Fear stimulated him in a way no other sentiment could. He craved its power, sought its bliss. He looked forward to the moment when he could blend his secret passion with his driving ambition.
Soon. Everything was falling into place. Before long, he alone would hold the power of the greatest minds in England, and beyond. Lions taken down by their beloved lambs.
Bored by his companion’s idleness, he bent at the waist and smoothed back a lock of hair from her pale, unlined forehead. Her skin was warm against his lips, her scent fresh, exciting. Soon.
Straightening, he pivoted to leave and his boot landed on something small and hard. He waited for the ensuing crack, the telltale sound that would signal his presence.
But nothing cracked or shattered or snapped beneath the pressure of his weight. He carefully lifted his boot and knelt down to retrieve the object. Holding it up to the faint light filtering in from the window, he made out the wooden shape of a kilted man holding a long two-handed claymore.
He glanced back at the sleeping form and smiled.
Dropping the warrior into his coat pocket, he slipped out the nursery door.
Six
August 11
Sebastian made his way down the grand staircase with a crushing headache and burning eyes. If he had not had a full day planned, he would have shot Parker for disturbing his sleep. Instead of murdering his valet, he had scraped his body off the sweat-cooled sheets and made his way downstairs.
Within seconds of gaining the entrance hall, Grayson appeared. “My lord, there is something you should know—”
“In a moment, Grayson,” he said. “Please bring a strong pot of coffee to my study and then we can discuss what’s troubling you.”
“But sir—”
“Coffee, then talk.” Sebastian headed toward his study, hoping the noxious fumes caused by Blake’s singular passion had dissipated. The last thing his aching head needed was an immersion in turpentine and linseed oil. Turning the handle, he braced himself against an olfactory assault; however, only the merest of fumes reached his nose. He drew a deeper breath and received the same pleasant result.
A sound from the opposite end of the room drew his attention. He nearly groaned at the pleasure-pain of finding the widow in his sanctuary. The sight did much to improve his sour mood, but he now regretted not allowing Grayson to perform his duties. If he had, Sebastian would have detoured to the kitchen for a restorative cup of coffee and another splash of cold water over his face. Perhaps then he would have been prepared for this keen-witted woman.
Nothing for it, he closed the door and braced himself. “Mrs. Ashcroft.”
She jerked into an upright position, her cheeks a deep, becoming red, whether from bending over the metal bucket on the floor or from being startled, Sebastian wasn’t certain.
“Good morning, my lord.”
Feeling disoriented, he nodded toward the bucket. “What have you there?”
“An old family recipe for neutralizing unwanted aromas.” Her flush deepened. “I decided to make myself useful while awaiting your arrival.”
Sebastian glanced around, finding three more buckets. “Your family appears to be very wise, Mrs. Ashcroft. I can barely detect Mr. Blake’s oils.”
“Yes, it is amazing what charcoal, soda ash, and dampened cloths will do.”
“Have you been waiting long?”
Confusion clouded her pretty brown eyes. “I arrived a few minutes before the appointed time.”
Caution gripped his stomach. Habit forced his gaze to make a thorough sweep of the room, looking for anything peculiar, out of place, or that didn’t belong. If anything, the room appeared a good deal tidier than it had yesterday. But Sebastian could not shake the feeling that he was missing something vital.
He returned his attention to the widow—Catherine. “Forgive me, Mrs. Ashcroft, but I seem to have forgotten our appointment.”
She stilled. “Shall I come back at a more convenient time?”
The room became blistering hot, and he tried to loosen his too-tight cravat. A vague recollection hovered at the periphery of his mind. “That won’t be necessary. Perhaps you could remind me of the nature of our meeting.”
She strode toward a small octagonal table and picked up her reticule. Digging inside, she produced a note and offered it to him. “This might jar your memory, sir. I received your summons quite early this morning.”
Even from this distance, he could see her name scrawled across the outside of the dispatch, the writing both familiar and somehow wrong. What had he done in his inebriated state last night? The churning mass in his stomach curdled and swept into the back of his throat with unexpected vigor. He raised his fist to his mouth, fighting back the foul taste. What had possessed him to send a dispatch to her at such an absurd hour?
Once he had his body under control, he said, “Last night, I was… not myself and fear I might have written that note at an awkward moment.” He flicked his fingers toward the missive. “Would you be so kind?”
She peered at him with wide, owlish eyes. “You want me to read your note to you?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze flicked down to where his fingers toyed with his signet ring. Sebastian locked his jaw and clasped his hands behind his back. “Please?”
“This is rather awkward, my lord. Are you certain you do not wish to look at it yourself?”
“Quite, madam.”
The command in his tone caused her lips to compress and then she smoothed her fingers over the creases and began reading.
My dear Catherine,
I accept your kind offer of assistance. Please attend me at ten tomorrow morning.
Your forever grateful neighbor,
Sebastian
She hesitated over his Christian name, a subtle confirmation of the message’s too-familiar address. Although not appropriate, the contents weren’t as bad as he’d feared. Snippets of last night began to crystallize and take shape. Much to his shame, the volatile mix of fatigue, frustration, and doubt that had become harder for him to master had spilled onto the paper in the form of a dangerous yearning.
