“How could you? You were too busy ministering to the deserving faithful.”
While Fenwick was becoming protective of his employer.
“Harold said nothing of this.” Though, Hadrian hadn’t exactly asked about Avis, had he?
“Harold is a title, and such an inherently good man, nobody thinks to include him in the gossip. Besides, he’s known to be great friends with the Portmaine family, and his loyalties would not brook slander.”
“Neither will mine. Does everybody regard Lady Avis in this unkind light?” Had Avis withstood this treatment for twelve years?
“Of course not. Though all it takes is one disdaining look, one little sniffy aside, and Avis retreats, until circumstances compel her to venture forth again.”
Retreat was all bullies needed to inspire them to greater viciousness. This was true in the churchyard, the schoolyard, and everywhere in between. “Benjamin and Wilhelm tolerate this?”
“Benjamin and Vim are the highest-ranking title and deepest pockets in the shire, respectively,” Fenwick said patiently. “Nobody would treat her amiss in their presence, and neither one of them will look beneath the surface where their sisters are concerned.”
“Because their sisters have convinced the entire world they don’t want anybody’s probing.”
“I can’t speak for the governess. Avis is very clear her brothers are not to worry for her, so they’ve given up trying.”
Caesar shuffled to a halt. “Good havens, what have I done?”
“Beat me on my own horse?”
Yes, handily. “Not that. I’ve coerced Lady Avis into attending services with me this Sunday, and the churchyard is the very last place she’ll be comfortable.”
Much like Hadrian himself, for different reasons.
Fenwick drew up at the edge of the deer park and regarded Hadrian in the brilliant morning sunshine. “Why’d you do it?”
“I thought I’d be doing her a good turn. Getting her off the property, out among the neighbors.”
“Fair enough.” Fenwick nudged his mount along the fork in the trail that turned toward Blessings. “But then we must ask ourselves, why did Lady Avis agree to go with you?”
* * *
Hadrian had seemed so lonely, so alone, holding Avis’s hand in the cool morning sunshine of the portrait gallery, the Portmaine ancestors silently looking on. She should never have agreed to attend services with him, never fallen for his pretty words, or his charming smile, but the idea that she could do something for him—for him—had been irresistible.
He was irresistible, exactly as he had been twelve years earlier, a handsome youth on the cusp of truly attractive manhood. She’d adored him then, even before Hart Collins had assaulted her, and then after… Hay Bothwell had saved her life, her sanity, and her soul, just as he’d also broken her heart.
“You look preoccupied this morning.” Lily Prentiss, Avis’s companion, stood in the parlor doorway.
“The morning has been busy. Fenwick met with the shepherds and is off to confirm shearing plans with Landover, and I tarried too long on my constitutional and haven’t started on the correspondence yet.”
“It’s a pretty day,” Lily said, advancing into the room on a swish of pale blue skirts. She was blond, well formed, and less than a decade Avis’s senior, and the blue looked good on her. “You can be forgiven for spending time out in the fresh air, though wandering on your own will never be a good idea.”
“I didn’t leave Blessings, and I stayed within shouting distance of the stables.” And you are not my gaoler.
“If you say so.” Lily’s tone was diffident, not quite deferential, nor would Avis have wanted it to be.
“Are those menus?”
“I went ahead and brought them up.” Lily passed along the papers in her hand. “It’s Tuesday, and cook will be asking.”
“I’d like to have the Bothwell brothers over for Sunday dinner.” Avis leafed through the menus and shuffled Sunday’s to the top.
“Brothers? Do you mean Landover and Lord James?”
“Lord James was Harold’s guest,” Avis explained. “Or he often has been, but no, not Lord James, but rather, Hadrian Bothwell.”
Lily took a seat in one of the rockers. “I’ve been here nearly ten years, Avis, and I’ve never met Landover’s brother. Let me guess, this brother has eight sons and that explains Harold’s unwillingness to marry.”
