“You father’s steward should be helping,” Mary said, her lips thin with disapproval.
It had been said before, but Anne didn’t see a way around the problem without hurting someone. “Mr. Destry is too old and too ill. The man should be retired, but when I broached the subject with him a week ago he began to cry. For heaven’s sake, the man is in his late sixties and still has a young family and an elderly mother to care for. In the end it’s Papa’s decision, and he will never pension Mr. Destry off while the man wishes to continue. If Papa’s secretary had not moved to Italy, then he could have assisted in running the Hall.”
“Then either Mr. Destry needs an assistant or your father needs a new secretary.”
Anne nodded. “I should have come up with that myself, and would have if Tony hadn’t befuddled my senses. That man! Anyway, I’ll suggest both of those. Father would be well served by having both a new and energetic secretary—though not just anyone would suit—and an assistant for Mr. Destry.”
“It’s too bad Mr. Boatin is not available. He would suit admirably as the earl’s secretary.”
“Tony would never let him go. Mr. Boatin knows Darkefell business better than the marquess does by now, probably. But that does give me a good idea,” Anne said. “Father needs a secretary with some language experience. Perhaps a foreigner would be better than an Englishman. I shall write some letters and set up some interviews.”
Mary stood and said, “And begin to consider having your own life. Begging your pardon, milady, but I would think it a terrible thing for a woman as fine as you to lose your youth looking after someone else’s responsibility.”
“You’re being impertinent,” Anne said, though she didn’t mean anything by it, nor did Mary do aught but nod in response. It was well-trod ground between them. “My question is, would I, by marrying, indeed gain my own life? By law, I merely become someone else’s chattel when I marry.”
“P’raps,” Mary replied, “but if you marry wisely, you’ll be the winner in it all. Don’t let your fear of leaving your home keep you from his lordship and all that he can offer.”
Anne examined the room she had slept in and lived in since she was nine and moved down from the nursery. At that age, she had convinced her father, against her mother’s wishes, to send away the tyrannical nursemaid who had made her days and nights a torment with laudanum dosing and nonsensical dietary restrictions, and her first act of independence was to choose this room. She had loved it ever since, its white-papered walls and sunny windows that reached to the ceiling, pale lilac damask drapes and white-painted furnishings.
But it could not be her home forever, and she must never lose sight of that fact. When her father died, the earldom would go not to Jamey, but to a cousin that Anne had only ever seen twice in her life. Neither Harecross Hall, nor the London town house, nor any of the other estates belonging to the Harecross title would be open to her, except at the charity of the new earl. She was wealthy in her own right because of a bequest; she did not need charity, nor would she ever accept it. No, if she remained unmarried, she would need to live somewhere, and she would need to provide a home for Jamey.
She sighed. Such gloomy imaginings on a sunny day were inappropriate. She had other things to work on right that moment, among them a gypsy curse, a brood of ill-mannered boys, the disappearance of Lord Julius Bestwick and quite possibly Hiram Grover, and an enticing, entrancing marquess about whom she could not stop thinking.
She folded the letter she had been writing and put it away to finish later. “I have much to do today. Darkefell and I are going to the gypsy camp to look for his brother,” she said, not needing to explain to Mary, as she had told her all the pertinent details the night before as her maid helped her undress, “and then to Farfield Farm to see how Mrs. Jackson fares.”
“Let me get to your unruly hair, then, milady, and rebandaging your poor sore shoulder. It should be encouraging that Robbie seems to be doing so much better,” Mary said as Anne crossed and sat down at the dressing table. “I only hope poor Mrs. Jackson recovers as well. I’m so grateful that Irusan spends so much time with him, for my lad’s already wanting to get out of bed, but your feline gives him a companion, at least. Robbie has been reading to him from the books Miss Lolly recommended.”
