by Linda Banche
“Mr. Winnington would like to see the estate.” She detached her fingers from Kit’s sleeve. “I will leave you two to set up a time.”
Mr. Jones’s brown eyes reheated as his gaze followed her progress down the corridor. After she entered the dining room, he turned and looked Kit up and down, distrust narrowing his now cold eyes. “So, you are the other competitor for Apple Tree Manor.”
Kit didn’t care one whit for the blatant desire in Mr. Jones’s face when he regarded Miss Stratton. He held rigid to prevent himself from punching the man. “True. How did you find out?”
“Miss Stratton told me. She saw no reason to keep the will’s terms secret.” He shrugged. “People would have found out one way or another. In a small village, everyone knows everyone else’s business.” He cast another too-warm glance in the direction Miss Stratton had disappeared.
Kit clenched his fists.
Mr. Jones turned back to Kit. “You wanted to see the estate. Will two o’clock suit?”
Kit gave a stiff nod and they agreed to meet at the stable.
****
That night before dinner, Kit met Miss Stratton’s companion.
He really should stop forming pre-conceived notions of people. Mrs. Sophia Castin was no little grey-haired grandmother, all wrinkles and smiles. Much younger than forty, the lady was tall and slim with lustrous brown hair and dimples that flashed whenever she smiled. And she smiled often. A very attractive mature woman.
Mr. Jones, dressed in neatly pressed tailcoat and breeches that were probably his Sunday best, had joined their little group in the drawing room. Kit suppressed a scowl. The man looked too damned handsome for Kit’s liking.
Also present was a young man Miss Stratton introduced as the curate, Mr. Cecil Palk.
Although Mr. Palk wore the requisite clerical collar and a plain black coat, waistcoat and trousers, nothing else about him fit the picture of a small village clergyman. He was tall, had longish wavy black hair, a pleasing face, and the build of a pugilist. And he looked at Miss Stratton with the same smoldering regard as Mr. Jones did.
Kit gritted his teeth through his smile as he shook the curate’s hand.
Miss Stratton, very pretty in a pink dress, asked if he wanted a drink, but he waved off the offer. “I had no idea you had invited guests for dinner.”
“Oh, Mr. Jones comes once in a while, and Mr. Palk dines with us every Tuesday.” She beamed at the clergyman.
Kit balled his fists. If Miss Stratton had suitors, that was no concern of his. Then why did the idea annoy him so much? The afternoon’s bolt of awareness slashed through him again. Having the two other men bracketing her didn’t improve his mood, either.
Soft quacking interrupted his angry musings. Pecking as he went, a drake waddled across the center of the rug to disappear under the stuffed chair by Mr. Palk. A little hen settled into sleep beside the door. Gads, the ducks really did have the run of the house.
“QUACK!”
Mr. Palk glared when the drake waddled out from beneath the chair.
Miss Stratton shook her finger at the bird. “Ethelred, you bad boy. No hiding under the furniture.”
As if the duck could understand her, he stalked away to plop down in front of the unlit fireplace. He fluffed his feathers and tucked his green head under his wing.
“Miss Stratton, you should not let the birds go where they will.” Mr. Palk’s words were mild, but his eyes glittered as if he would like nothing better than roast duck for dinner.
“Oh, the ducks are not really a problem. We have become used to finding them in out of the way—”
“Ow!” Mr. Jones hopped on one foot. He glowered down at a second drake—Obadiah? Kit could have sworn the bird had a malicious twist to his bill. “That duck bit me.”
The bird disappeared under the chair Ethelred had abandoned. Angela bent and flipped up the edge of the damask chair cover. “Obadiah, you bad duck! Come out from under there this instant.” She dropped the cloth, straightened, and tapped her foot. “I know you are under there. Do not make me come after you.”
Obadiah’s head popped out from under the opposite side of the chair. Without a squeak, he crept out. He tiptoed—if ducks could tiptoe—to Mr. Palk’s foot and…
“What the deuce!” Mr. Palk swiped at Obadiah.
The drake squawked and flapped toward Ethelred at the fireplace. Ethelred didn’t flick a feather.