Even now, hours later, he craved the companionship of this woman. Why? There were hundreds of widows in London who would provide such solace and would come to him with far fewer complications. Knowing all of this did not stop him from wanting to sink his hands into the mass of gold silk piled atop her head.
But she had done so much for him already, during a time when she should have been concentrating on her own difficult circumstances. How could he ask for more? “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mrs. Ashcroft. My summons was a regrettable mistake.”
“Mistake?” A shot of dismay skittered across her features. “You have not inconvenienced me, sir. I would be grateful for the opportunity to help.”
The tendons in Sebastian’s neck pulled tight. “You have already provided more assistance than I deserve, madam.”
“The process would go much more smoothly and quickly with my aid.” She tilted her head to the side. “I assure you, this task would be a welcome diversion. You do recall that I offered to help?”
“Yes, I recall,” he said. “But I also know you likely did so because it is in your nature to set things aright.”
She started to protest, but he held up a staying finger. “Within the last three months, you have lost your father, your husband, and you have dueled with my steward. I will not add to your burden.”
Dropping her gaze, she said nothing for several seconds. He followed her line of sight, to where her hands clutched the drawstrings of her reticule with crushing force.
Finally, she lifted her chin and straightened her back. “Very well, my lord,” she said. “Please feel free to call upon me should you change your mind.”
“Do not fret, Mrs. Ashcroft,” he said, driving the point home. “If I fi
nd myself in need of counsel, Grayson is more than up for the task.”
Nodding, she regarded the door behind him. “Grayson would make an admirable attempt at seeing to your needs.”
Against his will, he asked, “Attempt?”
He could see the topic made her ill at ease, but she eventually answered. “When Mr. Blake began refusing to meet with your tenants, Grayson tried to resolve their issues without the steward’s knowledge, but then his knee started bothering him and he could no longer move about the estate.”
Sebastian had noticed a subtle limp in his butler’s gait. “Go on.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Blake became aware of what was going on and made a terrible scene, embarrassing Grayson and infuriating some of your tenants.” Indignation strengthened her voice, her gaze steadied. “This is the main reason why I became involved in your estate affairs. Not only did I keep the issues in front of Mr. Blake, I relayed information between Grayson and your tenants.”
Few people distinguished themselves enough to warrant Sebastian’s notice or garner his admiration. Somehow the widow had managed to do both. “How unfortunate that I did not know any of this before releasing the man.” The sideboard, with its stoppered decanters of various colored liquors, drew his attention.
He glanced outside and noted the narrow shadows around the hedges. Lifting his watch-fob, he confirmed the hour. Bare minutes before eleven. Eleven. Much too early to indulge and much too late to have lingered for an absentee earl.
Had she really waited an hour for him to arrive? If any of his agents learned he had been late for a meeting that he’d set, they would never let him live it down. At least those who dared to tease him wouldn’t. Most didn’t.
Unlike many members of the ton, he never slept past seven, even when he stayed up into the wee hours of the morning. His body did not need much sleep to function properly. Or, at least, it hadn’t.
“It would take me no time to turn the list of repairs I gave you into an actual work schedule,” she pressed.
If she were a man, Sebastian would swear that God had finally thrown a kindness his way. But she was a woman. An intelligent and tempting woman. Therefore, God was not involved. Only the Devil, and he had his trident pointing straight at Sebastian’s heart.
Sebastian wasn’t certain why he felt compelled to resist her generous offer. The reason might have had something to do with his continuous and overwhelming desire to feel her bare body wrapped around his, to tangle his fingers in the loose skeins of her silken hair. To free his mind of everything but her.
Or the reason might have had something to do with Ashcroft asking him to watch over his wife, and making love to a woman he was supposed to protect felt wrong. Even to a ruthless bastard like him.
Whatever his motivation, at that precise moment, his decision to resist seemed vitally important. Stepping toward the bell-pull, he gave it two hard yanks. “Mrs. Ashcroft,” he said, “I can see that you have a genuine need to set things to rights around here. However, I have managed my family’s affairs for over twenty years. Fear not, I will remedy this situation.”
As rebuffs go, it wasn’t the harshest he’d ever delivered, but it was by far the hardest. Especially when she turned those expressive brown eyes on him, and he saw them flicker with hurt.
“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, of course, you can. How silly of me to have thought otherwise.” She waved her hand toward the buckets. “You will have no further need of those by tomorrow.” She dropped into a curtsy. “When you are ready to discuss Jeffrey’s letters, please send for me. Good day, my lord.”
The finality of her farewell cut into the steel surrounding his heart. But he did not try to stop her. Instead, he bowed. “Again, my apologies for the disruption—”
The click of the door closing cut off his apology. He didn’t blame her. Not one bit. Although he had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of lying, nothing felt perfect about this situation. In fact, a sense of wrongness elbowed him in the gut with a pugilist’s precision.
***
August 11
“No, m’lord,” the farmer said, propping his shovel against the back wall of a small lean-to. “I explained what needs to be done to Mrs. Ashcroft. Haven’t the time to go into it again.”
