When he reached the first curve of the drive, he faced the house. He set aside his resentment of his father and his years of sacrifice in order to save the estate from excesses that had not been his. He studied Blackfern. The bones were good, but there was no sense of welcome. No window boxes of flowers, no color anywhere. The house looked as cold and forbidding as his reputation.
What Blackfern needed was what it had lacked these last thirty years, which was all the charm and warmth his father had stripped from the place, and everything he, himself, had denied the property since the titles came into his management. There was no love here. No wife to gentle his hard edges. No laughter from children. No son or daughter about whom he might say, Isn’t he just.
Thrale walked a deliberate circle around the immediate grounds. Wherever he looked, he was confronted with his crimes. His father had bled the place dry; packed it with gilt and useless, ruinously expensive things. As for him? He’d starved Blackfern. His responsibility was to be certain the estate thrived, and he had not done that.
The scene was no different at the rear of the house. His boots kicked up dust because the path needed new gravel. The fences around the paddocks were neat, but patched, not replaced. The stable block looked barely up to the task of housing horses and gear and grooms. Not a single marigold was to be seen when there had once been an entire bed of them. Had he not told Mrs. Wilcott that he grew them here in his mother’s remembrance?
His path took him near one of the smaller gardens, a corner meant to be private. A favorite spot of his mother’s. A flash of cardinal red caught his eye as he passed. Color in a landscape he’d stripped of vitality. What he found when he stood at the entrance to the garden, were Lucy and Roger, for of course she had brought Roger with her, and the dog was more than welcome. One of the groundsmen—his only groundsman, stood by with a spade and a bucket while Lucy, on her knees, dug about in a bed of wilted greens.
Roger trotted to him to have his ears rubbed, and Thrale obliged. The groundsman looked as worn and tired as Blackfern. He snatched off his cap and bowed. “Milord.”
Thrale answered with a nod. Lucy turned and pushed back the brim of her wide hat. The bodice of her gown was red. A red-and-gold shawl lay on the marble bench. “Good afternoon, my lord. I am rescuing your marigolds.”
“I see you doing something.” She’d retreated behind the walls of her private fortress. Not as high or as thick as before, but there. He meant to convince her to let him through.
“I commandeered your servant to assist me.” She pulled off her thick gloves and addressed his groundsman. “I think we are done here for now. You’ll watch over this, won’t you? In the coming days.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed and left, spade and bucket in hand.
“Such a picaresque spot.” She extended her hand to him, and he assisted her to her feet. She curtsied when she was up and had shaken the dirt from her skirts. “I came here to read, and what should I find but marigolds in distress. I said to myself, this must not be.”
He could not look away from her. What a journey she had endured from Bartley Green to Blackfern. A day and a half of travel north, one night at an inn, and a perfect picture of serenity every mile they traveled. She had been pleasant even in the presence of her father whom Thrale could not forgive. Not in a thousand years could he forgive the man for what he’d done. She had retreated from them all. Even him.
“Thank you,” he said. He wanted to tell Aldreth and Cynssyr what Sinclair had done. It killed him that he could not, but he could not betray the confidences she had made to him. She would never forgive him if he did, not even if his intentions were good. The best he could do was make the two men aware something had happened, which he had done with all the delicacy required. Without the details, Lucy could not be made whole.
She went to the bench where she’d left her shawl and, he now saw, a book. “I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all.” He grasped her hand when she picked up her shawl. “Stay a while?”
She settled her shawl around her shoulders and sat on the bench. “Yes, surely.”
“What do you think of Blackfern? Your unsparing opinion, if you please.”
“I find it much like you.” Roger lay at her feet, and she bent to pat his shoulder.
“That is no compliment.”
“I like the severity.” She peeked at him, hiding a smile. “Some of it.”
“My father lived in the moment. Decisions made on a whim, fancies pursued without a thought to the expense.” He pointed to his left. “I had to tear down an entire wing my father added when I was ten. Thousands of pounds spent on that foolishness, and by the time I was twenty, it was worth one’s life to venture in.”
“Oh, my.”
“I sold thirty horses after I inherited, across three stables. Ten carriages. A property in Ireland. I dismissed most of the staff. I cleared out the attics in two houses and sold a tin mine to pay the immediate debts. Tax bills to be paid. Five properties in disparate Counties never visited by me or any of my predecessors in the last fifty years. To let, now. A hundred years’ lease of an entire row of London townhouses had expired. Vacant for a decade, not a penny of income from them since the new leases were never signed despite a dozen letters from our solicitor begging that they be executed. I was required to make a not insignificant outlay to put them to let again, and I am only now recouping those losses.”
He concentrated on the rose behind her, a thick vine grown out of control, a riot of deep green leaves and white blooms. “He loved all that was opulent, and I have removed every sign of his indulgence. You have seen the house. Anyone with half a measure of observation can distinguish his mark from mine.”
“Your tastes are spare, indeed.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Therein lies the problem. I’ve no notion what my tastes might be. My criteria has been to remove all signs of his taste.”