“That blasted duck—on my shoe—”
“Oh, how terrible! Obadiah knows he cannot splat in the house.” Angela wrinkled her nose.
Kit bit his lip to suppress his inappropriate glee and followed the bird to the hearth. Bending down, he gathered Obadiah into his arms. “I fear you are in her black books now, old boy.” Unperturbed, the drake rubbed his head in duckly bliss against Kit’s waistcoat.
Angela yanked the bell pull. “I am so sorry, Mr. Palk. The boot boy will clean your shoe.” She glared at Obadiah. “And you, sirrah, will spend the night outside.”
Mr. Jones rubbed his calf. “That duck attacked only Mr. Palk and me. What exempts you from the bird’s wrath, Mr. Winnington?”
No longer attempting to hide his mirth, Kit bared his teeth. “Who can tell a duck’s thoughts?” He dipped his head over the bird and spoke in a low voice. “I owe you, my friend. Tonight I will rescue you from outside.”
Clucking, Angela took the squawking Obadiah from Kit. “Obadiah has his quirks. He likes only certain people. He is also quite a ladies’ man. I have never seen him bite a lady.”
A maid entered and curtsied. Angela gave her instructions and the servant hurried away. A few minutes later, she returned with a pair of ancient bedroom slippers that had probably belonged to the long-dead Great Uncle Julius. She offered them to the curate and Mr. Palk exchanged his shoes for the slippers. Her nose pinched at the offensive odor, the maid accepted Mr. Palk’s shoes, and, holding them as far away from her as she could, she exited.
Mr. Palk glowered at Kit, who had kept his not-so-sympathetic smile in place through the entire episode.
They conversed for a few more minutes, until Bates announced dinner. Mr. Jones and Mr. Palk each offered Miss Stratton an arm. She handed the disgruntled Obadiah to Bates, with instructions to escort the bird outdoors.
Left with no recourse, Kit offered his escort to Mrs. Castin, whose cheeks dimpled in amusement.
At the table, Mr. Jones held out Miss Stratton’s chair and then took the seat to her right. The curate snagged the place on her left.
Another niggle of annoyance tugged at Kit. Well, what had he expected? And what right did he have to be vexed? He settled Mrs. Castin opposite the three and seated himself at her right.
Kit listened with half an ear to the dinner conversation. Mr. Jones droned on about how this spring’s excessive heat had already caused some apple trees to set fruit, and the cleric opined about next Sunday’s sermon on the love of money as the root of all evil. Miss Stratton smiled at them both. A little too much for Kit’s taste.
Mrs. Castin was a charming companion, but Kit stifled a yawn as the conversation at last turned to the contest. Took them long enough.
“And how does the competition fare?” Mr. Palk gazed at Miss Stratton with a proprietary gleam in his brown eyes.
Kit’s yawn contracted into a frown.
“Oh, we have not yet started. We must await the arrival of Mr. Holt. We expect him any day now.”
Mr. Jones took a hefty swig of his wine. “Two months is a long time to ‘make the ducks happy.’ ”
Miss Stratton inclined her head. “I agree, but Lady Bridges wrote the will, not I. But I cannot imagine why she would think I would let anything harm the ducks.”
Kit dropped his napkin beside his plate and smiled at the clergyman. Might as well get to know his latest enemy. “How long have you been curate in Theale?”
Mr. Palk leaned back in his chair, his face the picture of piety. “Coming onto two years now. Theale is such a quiet village, with scores of
quiet people. In truth, a place full of the godly.” His words were everything one would expect of a prelate, but his covetous expression as he glanced at Miss Stratton belied the godliness of his speech.
Miss Stratton beamed at him.
Kit gritted his teeth. Again. “Then your duties are not onerous.”
The curate shrugged. “No, but the vicar is elderly. I have assumed most of his tasks.”
“Will you seek the vicar’s living after he retires?” Kit forced his tone to innocence. Apple Tree Manor funded the vicar, and Aunt Augusta’s heir would appoint any successor. His aunt had been generous, and the next man to hold the post would expect the same largesse.
Mr. Palk’s nostrils flared. “I pray the vicar will continue to serve for many years to come.”
