by Liz Carlyle
An inscrutable emotion flickered in his eyes, but when he spoke, his tone was as bland as ever. “Oh, aye,” he replied. “Miss Kate was a wee babe when I came to Bellecombe, and I was an auld face hereabout even before that. The previous Lady d’Allenay was my kinsman.”
“Yes, your godmother, Kate said.”
“Aye, that’s right. I’ve known Aurélie Wentworth long and well. Dinna be deceived, sir; the lady is far from a fool.”
They drank in silence for a time, and Edward was struck again with Anstruther’s sagacity. He was blunt and plain, both in speech and in appearance. He was exactly what you saw before you, and Edward did not doubt that his work habits were just as straightforward.
For a man who dealt with duplicity and dissemblance firsthand for a living, Anstruther was a heartening change.
“So, how many up at the house now?” asked Anstruther conversationally, cupping the whisky in his big hand.
“Well, your old friend Lord Reginald, for one,” said Edward with a half smile. “Lady Julia Burton, along with the Frenchman de Macey, and a young blade with whom I have … well, let us call it a passing acquaintance.”
The estate agent lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Aye, and I hear Lord Reginald is fairly weel known to you, also.”
Pondering what to say, Edward dangled his glass between two fingers, then set it down with a thunk! onto the desktop. “My club is by necessity a very private sort of establishment, Anstruther,” he said. “One cannot be both profitable and exclusive without a great measure of discretion.”
“Oh, aye,” said Anstruther evenly. “Gentlemen wishful of pissing away their money and time are ever in need of that. God forbid they be known for the fools they are.”
Edward laughed. “But I in turn must thank God for those fools,” he returned. “Without them I’d likely be nothing but a poor army captain living on half pay.”
Anstruther crooked one eyebrow. “No’ a gambling man yourself, then?”
“No, for I’ve observed that vice since boyhood,” said Edward. “But some men are bound and determined to throw away money on chance, Anstruther, no matter whether I exist. If I do not take their gold, some other enterprising chap will—and he may not be honest in the doing of it.”
“Hmmph,” said the steward with no malice in his tone. “And you are? Honest, I mean?”
Edward was turning his whisky glass absently around in circles atop Kate’s desk. “Well, whatever else people may say of me, I’ve never been called a cheat or a liar,” he said. “A hard-hearted bastard, perhaps—but I could hardly dispute either, could I?”
“ ’Twouldn’t be my place to say, sir,” Anstruther answered.
“Well, I can tell you this,” said Edward. “I know Lord Reginald intimately enough that I have found myself in possession of the estate which I believe adjoins this. I have relieved him of Heatherfields.”
“Ah, have you now?” Anstruther grinned.
“It was part of my purpose in coming to Somerset. Thank God I’ve remembered it.” He hesitated an instant, then forged ahead. “By the way, Anstruther—”
“Aye?” He lifted one eyebrow.
Edward carefully considered his next words. “Is there any need to worry about Lady d’Allenay being … well, bothered by Lord Reginald?”
“Hmm,” said Anstruther. “Up to old tricks, is he?”
“I don’t know his old ones,” said Edward grimly, “but I dislike what I’ve seen today.”
Anstruther scrubbed a hand around his jaw. “Oh, Kate can handle Reggie, I expect. But I dinna ken what her mither was thinking, to be honest.”
“Well,” said Edward, “perhaps I shall stay on a few days. I must, after all, see to Heatherfields.”
“Aye, someone better,” the steward grumbled.
“As to that, Anstruther, you strike me as a man of some knowledge,” said Edward. “I would welcome any advice you might have with regard to bringing the estate back to all it should be.”
“Aye, then roll your London money out here in a great wheelbarrow, Mr. Quartermaine,” said the steward, “for you’re to have need of it.”
“That bad, is it?” said Edward. “I suspected as much when I took title. I suppose, however, I held out some hope …”
“Well, abandon it,” Anstruther interjected. “The roof’s giving in o’er one wing o’ the hoose, and the outbuildings and farms are worse. One’s no longer even tenanted, for the rats won’t e’en take up in it. Reckon Lord Reggie might no’ have told you that.”
