Winter knew the duchess recognized the futility of further argument. “You must not travel alone.” After a moment of thought, her face brightened. “That’s it! I’ll send Mary and Terrance with you.”
“No need, your grace,” Winter said, but was grateful the duchess insisted.
The duchess continued, “Terrance can ride that gelding of yours home.”
Less than an hour later, Winter waved to the duchess from the comfortable seat in the coach.
“I’ll keep you in my prayers, child.”
Blinking back her tears, Winter managed to say, “Thank you, your grace.”
* * *
The coach bumped along the narrow roads, causing the passengers to sway from side to side. Winter withdrew in the corner, her thoughts already on Renton.
“I’ll have to check the books,” she told herself. “Have all the crops been put in, I wonder?” On and on she planned the list of activities she expected to keep her busy for some time to come.
She knew Alistair had sent over a manager, but she well knew no one could do the job with the same sense of dedication and responsibility she did. Thinking about home brought a slight smile to her lips. Home. She could hear Mutton-head’s yips of welcome, feel his cold wet doggy kisses. She belonged at Renton Hall.
The day stretched long and uncomfortable in the swaying, jerking coach, and Winter was glad to stop for the night at a posting inn. The room was clean and the food presentable. The beds had been turned and did not appear to contain vermin, and yet Winter found herself unable to rest.
She felt the Lord asking her why she didn’t wait on His instructions, why she didn’t ask Him about going home.
“But, Lord,” she argued, “what else could I do? I don’t belong in London.”
Tired, the next day’s journey seemed to take forever. On the one hand, she ached to demand the coachman urge the grays on, on the other, she wanted to scream, “Stop! Return to London—and Justin—at once.” She did neither.
Mary tried to divert her thoughts. “Would you tell me about Renton Hall?”
The question kept Winter reminiscing for some time. She nearly forgot about Mary until she asked, “Viscount Derik. You say you are close neighbors?”
“Neighbors, yes, but not close friends.” She grimaced. “Never cared for him above half.” She shook her head. “Can you believe it? He insists we would suit.”
“Is that why you are going home, to accept his proposal?”
“Never!” Winter shuddered. “I will never, never marry Lord Derik!”
Though she could not be sure, she thought Mary gave a sigh of relief.
When the rambling manor house came into view, Winter announced, “Home at last! Look, Mary. This is where I belong.”
For the first time since leaving London, Winter laughed.
Carlyle carefully assisted Winter to the ground before reaching up for Mary. His large hands spanned her waist, and he swung her to the ground with a flourish.
“Come on, Mary,” Winter cried, barely able to contain her excitement as she led the way to the manor.
Duncan grinned at the sight of her. “Miss, m’lady. I didn’t expect you.”
With a giggle, Winter hugged the graying butler before stepping into the house. Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Duncan hurried toward the entryhall. “M’lady.” The woman’s ample arms enfolded the young woman.
Winter laughed as the housekeeper released her. “May I make you acquainted with Mary Carlyle. Mary, my housekeeper and friend and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Duncan.”
The two women surveyed one another before Mrs. Duncan inclined her head. “M’lady.”
Mary glanced toward Winter, who did not appear to have noticed the housekeeper’s assumption. Mrs. Duncan continued, “I thought you safely in London. His lordship said...”
“Has Lord Alistair been here recently?”
“Two days past. Said you took London by storm. Seemed right proud of you.”
“Oh, Mrs. Duncan,” Winter choked out, “I just want to be home.”
Turning to Duncan, she said, “Please see to the coachman and grooms. They will be leaving at first light on the morrow. Mary, too.”
She faced the housekeeper. “You will show Mary to her room. Oh, and, Duncan, have my trunk brought in. Thanks.”
With a sigh, Winter started down the hall. The long journey had cramped her leg, and she paused to rub it. Hearing a rustling of papers in her father’s study, she opened the door. Hunched over the large desk was a middle-aged man with gray-peppered brown hair.
“Sir, may I ask who you are?”
Putting down his pen, the man swung around to face her. “Yes.” She heard his irritation at the interruption. “Who are you, if I may ask? I am busy.”
She straightened. “I am Lady Renton.”
With a grunt, the man hastily got to his feet. “Forgive me, m’lady. I am Mr. Jonas, your estate manager.”
Winter thought he looked both solid and reliable. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jonas.”
“You wish to go over the books, mayhap?” He cleared his throat as though the thought was untenable. “His lordship said you used to keep the books.”
“Used to,” Winter repeated. “Ah, yes. I did. There was no one else, you see.” She stopped, wondering why she needed to defend herself. “I suppose his lordship has checked the ledgers recently.”
“Matter of fact, yes.”
“Two days ago.”
“Yes.”
“Then never mind, Mr. Jonas.”
“As you wish, m’lady.”
He had already returned to work by the time Winter closed the door behind her.
Why had Alistair stopped by? He knew how much she wanted to come home. Could he not have at least permitted a short visit since he himself was obviously in the neighborhood? The tangle of questions pursued her, but she tried to put them from her mind.
