I was usually a sound judge of character, but I had yet to make out Miss Pollard’s. Her familiarity with Mr. Bancroft set off a warning within me, but her casual glances at the other men in the party had not gone unnoticed, either.
We arrived at the targets after the men, who stood around the table investigating the arrows. I watched them each for any sign that they would notice my footwear, or toss a casual glance at my feet, but was sorely disappointed when none of them seemed inclined to notice that I had donned new half-boots. Discovering the anonymous benefactor was more difficult than I had anticipated.
“Where is Mrs. Haley?” I asked, after greeting Mr. Bancroft.
“She does not care for sporting,” he replied. “Unless we entice her with a picnic, I am afraid she will find a better use of her time.”
I picked up an arrow from the table and ran it lightly through my fingers. “Then we simply must plan a picnic.” I placed the arrow back on the table, glancing toward the house. “Is her husband present? I did not meet him at breakfast.”
He smiled endearingly, his head tilting slightly to the side. “Mr. Haley was far too busy in London to come for the entire party. He shall arrive at the end for the ball, but he could not be spared at present, or so he claimed. He is an aspiring politician, you know.” He reached forward and lifted a long, sleek bow. “Now, are you familiar with archery?”
“A little rusty, but I can manage.” I tried to deliver an encouraging smile. I must have been successful if his answering grin was any clue.
Miss Pollard and I were armed with bows, docking our arrows side by side.
“Each of us shall take a turn,” Mr. Bancroft explained, “and the farthest arrow from the center will be eliminated at the end of each round. We will repeat the process until we have crowned a winner.”
“And what shall the winner receive?” Mr. Peterson asked with a smug grin.
Mr. Bancroft said, “Prestige, of course.”
Miss Pollard giggled and I would have liked to shut my ears to the grating sound. It was clearly exaggerated. She turned to me and said, “You may begin,” as though she was doing me the grandest favor.
I had once enjoyed this sport immensely and the feel of the arrow between my fingers reminded me of peaceful days past. I weighed the importance of Miss Pollard’s words as I gauged the distance of the target with its painted black and blue circles. Certainly I was overthinking the process, but it had been so long and I keenly felt the gazes of all the spectators upon me.
The arrow slipped from my fingers before I was prepared to send it on its way and it flew at an angle before plopping onto the grass halfway between me and the target. Drat.
Polite clapping punctuated my irritation. Oh well, perhaps it was for the best. Hadn’t Miss Pollard said the men enjoyed winning?
Pulling her elbow back, Miss Pollard’s arrow flew steady, plunking into the painted target across the lawn, near the center.
So much for going easy on the men, then, I supposed.
Mr. Bancroft gave me a commiserating smile before taking his place next, beside Mr. Peterson. Both of them sank their arrows near Miss Pollard’s.
I stepped back, clasping my hands and doing my utmost to swallow my frustration. I had looked inept, with no opportunity to redeem myself in this round. Unless Lord Stallsbury’s arrow fell further from the target than mine, I would be out of the competition.
He sidled up beside me. “Your arrow has gone missing, Mrs. Wheeler.”
My gaze sweeping the grass, it took a moment to see the dark wood laying just between us and the painted targets. I pointed. “It is just there.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I see that you are a proficient.”
His playful tone belied the unkind words and I smiled in spite of myself. “I was at one point. But all talents fade in time, I suppose.”
“When they are left unpracticed, surely.” His eyebrows lifted. “Were you once a master of archery?”
“There was a time when I would have likely hit the center of the target.” My cheeks warmed and I turned to him. “Forgive my boastfulness. It has been ages since I’ve held a bow and the arrow slipped from my fingers. I am merely vexed that I lost the opportunity to at least hit the board.”
“I see.”
I smiled wryly, watching Mr. Bancroft laugh with Mr. Peterson over the nearness of their arrows. “An amateur mistake, to be sure.”
He tipped his head. “Then we must allow you to redeem yourself.”
