by Heather Boyd
“Oh,” Alice cried out with a laugh, but as she looked about, her happy expression softened to one of confusion. “I thought the place wasn’t so small.”
“Close enough to visit easily,” he promised, “far enough away not to hear the church bell unless the wind blows up hard from the south.”
He raised his hands to assist Alice alight. He caught her about the waist and drew her down, close to where he stood. He held her only a moment then reluctantly released her. Her parents were following them in another carriage, a larger covered barouche, so this moment of privacy was only to be fleeting. He intended to make the most of their short time alone together however in conversation.
Alice walked ahead a few steps, looking about her. “I thought Lady Taverham mentioned the village boasted a pretty set of shops? A seamstress, a bakery.”
“She was talking of the town on the other side of the marquess’ estate, no doubt. Traveling there and back from Warstone would take the better part of the day, I should imagine. It is a trip I rarely make. How about we stretch our legs for a bit? There’s a pretty spot at the other side of the village chapel where I used to fish as a boy.”
Alice glanced over her shoulder. “We should wait for my parents.”
He glanced at her in consternation. “I wasn’t going to take you very far. It is just down the road a ways.”
“Mother is very keen to see the chapel where we will marry,” Alice told him with an apologetic smile.
“Of course. The vicar is looking forward to meeting you all, too.” As were the rest of the nearby residents. He noted Noah Blake, the village smithy, approaching in the periphery of his vision, and smiled. Perfect timing for a quick introduction to be carried out. “While we wait for your parents, I’d like to introduce you to my oldest acquaintance in the village. Someone you can depend upon should you ever find yourself to be in need of assistance.”
Blake nodded to him. “Lord Acton.”
“Mr. Blake,” Everett said as he gestured to his future bride. “Miss Quartermane, may I introduce Mr. Noah Blake. He runs the smithy and the tavern. You’ll meet his wife, Nancy, at luncheon.”
Alice gaped at Blake as he touched his cap.
Once upon a time, Blake may have been bullied for being a sickly child, but thanks to his life of labor at the dirty forge, he was impossibly large now and perhaps a little intimidating, given Alice’s expression.
She eventually dipped a very small curtsy. “How do you do?”
“Very well, Miss Quartermane,” Blake said with an easy smile, then he gave Everett a sly grin. “Very pleased to meet you at long last, as will everyone in the village be.”
“Oh, thank you.” She glanced over her shoulder, and then sighed as her parents’ carriage emerged. “There they are. Do excuse me, Lord Acton. Mr. Blake.”
Alice backed away and turned to walk swiftly toward the approaching conveyance. She waved enthusiastically to her parents and then waited for them to disembark.
Blake took up the reins of Everett’s carriage. “Your lady is pretty, and a right proper one.”
Although it pained him to admit it, Alice was not a bold creature. She was much too formal for the countryside. “She’ll warm to you eventually, Blake.”
He hoped that wouldn’t take long, because he had a great deal to do with the men in the district, and their wives.
“I would have thought…” Blake began but then shook his head.
“What?”
Blake scratched his jaw. “I thought you preferred redheads?”
Everett ignored the question. “I have a feeling the visit will be a short one,” he warned.
“Right you are, my lord. Will you be wanting luncheon from the tavern still?”
“Indeed, we will,” he promised. The Blakes would have gone to a lot of trouble for him today, and he would not disappoint them. He thumped Blake’s back. “Did I hear you and your wife were at odds again? What was it this time?”
“It weren’t my fault,” Blake protested. “The marquess’ new guest got Nancy’s hackles up a bit.”
Everett turned slowly to face Blake. “Do you mean Miss Crewe upset her? What has that woman done now?”
“Sounds like you are acquainted with Miss Crewe.”
He hid a grimace. Too well acquainted. “We are.”
Blake’s grin widened.
Everett shook his head, knowing Blake was thinking about Everett’s supposed preference for redheads. “Miss Crewe’s cousin is the Earl of Louth, a very great friend of Taverham’s.”
