Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  During the following days with Peckham, the housekeeper, Mrs. Bartlett, or Tilden, Barnaby toured the seemingly endless rooms of the house, then handed over to the head gardener, Hervey, he tramped over the extensive, manicured gardens, the greenhouses and the huge kitchen gardens at the rear of the house. He met the head stableman, the bailiff, the coachman, the head shepherd, listening and observing intently as each one of them explained the workings of the great estate. At night when he retired, his head was abuzz with all that he had learned that day, but with every passing hour, the mantle of responsibility, while heavy, felt more and more familiar.

  On a Wednesday afternoon, two weeks to the day that Barnaby had first set foot in Windmere, young Sam, the blacksmith’s son, appeared at the kitchen door, telling an astonished Peckham that he had a message from Mrs. Gilbert for my lord. Reluctantly, Peckham delivered the news of Sam’s arrival to Barnaby in the library, where he was going over some paperwork with Tilden, who was proving, along with his other duties, to be an excellent secretary.

  Barnaby threw down the page of accounts he had been studying and standing up, scandalized Peckham by saying, “Take me to him.”

  Peckham coughed delicately. “I think, my lord, that it would be better if I brought the, er, young man to you.”

  “Nonsense,” said Barnaby. He glanced around the elegant room. “Believe me, Sam would be more comfortable in the kitchen.”

  The cook was flustered to have his lordship stroll into her bustling kitchen. But Barnaby put her at ease with a friendly smile. “Mrs. Eason, I believe?” he said, and at her nod, continued, “I remember you from that first day.” And made her his adoring slave when he added, “May I compliment you on the poached salmon steaks and the pullets with chestnuts that were served with dinner last night? I enjoyed the entire meal, but the salmon and pullets were exceptional.”

  Mrs. Eason, short, buxom and round as a plump pigeon, wisps of curly brown hair escaping her white cap, dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, her cheeks pink with pleasure.

  Young Sam was sitting at a scrubbed heavy oak table, a small plate of just-from-the-oven cinnamon biscuits and a tall glass of milk before him. Feeling Barnaby’s eye on him, he hastily swallowed the biscuit he’d been eating, swiped his lips clear of crumbs and jumped to his feet. Brushing back a lock of dark hair from his forehead, his equally dark eyes on Barnaby’s face, he said, “My lord, Mrs. Gilbert is most wishful for you to visit her at the inn. She says that”—he frowned, trying to remember her exact words—“you’ll find it worth your while.”

  Sam had been sent back to the inn with word that his lordship would be arriving within the hour, and despite Lamb’s argument to the contrary, Barnaby rode away from Windmere alone. His blue eyes worried, Lamb said, “I would remind you that this time two weeks ago, someone tried to kill you.”

  “True,” Barnaby agreed mildly as he swung up into the saddle. “And I will be on my guard.” He half opened his dark blue jacket, partially revealing the ivory handle of a pistol. “I am armed with both a pistol and my knife—I will not be such easy prey again.” Lamb opened his mouth to continue his protest but Barnaby held up a silencing finger. “I have no intention of locking myself away within the confines of Windmere—or having you following me about like a hen with one chick.” Effortlessly controlling the restive black stallion beneath him, he said, “I would remind you that I still have no memory of what happened to me that night—I may never remember. And I agree that the most likely explanation is that someone tried to murder me, but it is possible that there is another less dramatic explanation. Perhaps what happened was some sort of ridiculous accident—and all my own fault.”

  Lamb glared helplessly at him, but seeing the determined line of Barnaby’s jaw, he knew there was no swaying him. Spinning on his heel, he snarled, “I’ll enjoy dancing on your grave.”

  Laughing, Barnaby rode away.

  Arriving at the inn, Barnaby dismounted. Holding the reins of his horse in one hand, he slowly walked toward the two-storied plaster-and-brick building and tied his horse to one of the short sturdy posts scattered across the front of the place.

  Barnaby was almost to the front door when a muscular man with dark hair and eyes, a large smithy’s hammer held carelessly in one hamlike hand, appeared around the corner of the inn.

  “I thought I heard someone ride up,” the newcomer said, a friendly smile on his lips. “The inn is closed this afternoon. Mrs. Gilbert and her daughters will be back soon. They are gone to market, but she warned me to keep an ear open for you in case you arrived before their return.”

