by Lynn Kerstan
How had his mother felt, he wondered, when her new husband left her at the remote estate to give birth with only the servants in attendance? She had died shortly before his sixth birthday, and he had few memories of her. But even after he was sent away to school, he had nightmares in which she screamed his name. She had not been calling for him, he learned years later from a maidservant. Lady Fallon had been crying out from the pain of delivering two stillborn infants and miscarrying another.
Those events must have taken place years apart, but he recalled only one endless, desperate scream and wondered if it still echoed down the bleak passageways of Wolvercote. Hell confound it, he’d sooner face a charge of Maratha cavalry than walk alone into his own home.
Rarely introspective, he gave himself a mental kick on the backside. The past was exactly that—over and done with. Everything would be different when he brought his wife to the new Wolvercote.
For one thing, he would make certain to wed a female with a great many siblings. A woman born of a prolific mother was likely to produce children with relative ease, the way mares of good stock could be relied on to deliver high-quality foals. And, too, she would have the best care money could provide. If necessary, he would employ a physician-in-residence and a swarm of nursemaids to attend her every need.
Beyond that, he could not imagine. He knew only how to earn the funds to buy what he wanted. Once all was in place—house, wife, and children—where would he be? What would he do next?
More to the point, what should he do for the rest of the afternoon, if ever that blasted cabbage wagon was hauled out of his way?
Too bad Lady Swann, like everyone else, had run off to celebrate Christmas away from London. He was in the mood to go another round with her about that pernicious book. She had all but tried to blackmail him, damn her eyes. And she bloody well knew that an upstart nobleman could not wrangle publicly with an eighty-six-year-old icon. But his pride would not admit the possibility of compromise, and he expected the old bird would accept nothing short of total capitulation.
Only a saphead would have been taken in by her transparent plot, and she had mistaken her man if she thought him a fool. Not one shred, not one morsel of Fallon history would he hand into her keeping. His life in India was a closed book where she was concerned. And as for the future, Lady Swann would be unable to snoop out a wisp of scandal attached to him, for the simple reason there would be none. He had resolved to become the perfect aristocrat if it killed him.
It occurred to him he had been permitting Lady Swann to call the tune. She already knew a great deal about the Fallons and had only to interrogate people he’d known in India to gather information about him. If they were to do battle, which seemed inevitable, he ought to adopt a few of her tactics. Know his enemy, for example, and carry the attack into her camp. Best of all, she had inadvertently given him both the opportunity and the weapon in the person of Miss Jane Ryder.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked his idea. If he took her to Wolvercote, pretending to offer access to family records, he wouldn’t have to go there alone. Not that he required company to inspect an empty old house, of course. No, Miss Ryder’s companionship was quite unnecessary, and she would probably prove an irritating nuisance.
But he could put up with her for a few days, if only to uncover information about Lady Swann and determine how best to exploit her weaknesses. She would find nothing of use at Wolvercote, that was certain. Records and family letters would long since have been devoured by mice or used to kindle fires.
Yes, it was a foolproof plan . . . so long as Miss Ryder agreed to come along. It would be best, he realized, to give her no time to think it over or apply to Lady Swann for further instructions. Instead, he would insist they travel right away—tomorrow at the latest—and compel her to decide immediately.
When the carriage began moving again, he directed the coachman to Upper Brook Street.
An ancient footman, in danger of toppling over when he bowed, looked surprised to see a caller on the door-stoop. “Lady Swann is not to home,” he croaked.
“I am aware of that,” Fallon said, moving past him into the vestibule. “It is Miss Ryder I wish to see.”
“Well, sir, as to that, she is not receiving callers this afternoon. I expect she’ll be available—”
“If she’s here, she is available now. Where will I find her?”
A skinny finger pointed to a staircase at the end of the passageway. “She’ll be in the kitchen, I expect.”
Halfway down the stairs, Fallon smelled the distinct odor of something burning and followed threads of smoke to an open door. Beside a large butcher table, gazing down unhappily at something he could not see, stood Jane Ryder.