Sebastian clenched his teeth around a curse. He had met with the same resistance all afternoon. Most of his tenants weren’t as vocal about their displeasure as Mr. Hayton, but all made sure Sebastian understood he would get nowhere without Mrs. Ashcroft’s assistance. The effects of Blake’s mismanagement ran deep in their minds, and they were not ready to forgive Sebastian.
“Mr. Hayton,” he tried again. “I mean to have men working on the repairs as early as next week. If you would take a few minutes to show me what needs attending, I’ll be able to provide a detailed list.”
The last time Sebastian had seen Hayton, a few strands of gray had striped the area above the old man’s ears. But he had always tackled each day with admirable enthusiasm, putting many men younger than he to shame. Now, Hayton sported a full head of gray hair and his normally square shoulders slumped forward as if they were too heavy for his frail body.
“The roof needs fixing now.” Mr. Hayton retrieved his pitchfork. “Rain’s coming. Waiting till next week’ll do me no good.”
Sebastian gathered Reaper’s reins. “I’ll do what I can to get someone here sooner.”
“Mrs. Ashcroft knows who to contact,” Mr. Hayton said, combing the pitchfork through a pile of soiled straw.
Sebastian set his jaw, not used to such willfulness and in no mood to hear yet another tenant touting the widow’s accomplishments. Mounting Reaper, he set off for home. He’d had enough for one day. He knew he had let them down by not ensuring the steward was performing his duties. However, flogging him in the face at every turn would not make him regret his inaction any more, or remedy the damage already done.
Over the course of the next fortnight, he would show them that he remembered how to be a competent landlord and pray they would allow him to repair the many wrongs done by Blake. As he rounded the farmer’s small cottage, Sebastian observed the thinning thatch on the northeast corner of the roof. At least he’d persuaded the stubborn old goat to mention that much.
“Good afternoon, Lord Somerton,” a man’s voice hailed from the road.
Sebastian turned to find Showbury’s vicar sitting astride a large chestnut, a welcoming smile on his face. “Mr. Foster.” He joined the other man on the rutted drive, making note of the deep tracks and adding them to his growing list of tasks. “What brings you out this far?”
“I’m meeting Mrs. Ashcroft at the McCarthys to check on the eldest daughter.” The vicar guided his horse around a large hole in the middle of the road. “All of sixteen and on her way to becoming a new mother.” He shook his head. “And the father nowhere to be found.”
Sebastian’s lips thinned at the mention of the widow. “Does the girl have anyone to help when the babe arrives?”
The vicar sent him an approving smile. “Indeed, my lord. Despite her current predicament, Meghan’s a fine young lady and the McCarthys are good people.”
“Do you and Mrs. Ashcroft work together often?”
“Oh, yes, my lord,” the vicar said. “I find Mrs. Ashcroft’s assistance and practical nature invaluable. And Showbury’s residents admire and respect her, which makes visits like today’s go much smoother.”
Something about the vicar’s praise of the widow unsettled Sebastian. He eyed his riding companion, who appeared a few years younger than he and sported masculine features some women might find attractive.
“Are you married, Mr. Foster?” Sebastian heard himself ask.
“No, sir. Not at present,” the vicar answered. “But I have been thinking on the subject of late.”
Rather than calming the odd swirling sensation in Sebastian’s stomach, the vicar
’s answer made the feeling grow stronger. Before Sebastian could decide whether to inquire further, Mr. Foster waved toward a cottage.
“Ah, here we are, my lord.”
Sebastian’s gaze swept over the homestead. He expected to find the same age-worn buildings and unkempt prospects that he had encountered on his other inspections. Instead, the cottage and outbuildings appeared well-maintained, plucked free of weeds and devoid of clutter. Yellow and white flowers lined the footpath leading up to the cottage.
The vicar pulled his mount to a halt. “Declan McCarthy moved his family here a little over a year ago. He’s hardworking and a skilled carpenter, but I’m afraid the residents of Showbury have never welcomed the family as they should.”
“Irish?” Sebastian asked.
“Yes, sir.” The vicar’s lips firmed, his back straightening. “They’re honest folks and don’t deserve suspicious treatment. If not for Mrs. Ashcroft, I fear the family would’ve been forced to move on by now.”
For the love of God. Did the woman have her hands in everything? “How did Mrs. Ashcroft help the family?”
A flush spread across the younger man’s cheeks. “Well, she, um—” The vicar’s eyes widened, then he waved at someone behind Sebastian. “Hello, Mr. McCarthy.”
Sebastian eyed the vicar, waiting for the man to finish his sentence. But the vicar dismounted, avoiding his gaze.
With no other choice, Sebastian followed suit.
Declan McCarthy held out his hand. “Good day, Vicar.”
“It is that, Mr. McCarthy.” The vicar shook the man’s hand and then turned to Sebastian. “I’d like you to meet Lord Somerton. Just returned from London.”
The carpenter’s friendly mien leeched away. “M’lord.”
“McCarthy.”
The Irishman turned to the vicar. “Are you here to see my Meghan?”
“Yes, sir, I am.” Mr. Foster glanced around, frowning. “Has Mrs. Ashcroft not arrived?”
Checkmate, My Lord Page 7
