Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  Finally, in a despairing quest for peace, she knelt and prayed, but there was no answer to her prayers. There never was.

  Tomorrow, as always, she must face her fate alone.

  Chapter 3

  Nicholas awoke with a pounding headache, which he richly deserved. He lay still, eyes unopened, and took stock of his situation. Apparently his valet, Barnes, had put him to bed in a nightshirt. Nicholas much preferred sleeping in his skin, but he supposed that he was in no position to complain.

  He moved his head a fraction, then stopped, since it seemed in danger of falling off. He had been a damned fool and was paying the price for it. Unfortunately, he hadn't drunk enough brandy to obliterate his memory of what had happened the previous afternoon. As he thought of the pugnacious little wench who had stamped in and taken up his ridiculous challenge, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Knowing the consequences to his head, he did neither.

  He had trouble believing some of the things he had said, but his memories were too clear to permit denial. Lucky that Clare Morgan hadn't come armed; she might have decided that it was her Methodist duty to rid the world of a parasitical nobleman. He almost smiled at the thought. He had rather enjoyed their encounter, though he devoutly hoped that after mature consideration she would decide to stay home and let their bargain lapse. A female like her could seriously unbalance a man.

  The door swung open and soft footsteps approached. Probably Barnes, coming to see if he was awake. Preferring to be left alone, Nicholas kept his eyes shut and the footsteps retreated.

  But not for long. Five seconds later, icy water sluiced over Nicholas's head. "Bloody hell!" he roared, coming up swinging. He'd kill Barnes, he'd bloody kill him.

  It wasn't his valet. Nicholas opened his bleary eyes to find Clare Morgan, who stood a safe distance away with an empty china pitcher in her hand.

  At first he wondered if he was having an unusually vivid nightmare, but he could never have imagined the expression of sweet superciliousness on Clare's small face, nor the cold water that saturated his nightshirt. He snarled, "What the devil did you do that for?"

  "Tomorrow morning has turned into tomorrow afternoon, and I've been waiting for three hours for you to wake up," she said calmly. "Long enough to have a cup of tea, organize my list of requests for Penreith, and make a brief survey of the house to see what needs to be done to open the place properly. Rather a lot, as I'm sure you've noticed. Or perhaps you didn't—men can be amazingly unobservant. From sheer boredom, I decided to wake you. It seemed like the sort of thing that a mistress might do, and I'm trying my best to fill the role you have assigned me."

  She spoke with a hint of lilting Welsh accent and a rich, husky voice that made him think of aged whiskey. Coming from a prim spinster, the effect was startlingly erotic. Wanting to discomfit her, he said, "My mistresses always wake me up in more interesting ways. Care for me to explain how?"

  "Not particularly." She took a towel from the washstand and handed it to him.

  He roughly dried his hair and face, then blotted the worst of the water from his nightshirt. Feeling more human, he tossed the towel back to Clare.

  "Do you get drunk often?" she inquired.

  "Very seldom," Nicholas said dourly. "Obviously it was a mistake to do so this time. If I had been sober, I wouldn't have to endure you for the next three months."

  With a look of demure malice, she said, "If you decide not to go through with this, I won't think less of you."

  Nicholas blinked at hearing his own words thrown back at him. "You've a tongue like a wasp." He glowered at her until she began to look distinctly uneasy, then finished, "I like that in a woman."

  To his delight, she blushed. Insults might not faze her, but compliments or shows of masculine interest did. Feeling cheered, he said, "Find my valet and send him in with hot shaving water. Then tell the kitchen to brew a very large pot of very hot coffee. I'll be down in half an hour." He threw the covers back and started to climb out of bed.

  Averting her eyes, Clare said, "Very well, Nicholas," and beat a hasty retreat.

  He chuckled as the door closed behind her. She really was a most intriguing female. If her natural forcefulness could be transmuted into passion, she would make a hell of a bedmate.

  As he stepped onto the cold floor, he wondered if he would be successful at seducing her. Probably not; he suspected that her relentless virtue would outlast his patience.