Strands of light brown hair had pulled loose from the knot at her nape to hang in limp strings over her flour-smudged cheeks. She brushed her hands against an apron three sizes too large for her slender body. “Poor fellows,” she murmured. “I have incinerated the lot of you.”
“Precisely who have you been tormenting this time, Miss Ryder?”
With a gasp, she looked up at him, then down at her filthy apron, and immediately began to brush at her hair with her fingertips.
The startled, feminine gesture made him almost sorry he had intruded, and also very glad of it. He moved closer and saw a number of blackened shapes on a baking sheet, smoke curling from their edges.
“They were supposed to be gingerbread men,” she said with a rueful laugh. “That’s my fourth batch. The other unfortunate creatures are equally charred, I fear, and the workings of this oven continue to elude me. Every adjustment I make to the fire only produces a greater catastrophe.”
Fallon located one gingerbread man slightly less petrified than the others, broke off what was probably meant to be an arm, and popped it in his mouth. “Excellent flavor,” he ruled. “The oven is clearly at fault for overcooking them.”
“And I am Marie Antoinette! Come, sir, why have you accosted me at my moment of baking despair? I clearly recall directing Mr. Mantooth to turn away all callers.”
“Mr. Mantooth tried. But I wanted to speak with you today.”
“Oh.” She turned to the fire, and he had to strain to hear her voice. “I was just about to brew a pot of tea, Lord Fallon. If you will go upstairs to the parlor, I shall join you in a few minutes.”
Despite the smoke and the acrid smell of burnt biscuits, he rather liked the warm homeyness of the kitchen. “Why don’t we have tea here?” he suggested, stripping off his gloves and greatcoat.
“If you prefer. Do you mind if I clean up this mess before Cook sees it and rings a peal over my head?”
“Not in the least. Go about your business, Miss Ryder, while I explain why I have come.” He was suddenly glad her back remained turned as she measured tea leaves into a ceramic pot. At least he would not be lying to her face. “After some thought, and with little confidence in the outcome, I have decided to accept Lady Swann’s offer. So, if you still wish to examine the family records, I shall provide access to whatever may remain at Wolvercote.”
“I see.” She poured steaming water from a kettle into the teapot. “Wolvercote is the Fallon estate, as I recall. Will this access require me to go there personally?”
“Yes indeed. I’ve no intention of lifting a finger on Lady Swann’s behalf. But I confess you’ll not find this a pleasant outing, Miss Ryder. From the report of agents who have recently examined the property, it is in wretched condition. I have not yet seen it for myself.”
“Truly?” She turned, regarding him curiously. “I’d have thought your home would be the first place you’d go.”
“As it happens, I was saving it for last. But with London thin of company over Christmas, I’ve little else to do but inspect the ruins. If you are of a mind to sift through the rubble in search of Fallon history, I shall make what
arrangements I can for your comfort. There is an inn, I understand, not far from the estate.”
He watched her place cups, saucers, silverware, and napkins on a trestle table, nibbling all the while at her lower lip. What was she thinking, he wondered, when she frowned at a saucer of butter and set a crock of honey on the table with a decided clunk?
What was there to think about, after all? He had simply accepted the very offer she delivered to him a week ago—ah! That was it. By now Christmas was only three days away, and she likely had plans for the holiday.
With regret, he bid farewell to his scheme. He could scarcely pursue his objectives if it meant ruining her Christmas. “This can all wait until after the New Year, Miss Ryder.”
“But you did not mean it to wait, I am certain.” She poured tea through a strainer into his cup. “There is no reason to postpone your trip on my account. Do you take milk? Pardon me. I do not and neglected to put it on to heat.”
“Neither milk nor sugar, thank you.”
Her smile lit up the kitchen. “As you see, I am as poor a hostess as I am a baker. Will you be seated, please? Cook made these scones for breakfast, and you cannot help but approve of them.” She set a plate beside the teapot. “When would we depart, my lord? And how long would we be gone?”
