“Thank you, though it’s a bit more than blind faith. Our cook suspects the tea may have been a simple mistake on her part. In fact, I’ve come to Malton today to ask the shopkeeper about it.”
Win was relieved to hear the near-poisoning had likely been nothing more than a servant’s carelessness. Once his temper had cooled, he’d given a good deal of thought to that tea, both for his own sake—he didn’t want anyone imagining he was out to harm Lady Radbourne or her child—and for the countess’s. What if the poisoned tea was no mistake, and someone really had tried to make her miscarry? “I would’ve been happy to look into the matter for you, and save you the trouble of coming to town.”
“Oh.” She tucked a dark curl behind her ear in a nervous gesture. “That’s quite all right, Colonel. My sister was grateful for the excuse to get out.”
She was blushing. But why?
It was like a cold slap when Win realized what it meant. Lady Radbourne might be willing to apologize for their quarrel, but she still didn’t trust him. She didn’t want him asking about the tea because as far as she was concerned, he was still a suspect.
He caught himself before he could dwell too long on the resulting sense of affront. What did it matter what she thought of him? Hadn’t he just told her it was egotistical of him to expect more? Besides, he was heading back to Hampshire soon. Better they simply part, and part on good terms.
Except—she was so lovely, and something in her diminutive, determined little figure and the proud angle of her chin touched him, making him wish he could change her mind about his character.
He bowed stiffly. “Good day to you, then, ma’am. A pleasure to speak with you again.”
He spun on his heel and strode away to rescue Freddie from Julia’s sticky fingers and Miss Douglass’s eager chatter, unsure whether he’d meant his last remark sincerely or not.
* * *
Like the street outside, the Radbourne Arms was crowded. After racking his brain for an excuse to steal a few minutes to himself, Win had left Julia and Freddie in the marketplace, where a performing dog was putting on a show. Now he stood before the inn’s oversized hearth, a tankard of ale in one hand.
Win liked the look of the barmaid. She was dark-haired and buxom, and she’d been giving him interested glances since he’d come in. She was doing it now, in fact, peeping sidelong at him with a flirtatious smile even as she cleared the bar. He wondered if she’d be interested in a romp with a grateful gentleman.
Catching his eye, she came strolling up to him, wearing an expression that could only be described as inviting. “Another ale for you, sir?”
He held up his tankard in a gesture that was half display, half toast. “I’ve all I need for the present, thank you—well, all the ale I need.” He smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Hannah.” Her dark eyes ran over him appreciatively. “Is it true, sir, you’re the new master of Belryth Abbey?”
“Well, I’m the late earl’s cousin. Whether I’m master there or not remains to be seen.”
She shook her head. “Such a pity about his lordship. And him so young too.” She sounded sincere enough, if not precisely grieving.
Here, at last, was someone far enough removed from life at Belryth Abbey for Win to ask the question he’d been wondering about ever since receiving Mr. Niven’s letter. “Tell me, how exactly did the late earl die? His solicitor’s letter said ‘unexpectedly’ and the account in the newspaper out of Southampton read ‘in a sudden and tragic fall,’ but neither was at all free with details. He didn’t take his own life, I trust?”
Hannah’s eyes grew round. “Oh, no, sir.”
Then it was Win’s turn to look shocked, for she went on to relate a mishap so senseless and so easily avoided, the word accident scarcely applied at all. For the earl to risk his life in such a fashion, and with a wife waiting at home... It was either gross folly or the most wanton irresponsibility.
“And his death was definitely an accident?” Win pressed. “There was no question of foul play?”
“No, sir, no question at all. I was here when young Mr. Whitacre dared him to make the climb, and I saw his lordship and the other men leave for the churchyard. They’d all been drinking a fair bit, and seemed to think it a great lark.”
“I see.” Win downed the last of his ale in a gulp. What a senseless waste.
Hannah reached out to take the empty tankard, her hand lingering a moment longer than necessary even after he let go. “Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?”
There was a note of invitation in the question. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask whether she had a sweetheart and then more directly if her evening was free, the obvious next steps in the game of dalliance. She was attractive, not far from his own age, and unless he was much mistaken about the signals she’d been sending out, she wasn’t averse to seeing more of him.
But Win hesitated. Somehow he wasn’t in the mood to flirt, not with the countess’s near-poisoning still on his mind, rendered even more troubling now by the knowledge of how needlessly her husband had died. “Just another ale.”
The young woman pulled a faintly dissatisfied face and returned with a swish of her skirts to the bar.
Win stared after her, mystified by his own hesitation. What was wrong with him? It had been weeks—no, months—since he’d bedded a woman. He should be eager to arrange an assignation with the comely Hannah. Instead he felt...well, preoccupied. Preoccupied with the countess’s safety. Which was a ludicrous way to feel, given that she was another man’s widow and he had enough responsibilities of his own.
He’d have to be foolish to start fretting about Lady Radbourne’s wellbeing. She was grieving, she was enceinte, and her unborn child might well disinherit him. Any interest he might show in her could leave him looking as if he were after cream-pot love. And hadn’t he already suffered enough of that with Harriet, marrying above himself?