  But it would certainly be fun trying. Whistling softly, he stripped off his sodden nightshirt and considered when and where he should collect his first kiss.

  * * *

  When Lord Aberdare appeared downstairs in the breakfast parlor, exactly half an hour later, all traces of overindulgence had been removed. Except for his dark coloring and over-long hair, he looked every inch the fashionable London gentleman. Clare decided that she preferred it when he was informal; his present garb made her uncomfortably aware of the vast gap between their stations in life.

  Then she remembered how he had looked in his nightshirt, with half his chest bare and wet fabric clinging to his muscular shoulders. That had been entirely too informal.

  Wordlessly, she rose and poured him a cup of steaming coffee. Equally wordlessly, he gulped it down in three swallows, then held out his cup for more. The second cup vanished almost as quickly as the first. This time he refilled it himself, then took a chair opposite Clare. "You may begin your presentation about the ills of Penreith and the solutions you expect of me."

  He was unnervingly businesslike. Glad that she was prepared, Clare said, "The problems are economic, with several different causes. Things started getting difficult five years ago, when your grandfather had Parliament enact a private land enclosure act. With the upland commons fenced off so Aberdare could run sheep, a number of cottagers were driven into the village because they could no longer support their families from the land. Jobs are few, and most of those are at the coal pit. With so much cheap labor available, the mine manager lowered wages. He also sees no reason to buy better equipment, or to pay for even the most basic safety precautions."

  Before she could elaborate, the earl held up a hand to stop her. "How many men have died in the mine?"

  "In the last four years, a total of sixteen men and four boys have been killed in a variety of accidents."

  "That's unfortunate, but is it unreasonable? Mining has always been hazardous. The colliers I've known take a certain pride in doing work that requires such strength and courage."

  "Pride, yes," she agreed, "but they are not fools. The hazards at the Penreith mine are far worse than they should be—everyone who works there says it's a miracle that there hasn't yet been a major disaster. Sooner or later, luck will run out, and when it does dozens, possibly hundreds, of people will die." Though she was trying to be coolly objective, her voice broke.

  As she struggled to regain her composure, he said quietly, "I gather that you've lost friends in the mine?"

  "Not just friends." She raised her head, her expression rigid. "That's where my father died."

  Startled, Nicholas said, "What the devil was Reverend Morgan doing in the pit?"

  "What he always did—his work. There was a collapse. Two men died outright and a third, a member of the Society, was trapped by fallen rocks. The lower part of his body was crushed, but he was still conscious. He asked for my father. While other men tried to free the miner, my father held his hand and prayed with him." After an unsteady breath, she finished, "There was another rockfall. My father, the trapped miner, and one of the rescue workers were killed."

  "One would expect no less from your father," Nicholas said, his voice gentle. "Is it any comfort knowing that he died as he had lived—with compassion and courage?"

  "Very little," she said bleakly.

  After an awkward silence, he asked, "Why have you approached me? Though I own the land that the mine is on, it's leased to the mining company. The owner and manager are the ones in a position to make changes."

&n
bsp; Clare's mouth tightened. "The manager, George Madoc, is impossible. Since he receives a percentage of the profits, he takes pleasure in pinching every penny he can, even at the cost of human lives."

  "Is Lord Michael Kenyon still the owner? I would have thought he would be responsive to reasonable requests."

  "Attempts have been made to communicate with him, but Lord Michael has not answered our letters and petitions. And no one has been able to talk to him in person, because he hasn't set foot in the valley in the last four years."

  "Four years," Nicholas repeated, his expression enigmatic. "An interesting interval. But if Madoc and Lord Michael won't make changes, what do you think I can do?"

  "Talk to Lord Michael," she said earnestly. "He is a friend of yours. If he can be persuaded to make improvements at the pit, perhaps nothing else will be required."

  "Michael was a friend, but I haven't seen him in four years. More than that, actually...." Nicholas's voice trailed off and he absently crumbled a piece of toast. "I have no idea where he is now, nor do I know if I would have any influence with him. He might be perfectly satisfied with matters as they stand."

