by Mary Balogh
Crutchley came with him.
There was actually considerably more down there than just wine—all the usual paraphernalia one expects to discover either in the cellar or in the attic of any house, in fact. And, interestingly enough, not a single cobweb as far as Percy could see. A door at one side, shut and locked, opened into the wine cellar, which was adequately though not overabundantly stocked. A door on the other side, also shut and locked, opened into . . .
Well, actually it did not open at all. Crutchley searched his ring of keys, grunted, and remembered that that particular key had been missing for a while and he did not know what had happened to it. It did not really matter, though. Nothing was ever kept in there.
“Ah,” Percy said. “I daresay that is why there is a door, then, with a lock. One can never be too careful about empty spaces. The emptiness might escape and do untold damage.”
The butler squinted at him and looked uncomprehending.
“If the door—and the lock—serve no purpose,” Percy continued, “then we will just have the door chopped down and open up more space for storage. There is some considerable space in there, I would guess. The cellar extends beneath the whole house?”
“I believe so, my lord,” the butler said. “I have never thought about it. I do not remember that room as being very large, though. And it is damp. That was why the old earl had it walled up and the door added—to keep the damp out.”
Percy looked back at the door into the wine cellar. It was out of the range of the light from his candle, however, and he was forced to walk back. And yes, he could see now that this door and the wall in which it was set were considerably more ancient than those that led into the empty, damp room.
“I daresay, then,” he said, “it would be as well to leave the door in place and forget about the lost key.”
“Yes, my lord,” the butler agreed.
Percy left the house by the front door and turned to walk about to the back. There were back doors, he knew, leading out to the kitchen gardens and other areas most frequented by the servants. There was also a servants’ entrance at the side of the house closest to the stables—the same side of the house as the wine cellar. Percy had seen that before. Now he went to look at the other side. And sure enough, there was a door there too, one that was closed and securely locked—no surprise there. It also looked neglected, as though it had not been used in years. There was no path leading to it and no evidence of its having been approached by any large number of feet recently. On closer inspection, though, there was perhaps some sign of new sod having been set down for several feet stretching from the door. He could see the faint mark of straight lines in the grass dividing the pieces.
Damn it all, he thought, the old earl, his predecessor, had shut up the cellar at the dower house so smugglers couldn’t use it. But had they replaced it with a good chunk of the cellar at the hall? If Percy was not mistaken, those pieces of sod were of a more recent date than two years ago, when the old earl had died.
There must have been general dismay when he turned up here a couple of weeks ago. A valiant effort had been made to move him at least to the back of the hall, where he was less likely to see a band of smugglers hauling their goods up to the house one dark and stormy night. And, that plan having met with defeat, a desperate attempt had been made to see to it that no light of outside activity could possibly penetrate the darkness of his bedchamber.
Did this mean that Crutchley was involved? And who else among the servants? All of them?
Damn it all to hell. He was going to have to either turn a blind eye—that phrase again—or do something about the situation.
The habit of a lifetime was to turn a blind eye, preferably two. It seemed to be a habit with his neighbors too, whether they benefited from the trade or not.
What did it matter to him if people in these parts liked their brandy and other luxury goods, and if someone—probably literally some one—was exploiting and terrorizing the locals, including, perhaps, his own servants, and getting very rich from the trade? And breaking the legs of a mere lad who had probably found the mad courage to voice an objection because his hero, Lord Barclay, had spoken out before going off to war.
Who was that someone? Anyone he knew?
He hoped not.
And of course it mattered. Dash it all, it mattered. And here he was. Decision time. Was he going to continue floating along in life, seeking out pleasure and avoiding pain, as he had done for at least the last ten years? Or was he going to wade in like a damned crusader and martyr, stirring hornets’ nests and upsetting apple carts, disturbing the peace of the neighborhood and everyone in it, and all for what? So that everyone could drink inferior brandy? Or so that he could get his legs broken?
He considered his options rather grimly.
Forever after on his birthdays, he was not only going to sit alone before his own fire, wrapped in a shawl, a nightcap on his head, slippers on his feet, drinking tea laced with milk. He was also going to take up knitting. Why the devil had he decided to come here?
He had everything. No. He had had everything. He no longer did. Something was lacking. Self-respect, perhaps.
And he would not have met her if he had not come, he thought as he made his way back to the front of the house. And he would not have debauched her on his own land. No, nonsense, there had been no debauchery involved. What had happened last night had been absolutely mutual and dashed good too. In fact, he was going to have to devise a way of going back tonight. She had issued the invitation, had she not? To conversation and tea and sex?
There was something bothersome about it all, though, and he was not sure what it was.
He was not sure about anything. That was the whole trouble.
16
The ball was to be held in ten days’ time, two days before Imogen was expected at Penderris Hall. She had half hoped the ball would be later. She did not want to get too deeply drawn into . . . what? The lure of family and laughter? Living again?
Her thoughts troubled her as she participated in the plans and helped Aunt Lavinia remember every person for miles around who must be invited.