“He’s unaware, more likely, no more attention than he seems to have paid it.” Edward sighed. “Well. Time is on my side, I suppose.”
“Dinna ye mean to live in it, then?” The steward’s wary expression had returned.
Edward pinned the man with a steady gaze. “The estate is merely an investment, Anstruther,” he said certainly. “Once the place is habitable, I will not further trouble Lady d’Allenay.”
Anstruther lifted his massive shoulders. “As to whether or not you’ve troobled the lady, it’s no’ my place to say,” he answered. “Miss Kate can speak well enough for herself on that score. However, if it’s an investment you’re after, Bellecombe might look at it by way of expansion, and save you the cost of repair—assuming we could come to terms.”
Edward hesitated. “I misspoke,” he said. “Investment is not the right word. I’ve a purpose for the house, but it is not for me.”
Anstruther’s expression turned uneasy again, and Edward was searching for a way to clarify his words when a hard knock sounded upon the door and Nancy Wentworth flew in in a swirl of blue velvet and red-gold curls.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she said upon turning around and seeing Edward.
“I was just on my way out,” he assured her.
“Oh, not on my account!” Miss Wentworth perched herself on one corner of Anstruther’s desk, but she was looking at Edward appraisingly. “So, I hear you’re to switch allegiances?”
“Allegiances?” Edward looked at her curiously.
Miss Wentworth’s pretty face broke into a wide smile. “You’re to be Mamma’s guest instead of Kate’s and—oh, that reminds me!—Anstruther, we’ve a command performance after dinner. And Cook is making her famous leek soup. Perhaps that will ease the sting?”
On a great grimace, Anstruther cut an unhappy look up at the girl. “Dinner wi’ that lot?” he complained. “Have I nae choice?”
“Certainly!” Miss Wentworth had begun to brush what looked like sawdust from one shoulder of his tweed coat. “You may go to Aurélie and beg off. But I think we both know how that will turn out.”
Anstruther swatted the girl away. “Leave it, Nan,” he said, pushing himself up from the chair on a sigh. “Quartermaine, I beg your pardon. I’d better go and dress.”
The estate agent strode from the room, snatching his greatcoat from its hook as he went.
“Well,” said Miss Wentworth when he had vanished. “Let me try this again.” She extended her hand, along with her usual bright smile. “How do you do, Mr. Quartermaine? May I still call you Edward?”
There was something all too knowing in the girl’s eyes, and he regretted having snapped at her earlier. He took her slender hand into his own. “You may not,” he said, giving it an almost affectionate squeeze. “Not in company, miss. Do you understand me?”
Her smile turned teasing. “Oh, yes,” she said, dropping his hand, “because you operate an iniquitous gaming hell.”
“I think those terms are a trifle redundant,” he replied. “And who told you that, by the way?”
Her eyes glittered. “Reggie did,” she said conspiratorially. “And straightaway, too. He didn’t scruple an instant to tell me how wicked you are.”
“And if you’ve a brain in your head, Miss Wentworth, you’ll heed it,” said Edward, “as should your sister.”
The girl gave an impudent shrug of one shoulder, and slid off Anstruther’s desk. “Alas, we are Aurélie Wentworth’s daughters,” she said as he
r heels clicked onto the flagstone, “and likely haven’t a teacup of brains between the three of us.”
Edward did laugh then. There were enough brains between those three to overthrow the British government, he suspected, and it was entirely ludicrous that he should sit here discussing wickedness with a country innocent. Indeed, he wondered that Anstruther had left them alone together.
But no one at Bellecombe seemed quite as scandalized as they ought to have been, hardened, perhaps, as they were by the scandals that had come before him.
“Well, I’m off.” Miss Wentworth was already halfway out the door. “I shall see you, Edward, at dinner.”
This last was cast cavalierly over her shoulder, and it was on the tip of his tongue to call her back and chide her. But Nancy Wentworth had bolted after Anstruther, shouting something about his remembering to rosin his bowstring.
Edward went out into the cool shadows of the bailey, and watched them standing beneath the inner portcullis, chattering like the most amiable of friends. He liked this place very much, he thought again; liked the camaraderie and the cooperation of it. He was growing fond of the plainspoken Anstruther, just as he was with everyone else at Bellecombe, and was a little sorry Mrs. Wentworth and her friends had come to taint it.