  "I've thought of that." Knowing that she was about to find out how far the earl would go to fulfill his part of the bargain, Clare rubbed damp palms along her gray skirt. "If the mine can't be changed, the solution is to create other kinds of employment. That is something you can do rather easily."

  "I thought you would have a plan," he murmured. Slouching back in his chair, he folded his arms across his chest. "Proceed, Miss Morgan."

  "To begin with, you are by far the largest landowner in the valley, yet you have done nothing to encourage more scientific agriculture. Your tenants still use the same methods that were common in Tudor times. Improved breeding and tillage would increase the wealth of the valley and create more jobs." She lifted a sheaf of papers and handed them to Nicholas. "I'm no expert, but I've studied reports on scientific agriculture in England and noted techniques that should be effective here."

  "There is something on which you are not an expert?" After a brief glance at the papers, he set them on the table. "Bringing local farming out of the Middle Ages should keep me busy for the next decade or two, but in case I have some spare time, do you have any other requests?"

  Ignoring his sarcasm, she said, "There is one major thing you could do which would have effects almost immediately. "

  "Oh? Carry on, Miss Morgan, I am panting to hear."

  "Perhaps you don't remember, but you own an old slate quarry at the far end of the valley. Though it hasn't been used in years, there's no reason why it couldn't be worked again." She leaned forward, voice intense. "Not only would development be profitable for you, but it would provide jobs for those who are now out of work. The Penrhyn quarries in Flintshire employ over five hundred men, and the work is less dangerous than mining. In addition, Madoc would have to improve conditions at the pit or lose his best workers."

  "I remember the quarry," Nicholas said thoughtfully. "It has probably roofed every building in the valley, but is there enough slate there for worthwhile commercial development?"

  "Indications are that the field is very large, and the quality has always been excellent."

  " 'Indications,' " he repeated. "I suppose that means you've been trespassing on my land while evaluating my resources?"

  She shifted uncomfortably. "The quarry is near a public right of way."

  "As long as you didn't frighten the sheep." His brows drew together reflectively. "The problem with slate is the cost of getting the material to where it's needed. A tramway would have to be built down to the river so the slate could go to the coast by barge."

  "What is a tramway?"

  "It's a kind of road, made up of a pair of wooden or iron tracks. Horses pull wagons along the rails. They're expensive to build, which is probably why the coal pit doesn't have one, but they make it possible to move heavy materials much faster than using regular roads." He pondered again. "At the coast, a new quay might have to be built as well."

  "But once the quay was built, you could ship the slate anywhere—across the channel to Bristol, north to Merseyside. You might also be able to recoup some of your costs by charging the coal pit for using the quay—their shipping facilities are inadequate. It could be very profitable for you, Lord Aberdare."

  "Stop using profit as bait," he said irritably. "The topic doesn't much interest me." He drummed his fingers on the mahogany table. "Do you have any idea how many thousands of pounds would be required to develop the quarry?"

  "Not really," she admitted. "I don't have a grasp of money on that scale. Is it more than you can afford?"

  "I didn't say that." He got to his feet. "Do you ride?"

  She blinked in confusion at the change of topic. "Some, but not lately—after my father died, I sold his horse. It was a placid old thing, so my riding experience is limited."

  "There should be something in the stables that will suit you. Meet me there in fifteen minutes in your riding habit. We're going to take a look at this quarry of yours." He turned on his heel and swept out of the room.

  Clare was left feeling dazed, as if a thunderstorm had just rolled over her. But at least he was taking her ideas seriously. However, he hadn't given her time to say that she didn't have a riding habit. With a faint smile, she rose and went up to the room that had been assigned to her. She would have to ride in the garments she had used in the past. Perhaps she would be able to shock the earl. She rather hoped so.

  * * *

  Clare entered the stables to find that Nicholas had arrived before her, and was in earnest conversation with the inhabitant of one of the large box stalls. The clicking heels of her old boots caused him to glance up at her.