Really? And do you intend to secure this prime plum by charming the potential heiress who would select his replacement? Another fortune hunter, if ever he had seen one.
And why did he care so much?
****
The next morning, Angela entered the breakfast parlor to find Mr. Winnington and Sophia already there. Mr. Winnington rose with a pleasant smile, and she gestured for him to sit while she filled her plate with toast and fruit from the selection on the sideboard. As she set her platter on the table, the snorting of horses and rumbling of carriage wheels drifted through the open window.
“Gracious, who would call this early?” She brushed the curtain aside to peer out. A dusty coach had rattled up the drive. The horses neighed amid a jingling of harness as the equipage came to a shuddering halt at the front entrance. The driver jumped down and lowered the steps for the bespectacled man who then descended from the vehicle’s depths.
“Ah, Mr. Holt has arrived. At last.”
Angela had seated herself at the table by the time Bates led the solicitor into the breakfast parlor. She introduced him to Sophia, that lady giving a demure smile.
Angela waved Mr. Holt toward the sideboard. “Please have breakfast. How was your journey?”
“Thank you.” Mr. Holt exhaled a weary breath. “Long and tiring, as such journeys usually are.” He set his leather portfolio on the table and helped himself to eggs, bacon, and toast. As he took his place, he bent over the wildflower centerpiece to breathe in the scent of cowslips, bluebells, and foxgloves. “Ah, the fragrance of the country.” He sat beside Sophia and unfolded his napkin over his lap. “I vow, I am grateful to be away from the city. Although the weather is hot here, too, London is unbearable.”
Mr. Winnington buttered a scone. “Oh, yes, the airless rooms that remain airless even when you open a window, the coal smoke which never blows away, the stench from the Thames invading every nook and cranny—I, too, am happy to be away.”
They passed the meal in desultory conversation. When they had finished, Mr. Holt asked to meet with them as soon as possible to discuss the contest.
Angela glanced at the mantel clock. “Shall we say the study at eleven?”
The long case clock in the ground floor corridor struck the eleventh time as a smiling Kit opened the study door for Angela. As she passed by him, her lips lifted in response. Gracious, what a wondrous smile. The smile filled his entire face and lent warmth to his tawny eyes. Although they were opponents, she liked him. She would hate to put him out if she won.
A wave of heat scorched through her. She pulled out her handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from her forehead. Indeed, she liked him too much, if that shocking flash of awareness, just like yesterday’s, was any indication. She directed her attention to the floor as she crossed the study. She mustn’t let the attraction distract her from the competition. A breeze fluttered the window curtains and swept a welcome breath of coolness over her burning face.
Mr. Holt was already there, gazing out the casement. At her invitation, he seated himself behind the desk. Mr. Winnington held out for her one of the two chairs in front of the desk before he settled into the other.
After opening his portfolio, the solicitor spread some papers on the blotter. “As you know, you have two months to make the ducks happy. Any questions before we start?”
Angela shifted in her seat. “Yes. Since the terms of the will are unusual, do Lady Bridges’s relatives intend to dispute the inheritance?”
Mr. Holt shook his head. “No. The estate is unentailed and Lady Bridges was the last of her line. She had no children, and due to her advanced age, her siblings and most of their children are already dead. And the will is sound. I made sure no one could break it.”
Mr. Winnington leaned forward. “What if neither of us makes the ducks happy?”
An amused smile played over the solicitor’s lips. “Come now, can you not think of something?”
Mr. Winnington cleared his throat. “I would like to construct a pond near the house. Ducks are water birds. But the only water nearby is the small stream beyond the stable. I propose to dam the flow to create a pool.”
Mr. Holt dipped his quill into the inkwell and then scratched a few lines on the parchment before him. “Good idea.” He peered over the top of his spectacles at Angela. “And you, Miss Stratton?”
“I want to build the ducks their own house. As much as I love them, wild animals belong outdoors. There are also too many. Up until spring, we had four ducks in the mansion. Then they laid their eggs.”
Mr. Winnington arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Ten ducklings?”