Closing her eyes, she drank in the familiar sights and sounds. She heard the creak, creak of the floorboards, smelled beeswax and lemon from wood recently polished, sniffed the inviting odor of venison wafting from the kitchen. Suddenly she was ravenous.
Reaching her room, she found the housekeeper already unpacking her things and exclaiming over her London creations. “Oh, miss, m’lady.” Reverently the matronly woman stroked the material. “Such elegance and style. I cannot wait to see you dressed up.”
“Right now, I want something more practical. I am home, and I want to be comfortable.” She began taking off her crumpled traveling suit.
Taking a simple green gown from the closet, the housekeeper settled it over Winter’s head. Picking up the hairbrush, Mrs. Duncan brushed out the tangled locks. “Look at yourself in the mirror, m’lady. I’ll wager even your guardian made sheep’s eyes at you.”
Winter attempted to hide the pain that flashed in her eyes. “Missy...” The housekeeper forgot her formality in her concern. “Your guardian, he didn’t...hurt you?”
“No, nothing like that, Mrs. Duncan.” She sighed. “Not that it matters. I am home now, and here I plan to stay.” She forced cheerfulness. “Think dinner is ready? I am famished.”
The housekeeper hesitated. “Miss, something is definitely amiss. There is a sadness about you... Something...” The thought faded at Winter’s withdrawn expression.
* * *
Winter took Mr. Jonas’s presence at the table as a given. She assumed he was a gentleman without prospects who had been hired by Alistair. Mary’s presence, however, was a surprise.
At her startled glanced, Mary whispered, “I believe Duncan thought I was your companion, not simply your...”
Glad for the other woman’s presence, Winter sat down. “So you are.”
Mr. Jonas, much to his chagrin, found h
imself the target of Winter’s astute questions. “Sounds to me like you have everything well in hand, Mr. Jonas. I commend you.” Winter bestowed a smile she hoped he would not recognize as false. How could he know how displaced Winter was beginning to feel in her own home?
After dinner, Winter retired to the parlour—alone. Mr. Jonas pleaded more work and Mary went to see her husband. There was nothing for Winter to do, no one with whom to share the evening that stretched tediously before her.
Firmly she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. “Lord, I should not have come home.”
Later, she decided a walk in the garden would clear her mind. She slipped open the French doors and stepped down to the garden. The night was still and myriad stars twinkled overhead, a sharp counterpoint to the pain in Winter’s heart.
She meandered along the hedge surrounding the fragrant flowers. Hearing muffled voices, Winter shrank out of sight. If it was a maid out with her beau, she would be most embarrassed to be caught out by her mistress.
Her smile faded as she identified the arrogant tones of Lord Derik and Mary’s lilting voice.
“What are you doing here, Cousin Mary? Rusticating in the country, are you? Or are you with the chit?”
“Leave her alone, Anthony. I know you are trying to force her into marriage, but I assure you Lord Alistair will have none of it.”
“Dear, sentimental cousin. Has working for the English softened your heart?”
“You are more English than I, Anthony. Leave her alone, she’s an innocent. Why bother her anyway when you’ll soon have everything you ever wanted?”
“Her upstart father wouldn’t give me the time of day. Well, I have every intention of getting everything—this estate and his dear,” he intoned with sarcasm, “daughter. Besides—” he paused before continuing “—I have debts to pay.”
“Gambling debts, I suppose. But why now?”
“Why now? Because Boney is about to acknowledge my claim on my mother’s French estates? Why not have everything? I need money for passage and to claim what is rightfully mine.”
“But marriage. I cannot believe you care for the girl. You never cared for anyone but yourself.”
“How true, Cousin Mary. Through her, I get Renton, and who is to care if the damsel proves too fragile for married life.”
Winter heard the cruel satisfaction in his voice. “I’ll leave the rest to your imagination, cousin. But since you are in this as deep as I, I have little fear you will tittle-tattle to her pompous guardian. In fact...”
“Ow! Let go of my arm.”
“You will help me by praising my suit to him.”
“What if I refuse?”
“I’ll turn you in. They hang spies. Nasty business that.”
“You can’t see her tonight. I want to make sure no one sees us together.”
“No, we wouldn’t want that.” There was a pause. Winter hugged herself to keep from shivering. “The count reports you have sent him valuable information. Good thing we discovered his lordship has access to the most secret of information. With two arteries into the government, we can use one to check the other—just in case you should betray us to that dashing employer of yours.”
“Stop it, Anthony. I have no personal interest in the man.”
Winter shrank farther into the garden as the conspirators bid each other good-night. Moments later, Winter edged back to the house.
She was closing the French doors when Duncan startled her by announcing, “There you are, m’lady. Would you like something to drink before retiring?”
Shivering, Winter stammered, “Hot chocolate would taste good. Thank you.”
“As you wish, m’lady.”
* * *
All night Winter tossed. Trust in the Lord...let Him direct. She hadn’t done very well on that score, she decided. It was far too easy to go her own way. What had she found at the home to which she had run? Security? Hardly. She thought of Derik.
Purpose? Not with the competent Mr. Jonas in charge.