“Redhead, about so tall,” he said as he set his hand at chest height. “Wore a pink coat. Only saw her for a moment. She jumped down from driving the carriage and four, whistled, and then two weary groomsmen scrambled out from inside the carriage to take her place at the reins.”
Everett pinched the bridge of his nose. Was this typical of Whitney? He’d heard all sorts of nonsense about her in London, but driving herself across the countryside was a new one. No wonder she’d seemed rather untidy last night. “What in particular did she do to upset Nancy? Her driving or whistling to the grooms sleeping inside the carriage?”
“Neither. I made a mistake of admiring the lady a little too obviously.” Noah winked. “She seemed a very energetic redhead, and I told Nancy she’d be a handful. That’s all it took to make my wife’s temper soar to match her own red hair. My woman knows my weaknesses too well,” he said, laughing as he turned the horse and curricle toward the village stables. “Never fear, I chased Nancy round the bed this morning, so she’s forgotten all about it for now,” Blake promised. “She’ll be completely merry by the time your wedding feast arrives.”
Blake moved away, leaving Everett shaking his head.
Really, someone ought to straighten Whitney Crewe out. Put their foot down. Make her consider the damage she was doing to her reputation by flouting the conventions of society so openly. Not that Whitney Crewe would ever be his problem to worry about.
Everett hurried forward to meet his future in-laws and strolled around the village with them for an hour. He took them as far as the causeway where he once fished as a boy. They returned to the tavern a little early because when he suggested a stroll through the edge of the woods, they appeared disinterested in further exercise.
“Ooh, I have never seen so many trees,” Mrs. Quartermane exclaimed as she beat the air with her fan quite unnecessarily. “Doesn’t those woods give you chills, my dears.”
“Oh yes,” Alice murmured.
“It is cooler in the woods’ shade,” he suggested, but he suspected Mrs. Quartermane was not referring to the temperature. Some people were uncomfortable in the woods about his estate. They craved open spaces rather than the comforting surrounds of nature.
“I’m surprised not to see more signs of woodcutters plying their trade,” Mr. Quartermane said with a keen eye for their surroundings.
“They wouldn’t dare cut down one single tree beyond what is needed without my consent,” Everett insisted. “Those trees are all on my land.”
Mr. Quartermane’s eyes lit up with interest. “I tell you again, we could make a fortune delivering those trees into the right hands.”
There were many who pestered him to lift his restrictions on logging the woods on his estate. Mr. Quartermane wasn’t the first nor would he be the last to try to strike a deal. However much it might appeal to others, Everett would always refuse. But he didn’t want to give offense by being too curt about it right now. “Mr. Quartermane, perhaps this discussion could wait for another day.”
“Yes, yes. Business must indeed wait,” Mrs. Quartermane agreed. “Alice and I are already bored to tears with the topic.”
It was not a hot day, but the woman was gasping, and as he glanced at Alice, he noticed she too seemed flushed now. Everett led his group toward the tavern and the promised luncheon he’d arranged for Blake’s wife to prepare. There was no one else about in the tavern, so he settled his guests and went in search of Nancy himself.
“Good morning, Mrs. Blake,” he called out when he reached the base of the stairs.
Nancy rushed down from the private rooms above, clearly flustered.
“My lord.” She dipped him a deep curtsy.
He looked the woman over and noticed she had made an effort to smarten up her appearance. Not that she wasn’t always handsome, but her gown was a soft shade of blue and her hair was intricately twisted about her head. He only ever saw her wear this particular dress on special occasions. “You look lovely,” he whispered.
She preened a little and then laughed. “Don’t let my Noah hear you flirting with me, my lord.”
At one time, he’d thought himself half in love with this fiery redhead, but she’d chosen better in giving her heart to Noah instead. “He’d agree with me.”
She stretched to look past his shoulder at his group and then shrugged. She turned back to him with a wide smile. “How soon until your betrothed is joining us?”