Lolly Broomhall was Anne’s chaperone, when she needed one to maintain her reputation, and she had spent much time in Cornwall teaching Robbie his reading and writing. “I believe Irusan has learned a sad lesson that not all boys can be trusted, and now values Robbie much more,” Anne commented as Mary twisted her hair into drooping curls and pinned them high to cascade down, dressing them with some velvet ribbon. “But before I do any of that, I have to go with Mrs. Noonan and her boys to the village and speak with the vicar. Until that is done I’ll be looking around every corner for a trap or trick. I should have done this two weeks ago.”
A half hour later, in the breakfast room, the morning meal was a tortuous nonstop diatribe by Mrs. Noonan about why the boys should not be banished to the vicar for lessons. Her reasoning was nonsensical and convoluted. Anne paid little attention, preferring to watch the marquess eat, distracted from Mrs. Noonan’s harangue by Darkefell’s perfections: his even teeth and perfect lips, strong hands and broad shoulders. Osei and Anne’s father again were absorbed in conversation, this time about the earl’s studies in the gypsy or “Roma” language.
Finally awoken from her lascivious daydreams about the marquess by the increasing volume of Mrs. Noonan’s complaints, Anne stopped the woman’s rambling by stating that if Mrs. Noonan so desired, she could stay with her boys while they took their lessons. That mollified the anxious mother, and she was silent for the rest of the meal.
Anne, Mrs. Noonan, and the boys set out for the village of Hareham. Sanderson guided her open carriage along the winding lane while Mrs. Noonan, still silent, cuddled her smallest boy on her lap. The other three were uncommonly silent as well, their faces pinched with anxiety. Anne was beginning to have second thoughts as she stole glances at the widow’s face on occasion. Mary was right; the woman was scared, for some reason.
But she couldn’t very well speak of it while the boys were there, so they proceeded silently to Hareham vicarage, a beautiful little stone cottage hard on the church property. Vicar Wadley, a thin scholarly man given the living many years before because he was able to answer the earl’s questions regarding a fine point of differences among Doric, Ionic, and Attic Greek dialects, bowed low as Anne led the troop of boys to his door.
“Mr. Wadley, this is my cousin, Mrs. Noonan, and these are her sons, in birth order, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and baby John.”
“Ah, how delightful. And are these little boys saints?” he said with a beneficent smile on his narrow face, his wig askew and showing a fringe of white hair beneath.
Anne held her tongue, while Mrs. Noonan, watching the vicar with suspicion in her eyes, said, “Well, sir, though I intended that they should be saintly, I must admit, ever since their poor dear father passed on to his reward, they have been a mite bit of a handful.”
He appeared grave, and surveyed the sullen troop. “Really? Perhaps they need to be reminded of the saints whose names they carry, and how they should every day make an effort to do something worthy of their name.”
Mrs. Noonan, warming up to the vicar, said, “That is exactly it, sir.”
Anne had prepared the way with a note carried to the vicar the evening before, so he knew what was expected, and had been promised a handsome reward. His curate, a younger man, had been apprised of the strenuous requirements of caring for and teaching the Noonan boys, too.
Anne took the vicar aside and told him that Mrs. Noonan wished to oversee the lessons, and he surprised her with his easy acquiescence. Therefore, with her ready basket of sewing and other necessities, she settled in. John, who was not really a baby, being a sturdy little fellow of five years old, was to learn his letters, while the older boys were set some mathematical sums, after which they w
ould learn the lives of the saints and beginning Greek. Anne left, hoping she had managed to keep them out of trouble until she could rid herself and Harecross Hall of the Noonan pestilence.
She had arranged to meet Dr. Davies, one of the principal inhabitants of the village, at his spacious home to speak with some of the other villagers about the damages that had been done by the gypsies. It was a rowdy and angry group, though they kept their behavior suitably deferential as Mrs. Davies served tea and sat in on the meeting.
“When did you notice the trouble start?” Anne asked, doing her best to be civil in speaking with Cooper, Sir Wedderburn Cooper’s farm manager, despite his wife’s nastiness of two days before.