She made room for him on the bench, and he, navigating the inert Roger, sat beside her. “I do not dislike Blackfern. You retrenched, my lord. From what you’ve said, it was necessary.”
“It was.”
“And now, perhaps less so, yes?”
“I find I cannot give up my habits of economy.”
“Consider, though, what mark you will put on Blackfern.”
He gave a rueful laugh. “My mark is the obliteration of my father’s.”
“That was your reaction to the situation in which you found yourself. You have not looked for the soul of Blackfern yet. But it’s here.”
“Where?”
She gestured. “Here, in these marigolds. In this secret retreat.”
“I’ve neglected them, as well.”
“I’ll look after them while I’m here.”
“Please. Please. I’ll tell the groundsman he’s to follow your advice.”
“You won’t object to flowers?”
“As many as you think will save the place.” He took her hand in his and wrapped his fingers around hers. He had not, the few times an opportunity arose on their way here, broached the subject of her father. Such a discussion, if she wished to have one, required privacy, and they had not had any until now. “Lucy.”
“My lord.”
“Thrale. At least that.”
She shrugged one shoulder.
“I have not known what to say to you these past days.”
“Nothing need be said.”
“I have been strangled with the effort it takes to speak charitably to your father.”
“There is nothing to be done about that.”
“That does not mean I cannot be outraged as well.”
She glanced away, lips thin. Her expression relaxed when she looked back. “I live in his household. Most would say that whatever I possess, is his.”
“Not so.”
“That I was able to set aside money at all is due to my living under his roof. He provided all that I needed.”
“How many bills did you pay from your
pocket?”
She did not answer.
“What will you do?” He wanted to buy her the damned cottage himself. Lease it for her if he must. And he could not. How could he? Nothing could be more inappropriate. Nothing less damaging to them both if it were discovered. Nothing less welcome by her.
“A retrenchment of my own.” She bowed her head for some time. “I cannot stay with him. I cannot.”
“No. I should think you would not wish to.”
“I’ll live with Anne and Cynssyr, I expect, unless Emily would rather live with Aldreth. She might. She and Mary have always gotten on well.” She made a face. “I shan’t be able to save as much. Not without the wagers, and I don’t see how I can continue if I leave Bartley Green.”
“I will place your wagers for you.” He sat straighter. This, he could do. “Whatever system you like, I will act as your go-between, when and wherever necessary.”
“It’s kind of you to offer. But without Johnson…”
“I will assist you, and in return—”
She looked down her nose at him. “A tit-for-tat?”
“But of course. I shall want your compilations of data. For my personal use only. I’ll have my secretary make the copy, if you agree.”
“Is that all? And here I thought you wanted blood and tears, not the contents of my head.”
He was pleased to hear her laugh. “A fair exchange, I say.” He lifted a hand. “On my honor, I will not share it or have your name connected with it in any way.” He picked up her book. “There is no need to answer yet. Consider my offer and decide at your leisure.”
“Thank you. That’s kind of you.”
He tapped the cover of her book, and gathered his nerve. “At the risk of offending you, I have another proposal to put before you.”
“What, my lord?”
He gripped the book hard. “I will advance you the money required to lease that cottage. If it happens that I hold the funds from your wagers, I can apply a portion to your debt. I would, of course, provide you a quarterly accounting.” He turned his head enough to see her. She sat motionless. He could not tell what she thought. “Take this under advisement as well. Silence from you is a proper decline. If you agree, however, then I will have the legal documents in your hands before you return to Bartley Green. Given your situation, I will engage my banker to disburse those funds directly to your lessor.”
“Sir.”
“Please, take your time. Nothing more on the subject need be said.” There. He had done all that he could, though none of it was what he’d wanted to do. He would have bought her a house, happily. He would have put her winnings back into her hands. Both were unthinkable. “He opened to the frontispiece of the book she’d brought here. “The Works of Charles Lamb.”
“I did not see that you have a copy of Milton in your library.”
“I’m sure I have. But no matter. I’ve still got the one I found at The Cooperage.”
“You brought it with you?”
“I did.” He met her gaze. “When I read the pages, I am reminded of the intellect of whoever wrote those notes. He was a clever man, whoever did that.”
“Very clever.” She took the Lamb from him. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought this out here.”
“Not at all.”
She riffled the pages. “The pages are cut. I presume this is a book of yours, not your father’s.”
“Quite so.” He took back the book.
“That is a bad habit of yours, sir. Taking books that someone else has been studying.”
He opened to the page she’d marked and began to read. “Hypochondriacus.”
By myself walking,
To myself talking,
When as I ruminate
On my untoward fate.
She listened to him in silence, and when he was done, she repeated the lines, “In my heart festering, In my ears whispering. You read that beautifully. Will you read it to me again?”
And so he did, and it was pleasant to sit here with her, with marigolds freshly watered and Roger at their feet, and him having done what he could to assist her. When he finished reading the poem and two others, he returned the book to her. “Now you must do me the same favor.” So saying, he turned lengthwise to rest his head on her lap. “Go on.”