His grin stretched to painful. “She’s already here.”
“But she’s not… I thought she’d be a redhead.” Nancy looked at his bride again, eyes narrowing, and then back at him. She blushed red from the top of her gown to the roots of her red hair and bit her lip, looking up at him with embarrassment. “Forgive me. I should know better than to listen to Mr. Blake about matters of the heart.”
“Of course.” He gestured for Nancy to precede him and hid his annoyance. “Let me introduce you to Miss Quartermane and her parents.”
The introductions were brief and somewhat stilted, and then Nancy rushed off to stir up the cook to bring their luncheon out, her color still high. He pondered her embarrassment as he made small talk with Mr. Quartermane until an array of dishes was set before him. Was his past preference for redheads that well known that people talked about him when he wasn’t around?
“Excuse me, my lord. May I ask a question?” Alice said suddenly.
“Of course,” he promised. He glanced at her parents to see if they were listening, and they were. “You need never ask permission again,” he whispered.
“Thank you.” Alice smiled quickly. “It concerns Mr. Thompson.”
“What about him?”
“Do you not worry about angering Lord Clipson by keeping company with his disowned son,” she asked.
“Truthfully, no.” He frowned at Miss Quartermane. “Thompson has been my good friend for many years, and just because his father has cut him off does not mean I must do the same. He is a brilliant man, and an honest one.”
“I see. So he did not ruin that woman?”
“Which woman?”
“That poor woman who fled from the Fairmont Ball with her face covered. Surely you have heard the stories about the gypsy?”
He didn’t need to hear the stories to know how stretched the tale had become since that night. “I’m sure the situation isn’t quite as grievous as gossip suggests.”
“But she was heartbroken.”
“Heartbroken?” Everett didn’t think that was possible. Whitney had never given him any indication that she’d expected anything from him, not even an apology. She’d refused to see him.
“They say she was inconsolable,” she whispered.
He considered that. Yes, Whitney had been upset with him that night—angry, but not inconsolable. “Who said that?”
“Well, everyone. Although I do wonder if Miss Crewe could be correct.”
“In what way?”
“She said the lady probably was grateful for her narrow escape from such a despicable man.”
For some reason, that suggestion stung.
“Lord Acton, why didn’t you call on me,” an old voice called.
Everett recognized the voice behind him and grinned as he swung out of his chair. Mrs. Jennings may have been his old nurse once, but he was very fond of her still.
He quickly stood and inclined his head to his old nurse. “Mrs. Jennings, how lovely to see you.”
“Posh,” she chided. “None of that gentlemanly nonsense. Give us a kiss, sweetie.”
“It is so good to see you on your feet again.” He grinned and pecked her on the offered wrinkled cheek, despite Mrs. Quartermane’s horrified gasp. Mrs. Jennings had raised him, loved him as if he were her own. Now that she was older, it was his turn to look after her. She’d taken a bad tumble a month ago and only now seemed to move about easily.
He brought her forward. “This dear lady is my old nurse. Mrs. Jennings, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Quartermane, and their daughter, Miss Alice Quartermane.”
“A pleasure,” she told them, eyeing Alice boldly. “You must be his lady.”
“We are engaged to marry, yes,” Alice corrected her.
He smiled at Alice. “Would you excuse us?” he said to her, and then drew Jennings outside, away from the taproom she lately frequented for medicinal purposes.
He took some coins from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. “How is the knee, really?”
“Aching like the devil, but I still intend to dance at your wedding feast.” She clasped her coins tightly. “Thank you for the coin, my lord.”
“If it’s not enough for your needs, send Black to me for more.”
Mrs. Jennings glanced around him. “I thought she’d be different. Does she look after you? Make you happy?”
He laughed softly. “We’re not married yet.”
“That’s just a few little words. It’s the love that counts, in the end,” Mrs. Jennings murmured.
He felt his face heat.
Mrs. Jennings scowled at his silence. “Didn’t I tell you to wait for love?”