Had he not heard the rules of the competition? I could not redeem myself until the competition was over. Though perhaps that is what he meant.
He stepped to the white chalked line and docked an arrow, glancing at me so briefly that I could very well have imagined it.
The spectators quieted as though his very concentration demanded respect, eagerly watching Lord Stallsbury’s reserved concentration. He pulled his elbow back squarely before suddenly turning it down and letting it go. The arrow released and stuck in the ground not three paces from where he stood.
Mr. Bancroft laughed, clapping his hands. “Capital, Stallsbury! Superbly gracious, to be sure. Why did I not think of it myself?”
All eyes turned on me and I felt my cheeks flush. The chivalry was much appreciated, yet a fire within me would not allow the sacrifice to go unchallenged. My stubborn pride reared its ugly head. Had Lord Stallsbury merely wished to see me sink an arrow into the center of the target? I was fairly certain I plainly explained to him that my talent was practiced long ago.
Lord Stallsbury handed me the bow, his grin unrelenting.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the sacrifice.”
He bowed slightly. “I am sure it will be worth it.”
I watched him move to stand beside the other men, my heart beating rapidly as their eyes all trained on me. Nerves that were previously absent skittered about my chest. I had boasted I could hit the target; I had no choice now but to deliver.
Docking my arrow, I pulled my elbow back, focusing on the blue circle at the center of the target much like Noah had taught me to do when we were younger. The arrow felt slick in my sweaty fingers, tapping against my wrist guard, and I directed it before it could slide free on its own accord once again.
I released it, gratified at the thunk of the arrow hitting wood. It landed outside the largest circle on the target, but it had made it. Of that, I was infinitely relieved.
“Well done, Mrs. Wheeler,” Mr. Bancroft shouted, his face a picture of pride as though I had sunk one in the very center of the target.
I turned and offered a curtsy, taken aback by Lord Stallsbury’s smug smile. The cad! I had never expressly said I could hit the center today; only that I had in the past. I longed to pick up another arrow and practice until I was proficient again when a fat drop of water fell onto my nose.
“Rain!” Miss Pollard shrieked, dropping her bow immediately.
Mr. Bancroft removed his large coat at once, holding it over Miss Pollard as they made a dash for the house.
I did not know whether to praise his regard for a woman’s care or feel slighted that he had not exhibited the same care for me.
The weather was nothing compared to the drenching I’d received yesterday. I turned for the house, crossing my arms around my stomach as the remaining two men flanked me.
Mr. Peterson eyed me seriously. “I should think you are a cursed woman, Mrs. Wheeler.”
He did not know the half of it. I smiled politely, his grin making up for the remark. “You blame me for the weather, Mr. Peterson?”
“Have you any defense? I’ve yet to see you outside when we have not been visited with rain.”
I laughed, despite the ridiculous flirtation. “Our acquaintance is two days old, sir. I should think that we may declare this a coincidence at present.”
“Of course, madam,” he said gravely. “But remind me to bring an umbrella the next time we venture out of doors together.”
I shot him a wry smile, which he retur
ned. Lord Stallsbury was unamused, his gaze trained on Mr. Bancroft and Miss Pollard ahead of us.
“You’ve known Bancroft long, then?” Mr. Peterson inquired, turning the nature of the conversation.
“We met in London during the Season nearly five years ago,” I explained. “I had to leave abruptly due to the death of my parents, and we lost connection at that point.” In truth, I had reached out to Mr. Bancroft after being shipped away to my aunt’s house, but never received a reply to my letter. Though I had not been eager to accept his hand right away, I would have done so during my mourning if only to escape the stifling, oppressive home of my aunt.
Lord Stallsbury opened the front door for me. His dampened hair fell over his furrowed brow, his brown eyes as stormy as the sky.
“Sir?” I asked. He had seemed quite pleasant before. The change was as swift as it was unprecedented.
“Andrew,” he said over the top of my head. “Meet me in the library. I’ve something to discuss with you.”