Angry at himself for having let the perfect opportunity slip through his fingers, Win was watching for the barmaid’s return when the front door of the Arms opened, and a short, older gentleman with a long nose and a fringe of white hair stepped inside. His face seemed slightly out of balance, for his eyes were large while his mouth was small and pursed. Dressed in old-fashioned breeches and a frock coat, he reminded Win of a country parson.
He stood by the door, his eyes sweeping the room.
To Win’s surprise, the man’s gaze came to rest on him, and he headed purposefully in his direction. “Colonel Vaughan?”
“Yes?”
The man gave a perfunctory bow. “I heard you were in Malton, sir, and I thought I should make myself known to you, in case you have any questions about Belryth or my tenure there.”
Win bowed in return, but with a befuddled feeling. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me. What’s your connection to the abbey?”
The man’s white eyebrows shot higher. “Why, did no one tell you about me? I’m Sir John Blessingame. I was the late earl’s guardian.”
“Ah, Sir John—yes, as a matter of fact I heard your name for the first time not an hour ago, from Lady Radbourne.” Win gestured toward the taproom. “Would you care to sit down?”
With a nod, Sir John went to the nearest table and pulled up a chair. “I was at the abbey for thirteen years, until this past summer.”
Win took a seat across from him. “In that case, there is one matter on which you may be able to shed some light, if you don’t mind. I was going over the abbey’s account books yesterday, and I have several questions about the figures.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t help you there, lad. As Radbourne’s guardian, I had charge of his person, not his property. You’ll have to ask the trustees if you have any questions about the estate finances.”
“Ah.” Frustrated, Win drummed his fingers on the table. “Until
an hour ago, I hadn’t realized that the late earl even had a guardian, certainly not so recently.”
“He was my sister’s son, though she and her husband have been dead these sixteen years. Radbourne inherited from his grandfather when he was but eight years old, and it fell to me to look after him and his younger brother until Radbourne attained his majority.”
“And that was just this past summer?”
“August the thirty-first.” Blessingame gave a regretful shake of his head. “A great pity. The boy no sooner comes of age than he’s gone, and his brother dead not six months before him.”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your nephew. Of both your nephews.”
“Aye, so am I. The younger lad, Gerald, suffered terribly at the end. Gangrene, or so the doctor called it.”
“A nasty business.”
Sir John nodded. “It was, poor lad. As for Radbourne...well, at least he went quickly. There was a good deal of promise in the boy, until that trollop he married sank her claws into him.”
Win blinked. Trollop? Apparently Mr. Channing wasn’t the only gentleman of the neighborhood who disliked Lady Radbourne. “I take it you disapproved of your nephew’s marriage?”
“Disapproved? Why, I forbade it for three years.” Like a bantam cock putting up its hackles, Sir John seemed to swell with indignation. “Shabby genteel she is, and that’s being charitable, for her mother was little better than a harlot. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do to stop the match once Radbourne came of age.”
Lady Radbourne’s mother might have been an adventuress, but using shabby genteel to describe the dignified little countess seemed unduly severe. “There must have been something more than mere infatuation there, if your nephew waited a full three years in order to marry her.”
“Aye, that woman had him wrapped around her little finger. He no sooner turned twenty-one than he made her a countess.” The man’s small mouth compressed in an expression of disgust. “Just three short months of lying on her back, and now she’s owed a jointure income and the use of the dower house for the rest of her days.”
Win wondered if they were both talking about the same Lady Radbourne. The woman Sir John was describing sounded ruthless and calculating, while the woman Win had met two days before had blushed crimson when he’d lifted her in his arms. “I expect she would rather have her husband living.”
Blessingame gave an unpleasant laugh. “Aye, you’d expect that. But who’s to say she ever had tender feelings for the boy? He was her junior by three years. Trapped him with her woman’s wiles, she did.”
Win might have laughed at the phrase woman’s wiles—it sounded like something a Methodist preacher might say, haranguing his wayward flock on the evils of Jezebels and Delilahs—except that there was nothing amusing about the bitterness in Sir John’s voice. “Is there some particular reason you believe she trapped him?”
Sir John’s eyes widened in an expression of incredulity. “Why, she’s a Douglass, isn’t she? Or was. She knew how to make him dance to her tune. No matter what I said or what limits I set, the boy gave her opinions more weight than he did mine.”
Win could recall giving young ladies’ opinions a considerable amount of weight himself in his minority. He’d meant no disrespect to his father, but just the same, it had been hard not to look with favor on the wisdom of pretty girls. “Isn’t that the usual way of young people?”
Sir John looked as if he would have liked to refute this, but after a moment he merely scowled and said, “Ah, well, you’re still young yourself. The point is, it’s because of her that he left Oxford without taking his degree. She was always wheedling to line the lad’s pockets with more blunt, too, though he would spend it on drink.”