She really meant to join him! Elated, he took a raisin-studded scone and broke it in half. “Would tomorrow be too soon? You can return the day after and be home in time for Christmas.”
“Tomorrow will be fine.” She sat across from him and filled her own teacup. “I am glad you changed your mind, sir. And Lady Swann will be pleased that I did not wholly waste my time while she was gone.”
“Is she a difficult employer?”
She glanced at him in surprise. “If she were, I’d hardly say so. But in fact, she has been exceedingly kind. There is little I would not do for her in return.”
Including this benighted journey to Wolvercote, he thought with a shot of guilt. While he respected her loyalty, it would better suit his purposes if she had an ax to grind. “I trust Lady Swann will appreciate your uncomfortable journey to an unpleasant destination on her behalf, especially if you return empty-handed.” He slathered butter over a piece of scone. “The Fallons have been rather too preoccupied with their own vices to record them, or anything else, for posterity.”
“She will recognize your willingness to cooperate, in any event. But that is unlikely to affect her decision about Scandalbroth.”
“Is the manuscript here in the house?”
Her brows shot up in alarm. “I warn you, sir. You will only get at anything belonging to Lady Swann over my dead body.”
“How ferocious of you.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Do relax and enjoy your tea, Miss Ryder. I’ve come home to salvage what remains of the Fallon legacy and restore the family reputation, which pretty much rules out robbery and murder. Unfortunately. I’d certainly like to make off with every copy of that obscene book.”
“Well, you cannot.” She stirred honey into her tea. “And I won’t tell you what’s in it, either, so you needn’t bother to ask. If I go with you to Wolvercote, it will be to acquire information, not to give it out.”
He took another bite of scone, acknowledging silently that his Grand Plan was apparently doomed from the start. Jane Ryder had taken his measure, divined what he was up to, and put him on notice that it wouldn’t work. She was gazing at him through lowered lashes as she sipped her tea, probably expecting him to call off the trip now.
Instinct told him he was faced with a woman as strong-willed and intelligent as any man he had ever met. He’d felt a similar awareness of encountering someone beyond the ordinary a dozen years ago, when first introduced to Colonel Arthur Wellesley.
Prim Jane Ryder and the commander of the Peninsular Army! Fallon chuckled under his breath. But then, he’d few women among his acquaintance, and she could hardly be measured against one of his former mistresses. No, she was quite different from most females, conventional or otherwise. And for that reason, he determined to stay more than ever on his guard.
Despite his whirling thoughts, the companionable silence as they ate scones and drank tea was oddly pleasant. He found himself licking butter from his fingertips and wondered what Larch the butler would have thought. Guiltily he looked up at Jane Ryder. She was licking butter from her own fingers.
“I love sweets,” she confessed with a grin. “These scones are wonderful, but you should taste Cook’s blackberry pudding. It’s fluffy as a cloud and positively melts in your mouth. She taught me how to make it, but I’m afraid my version was more suitable for paving roads. Nearly as bad as my gingerbread men, who were clearly destined to be roof shingles.”
“In that case, we should take them with us. Wolvercote will require a new roof.”
Her grin widened. “If it also requires new walls, I could bake up a large batch of shortbread squares. The last time I did so, they had the consistency of bricks.”
“If the results are so unsatisfactory, why the deuce do you keep trying to bake?”
“Oh, well, if failure could stop me, I’d never accomplish anything at all. You see, I perversely want to do precisely the things for which I have no talent whatever, like cooking and embroidery and learning other languages. Latin required five years, Greek seven, and I still don’t trust my own translations.”
He busied himself with a second scone to conceal his surprise. Why would a servant struggle to teach herself the classical tongues? Of what use were Latin and Greek to any female?
And how could she so easily make jokes about her gingerbread shingles and shortbread walls? He had no sense of humor whatever when he failed. To his mind, a man should successfully complete whatever he began. He supposed that applied to women, too, although women’s work was mostly inconsequential. The world would go on perfectly well without embroidery, in his opinion.