  From the heavy leather apron he was wearing over his jerkin and breeches and the hammer, Barnaby instantly guessed his identity. “You’re the blacksmith. Young Sam is your son.”

  Nodding, he said, “I cannot deny it.” He half bowed and said, “I’m Caleb Gates, my lord. Sam said you wouldn’t be far behind him.”

  Barnaby grinned. “I could hardly ignore a summons from Mrs. Gilbert.”

  Caleb laughed. “Few of us can. If you will follow me, I can show you what she thought you would find so interesting.”

  They walked around to the back of the inn and crossing a large gravel-and-mud yard behind the building they approached a long, low stable. The deserted air to the inn and Mrs. Gilbert’s absence made Barnaby uneasy and his hand wasn’t far from his pistol as he followed Caleb into the stable.

  Shafts of weak sunlight crowded through the wide, double doors of the stable and, stepping inside, Barnaby paused to let his eyes adjust to the shadowy interior of the building. Was it a trap? Another attempt on his life? His hand strayed closer to his pistol as he moved deeper into the stable.

  Caleb walked past several empty stalls and stopped at the next to the last one on the right. Reaching Caleb’s side, Barnaby glanced warily inside the stall. The big bay gelding with the distinctive blaze face that had been hitched to the hooded gig he’d been driving when he’d left London over two weeks ago stood in the center of the stall looking back at him.

  Chapter 5

  The sound of approaching feminine voices alerted Barnaby to Mrs. Gilbert’s return. Her gray hair caught up in a neat bun at the back of her head, a few girlish curls dangling near her cheeks, she hurried into the barn.

  “I must apologize, my lord, for not being here when you arrived,” she said breathlessly when she reached him. “I thought I’d be back sooner.”

  Flora accompanied her mother. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she said with a dimpled smile and a quick curtsy. “Ma wasn’t sure you would even come.”

  An easy smile on his face, Barnaby said, “Refuse an invitation from your mother? After all your kindness to me, what sort of a craven would that make me?” To Mrs. Gilbert, he said, “I’ve only been here a few minutes and Caleb has taken very good care of me.”

  Her eyes on the bay gelding, Mrs. Gilbert asked, “Is that your horse, Blazer Boy? Faith swears that he is.”

  Barnaby nodded. “Yes, that’s Blazer, all right. I was driving him when I left London.” He frowned. “How does she know him? And where did you find him?”

  “Faith has loved horses all of her life and notices them—especially the fine ones like your Blazer there. Blazer was the old viscount’s favorite driving horse and he used to drive him with his curricle all over the place. Your great-uncle stopped here whenever he came to the village and Faith was quite familiar with Blazer.” She smiled. “Blazer was a favorite of hers, too. As to where she found him . . .” Her smile vanished. “She and Molly were coming back from Eastbourne and passed a horse trader with six or seven horses in tow. Faith recognized Blazer right away—his face marking is quite distinctive. When she stopped the man and demanded to know what he was doing with Viscount Joslyn’s horse, the fellow claimed all innocence. Said he’d found him running loose several days ago farther up the coast.” Mrs. Gilbert’s lips thinned. “I know horse traders, and from the hasty way he handed over Blazer to her without an argument—
or payment—I suspect there is more to the story, but Faith and Molly were alone and they didn’t want to question him too closely. Faith was just glad to get her hands on Blazer.”

  “It seems my debt to your family is only increasing,” Barnaby said.

  Mrs. Gilbert snorted. “As long as you keep your tongue behind your teeth about certain events you observed the other night, you owe us nothing.”

  “What things?” Barnaby asked with big-eyed innocence. Mrs. Gilbert chuckled. “I see we understand each other. Now come along. I’m sure you want to question Faith about the horse trader yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Faith told Barnaby when he asked her to describe the horse trader to him. “I didn’t pay him any mind.” A faint flush rose in her cheeks. “All my interest was in Blazer and I was more concerned about getting my hands on him than the horse trader.”

  “Beyond being a stranger, there’s not much else you can tell me about him?”

  “I think he was an older man,” she offered, trying to be helpful. Her pretty blue eyes distressed, she said unhappily, “I’m sorry.”