Mr. Peterson laughed, shaking his head as though he anticipated this. I was beginning to see that such merriment was a common occurrence for the man. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is nothing of the sort.”
Lord Stallsbury bowed to me, spinning on his heel and mounting the steps toward the bedchambers with great speed. I watched him go as the butler approached.
“Send my man up,” Mr. Peterson demanded before dipping his head toward me. “I shall see you later this evening, Mrs. Wheeler.”
Left alone with the butler, I turned expectant eyes on him. “Yes?”
“Your carriage has been retrieved and the grooms are seeing to your broken wheel at present.”
Relief poured through me. If it was an easy fix then surely Mr. Bancroft would not require payment. “My trunk?” I inquired.
“It has been delivered to your room.”
Breath left me in a rush. They were dowdy compared to Miss Pollard’s fashionable frocks, but I was glad to have my own gowns nonetheless.
Wind howled past the windows as rain pattered lightly against the panes. The rain did not appear the least inclined to let up. I huffed. Perhaps Mr. Peterson had been correct. There was a chance that I was, indeed, cursed.
Chapter 4
Sleep eluded me. Though on the smaller side, the bedchamber was cozy. Large, thick drapes encircled the bed and kept in the warmth, and I did not lack for either candles or my gothic reading material.
Sighing, I dropped my head back and closed the book on my lap.
I had read enough of my novel to learn that the scarred highwayman was, indeed, likely to end up the hero, and found that despite the romanticism, I simply could not stomach completing the story at present. I tucked the book back into my trunk, shoving it under my spare chemise and layering my lavender spencer over the top of it.
It was not lost on me that the fictional highwayman laid claim to dark hair and a brooding temperament, much like the man who had saved me on the highway in the rain. Lord Stallsbury’s pensive nature of late was nothing like the man I had heard gossiped about in recent years.
A young, eligible, sought-after gentleman with a penchant for adventure and a taste for danger, Lord Stallsbury had been discussed for his string of potential wives and subsequent duels. With such a reputation, it was shocking that he had yet to flirt very much of his own accord. Though his easy amusement was quite evident in moments, his temperament did not quite line up with the person I had heard rumors about during my Season.
I rubbed my eyes. Whatever was the matter with me? Whether Lord Stallsbury had a reputation or not mattered little. I was here for one man, and one reason only. To become engaged.
How else would I save my sister?
That was it. Lottie. Surely she was the reason I was incapable of sleep. I had yet to receive word that she was being taken care of, that she was comfortable. I believed Miss Hurst would provide a safe home for Charlotte, but I still worried, however illogical that worry might be.
Perhaps if I wrote to Charlotte, I would be able to fall asleep. Surely at this time of night, I could complete my task and return to bed with no one the wiser.
I gathered my dressing gown about me, tying the sash snugly around my waist. Carrying the candle, I snuck from my room, down the darkened hallway and to the staircase. When I married Frank, I’d had many lonely, sleepless nights. He was gone almost directly following our wedding. The wife of an army captain during a war leads a solitary existence—one that I was glad to be done with.
Standing in the hallway downstairs, I could not recall which of the doors belonged to the library. Mrs. Haley had pointed out the correct one earlier that day in the event that I found myself in need of a book or some paper. I stepped forward, placing my hand against the door to my right. The floorboard creaked beneath my foot, startling me, and I jumped back. No, could it be the other door? I turned around, letting myself inside the opposite, identical doorway. Though the room was dark, a man’s touch was still evident in the heavy wooden bookcases lining the wall beside the door.
I’d found it. I stepped forward, holding my candle close to read the titles.
Boring things, the lot of them. Agriculture guides and history, a book about farming which was particularly thick. Whatever could be so intensive about farming to require such a thick manual? I set down the candle on a nearby ledge and pulled the large volume from the shelf, flipping through dry pages in slight disgust. Surely the house had novels, as well. Whatever did they spend their free time reading? Irrigation systems?
“Just choosing a bit of light reading for the middle of the night?”