That sounded considerably more damning—lure a youth into abandoning his education, and then press him to live beyond his means?—except that Win couldn’t see how it would possibly benefit Lady Radbourne to push for an increase in the earl’s allowance if the money all went toward drink anyway. Truth be told, he suspected the entire clash amounted to little more than an old-fashioned power struggle over the late earl, with Lady Radbourne nudging the young man toward greater independence while Sir John was unused to having his authority questioned.
“But the joke is on her,” Sir John said with a gleam of satisfaction. “When I saw there was no stopping the wedding, I made sure the marriage contracts didn’t give her carte blanche. They specified that if anything were to happen to my nephew, that woman would have a roof over her head and money enough to put bread on her table, but not a penny more.”
“I thought you said you weren’t in charge of estate matters.”
“Nor was I, but I knew what was best for my nephew. I put a word in Mr. Niven’s ear, and made sure he wrote the contracts accordingly.”
Hannah returned with Win’s second ale, though he was so caught up in his conversation with Sir John, he merely gave her a distracted smile, leaving her to bustle off with a frown on her lips. “And Lord Radbourne allowed that?”
Blessingame shrugged one shoulder. “Let’s just say he didn’t object to what he was signing. He was young and green, and never bothered overmuch with the finer points of business matters.”
Good Lord. First the earl signed away his widow’s security, then he threw away his life on a foolish dare. “That was most enterprising of you,” Win said dryly.
Sir John sat back with a look of undisguised satisfaction. “She gets forty pounds a quarter and the use of the dower house, but only so long as she remains unmarried. My nephew might be gone, but at least that woman can’t suck the lifeblood from the estate, not without producing the next earl first.”
Forty pounds a quarter—one hundred and sixty a year, from an estate that brought in thirty thousand. Sir John had announced the figure as if he expected Win’s approbation. And why shouldn’t he, when Lady Radbourne’s loss might well be Win’s gain? If he inherited the Radbourne fortune, every penny that didn’t go to the widow’s jointure was another to line his own pockets.
The rub was, Win had been in Lady Radbourne’s shoes, or very like them, and not that long ago—marrying someone far wealthier, only to end up with nothing. It had been painful enough when Harriet’s father had branded him a fortune hunter, but that was nothing to the sting of the first time Harriet had lashed out at him with the same accusation. Win hadn’t even known she was rich when he’d begun courting her, and he’d never seen a farthing of her fortune. Her angry father had withheld her dowry, and Harriet had died six months shy of her twenty-fifth birthday, too soon to take control of the money held in trust for her. Win’s wedding had brought him anything but fortune.
No, his case wasn’t so very different from Lady Radbourne’s—except that he was a man, and he’d always expected to have to make his own way in the world. Win couldn’t help envisioning the countess’s circumstances from her point of view, and it appalled him that a grieving widow—a gentlewoman, an expectant mother with no reasonable way to provide for herself—should be left with so little in the very shadow of an estate that brought in so much.
He could think of only one reply that would satisfy both Sir John and his own conscience, and it was the very eventuality that would spell disaster for Hamble Grange. “Perhaps she’ll have a son.”
Blessingame harrumphed. “I shouldn’t say this, I own, but I could almost wish there were no baby on the way. You’re a Vaughan, the same as my nephew was, but who can say whether that creature’s brat is his flesh and blood or just some other man’s bastard?” He shook his head with an expression of disgust. “Better no child at all than a child of that woman.”
* * *
Lina emerged from Hill and Sons, glancing up and down the busy street for Cassandra. Her conversation with the shopkeeper had shed no light whatsoever on the matter of the pennyroyal tea. In fact, Mr. Hill had stared back at her a
s if she were mad for asking about it.
Across the street stood the Radbourne Arms. Lina cast a doleful look in its direction, knowing it was where Edward had spent his last hours on the night he died. She was still gazing reproachfully at the door when it opened and Colonel Vaughan’s tall figure emerged.
His broad shoulders and rugged good looks sent a traitorous stir of pleasure through her. That glint in his eyes—as if he were made to lead women astray. Why did he have to be so handsome and so hale when she’d just been thinking dutifully of Edward? Or not dutifully. She didn’t know why that word had popped into her head.
Then Sir John Blessingame emerged only a step behind the colonel, dragging Lina’s spirits back down. Of all the narrow-minded locals who insisted on judging her because of her mother’s folly, he was the worst. He’d never troubled to hide his dislike, and he’d done his best to make Edward cast her aside. What was he doing, meeting with Colonel Vaughan?
The colonel spied her then, and to her surprise he broke into a devastating smile and came loping across the street at a half-jog. “Lady Radbourne,” he said, touching his hat. He glanced up and read the shop sign over her head. “Did you learn anything useful about the tea?”
He asked it lightly, even hopefully—not at all like a man who had something to hide. The more she saw of him, the more she wanted to believe he’d had nothing to do with the pennyroyal tea. And good God, he had dimples to make a cherub jealous. “Nothing of any import.”
Sir John came to join them. “Lady Radbourne,” he said with a moue of distaste. “I didn’t think to see you out and about so soon. You’re supposed to be in mourning.”
“I am in mourning.”
An Heir of Uncertainty Page 8