“Well, now,” the man said, scratching his chin. “I’d say it were six weeks or more back … ’bout when we begun the north field planting for next year.” Hops were perennial plants, but took two years to mature before they would give a harvest. Sir Wedderburn had been gradually adding to his hops acreage for the last few years.
Six weeks before; yes, Anne thought, that was about when the Noonans descended upon her unwitting father. The other men affirmed the time of about six weeks before when the most malicious acts were committed. By the time she headed home she was convinced that at least some of the mischief was attributable to the Noonan lads.
But still, there were unexplained things that she could not attribute to those boys. Men’s clothing had been stolen in the middle of the night, when the boys were tucked up in their beds and the doors to Harecross Hall locked. Turnips and carrots had been pilfered from larders, and eggs had disappeared from henhouses. Anne had never met a little boy that craved turnips, nor carrots. The gypsies could be to blame for those thefts, Anne supposed, for it was acknowledged that the Roma felt that stealing from gajos was not thievery in the truest sense.
Once back at Harecross Hall, she sought out Darkefell, who had already sent Osei off to Hawk Park to ready it for his mother’s arrival. He was in the stable, looking over his hired mount. She watched him from a distance, his large competent hands feeling along the horse’s withers, and her mind was once again bedeviled by thoughts of his skillful lovemaking.
Could she imagine lying naked with him, his broad hands moving along her limbs? What of the invasion of his body, the sensual connection between man and woman about which she knew a little, but still thought of as foreign, an unexplored territory with fearsome threats? She wanted him, and he wanted her, and yes, to answer her own question, she could too well imagine those marvelous hands skimming her naked body. It was shameful how well she could imagine it! The rest, the unknown territory of lovemaking, was an enticing mystery.
She sighed at her own heart, which skipped a beat at the thought of making love with him. He had proposed marriage not once but twice, and had been more patient than any man in the kingdom would ever be, for she well knew that he was a prize any other woman would have snapped up like a diamond headdress.
She reminded herself firmly that she was a prize too, though. She was plain, yes. Her nose was too long, her chin too narrow, her whole face missing beauty by a long way. She was taller than she should be. But she was intelligent, wealthy, and well-born. Even at the age of twenty-four—twenty-five in November—she would have more offers of marriage than she could count if she went to the Season once more.
Which was why she avoided London in spring.
A seductive voice whispered in her ear that not one of those men who would offer marriage would value her the way Darkefell did. He had a mind as quick as hers, a heart opening in astounding ways, given his occasional moodiness, and he made her feel, at times, as if she was quite beautiful, with just the expression in his dark eyes, the touch of his hand, the caress of his fingers.
“Wretched beast,” he said when he looked up and saw Anne. “This horse looks as if it should be hitched to a plow rather than ridden by a marquess.”
“Poor Tony,” Anne said with a smile, strolling over to him.
The grooms and stable hands had scattered at her arrival, for everyone knew who was the real power at Harecross Hall, and it was Lady Anne. The earl might not notice if they slacked at their tasks, but Lady Anne most certainly would.
“Are you ready, then, to ride to the gypsy camp?” he asked, straightening and slapping the unfortunate animal on the backside. “I’m eager to speak with these people, and see if I can find where Julius has gone to, and if they did, indeed, speak with Hiram Grover.”
“We shall go directly, but not on horseback.”
“Why? Surely it’s faster than walking?”
Anne swallowed. Accustomed as she was to Darkefell regarding her as the kind of intrepid woman who could do anything, it would not be an easy thing to admit her frailty to him. She wondered if part of the attraction for him was in finding a lady who could match him in courage and determination. How, then, could she admit the truth? Clearly it mattered to her what he thought of her.
“It is a forested path. Better to walk.”
“I have never yet seen a path that was not meant for riding,” he said. When she didn’t answer, he ducked his head and looked into her eyes. “Anne, what is it?”
“I … I don’t ride, Tony,” she admitted.