But then, he had been here before any of them.
Yes, it was time for him to go. He knew it. Hadn’t he just said those very words to Kate’s estate agent?
And yet, not half an hour past, he had written Peters to give him his new direction. More telling still, he had enclosed a letter to Maggie Sloan. She would likely be relieved it was at an end; theirs had been a sporadic romance, and beautiful actresses expected to be catered to.
Edward did not cater. And Maggie—well, Maggie didn’t shed tears. Not unless she was paid to.
So, no, he was not leaving Bellecombe, was he? Not yet. He would stay as Aurélie Wentworth’s guest, just another day or two—merely to keep an eye on Lord Reginald Hoke, and ensure the man intended Kate no insult.
Or so he told himself.
It had grown cold now inside the castle walls, and dusk was coming on fast. His mind deeply conflicted, Edward turned and went back into the main house.
Only then, halfway up the steps, did he remember Annie’s pearls.
CHAPTER 10
Kate’s Quandary
Kate went through the next few days like an automaton, socializing with her guests at breakfast and at dinner, then spending the rest of each day out and about, attending to her estate duties. She left all else to her mother—who would have done as she pleased regardless.
To her undying relief, the fine weather held and she was able to escape Reggie’s cloying attentiveness when the gentlemen went off into the valleys and woodlands in pursuit of wildfowl during the daylight hours.
With his leg so greatly improved, and his cracked collarbone opposite his gun shoulder, Edward surprised her by joining the shooting party—along with Lady Julia, who, though she was not quite so bold as to actually shoot, nonetheless tugged on her boots and went off to admire the hunters. A few neighboring gentlemen having been invited, Richard Burnham also came—not so much from any love of sport, Kate guessed, but because Nancy accompanied Aurélie daily at noon with the lavish luncheon prepared and packed by Cook.
In accordance with Aurélie’s wishes, the hampers of food—along with Bellecombe’s second-best china, white wine for the guests, and ale for the beaters—were then hauled out into the hinterlands to be laid out like a moveable feast on purpose-built folding tables made by the estate carpenter.
The tables were covered in the best Irish linen. The wine was French. Filou sat in Aurélie’s lap wearing a little scarlet coat and eating tidbits from her plate while Bellecombe’s pointers howled in protest for having done all the work with no reward.
Kate was in charity with the pointers. It was all rather farcical, really, and made all the more so since Nancy and Aurélie were driven out not on the ordinary wagons with the servants, but in Anstruther’s well-sprung curricle, since he, however irascible he pretended to be, indulged Aurélie’s every whim even as he complained of her extravagance.
In defense of Aurélie, Kate was forced to acknowledge that her mother had not been wrong in predicting Lady Julia’s behavior. By the afternoon of the second day, Julia returned to the castle with her arm linked companionably with Edward’s, waxing awestruck over the gentleman’s deadly skill, and declaring breathlessly that he had actually allowed her to hold his gun!
Uncharitably, Kate wanted to put a gun to Lady Julia’s head.
Instead she kept her mouth shut and ate enough braised woodcock to last her until Lady Day.
Thus neglected by Lady Julia, Sir Francis turned the full of his charm upon Nancy. This brought a dark scowl to the Reverend Mr. Burnham’s face and a look of deep disapproval to Anstruther’s. Le comte came down with a sniffle, which he attributed to damp boots. And despite attempts both subtle and obvious, Lady Julia could not quite corner Edward—and his gun—alone.
In the end, no one save Aurélie was happy—and she was as giddy and gay as ever.
So far as Kate was concerned, Edward kept his distance, even at meals. Having surrendered the task of seating charts and menus over to Aurélie, Kate was irrationally irritated by her mother’s habit of putting Kate and Edward at opposite ends of every table, and situating Reggie somewhere near Kate’s elbow.
Aurélie, one could only conclude, did not grasp Kate’s definition of a cold day in hell.
Even the servants began to notice. In the village and across both Bellecombe and Heatherfields, word of Kate and Reggie’s broken betrothal had provided gossip fodder for a fortnight. Now the gossipmongers had begun to weigh the possibilities of a reconciliation; Kate could see it in their eyes, and it horrified her.