  He paused, arrested. "Are boy's breeches the Penreith version of a riding habit?"

  "There are few women in the valley who ride, and even fewer who can afford to have an expensive gown with only one limited purpose," she said crisply. "I'm sorry if you disapprove, but this is what I've always worn on horseback, and it's all I have."

  Nicholas gave her a lazy, dangerous smile. "I didn't say that I disapproved. Wear those breeches riding in London and you could start a new fashion. Either that or a riot."

  Though Clare had never minded the sparseness of her wardrobe, she hadn't expected that his thorough examination of her buckskin-clad legs would make her feel so naked. Her face colored; with disgust, she realized that she had blushed more in the last day than the whole previous decade. Glancing toward the stall, she asked, "Is that the mount you chose for me?"

  "Yes. Rhonda is a pure-bred Welsh pony." His long, graceful fingers stroked the dappled muzzle, causing the little mare to simper shamelessly. "Docile, well-mannered, and considerably more intelligent than the average horse. Too small for me, but she should do nicely for you."

  As he opened the door of the stall and led Rhonda out, a groom emerged from the tack room carrying a sidesaddle. The earl said, "We won't be needing that. Get a regular saddle for Miss Morgan."

  After giving her an interested glance, the groom obeyed the order and saddled the pony. Nicholas himself brought out the great black stallion he had been riding the day before, when Clare had first seen him. The horse danced out of his stall, high-spirited to a fault. As Clare stepped back nervously, Nicholas moved closer and breathed into the black nostrils.

  The stallion quieted immediately. Seeing her surprise, Nicholas flashed a quick grin. "It's an old Gypsy trick to calm a horse. Useful when you're trying to steal one."

  "No doubt you've had plenty of experience in that area," she said dryly.

  As he saddled the stallion, he shook his head with regret. "I'm afraid not. One of the sad consequences of wealth is that there is no point in theft. The best meal I ever had was when I was a boy and shared a stolen hen and potatoes that were roasted over an open fire. Superb."

  Knowing that she was being baited, Clare turned to Rhonda and checked the tightness of the saddle girth herself.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the earl give a faint nod of approval at her thoroughness. He made a move in her direction, so she hastily mounted before he could help her.

  Clare was nervous as they rode away from the stables, but the pony proved to be as well-behaved as promised. She relaxed and began to enjoy the ride, even though she knew that long-unused muscles would protest later.

  Nicholas led the way to a trail that ran high up the edge of the valley. It was an unusually warm day for early spring, and the air was so clear that she could pick out individual trees on the far side of the valley.

  It was several miles to the old quarry, and at first they rode in complete silence. Clare found that her gaze kept returning to Nicholas. He rode like a centaur, so at one with his horse that watching him was pure pleasure. Whenever she became aware of how great the pleasure was, she forced her attention back to her surroundings.

  When the journey was half completed, the trail widened so that they could travel side by side. Nicholas said, "You ride better than I would have expected for someone who learned on that old slug of your father's. The beast had a mouth like granite."

  She smiled. "If I seem competent, Rhonda must get the credit. It's pleasant to ride an animal that's so responsive and has such smooth gaits. Willow had his points, though. My father was an absent-minded horseman, and he never had to worry that Willow would bolt if neglected."

  "Small chance of that. More likely Willow stopped and grazed whenever your father's mind wandered." Without a change in tone, he continued, "I'm curious about how bad my local reputation is. What do people in Penreith say about the melodramatic events of four years ago?"

  Rhonda stopped and tossed her head unhappily as Clare's hands tightened on the reins. Forcing herself to relax, she said, "It's believed that after years of trying to break your grandfather's heart, you finally succeeded by seducing his wife. When he found you in bed together, he suffered a fit of apoplexy that killed him. Your own wife, Lady Tregar, was horrorstruck when she discovered what had happened. Terrified that you would injure her, she fled Aberdare. The night was stormy and she died when her carriage went off the road and crashed into the river."