“You don’t ride? But even my mother has her own palfrey, and she is no sportswoman.”
She just shook her head, diminished in his eyes, she was sure of it.
“But why?” he said, taking one of her gloved hands in his. He leaned against the stable post, still staring deep into her eyes.
She shook her head, but finally, after some coaxing, said, “I … I fell off a horse once, a long time ago.”
“I cannot imagine that would stop a woman as intrepid as you, Anne, from ever getting upon a horse again.”
“Tony, I do not ride and this is no time to learn.”
She began to walk away, but he grabbed her wrist, jerked her back to face him and said, “Then how about riding with me, as you once did?”
She gazed up into his dark, chocolate brown eyes, remembering that ride, after a frightening experience being locked into the tower on his property. It was almost the first moment she had felt stirrings of the passion she still felt for him, and the idea of riding with him again, pressed against his chest, her hip against his groin, made her blush.
“You remember very well. I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmured gently, stroking her cheek. “Go get something more comfortable on,” he said, giving her a little push toward the stable door. “You don’t need town clothes for a visit to a gypsy camp and Farfield Farm.”
Noting that his hands trembled slightly on the reins as he led the hired horse back into its stall, she said, “All right.” So he was as eager as she. They could combine business with pleasure!
She exited the stable into the June sunshine and headed up toward the garden door to the Hall. How had this happened? How had he fallen in love with her, as plain and ordinary as she was? Despite her confidence in her many gifts, still, she knew men preferred a beautiful face and form. And she had never laid snares for him, never flirted, never made any single attempt to entrap him, as her mother had told her she needed to do, if she was ever to marry. Why did he care for her?
But then, why did she care for him? Was it simply that he loved her? No, for she had felt the stirrings of passion, first, then admiration, then, though she fought every moment of it, she had fallen in love, and it was before he admitted that he loved her.
Was it his gorgeous appearance, she wondered as she strode more quickly, eager to change her gown and be back with him? Admiration had its part, but her love for him went deeper, to levels she had never plumbed in her own soul. He was wholly admirable in her eyes, for the honor he held dear, for his ability to grow and change as a man, and for his profound capacity for love, surely a worthy trait all on its own. Only true love could make him behave toward her as he did, and could make him look at her with such hope in his eyes.
She flung herself through the narrow garden
door, startling a maidservant, who curtseyed and flattened against the wall, allowing her mistress to pass. Anne proceeded down a dim hallway to the large wood-paneled great hall and toward the stairs, still thinking of Darkefell. She had seen avarice in a suitor’s eyes, Anne thought. She had perceived disdain and had felt the sting of censure. But never with Darkefell; even when he called her a damned fool, he said it because he loved her and feared for her life when she was rash, which she was, on occasion. How could she live without him in her life? And yet, how could she amalgamate all of her duties and desires into a life spent as the Marchioness of Darkefell?
She ascended to her room and, with Mary’s aid, dressed carefully in her never-used riding habit, a lovely rust brown velvet dress with a more generous skirt and cutaway jacket trimmed in black velvet and brass buttons. Unlike habits designed for women who really rode, she had not had one side made longer and fuller, to cover her ankles when she rode sidesaddle, therefore it was perfectly suitable as a walking dress. A jaunty plumed hat perched on her luxurious hair finished the outfit.
With her insides trembling like custard, she descended more sedately, strode around to the back of the Hall and met the marquess in the stable once again. He would ride the earl’s own horse, it was agreed, a lovely golden gelding named, appropriately, Golden, that saw too little practice, except daily exercise by the stable hands. The animal was fresh, Anne feared, trembling inside and drawing back from the prancing beast that Darkefell led past her. And the marquess was, perhaps, fresher! But he had an expert hand with horses, and Golden soon settled under his command.
Sanderson, his usual glum expression grimmer than normal, handed her up to the marquess, and said, “Milady, do you want me to accompany you to the gypsy camp?”
Lady Anne 03 - Curse of the Gypsy Page 10