“Not an unusual number for two pairs. There would have been more, but not all the eggs hatched.” She clasped her hands at her breasts. “Oh, the ducklings were adorable little things, soft brown-and-yellow fluff balls.” She sighed. “But, with so many ducks, we must relocate them before they nest this coming spring.” She also leaned toward Mr. Holt. “I propose to erect a duck coop, for lack of a better name, within view of the house. I would fence it in for protection against hawks and foxes, and secure the ducks inside at night.”
“Another good idea.” Mr. Holt scribbled Angela’s proposal in his notes. “Now, how will you finance the projects? According to the will, we cannot use estate funds.”
Angela glanced at Mr. Winnington. “Can the winner pay? You agreed to pay Mrs. Castin’s wages from the estate’s assets.”
The solicitor removed his spectacles and polished them with a large white linen handkerchief. “Lady Bridges never intended the contest to harm either you or Mr. Winnington. I allowed the disbursement for Mrs. Castin because your reputation would suffer if you lived here unchaperoned with an unmarried man. I regret I did not think of it when I first met you.”
Mr. Winnington’s face took on a thoughtful cast. “Well, the woods and fields probably contain plenty of stones I can use. And I can dredge the stream bottom and construct the dam myself. On my father’s estate, come planting and harvest time, every able-bodied man helped, including me. I am no stranger to physical labor.”
“And I can use some of the profits from my financial dealings. Surely, purchasing some lumber and hiring a carpenter to build a duck compound cannot be too expensive.”
“Then we are decided.” Mr. Holt slid his notes into his portfolio and rose. “The best of luck to you both. May the better project win.”
Again, Mr. Winnington opened the door. Mr. Holt gathered up his case and offered Angela his arm. They exited, Mr. Winnington following them. Angela directed Mr. Holt down the passage. “Would you like a short tour of the house and grounds?”
“QUACK!”
Angela spun around.
Mr. Winnington’s uplifted foot hovered an inch above Esmeralda, her brown feathers bristling in fury. “Sorry. I did not see you. Good thing you quacked.” Lowering his foot to the side, he stepped away, giving the angry duck a wide berth.
“Oh, dear.” Angela bent to pick up the outraged hen. “Poor baby. I did not see you, either.” Esmeralda squawked as Angela cradled her to her breast. “Another reason I want the ducks outside. More people in the house mean more chances of unintentionally harming them. I live in terror someone might loc
k a duck into a rarely-used room and we would open the door sometime later to find a pile of duck bones.”
“Well, both our ideas are good ones.” Taking care to avoid Esmeralda’s snapping bill, Mr. Winnington petted the angry hen’s head. “We shall just have to see which is better.”
****
Golden afternoon sunlight struck fire from the red and yellow threads in the study carpet as Angela sat at the desk, a large sheet of foolscap spread before her.
She tapped her pencil on her chin. Her latest design for the duck coop, a structure open on one side, would probably work best, since the ducks needed to come and go. She added some shading along the base. The compound also needed plenty of bushes planted around the foundation, because the ducks liked to hide.
Now, where to site the coop? She chewed her lip in thought. The logical spot was by the pool Mr. Winnington’s dam would create. The little building should also be within sight of the mansion, but not too close. She wanted to keep an eye on the ducks but not have them troop indoors whenever they wished.
Oh, dear. She set her pencil down and peered out the open window. Most of the stream flowed behind the outbuildings. Only the small portion that quit the woods was visible from the house. After yesterday’s meeting with Mr. Holt, she should have asked Mr. Winnington where he planned to locate his dam.
She stood to lean over the sill. Even craning her neck, she couldn’t see him from here. Had he already started to build? If so, she must stop him before he went too far.
After catching up her old straw hat from its peg by the back door, she ran outside. Halfway to the waterway, she pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her forehead. Gracious, how sweltering the day was, even with the hat’s shade. She should have worn a dress with short sleeves and a lower bodice.
As she entered the passage between the stable and the barn, the splash of a large object hitting the water ripped through the air. “What the devil!”
“Mr. Winnington, are you all right?” Angela bolted around the far corner of the barn and dodged to the side of a cart partially filled with rocks. “Can I help—”