“No sons.” Avis scratched notes on Sunday’s menu to add two guests to the number expected. Lily had been with her only seven years, which somehow had started equating to a decade. “Hadrian Bothwell is ordained and a widower. Shall we have rice or potatoes?”
“Rice. More exotic than sorry old mashed potatoes.”
“But potatoes lend themselves so nicely to cheese.” This was what Avis’s life had come down to: choosing vegetables and hoping her dinner invitation would not be politely refused.
“So it’s the brother we must find a wife for?”
“Hadrian is quite capable of finding his own wife.” As he had proven handily. Avis wrinkled her nose, second-guessing her selection. “Worthy vegetables are such a challenge this time of year.”
“A viscountcy is flirting with escheat just across the property line, and you are worried about vegetables.”
“Hadrian and Harold are both quite young enough to have large families yet. I hardly think ruin lurks around the corner.”
The words were out of her mouth before Avis realized how they’d sound, and then they hung in the air, putting that awful, pitying look on Lily’s pretty face.
“Ruin seldom announces its intent to call,” Lily said quietly. “Much less its desire to become our nearest neighbor.”
“Potatoes,” Avis said. “Baked with our own cheddar and the earliest chives we can find.”
Lily rose, rather than finish the sermon she was doubtless dying to deliver. “That sounds delicious. You’ll bring those back to Cook?”
“When I’m done with them, and you will join us for luncheon on Sunday, Lily Prentiss. I won’t be left to manage two hungry fellows on my own, much less three.”
“Three?”
“Fen usually joins me on Sunday.” Which Lily knew very well. “I do so enjoy tormenting him over his manners.”
“Avis, have you considered that just possibly—”
Avis rose as well, abruptly tired to her bones with old arguments and old lectures that always rang loudly with “for your own good.”
“Fen is my steward, and he’s the next thing to family, and of course I will confer with him from time to time.”
“But at table? He’s too flirtatious by half, which only fuels the worst gossip.”
“My own staff knows better than to gossip, or they had better. Fen flirts with everybody, so don’t borrow trouble.”
“No, Avis, he does not flirt with everybody.” Lily let the implications sink in with a meaningful silence, then twitched her pretty skirts and left the parlor.
Chapter Three
“Ashton Fenwick!” Harold rose from the estate desk and extended a hand. “When did you get back?”
“Several weeks ago,” Fen said, returning the handshake. “Certain neighbors have been too preoccupied to bother noting my august presence.”
“I’m noting it now. Winter in the south seems to have agreed with you.”
“It usually does. Look what I found wandering the property line and in need of escort home.”
“My errant baby brother.” Harold grinned hugely, out of all proportion to the trite conversation. “He went missing from the breakfast table, and here I thought you’d gone back to bed, Hay.”
“I took Caesar out. Fenwick wants to finalize his plans for the flocks, and I thought your imprimatur needed on such a serious undertaking.” He took Caesar out almost daily, in sheer defense of his sanity, and also in hopes of hearing a certain flutist soloing among the pines.
“One hesitates to point it out, Bothwell,” Fen said, “but aren
’t you the good shepherd in the family?”
One delighted in pointing it out.
“Stow it, Fen.” The warning came from Harold, sparing Hadrian the effort. Fenwick rode like a demon, and he was protective of Avis, which ought to be marks in his favor, but Hadrian still felt a rankling unease around him.
Which was probably how Fenwick wanted it.
“I’m on my way to the kennels,” Harold said. “Can we talk sheep over a morning visit to the hounds?”
“Avie said you were dispersing your pack,” Fen replied as they moved off. “What’s afoot, Landover?”
Harold explained about crosses and traits and reasons why a man might want to start all over on his breeding program—tripe, the lot of it. Harold had found homes for his hounds because he didn’t intend to come back. The knowledge made his eventual departure so much more real that Hadrian felt a pressing need to kick something.
“You’re not inclined to stay your brother’s hand in this?” Fenwick asked Hadrian. “He has the best pack this side of Ireland.”