What of Mary? Alistair had been so sure Mary was not a threat. What had she done to fool him into thinking she was not a French spy? But she was. Winter almost wished she had not found out.
Alistair would be devastated to discover Mary’s ruse. Did he care for her? The thought pained Winter. Whatever Alistair was, he was a patriot. Somehow, somehow Winter knew she had to let him know the truth about her abigail...and Lord Derik.
Lord Derik. She shivered at his cold-blooded plans for her. For all that, they didn’t surprise her overmuch. He had always been cold and uncaring to both people and animals.
When finally she slept, Winter dreamed of Justin’s arms holding her tight. “In the morning,” she told herself sleepily, “I’ll send a letter back with Mary.” But Mary and her husband had started back to London before she awoke.
Late the next morning, she went over the ledgers with Mr. Jonas and, as she expected, found them in order. Still trying to decide what to do about Mary, Winter changed into a dark blue wool riding habit and boots. A stable boy helped her onto the restless gelding while Mutton-head barked and barked, wriggling every inch of his small dark body.
Turning away from the manor hall, Winter rode to visit her tenant farmers. They greeted her with enthusiasm.
“Lady Renton, good ta see ya. Thought ye be a-takin’ London over,” called a grizzled farmer, rubbing his bearded face.
Winter sounded a false laugh. “I missed you all.”
“Aye, lass, the land’s in yer blood, sure enough. And glad yer back, I am.”
“How is Mr. Jonas?”
“Good man, he is. Already showed us how to get more out of the farm.”
“Glad to hear it,” Winter said, not at all truthfully, before riding on. Wherever she went the next few days the message was the same. Mr. Jonas was not just as good a manager as she, he was clearly better.
Galloping the horse up to Renton Hill, Winter stared over her estate...and wept.
Chapter 11
When Winter returned from her ride, she was dismayed to find Viscount Derik awaiting her in the east parlour. Reluctantly she entered, refusing the housekeeper’s suggestion that she change out of her dusty habit.
If the viscount persisted in his proposals, she was not going to encourage him in any way. However, from Derik’s speculative perusal, she could tell he appreciated her fitted habit that showed her soft curves to advantage. His survey made her wish she’d changed into something a bit more shapeless.
“Winter.” He bowed without taking her hand. “I was glad to hear you had returned home.” A sardonic smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. “Tired of the unwanted attentions of some St. James dandy, or was your erstwhile guardian tired of dancing attention? You are not promised, I trust.” He made it sound as though the thought was ludicrous.
“No, as you well know.”
“I see.” A predatory light shown in Lord Derik’s eyes. “How was I to know you were not promised?”
“Because you don’t believe anyone would want me.” She heaved a silent sigh of relief she had not given away that she overheard him and Mary in the garden.
“Were you asked,” he asked with a leer, “to fill another role, mayhap?”
Winter felt a chill start down her back. “You seem to know an awful lot of what happened in London. Have you been there yourself recently?”
Her shot paid off as Anthony searched for words. “Ah. Unlike you, I never planned on rusticating here forever.”
“Yes, I suppose not.” Winter bit back her accusations. “Seen Lord Hollingsworth, mayhap?”
Derik’s eyes narrowed, “Mayhap. Why?”
“Did he not tell you he propositioned me?”
Her childhood bane made an effort to appear unconcerned. “All is fa
ir where a lady bird is concerned. Why should I care when you refuse my perfectly good offer.”
Winter’s eyes flashed. “Lady bird? Then you know he did not offer marriage.”
Lord Derik stared at her. “It does not signify. Time you and I come to an understanding. Once we do, you need not concern yourself about the sort of options men like Hollingsworth offer. I can protect you from such as him.”
“What are you going to do, drag me kicking and screaming to the altar?”
His eyes glittering, Anthony grabbed her arm. “Stop toying with me, Winter. I know what I want, and I want you as my wife. If you recall anything from our childhood, you know, one way or another, I get what I want or else.”
“Or else destroy it,” she finished in a whisper. Lord, help me. She looked Lord Derik in the eye. “I will not marry you, Anthony. Not ever. Do you think I will ever forget how you treated me after the accident? I was devastated. It was because of you Father began to shelter me.”
“I was but a child.”
“A reprehensible child and an evil, cold-hearted man.”
The viscount’s face darkened with fury, he gripped her arm until he left a bruise. “You’ll regret those words, Winter.”
* * *
Alistair returned exhausted, but satisfied with the information he managed to acquire. He accomplished his mission, found time to check on the manager at the Renton estate and to spend time at his own country seat. With some discreet inquiries, he found he had some very interesting neighbors.
Still, the mission took longer than planned, and he wished he had given Winter some explanation for his actions. He wondered if she had gone to services with his aunt, but thought not. Winter had a right to be angry with him, he decided. She would probably demand to be taken directly home.
He could see her drawing to her full height, eyes flashing, chin jutting out, reading him the riot act. He doubted a simple, “Forgive me,” would do. Strange, not long past he would not have even considered her feelings on the matter. When did Winter take such a hold on his heart?
The minister’s declaration sounded. “You cannot center your life on anything but Jesus Christ. Everything else will fail you.”
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