Mr. Smith,” she retorted, her voice dripping with ice. “I am not one of your frivolous London socialites. I have struggled and sacrificed more than you can imagine to reach my current position. Never again will I ever be forced or bullied or coerced against my will. If you become a bother I will have you escorted from my property.”
Fredrick felt his chest squeeze at the stoic dignity etched into every inch of her tiny body. Christ, what had she suffered to give her such a deep distrust for men?
Had it been the heavy hand of oppression, or had she suffered physical abuse?
The thought sent a startling fury through his heart. To think anyone could harm such a tiny and fragile creature ... well, if he knew where to find the bastard, or bastards, he would rip them apart limb by limb.
Suddenly the fierce desire to have her in his bed, her slender legs wrapped about his waist, was overshadowed by a need to melt that frigid wariness she wore as a shield to protect her vulnerable heart. He wanted to see a genuine smile touch those lush, perfect lips. He wanted her to discover that for all the rakes, and lechers, and tyrants in the world, there were also decent men. Men who could offer more than pain and oppression.
“You have my solemn word, Mrs. Walker, that I have never bullied or forced a woman in my entire life. There is nothing I would find more repulsive,” he said.
“Then tend to your business, Mr. Smith, and do not waste either of our time with foolish games.”
With a rustle of starch and wool she pushed her way past his stiff body, heading toward the stairs with those firm steps that looked as if she were marching into battle.
Fredrick turned to watch her retreat, his expression thoughtful.
Tend to your business, Mr. Smith ...
“Mrs. Walker, you just became my business,” he murmured softly.
Clever enough to realize a front assault would only drive the lovely Mrs. Walker deeper behind her barriers, Fredrick enjoyed his surprisingly delicious dinner among the various guests and went bed early.
The next morning he was on his way before most of the inn was stirring. Despite his fascination with the widow, he had other duties that awaited his attention.
A pity, he acknowledged as he rode up the tree-lined drive to his father’s estate. He would much rather be charming a delicious woman than enduring the awkward discomfort of his f
ather, Lord Graystone.
A wry smile touched his lips at the thought of the stranger who had managed to father him.
Throughout the years it had always baffled Fredrick why his father had insisted that he visit this estate at least one month during the summer. Not only were Lady Graystone and Fredrick’s half-brother, Simon, always notably staying in London, but Graystone himself seemed as anxious as a cat on coals in his presence.
Certainly, there had been no efforts at creating a genuine relationship. In truth, Fredrick had spent more time with the servants, often seeing his father briefly at dinner before the man once again disappeared.
In time, Fredrick had come to realize that his father must be embarrassed by his illegitimate brat. After all, when he had indulged in his affair with Fredrick’s mother, he had been an obscure younger son with few responsibilities. It was not until after the death of his older brother that Graystone had suddenly been thrust into the role of head of the family and forced to marry a wealthy merchant’s daughter to salvage the estate from ruin.
From that moment, Graystone had shouldered his duties with a grim determination. Which had convinced Fredrick that he was just another duty that had to be endured, a shameful duty his father would rather sweep beneath the rug if only it were possible.
Once Fredrick had reached his majority, he had brought an end to the forced visits. It was obvious to him that his father wanted to be done with his duty, so Fredrick had made it simple for him.
Until now.
A bittersweet sense of familiarity struck Fredrick as he passed through the open gates and caught sight of the redbrick mansion.
Built in the late 1600s with a classical portico and soaring columns, the house had been returned to its former glory during his father’s reign. Even the grounds had been reclaimed from nature and now spread beneath the pale sunlight with a manicured perfection.
It was not the largest or the best known estate in the area, but Oak Manor held an ancient charm that would never be dimmed by time.
For once Fredrick did not ride directly to the stables. On this day he was no more than a guest at the manor, and, properly halting before the wide oak doors, he waited for a groom to dash forward to take the reins of his horse before he climbed the worn steps.
He had barely reached the entrance when the doors were pulled open and a tall, thin butler with ginger hair now liberally sprinkled with grey regarded him with a dignified expression.
“May I be of service, sir?”
Fredrick’s lips twitched as he regarded the man who had taught him to play chess and cheat at cards.
“Hello, Morgan. I see that ugly mug has not changed over the years.”
The servant briefly stiffened, then with a sudden hitch of breath he took a step forward. “Good heavens. . . Mr. Smith?”
Fredrick offered a small bow. “For my sins.”
A sudden pleasure warmed the pale blue eyes. “It is very good to see you, sir. Please, come in and I will inform the master you have arrived.”
Fredrick smiled fondly as he followed the butler through the small foyer. Despite Morgan’s stiff manner, he had a soft heart and a cunning wit. He also had a startling ability to keep a young, fretful lad entertained and out of most mischief.
Fredrick would never forget Morgan’s kindness over the years.
His smile abruptly faded as they entered the Staircase Gallery. Not from the heavy, ornately scrolled chairs that lined the long hall, or the open timbered ceiling. No, it was the framed portraits of his half-brother, Simon, that were hung with splendid prominence along the paneled walls that stole his momentary sense of homecoming.
With loving devotion, the passing years had been captured upon canvas, revealing the alterations in Simon as he had grown from a chubby, blond-haired boy into a rotund man with a florid face and peevish expression. He looked more like a butcher than a nobleman, Fredrick thought as he strolled past the gilt frames, but that did not keep his adoring parents from capturing his passing life for posterity.