“I do not ride to hounds,” Hadrian said, “and even were I inclined to start, I’ll be so busy in Harold’s absence, my first outing would have to wait until the hounds were ready to pounce on me rather than old Reynard.”
“You’d make a meal,” Fen allowed, “but surely, you’ll not part with this handsome fellow?” Even from his considerable height, Fen didn’t need to squat to pet the dog in question.
“Hamlet comes with me,” Harold said, fondness in every syllable. “We’ll visit his relations in Denmark, after all, or at least I hope to.”
“Do they still have boar hunts there?” Fenwick asked. “I thought the Danes bred his kind for large game.”
“The Danes, the Germans, and many noble courts throughout Europe,” Harold said. “Also for companionship and protection, and just about every other fine quality in a fellow.”
“Except fine fellows don’t generally drool, chew up your best boots, and get hair all over the rugs and sofas.” Fen offered that litany as he continued to pet the great beast, whose adoring gaze never left Harold.
Hadrian begrudgingly agreed with Fen, but promised himself he wouldn’t make a habit of it. The dog, generally termed a Great Danish hound, was the most recent in a succession of his kind that Harold considered more pet than anything else.
Landover had sported dogs like Hamlet as far back as Hadrian could remember—stinking, drooling, and creating a great fuss when they decided to bark at some hapless rabbit.
God help him, was he jealous of even his brother’s dog?
Harold paused some moments later in a litany of canine begats and out-ofs worthy of a book of the Old Testament.
“You’re wool-gathering, Hay, though considering the topic, probably appropriate. We’ll start shearing in a couple weeks’ time, and you’ll have to see it through, because I’ll be leaving for Harwich.”
Yes, and from thence to specific ports Hadrian was not yet privy to. “I thought I’d see you set sail.”
“We can discuss that later. Fen, may we offer you sustenance before you leave us?”
“Perhaps something to drink and water for my horse.”
“He’s long since lost his saddle and bridle and found a pile of fodder,” Harold assured him. “Hay, you’ll join us?”
“No, thank you. I’ve some letters to write, and I’ve had my gallop for the morning. Fenwick, a pleasure.”
He strode off, knowing his departure likely puzzled Harold, but seeing his brother in the role of hail-fellow-well-met bothered Hadrian. Harold was the best of men, but knowing what Hadrian did about his brother now, Hadrian’s imagination wandered into nasty, dirty corners.
Did Fen suspect Harold could be attracted to him?
Did Harold watch Fen the way Fen had watched Avis’s retreating backside? The way Hadrian had nearly done?
How in the bloody, benighted, stinking hell was Hadrian to tolerate months and months of this subterfuge of simple companionship with Finch? And when, please God when, would the jokes and innuendos about Hadrian’s career in the church stop?
Hadrian’s mood, not particularly sanguine at the start of the day, stumbled toward an irritable despondency. When his morning’s post included a letter from Devlin St. Just, his spirits rose.
Before Hadrian had finished his reply to St. Just, Harold interrupted. He sprawled on the library sofa, his hound hitting the floor beside him.
“You’re conscientious about your letters.”
“With friends, of course. Staying in touch with St. Just takes no discipline.”
“Nor will it take discipline for me to stay in touch with you, but leaving will be difficult.”
Resentment flared—yet again. “You expect me to sympathize with this difficulty?”
“You need not.” Harold scratched Hamlet’s ears lazily. “I know this will be hard for you, which is why I’d rather you not accompany me to Harwich on Monday.”
Hadrian cast sand on his unfinished letter, which he’d been filling with drivel about the beauty of spring and the pleasure of renewing old acquaintances.
“Monday is less than a week off.”
“You’ve spent half this year scampering over the mountains and back on this bishop’s or that friend’s errand, and while I appreciate that you want to spend time with me, Hay, you’re also putting off settling in here.”
“I was raised here. I don’t need a map to the breakfast parlor.”
“You’ll be Landover in all but name,” Harold replied gently. “Your first priority is the estate, and spring is no time to be waving your handkerchief at your brother on the other side of England.”