“I couldn’t wait forever,” he warned.
“That’s always been your problem. Rushing in rather than letting the good in life come to you.” She patted his hand. “Patience is all you need.”
“Forgive me if I have my doubts about that,” he chided. “I made my choice.”
Mrs. Jennings face fell. “I hope you’ll not live to regret it.”
“I won’t.” Everett sighed. “Do you need me to send a cart to fetch you for the feast?”
“Such a good lad. I’d walk if only this leg would mend faster.”
“Now who is impatient?” he chided.
She pushed him away, “You’d best get back inside before they think you’ve run away with me.”
“No chance of that.” He kissed her cheek again and escorted her as far as the crossroads.
She hobbled down the lane to her little home, leaning heavily on her cane. When he returned to the tavern, the Quartermanes were ready to leave. They filed out to climb into the carriages in silence.
Alice sat straight-backed at his side as they followed her parents’ carriage all the way to Warstone Manor. Coming home usually made him happy, but today, Everett couldn’t think of a single thing more to say to the woman who would soon share it with him.
Chapter Nine
Whitney threw herself from the saddle and stalked toward the marquess, leaving her horse behind for the eager groom to take away to the stables. “My lord,” she called out.
Kit smiled. “Ah, you’re back at last.”
“Indeed.” She glanced beyond the marquess to where Christopher rode atop a different horse now. He looked happy, and as she had no wish to upset him, she strove to calm her temper. She had hoped the boy had gone in to his tutor by now. “More riding lessons?”
“Another gift from Acton,” Kit murmured. “He sent the old boy over earlier today.”
Whitney snorted. “Buying the boy’s affections with horseflesh, is he?”
“That’s it. Keep your heels down,” the marquess called out to his son as a groom led the boy and tall horse around the enclosed paddock. The marquess glanced her way. “Noble is quite old. Long past the age of riding to hunt or galloping or any other nonsense. Acton was kind to consider that having Lion to ride might help Christopher become accustomed to being so high off the ground. He is a little timid yet around the taller higher-strung horses I hav
e stabled. This one, though, Chris could crawl under him and he’d barely twitch.”
Whitney watched the pair and conceded the older mount was a very good idea. Sensible. Safe. She remembered her first ride on a larger mount quite vividly still. Her first horse had belonged to Uncle Isaac. He’d won the beast at cards, and he had not been calm or as steady as this one appeared to be. She’d had the devil of a time controlling him, and her reaction to being so high for the first time hadn’t helped. She was lucky she hadn’t been thrown, and it had taken her a while to feel confident enough to remount that same horse again. “He seems comfortable up there,” she conceded reluctantly.
“Acton is a good judge of horseflesh.” The marquess nodded. “Between our two stables, I think there will be enough variety for Chris to learn upon without needing to visit the horse markets. Acton has been quite generous.”
She narrowed her eyes. Was it guilt driving the earl? “Does Acton own many horses?”
“A dozen hunters, and another dozen older ones are eating their heads off in his stables and fields. It’s high time he did something about them, but he can barely part with any. It’s about time they earned their keep, in my opinion. He’s a bit too sentimental about some.”
“That’s surprising,” she grumbled.
“Not really. You don’t know him like I do,” the marquess told her. “He’s a good friend.”
“Not to Miranda,” she complained.
The marquess straightened, and then scowled at her fiercely. “That is no one’s business but theirs.”
Scolded, Whitney could only nod. Kit would learn soon enough that his so-called friend wasn’t to be entirely trusted with the truth, or his family’s happiness. But with Christopher drawing near, perhaps now was not the best time to mention what she had discovered that morning.
She looked away, and her eyes landed on the Dowager Marchioness of Taverham on the other side of the stable yard. The older woman was watching her grandson from the shade of a beech tree, making no move to come closer to the marquess or her grandson. The dowager rested with her two hands on the head of her cane and appeared to be leaning upon it as she watched the lesson.