  Molly who had accompanied Faith to Eastbourne had little more to add to her sister’s tale.Barnaby did a swift examination of Blazer and, beyond having lost a small amount of weight and having a slight cut on one shoulder, he appeared in fine shape. Temporarily leaving the horse in the stall, he walked with Mrs. Gilbert and Flora to the inn.

  Mrs. Gilbert and her lively daughters provided good company and he had the opportunity to meet some of the locals. After having introduced him to a few fishermen and laborers drinking ale at the long counter, her expression bland, Mrs. Gilbert marched him over to a table where a young gentleman in military garb sat alone. “My lord, allow me to introduce Lieutenant Deering. He is our local riding officer.” She smiled grimly. “Lieutenant Deering has been sent here to stamp out all those nasty smugglers that abound in the area.”

  Deering flushed and Barnaby felt sorry for him. “Revenue service, are you?” he asked in a friendly voice, as the lieutenant rose to his feet to meet him.

  “Yes, my lord,” Deering replied, standing almost at attention.

  Barnaby liked the look of him. Brown haired and of a medium build with intelligent blue eyes, from the neatness of his attire, it was clear he took his job seriously and had not fallen into the slovenly ways of some of the men in the revenue service.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  Astonished at being singled out, the young officer stammered, “If y-y-you wish, m-m-y lord, I—I—I’d be honored.”

  As Barnaby sat and drank a tankard of ale with the young man, he was aware of the narrow-eyed glances sent their way. It wasn’t an easy job the lieutenant faced. Forced to live amongst the very people he was trying to apprehend, Barnaby imagined that most of the locals treated Deering with suspicion and wariness. Certainly none of them would have joined him in drinking a tankard of ale.

  “A thankless task you have,” Barnaby said.

  Deering nodded. “I’ll not pretend otherwise—or that half my men aren’t being bribed to look the other way.” He sighed. “But I took on the job and I mean to uphold the law—even if it makes me an unpopular man around here—and my own men think I’m a fool for trying to stop the smuggling.”

  They conversed for a few minutes longer and, finishing his ale, Barnaby rose to his feet and said, “I do not envy your task, but I wish you well in it.” Provided, he thought to himself as he walked away, you stay away from Mrs. Gilbert . . . and Miss Emily.

  Barnaby was taking his leave of Mrs. Gilbert when an older fisherman, his dark hair grizzled and his face worn and burned by the elements, wandered in and settled at a small round table in the far corner of the oak-beamed room.

  Mrs. Gilbert spied the newcomer and said to Barnaby, “That’s Jeb Brown.”

  “The man who pulled me from the Channel?”

  Mrs. Gilbert nodded.

  Barnaby walked to the table where Jeb Brown sat and said quietly, “Mr. Brown, I am Lord Joslyn. Mrs. Gilbert tells me that you saved my life the other night. Thank you.” He hesitated, then added, “A mere thank-you seems a scant reward for what you did. If there is anything I can do . . .”

  Jeb stood up and cautiously took the hand Barnaby stretched out. “Truth is, my lord, I thought you was dead when I pulled you on board,” Jeb said. “Almost jumped out of my boots when you groaned and I found you was alive.” He studied Barnaby a long moment, then said meaningfully, “As long as you prove to be a good friend to Mrs. Gilbert and them girls of hers, that’s thanks enough for me.”

  Barnaby inclined his head in perfect understanding. “None of you have anything to fear from me.” His eyes met Jeb’s. “It would be an honor to be considered your friend, and should you ever have need of my friendship, you know where to find me.”

  Sharp gray eyes studied him a moment longer, then Jeb nodded. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll remember that . . . and take you at your word.”

  With Blazer following on a lead rope behind his horse, Barnaby rode away from the inn. The weather was worsening and he noted that during the time he’d been inside that the skies had darkened to a surly gray and that the wind had picked up. The scent of rain was in the air and dusk wasn’t far away. Not liking the idea of finding his way home through unfamiliar territory in darkness and rain, Barnaby kicked the black into a fast trot, Blazer responding obediently to the quickened pace.

  Not more than a mile later, the first raindrops fell. Within minutes Barnaby and the horses were drenched and an ugly wind nipped at them, adding to the general discomfort. Cursing himself for not paying attention to the time and weather, he spurred his horse to a faster clip, Blazer keeping pace behind the black. It was a miserable wet and cold ride.