“If I’m to be Landover, then my first priority is the well-being of my family, and that would be you, you and only you.”
“You can address that too.” Harold left off petting his beast. “Take another wife, get you some babies. I’d adore my nieces and nephews, Hay. Spoil them rotten.”
“And come visit them, bringing their Uncle Hal’s dear friend James as well?”
“If he’s welcome, then yes, occasionally.”
The words were offered with a thread of steel, Harold rarely showed. Hadrian rose from the desk, needing to pace, or scream, or hit something, but preferably not his brother.
He hoped.
“James Finch will not be an uncle to my children,” Hadrian said. “He cannot be, nor will I allow the fiction that he’s some sort of informal cousin. His brother’s the heir to a bloody marquessate, for God’s sake.”
Harold unfolded himself from the sofa and assessed Hadrian in silence while the dog rose as well.
“What?”
“Pitch all the tantrums you need to, Hay,” Harold said. “I cannot stay here for another thirty-seven years, so that you can be a martyr to the church, and I can be a martyr to duty. If you’re not happy, then you need to fix that. I can’t fix it for you, though God knows I would if I could.”
At least when Harold left, the dog would go with him . The sheer petulance of thought shamed Hadrian as fraternal lectures could not.
“When you announced your decision to join the church,” Harold went on evenly, “my advice and outright bribery meant nothing to you.”
Joining the Church of England hardly equated with sailing off to Denmark.
“I made the right decision at the time,” Hadrian replied. “For me, at least. You would have immured me here as some kind of glorified steward, or bought me a seat in the Commons, and I’ve neither vocation.”
“And your vocation for the church?”
How deftly Harold could twist a knife, and with what good intentions. “Was adequate for a time.”
“That is horse shite,” Harold retorted. “You were so damned rattled after the Portmaines’ troubles that you scrambled into the arms of the church like a frightened boy, and you couldn’t hear my suggestions that you consider other options or simply wait to take holy orders.”
Something inside Hadrian snapped
, something violent, and frighteningly appealing.
“You,” he said in lethally soft tones, “wanted me to avoid the church, because it made your eventual plans for me and your choice of companions all that much more dangerous and uncomfortable. A brother in Parliament far to the south might overlook his rusticating elder’s felonious eccentricities, but a man of the cloth could not.”
Silence hung, while the dog looked back and forth between the two brothers, his expression worried.
Harold’s hand dropped to the dog’s ears. “You’re missing St. Michael’s, are you? Missing your pastoral committee’s guidance, composing brilliant sermons in your head even as you ride the land here, pausing in your day to pray every few hours?”
Hadrian was silent, Harold’s blows too well placed to parry.
“Come to Harwich if you like,” Harold said. “That will leave Fen and Avis to see to Landover’s shearing, to get our flocks up the hills, to make the decisions should the plowing and planting get behind schedule with rain or damage to the equipment or injury to the teams. I’ve done the same for Blessings, but if we say our good-byes here, Hay, we’ll have privacy when we part.”
Harold left the room, taking his idiot dog with him, while Hadrian resumed tending to his correspondence, and all the cheerful, false sentiments it contained.
* * *
“Master Hadrian.” Tiny old Mrs. Carruthers beamed up at Hadrian, smaller and more wizened than any adult human had a right to be. “We are so happy to have you back among us. The Lord can wait His turn to get His hands on you, if you ask me. We’ve need of you here.”
“I’m happy to be here.” Hadrian had been spouting platitudes and civilities all morning, while that traitor, Lady Avis, had slipped away from him at the first opportunity. She was no doubt sitting in the coach right now, laughing heartily.
“Come on, Granna.” Mrs. Carruthers’s son, Young Deal, linked his arm through his mother’s. The man was sixty if he was a day, but his father, Old Deal, had passed away only eight years ago. “You mustn’t stand about in this breeze or you’ll regret it tomorrow. Mr. Bothwell, we’ll see you at shearing, if not before.”
Hadrian Page 4