I jumped, dropping the book on my foot. I cried out, spinning around to search the dark for the owner of the voice, though I knew with an odd innateness to whom it belonged.
“Lord Stallsbury,” I admonished, “whatever are you thinking, frightening me so?”
“Are you hurt?” he questioned, materializing from the shadows. His coat removed and sleeves rolled up, I should have had the grace to look away. Marriage, however, and living with my brother had allowed me to grow used to the sight of a man in his shirtsleeves, and it did not bother me as it once would have.
Though the sight of Lord Stallsbury in his shirtsleeves elicited an entirely different response than my brother, or even Frank ever had.
The top of my foot throbbed something fierce and I limped to the large wingback chair closest to me, falling into it with unladylike inelegance. He came around with swift agility, seating himself in the chair beside mine. His dark eyebrows were pulled together, shadows from the lone candle upon the bookcase behind us marking creased concern on his face.
“It is nothing,” I reassured him, longing to pull my foot from its stocking and check the depth of the bruise that was surely growing.
“I glanced through that book earlier today,” he said, indicating the one I had just dropped. “I can quite comfortably say that it was a great deal heavier than nothing.”
“You’ve an interest in agriculture, my lord?”
His eyes tightened, though that could be owed to the darkness of the room. “I am simply doing proper research, as any landowner ought to do.”
The pulsating throb in my foot was quieting now, though remained sufficient to keep my attention from straying too far from it. “I thought being a landowner simply required a dutiful and knowledgeable land steward, but perhaps I am simply old fashioned. Where is your land situated, if you don’t mind my prying?”
“Northumberland,” he said, his brow a mixture of confusion and bewilderment. “My brother used to bemoan his ability to throw a stone from our rooftop that could easily hit Scotland. Though that was untrue, it is quite close.”
“Quite north, indeed, then.”
“Have you visited?”
I looked away. Would he know of my deceit were I to attempt it? “Yes,” I answered, surprising myself. His deep brown eyes called to me of home in a way that I could not quite decipher. It was unnatural tha
t I would feel such a connection to a man I hardly knew, but I felt the desire to trust him.
He studied my face, his gaze falling toward my feet a time or two. That must be it, he was merely attempting to distract me from my pain.
“I have an aunt in Northumberland, actually,” I continued. “I stayed with her for half a year before my marriage. It was a beautiful land, and I think I quite miss the cows above all else.”
His head jerked toward me. “Cows? Wretched creatures.”
I laughed. “How dare you impugn such glorious beasts. They are the providers of cheese, you must know. And a great deal of things are made significantly better due to cheese.”
“Yes, like what exactly?”
I met his challenging gaze and held it. “Toasted cheese, for one.”
Clearly he had not expected that answer.
I settled further into my chair, recalling times my father would make us toasted cheese beside the fire. “Without the cheese, it would simply be toasted bread. I find myself craving it when the storms rage and the fires bellow. There is nothing that tastes quite like home as toasted cheese.”
The window rattled with wind and rain as if on demand. “Then I shall endeavor to produce some for you.”
I laughed. “Good heavens, sir. I could not possibly eat now. I fairly gorged myself at dinner.”
A smile touched his lips. “You speak so plainly. You are aware of this, I assume.”
“I have been told a time or two that my opinions are quite determined, yes,” I answered.
Though, to be fair, I had not heard the complaint in quite some time. Not since before the passing of my parents four years prior. I could hardly credit it at present.
His voice was quiet, his words measured. “Then perhaps you could assist me in solving a riddle.”
I pulled my thick dressing gown tighter around myself. “That would depend upon the nature of the riddle, my lord. If it is agriculture to which you refer then I’m afraid I am quite inept.”
He chuckled, the sound traveling up my spine in a not wholly unpleasant manner. He ran a hand over his shadowed face. “There is a man—a close friend of mine—who is in a great dilemma. He has been informed that unless he correctly alters his attitude—by marriage, no less—he shall be cut off completely.”
Love At The House Party (Women 0f Worth Book 3) Page 3