Cleaners were to be sent into the ballroom. Every inch of it from top to bottom was to be washed and scoured and dusted and polished to within an inch of its life. There were to be banks of flowers everywhere—a challenge for the first week of March, but not an insurmountable one—and there was to be a lavish banquet for supper and a full orchestra. There were to be card rooms—and card games, of course, for those so inclined—and a quiet lounge or two where guests might relax away from the bustle of the ballroom.
Despite her thoughts, Imogen was surprised at how much she enjoyed the morning and the interaction with the other ladies, who all bubbled with energy and enthusiasm. She was glad she was not living at the hall, though. It was a relief to know that she had her own house for retreat. She must never lose sight of who she was or of the life she had chosen to live.
And, oh, it would be very easy to be drawn off course. Every nerve ending in her body quivered when the earl stepped into the library—or so it seemed. She could tell by the amiable look on his face that he had been taken by surprise and was not too happy about it.
How did she know that?
She refused an invitation to stay for luncheon but promised to avail herself of a seat in one of the carriages after dinner. They had been invited, all of them, to an informal evening with Admiral and Mrs. Payne. It was rather brave of them, Imogen thought, to open their home to such a large crowd of people, most of them strangers.
“You must escort our cousin home, Percival,” his mother said.
Imogen opened her mouth to protest but was forestalled.
“But of course, Mama,” he said, and smiled politely at Imogen.
“This is quite unnecessary,” she said when they were outside. “It is broad daylight.” And yet, alarmingly,
her heart sang.
“On the contrary.” He offered his arm and she took it. “It is the most necessary thing in the world. I always do what my mother tells me, except when I do not. Besides, there may be wolves.”
She laughed. Even to her own ears the sound was strange. But the world seemed a bright place today. The sun was shining and there was a suggestion of warmth in its rays. He had asked her just a couple of hours ago if he might come to the dower house again. He wanted to come, then. And life seemed perfect—for the next week. Only for the next week. And then there would be Penderris, and after that a resumption of her normal life. In the meanwhile his arm was solid, his shoulder was broad even without the help of all the capes on his greatcoat, and his usual aura of masculinity reached out and enveloped her.
“Imogen,” he asked, “do you know how to prevent conception?”
And the spell was broken. Her stomach muscles clenched with shock and embarrassment.
“It is unnecessary,” she assured him. “I am barren.”
“In four years of marriage,” he said, “there were no miscarriages? No stillbirths?”
“No,” she said, “nothing.” They were taking the shortcut across the lawn, she realized.
“And how do you know,” he asked her, “that the . . . fault, if that is the correct word, was not in your husband? Did he have other children?”
“No!” She glared indignantly at him. “He did not. He was not like that. I saw a physician.” Her cheeks grew hot at the memory.
“Who?” he asked her. “Soames?”
“Yes.” It had been a long time ago—more than ten years. It was long enough ago that she could be in company with the doctor without thinking about it, without that remembered embarrassment. And even at the time she had kept reminding herself that he delivered babies and was accustomed to all sorts of sights.
“And he told you that you were barren?” he said. “Did your husband also see him?”
“No,” she said. “There was no need. The fault was in me. You need not fear being trapped into marriage, Lord Hardford.”
“Percy is not the best name in the world to be saddled with,” he said, “and Percival is worse. But I prefer either one to Lord Hardford. On your lips, anyway.”
“I will not trap you into marriage, Percy,” she said.
“Nor I you,” he assured her, “though I did recklessly endanger you last night before I knew there was no danger.”
A stream of people was pushing its way through a gap in the gorse bushes at the bottom of the lawn, accompanied by noise and laughter and general exuberance—Mr. Eldridge; his twin sisters; Mr. Galliard with young Geoffrey held firmly by the hand; Meredith; and the two gentlemen who had been riding earlier with the earl. The little boy slipped his hand free of his grandfather’s at sight of the earl and came hurtling across the lawn, arms spread wide, mouth piping high-pitched news about building a sand castle and getting his shoes and stockings wet in the sea and going inside a big, dark cave and not being one little bit frightened.
The earl opened his own arms, caught the hurtling figure, and swung him about in a high circle before setting him down again.
Imogen’s heart constricted a little. She had disciplined herself into thinking of her barrenness as a blessing in disguise. If there had been children, she would not have been able to accompany Dicky to the Peninsula. She would have been without the memory of that last year and a bit with him—the good memories. But perhaps, she thought now, if there had been children he would not have gone himself. Perhaps he would have stayed and somehow reconciled himself to the difficult situation with his father. Perhaps he would still be alive and here now.
Pointless thoughts!
It was disconcerting, though, to see that the Earl of Hardford was fond of children, or of this child, anyway. Would he make a good father? Or would he be neglectful of his own, leaving them to the care of his wife and nurses and tutors and governesses? He had the example of loving parents, though, and of a close-knit larger family.