He, on the other hand, did not have so much as a sketch of his likeness in the rambling house. His legacy was to be nothing more than a blemish upon the Graystone name. One that was to be forgotten as swiftly as possible.
Giving a shake of his head at his spiteful dislike of Simon (a man he had never so much as crossed paths with), Fredrick determinedly turned his mind to more important matters.
“How do things go at Oak Manor?”
“Much the same as ever, sir,” Morgan replied, leading Fredrick up the magnificent oak staircase that had given the manor its name.
“The family is well?”
“Quite well.”
“I suppose Father is busy overseeing the planting?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Is Lady Graystone in town for the season?”
“Yes, she had the townhouse opened last week.”
“And my brother is with her?”
“Of course. Master Simon is always anxious to return to London.”
Fredrick’s humor returned at Morgan’s discreet responses. He was the perfect butler, possessing the unshakable belief that “thou shall not gossip” was one of the Ten Commandments. Even among family members.
A saintly virtue when Fredrick was small and he had broken a window in the conservatory, or tossed several of Simon’s expensive toys into the nearby lake. He had never feared that Morgan would reveal his guilt.
But now his reticence was less than a blessing. The older man’s position in the household would mean he was privy to all sorts of sordid secrets. One of which might have forced Lord Graystone to pay Dunnington twenty thousand pounds to keep hidden.
Together they entered the formal drawing room. It was a splendid room with classical gods painted on the ceiling and arabesque tapestries covering the walls. Gilt edge plasterwork completed the image of tranquil elegance.
Whatever his complex feelings for Lord Graystone, Fredrick could not deny the man possessed excellent taste.
“If you will wait here, I will have Mrs. Shaw bring you a tray.”
“Thank you, Morgan.”
Morgan paused at the door, his stern expression softening. “You have been missed.”
Fredrick smiled fondly. “As have you.”
With a shallow bow the butler slipped from the room. Waiting until he was certain he was alone, Fredrick moved briskly across the room and quietly opened the door that led to his father’s private study. A quick peek revealed the room was empty and he stepped inside to begin his search.
Not that he actually knew what he was searching for. Hell, he did not even know if he would recognize the deep, dark secret if he stumbled across it. But for the moment he had no brilliant notion of how to conduct his investigation. Nothing beyond asking his father bluntly why he had offered Dunnington twenty thousand pounds.
His lips twisted as he tugged open the drawers of his father’s heavy walnut desk.
He had never shared a decent conversation with his father in his entire life. If he were to confront the wary man directly he would bolt before the words could finish leaving Fredrick’s lips.
Discovering nothing more interesting than the usual papers and correspondence dealing with a large estate, Fredrick turned his attention to the book-lined walls. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was faintly shabby and well worn. Rather like a favorite pair of slippers that are kept for their comfort rather than their beauty.
It was a room that belonged exclusively to Lord Graystone. Even as a very young child, Fredrick had known better than to ever interrupt his father when he entered this room.
Now he felt a ridiculous sense of curiosity as he studied the collection of classical works and extensive farming texts that made up the bulk of the books.
With a shake of his head, Fredrick thrust aside his strange broodings. What did it matter that he had never known what authors his father loved? If he preferred to curl up with the classics of Plato or Coke’s latest farming techniques? What
he knew of his father could fit into a thimble, and he had managed to survive quite well in the world.
Dunnington, along with Ian and Raoul, had been all the family he had ever needed.
Fredrick made a swift search on the shelves, seeking for hidden safes, and even hidden doorways. He felt a fool tapping on wood, and tugging on books, but when he heard the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps he was fairly confident that there was nothing to be discovered in the study.
With swift movements he was back in the drawing room, staring aimlessly out the long bank of windows when the cook swept through the door with a large tray in her hands.
“Fredrick, my dear boy.” Smiling broadly, the middle-aged woman with a dark braid curled at the nape of her neck and a plump, pleasant face set the tray on a low table. “Oh, but it is good to have you here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw.” Without hesitation Fredrick moved to pull the woman into a tight hug. Mrs. Shaw had been the one to comfort him when he cried as a mere tot, and baked him special treats to ease his loneliness. Stepping back, he took a deep sniff of the delicious smells filling the room. “Good God, do I smell plum pudding?”
Fussing with her apron, Mrs. Shaw managed to hide the tears of pleasure that filled her eyes.
“I have not forgotten your sweet tooth. There is also a tasty pheasant pie and green pea soup.”
Fredrick promptly took his place on the sofa and filled a bowl with his favorite soup.
“A magnificent feast.”
Planting her hands on her ample hips, the cook appeared ready to hover over Fredrick until he had eaten every morsel on the tray.
“Young gentlemen need plenty of plain, hearty food. Not that fancy stuff they serve in London. ’Tis no wonder that you are as thin as a reed.”
He gave a small laugh at her obvious disdain for London chefs. “I assure you that I have yet to enjoy a meal equal to yours, no matter where I might travel.”
A flush touched the round cheeks. “Such a flatterer.”
“It is no more than the simple truth.” Fredrick sampled the soup, his mind searching for the best means of interrogating the woman. Unlike Morgan, Mrs. Shaw was always prepared to enjoy a nice chat. “Tell me, Mrs. Shaw, how long have you been at Oak Manor?”
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