She cleared her throat, and he folded his arms across his chest. He’d startled her, he saw. But then she turned the page. “The clouds are blackening, The storms threatening.”
She read very well, and while she read, she rested a hand on the side of his head. Who would have thought an afternoon at Blackfern would be idyllic?
CHAPTER 36
Thrale stood at the edge of the lawn with a stick in one hand and Roger staring at him with hope and longing. He threw the stick, not hard and so not far, and the dog loped after it. As he watched, he came to the unhappy conclusion that he no longer controlled the state of his heart. How this had happened to him—of all people—baffled him.
He watched Roger return with the stick, but his mind was on the four sisters sitting on a blanket at the edge of the lawn. Lucy might never want him as he wanted her. He bottomed out at the thought that he might not win the woman who mattered to him more than his own life. If he did not? He would have to live with her choice and his loss.
Bracebridge, who happened to be standing beside him, said, “What do you think?”
“About?”
The earl gave him a sideways look because, yes, Thrale bloody well knew about what. “My left arse cheek.”
He leaned back to look. “Still there.”
“Still pretty enough for you?”
Thrale looked again. Bracebridge reached back with both hands and flipped up his coattails. Thrale shrugged. “Eh.”
“Milord, you know ‘tis the prettiest arse cheek you’ll ever see in a pair of breeches.”
“Certainly true.”
“Then why the devil do you look like you’ve seen the ghost of your dear departed father?”
His chest pinched. “I see him everywhere in this damned place.”
“Lacks a woman’s touch, I’d say.”
“It does.” He tossed the stick again. “As do I.”
“Pick a woman you fancy and who won’t drive you mad. Court her. Marry her. Done.”
“Yes, of course. I ought to have thought of that on my own.” The woman he wanted would never tell him yes, or if she did, it might be from desperation or some misguided, in his opinion, loyalty to her father, or to keep her sisters from worrying about her.
If he asked, she might tell him no, and that would be worse than uncertainty. He couldn’t. It was too soon, her recent setbacks too raw for him to interfere in order to have what he desired. She wanted her independence. Needed it. He needed to let her be until she believed yes would not take from her what freedom she’d gained; despite the truth that he offered security for her future.
Roger reached the stick he’d thrown. Rather than bring it back to him, he trotted to Lucy. She accepted his tribute and put her arms around him. The dog sank down and lay his head on her lap.
“Interesting woman, Mrs. Wilcott.”
“Agreed.”
“I met her husband once.”
That got his attention. “Did you? When?”
“In my less reputable days. When I was Mr. Devon Carlisle, and not welcome at home.” Bracebridge had been the youngest of several sons and, upon refusing a commission, had effectively thumbed his nose at his father and found himself unwelcome among his family. He’d made his way in life through means not entirely legal. One heard, for example, that he still owned a brothel. “I made an appearance or two in the ring. To make ends meet.”
“You battled Devil Wilcott?”
Bracebridge touched the bridge of his once broken nose. “Do you see this face?”
“The Devil Himself did that to you?”
“He did.”
Miss Emily Sinclair left the blanket she was sitting on with her sisters to race w
ith the eldest of Lady Aldreth’s children. Bracebridge followed the progress of their contest. The earl of Bracebridge was not the sort of man one would call handsome. He was prepossessing, and there were women who liked that. “I lasted twenty-two rounds. This was before he married her.”
“What was he like?”
He laughed. “Jesus, he could hit.” He shrugged. “That’s no secret. I was lucky to last twenty. But I took my third of the purse and that got me through a rough patch or two. At the time, it was worth this nose.”
Miss Sinclair and the future Baron Aldreth were racing the perimeter of the lawn with her pretending to be about to catch the boy at any moment. Her bonnet was long gone, and she had her skirts pulled up nearly to her knees. The entire parade came their way and young Mr. Dunbartin hid behind Bracebridge, arms around his legs, head poking out from one side of him.
“You shan’t catch me, Em.”
There was a reason Miss Sinclair was called The Divine Sinclair. She was, in her way, as beautiful as Lucy. She crouched down, eye level. “Oh, but I can. I shall, you little imp.”
“Someone ought to do something about you.” Bracebridge reached behind him and swung the boy up and set him on his shoulders. He shrieked with joy. “Fear not, lad. I won’t let her have you.”
Miss Sinclair stood, hands on her hips. She was breathing hard from her run. “Oh? Is that so?”
Bracebridge gave her a long look and her cheeks turned pink. “Take her in hand, Thrale.”
“Thrale?” she said. “Not you? Coward.”
“No. And now, Mr. Dunbartin, shall I take you to see the horses?”
“Yes, yes, please!”
Bracebridge strode away with the boy waving his arms and calling out for everyone to look at him.
“I’m quite sure,” Thrale said, “that he did not mean to be rude.”
“Yes, he did.”
“I apologize on his behalf.”
“He doesn’t deserve it.”
“You do.”
Miss Sinclair considered him in silence for some minutes. “Are you going to offer for Lucy?”
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