This was confirmed as she and Mrs. Peppin drove back from the village one afternoon, the housekeeper having needed a pound of beeswax and some linseed oil for waterproofing le comte’s boots.
“And never, miss, was there ever such a slipshod valet as de Macey’s man,” Mrs. Peppin was complaining as Kate cut her gig around Edward’s fateful milestone and started up the hill. “He can black a boot well-a-fine, I’ll grant ye, but it’s as if the fellow never met a puddle!”
“I think when Fitch comes to remove Mr. Quartermaine’s sutures this afternoon, Peppie, we should ask him to look in on the comte.” Kate was staring over her horse’s head. “I cannot like his cough.”
“This afternoon, eh?” Mrs. Peppin sniffed. “Well. I daresay Mr. Edward will pack off straightaway then. And none will be better pleased than Lord Reginald to see the back of him.”
Kate smiled as if she’d given no thought to Edward’s leaving. “Do you suggest Reggie has designs on Lady Julia, Peppie?”
“Miss Kate!” Mrs. Peppin shot a disdainful look across the gig. “Mr. Edward pays that one no mind. She just sniffs arter him like that pug running behind your mother. As to Lord Reginald, I think we know how the wind blows.”
Kate cut a dark look at the housekeeper. “Peppie, was Mrs. Shearn gossiping with you just now? When you were paying Mr. Hastings for the wax?”
Mrs. Peppin’s face colored furiously. “She were talking,” the housekeeper acknowledged, “and I were listening.”
“Ah, thank you for that fine hair-splitting!” said Kate. “And what, pray, was the good woman talking about?”
The housekeeper hesitated. “There’s talk in the village that Lord Reginald’s come back,” she acknowledged, “and much speculation as to whether the pair of you have reconciled.”
Kate all but turned around on the seat. “I hope you quickly disabused her.”
Mrs. Peppin shrugged. “There’s no discouraging gossip,” she said evenly, “when there are those as wish to believe it.”
“Why would anyone care?” asked Kate incredulously.
“It’s Heatherfields, miss,” said the housekeeper, “all gone to rack and ruin. A village suffers when a
great house sits empty. Fewer to be employed, fewer candles and flour and soap to be bought. All totted up, Miss Kate, it do hurt.”
“And Reggie is charming,” said Kate under her breath. “That’s what it comes down to.”
“I think it’s not that,” said Mrs. Peppin musingly. “Oh, he’s the greatest charmer ever lived, but everyone knows he’s let things go. No, I think it’s you, miss. I think the village would like a proper family at Bellecombe again.”
A proper family.
She and Nancy, Kate supposed, didn’t constitute such a thing; not in the eyes of the village. No, they wanted a lord of the manor with his boots up by the fire, and half a dozen children to carry on the name. As if she did not want the same.
“I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to the entire countryside,” said Kate bitterly. “I wonder what everyone would have me do? Kidnap a husband?”
At that, Mrs. Peppin laid a hand on her sleeve. “Oh, miss, don’t take hard,” she said. “There’s not a soul as doesn’t want the best for you. Surely you know it?”
“Yes, I suppose.” Kate topped the next hill, and reined her cob back a bit. “But Reggie? Really?”
Mrs. Peppin was silent for a long moment. “Mr. Edward’s in a nasty line o’ business, I hear,” she said a little too casually.
“Indeed.” Kate felt her lips thin. “He owns a gaming hell.”
“And that is very wicked, I reckon?” said the housekeeper speculatively.
“Well, he’s hardly Circe calling from the rocks to lure men to improvidence,” said Kate. “They go of their own accord. But yes, it’s wicked. I’m sure we ought not know him. But Mamma does not care a fig for that—and I’m not sure I do. I should, I know, but …”
She let her words trail away. There really was no explaining, even to dear Peppie, just how she felt. Wounded. Disappointed. Thwarted. Deceived.
And yet she’d been deceived by no one save herself. Edward had warned her, and often. He had not known who he was, but he had seemed to have a sense of what he was.
For all you know, Lady d’Allenay, he had said, I am a very bad man.