“What are your real talents?” he heard himself ask.
“Oh, I’ve none that would interest you. They don’t even interest me very much, however useful they may be on occasion. What comes easily offers no challenge, you see, and I am partial to challenges. Which is fortunate, because . . .”
As her voice faded, her wide hazel eyes lost some of their spark.
She had been about to reveal something of herself and swiftly thought better of it. With a sudden shot of awareness, he knew that if she ever fully trusted anyone, she would give over her heart and soul.
And soon regret it, he thought cynically. God protect her from him and any man like him.
“Shall we settle the details of our trip?” he suggested in a level voice. “Can you be ready to depart tomorrow morning?”
“Certainly.” Her tone was equally businesslike. “What time? And what shall I bring with me?”
Devil if he knew. When he decided to go somewhere, he up and went. “Wolvercote is about two hours from London, with good weather and decent roads, but we can count on neither at this time of year. What is more, I understand the last section of road will not accommodate my carriage. You may be forced to travel in a smaller vehicle.”
“Fine with me,” she said cheerfully. “We’ll improvise. That’s one of my talents, by the way. I’m good at improvisation.”
“Well, so am I,” he said, unaccountably pleased to find common ground with her. “Someone will collect you here at nine o’clock. I shall go on ahead, perhaps tonight, and secure rooms at the inn.” Standing, he pulled on his greatcoat and picked up his gloves. “Are you likely to change your mind, Miss Ryder?”
“No, my lord. I am quite looking forward to having an adventure.”
He snatched another scone from the platter on his way to the door. “Let us hope this proves to be nothing of the sort, young woman. I mean to have you home safe and sound before Christmas.”
Chapter 5
; THE BLACK DOVE had fallen on hard times.
A small, half-timbered building in the Tudor style, the inn had stood for centuries in this isolated place. But now, with Wolvercote abandoned, there were no servants and tenant farmers to while away an evening in the cozy taproom.
Since arriving that morning, Fallon had learned a good deal more about the inn’s history and its current travails than he cared to know. Rollin Wilkens, the proprietor, rushed out to greet his guest as if the marquess had flown in on angel wings and introduced the large clan of Wilkenses one by one, assuring his lordship they would be at his service day and night.
Clinging like burrs, more like. Hoping for privacy, Fallon chose to take luncheon in his bedchamber, but one or another Wilkens kept finding an excuse to stop in. The youngest daughter, a flirtatious minx of fourteen or so, had plumped his bed pillows and straightened the canopy drapes half a dozen times.
The price of tonight’s lodging, it appeared, was accepting responsibility for a score of good-natured Wilkenses. He could not help but appreciate their strategy. This was a desperate family grasping at a lifeline, and he was it.
“’Twill need a heap of work,” Rollin Wilkens was saying about Wolvercote as he cleared dishes from his lordship’s meal. “The gentlemen what stayed here while they was examinin’ the remains, so to speak, thought it likely oughter to be rebuilt from the ground up.”
After a sleepless night going over the report, Fallon already knew to expect the worst. “What is the condition of the road?”
“Oh, no road from here.” Wilkens brushed crumbs from the small table. “Not even a track can be seen, what with the snow. You’ll have to go by horse through the forest and the fields. If you want, I’ll sketch a map.”
“Do. It may prove useful at some point. But Miss Ryder is traveling in my curricle, so we shall be forced to go in by the main road. Is it a great distance from here?”
“Well, let me see. Two miles from here to the post road, and five more to where you’d turn onter the estate road. But I much doubt that’s fit for travel, except by horse. Nobody’s used it since yer father died, and not many before then. Better to go from here, I ’spect. ’Tis only three miles, even with all the meandering.” Wilkens grinned over yellow, broken teeth. “You chose the right place to stay, m’lord. Now, what else can I bring you? Wine? Good country ale?”