For a moment she allowed herself the indulgence of longing for life the way it might have been, but she soon stifled the feeling. That was the trouble with letting down some of her guard. She had allowed herself a short vacation in which to take a lover, and now other thoughts and feelings were trying to creep—or gallop in.
“And are we to look forward to a grand ball in celebration of Percy’s birthday, Lady Barclay?” Viscount Marwood asked her with a grin as the rest of the group came up with them. He had a smugly happy-looking twin on each arm. Meredith was on Mr. Welby’s arm.
“Oh, grander even than that,” Imogen assured him, and there was general whooping and laughter as though she had made the joke of the decade.
“And you thought you could turn thirty only once, Perce,” Mr. Welby said. “Hard luck, old chap.”
She and Percy continued on to the dower house as the group continued on its way back to the hall, but Imogen did not miss the wink Mr. Welby directed at the earl.
They walked in silence the rest of the way to the dower house.
“Entertainments in the country usually end at a decent hour of late evening rather than at an indecent hour of the early morning as they do in town,” he said when they were standing at the gate, one on each side of it. “Will we be back before midnight tonight, do you suppose?”
“Normally I would say a definite yes,” she said. “However, the neighborhood will be buzzing with excitement at the presence of so many visitors at the hall, and Mrs. Payne likes to demonstrate that she is no rustic. It may be later.”
He set his hands on either side of her own on the gate without actually touching them.
“And how late would be too late, Lady Barclay?” he asked her.
“Dawn,” she said. “Dawn would be too late.”
“We must hope, then,” he said, “that Mrs. Payne will let us go significantly before dawn. I do not like to be rushed in the pursuit of my pleasure.”
“We will hope,” she agreed. Beneath the brim of his tall hat, his eyes looked one shade darker than the sky.
He nodded, patted the back of her right hand, and turned to stride away back across the lawn, the heavy folds of his greatcoat swinging enticingly against the outsides of his boots.
Imogen went to look for snowdrops. There were five new blooms.
Spring had been defined for the past five years by the reunion with her fellow members of the Survivors’ Club in March. And now? Oh, and now there was an awakening of gladness in her that the earth was coming alive again, as it always did without fail, to overcome winter. Light to dispel darkness, color to replace drabness, hope to . . .
But no. She would keep it as an external rejoicing. The world was out there, beyond the bounds of her own being. And it was sprouting to new and exuberant life again, as it always would. Her heart lifted a little with it.
She blinked away tears—again?—before going indoors.
* * *
Mrs. Payne would be well able to hold her own as the hostess of a London drawing room, Percy decided during the evening. She was a bit brittle and hard-edged when not laying on the charm for him and his guests, but she knew how to control a largish party of diverse individuals.
The Kramer sisters, who seemed to like to take charge—he would wager they were on every committee ever devised by the local church—suggested music soon after everyone had arrived and even pulled their chairs and their mother’s into the small makings of a circle about the pianoforte that sat at one side of the drawing room. They would indeed have music, Mrs. Payne said with a graciousness that cut like a knife, after supper when it could make them mellow before they went home.
She directed the admiral to see that everyone had a drink—there was an impressive array of bottles and decanters on a long sideboard as well as a jug of lemonade and a large silver coffeepot and matching teapot covered
with a plump cozy. She ushered some of the older guests into a smaller room that adjoined the drawing room and settled them about a few tables that had been set up for cards. She selected Sidney and Arnold as team leaders to pick teams for charades—a perfect choice of activity when a largish number of her guests were young people. And even some older folk enjoyed being silly once in a while. Miss Wenzel, almost bouncing with excitement on her chair, was particularly good at guessing even the most obtusely acted-out words, and Alton was an excellent actor and did not appear to mind making an ass of himself.
Before the excitement of the game could pall, Mrs. Payne summoned a group of servants to roll back the carpet and then took to the pianoforte herself to play a few vigorous country dances for the young people. Four couples might have stood up with ease, six at a bit of a squash. There were eight couples for every dance and a few bumped elbows and trodden toes and one slightly torn hem and a good deal of laughter. A ninth couple was a physical impossibility, however, Percy discovered during the third such dance when he tried to edge onto the end of the line with Lady Quentin. Mrs. Payne actually stopped playing in order to tell them so.
An excellent supper was served in a spacious dining room to the accompaniment of lively conversation. Afterward, as promised, a select few of the guests provided music until Mrs. Payne directed her butler to have the carriages brought up to the door. It was a little before half past eleven. They were home before midnight.
The female cousins and aunts and Percy’s mother all retired to bed after a lengthy bit of animated chatter in the hall. Most of the men did not go up with them but assembled instead in the library, where they laid siege to Percy’s liquor and ensconced themselves in all the most comfortable chairs. The menagerie was there too in force, someone having grown lax about seeing to it that they remained inside the second housekeeper’s room when they were not being exercised under supervision. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that someone had continued to be lax, since that particular rule had never been enforced with any strict regularity as far as Percy could see.