  Barnaby was delighted when he recognized a straggling row of beech trees and realized that he was just over a mile from Windmere. Around the next bend lay the entrance to Windmere and once he’d traversed the half mile or so of driveway that led to the great mansion, warmth and shelter awaited him. Intent on reaching his goal, he rounded a broad bend in the road at a dead gallop. Without warning, his horse skidded to a halt and reared in fright, nearly throwing him from the saddle. Blazer following behind shied and snorted and shuddered to a halt at the side of the road alongside Barnaby’s plunging horse.

  Bringing his mount under control and keeping Blazer on a shorter lead, Barnaby searched for what had frightened his horse and caused it to rear. Through the blowing rain, on the opposite side of the road, he spied a small black buggy leaning drunkenly in the ditch. The woman driver, concentrating on convincing her horse to move, hadn’t noticed Barnaby and his horses.

  As he slowly angled across the road and walked his horses toward the buggy, the driver gently urged the horse forward and the little animal made a valiant effort, plunging against the breast strap of the harness. Beyond a rocking motion, the buggy didn’t move. “It’s no use, Emily,” the woman cried. “I’m afraid she’s lame.”

  From behind the buggy a feminine voice answered. “Blast it! I cannot budge the wheel by myself. It is mired too deeply in the mud. Hell and damnation!”

  “Oh, Emily, you know you shouldn’t swear like that,” scolded the driver. “What if someone should hear you?”

  “Bloody hell! I wish there was someone to hear,” Emily said bitterly. “At least we’d have help.”

  Barnaby’s lips twitched. The name and the voice identified the hidden speaker. Emily Townsend. Suddenly he was no longer worried about being wet and cold or in such a hurry to reach home.

  Unaware of Barnaby’s presence, Emily said fiercely, “I’ll strangle that wretched Kelsey if I ever lay eyes on him again—he deliberately ran us off the road. And if he’s caused real damage to Sunny, I’ll have his liver.”

  Barnaby neared the buggy and, trying not to startle the occupant, he called out softly, “Hello. I am Lord Joslyn of Windmere. May I be of service to you?”

  The rain and the deep shadows crea
ted by the curved top of the buggy didn’t allow him to see much, but as the driver looked in his direction he was left with the distinct impression of very large dark eyes in a pretty face.

  “Oh!” the driver exclaimed. “I didn’t see you. Emily, come quick! Someone is here.”

  From behind the buggy a tall, female form appeared and climbed nimbly onto the road and stalked toward him. The hood of her mud-stained cloak hid her features from him, but Barnaby was certain even without having heard her name or her voice that he would have recognized the challenging set to the head and shoulders and the defiant stride of his boy-who-was-not-a-boy.

  Stopping in front of his horse, Emily recognized the big man immediately and decided that fate hated her. Lord Joslyn. How bloody wonderful.

  She’d known they’d meet again, and while she hadn’t wasted time thinking about him, she’d hoped when their paths next crossed it would be under more flattering conditions. But no, she thought acidly, she had to be wearing her oldest clothes, mud-splattered now after her fight with the recalcitrant wheel, and she was soaked to the skin.

  Hoping he didn’t connect her to the youth at the inn, Emily said coolly, “I am Emily Townsend. My cousin, Jeffery Townsend, is the local squire.” Indicating the driver with a wave of her arm, she added, “This is my stepmother, Mrs. Anne Townsend.” Some imp pushed her to ask, “And you are?”

  Quashing the urge to laugh, he replied, “As I told your stepmother, I am Lord Joslyn.” A mocking gleam in the black eyes, he added, “And I’m sure you know that I live at Windmere.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord,” said Anne hastily. She smiled shyly. “Even in such uncomfortable circumstances.”

  Swinging from his saddle, Barnaby said, “I think the circumstances are rather providential, don’t you?” Holding on to the reins and Blazer’s lead rope in one hand, ignoring Emily, he bent down and examined the mare hitched to the buggy. A long jagged cut along her rear leg was seeping blood, but it didn’t appear to be deep or dangerous. A good cleaning and a stitch or two and some rest and the horse would be fine. But the little chestnut mare was decidedly lame and if he was any judge, was not going to be pulling the buggy out of the ditch tonight.