The butler bowed his head in acknowledgment, no movement wasted. “I am Dawson, milady. Lady Dalrymple awaits you in the front drawing room.”
“Thank you, Dawson.” Their steps echoed across the tile floor of the foyer, the sound filling the cavernous space before fading into the plasterwork on the ceiling. In the comfortable drawing room, her walking boots sank into the plush carpet.
“I see the prodigal child has returned at last,” Agatha said from her chair by the window.
“If you’re not serving fatted calf for dinner, I shall be bitterly disappointed.” Lottie kissed her godmother’s powdered cheek. Although she was still a striking woman, the lines in her face had deepened with time. Agatha had never been beautiful in the classic sense, but then, Lottie loved that about her. Too tall, too thin, and too angular for the popular definition of beauty, yet even at her age, she continued to influence both fashion and society. Lottie’s honorary aunt was distinctive and memorable—which was better than beautiful.
“Fatted calf?” The older woman raised an imperious brow. “I am sure we could have tracked down a bit of plump livestock to celebrate your return, had I known to expect you today. I thought you would be here days ago. Instead, here I sat, wasting away for want of a word from you.”
“Yes, Auntie, I can see you’re wallowing in the depths of despair at the idea of my demise on the road.” Lottie gestured to the tin of sweets next to the chair. “All of my best wallowing requires biscuits too.”
“Do not distract me with your impertinence. Tell me where you were.” Two thumps of her cane on the carpet punctuated the demand.
Lottie settled across from her godmother. The sunlight through the window illuminated the silvery curls peeking from beneath Agatha’s black lace cap. “I sent word after my initial post regarding the accident. Some of our fellow travelers ended up staying past their intended departures due to the rain. It must have delayed the post as well.”
“God does tend to let his wrath loose on the countryside. Yet another reason I prefer to stay in London. Regardless, it is good to see you, child. I assume you met Dawson on the way in.”
“Yes. Do we have guards at night to ward off the grave robbers? I imagine the body snatchers have been eyeing him for some time. He must be as old as Methuselah.”
Agatha’s bark of laughter had a rusty quality to it. “Mock all you like, but he is frightfully competent at his post.”
“He would have to be. After hundreds of years of experience, there would be little new you could throw at him. Wherever did you find him? And more importantly, does Stemson know you’re being served tea by another man?”
Agatha leveled a look at her. “Stemson nearly had apoplexy when I discussed moving the entire staff to this residence. One would think the architectural firm staffed highwaymen and brigands, the way he carried on. No, he insisted his place was at his post, keeping an eagle eye on the workmen, even though they came with the highest recommendations.” She offered Lottie the tin of biscuits, then waited while she selected one. “Dawson has been a satisfactory addition to my home. This house was leased with staff in place, all carefully vetted by a hiring agency. You do remember the purpose of a hiring agency, do you not? I do not search the gutters for my help.”
Lottie rolled her eyes at the old refrain. Her estate was filled with good people, but some of them had needed a second chance. Patrick and Darling were only two of many she’d employed, contracted, and otherwise offered an opportunity to prove to everyone—and themselves—that their lives could be better. People sometimes needed a bit of guidance, that was all. “We have this discussion every time I write about hiring a new staff member. My servants are loyal and appreciate the opportunity to make an honest living. Each of them has redeemed themselves and proven my instinct to help them correct.”
Agatha offered a distinct harrumph in reply.
As if on cue, a maid arrived with a rolling tea cart piled high with sweet and savory offerings. Lottie smiled her thanks to the servant, pouring at Agatha’s nod.
“Remind me again, girl. Were you in a carriage accident or robbed by highwaymen?”
“Our carriage crashed, as you know. How would highwaymen possibly play into it?” Lottie handed a dainty cup and saucer to her godmother, then self-consciously touched her tender black eye, where shades of green and yellow had lingered that morning.
Agatha placed the tea on the small table beside her, settled her hands on the brass top of her cane, then began an exaggerated examination from the top of Lottie’s head to her boots. “It was the only explanation I could think of to explain that ghastly garment you are wearing. I assumed a generous chambermaid lent it to you. Perhaps you have also employed her?”
Lottie’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, sending ripples through her teacup. “I’ll have you know this dress has served me well for almost five years. I think I even delivered a calf in it once.”
“Oh, mercy.” Agatha twitched the edge of her skirt farther away from Lottie’s hem, despite the several feet between their chairs.
As she shook her head at her aunt’s antics, a wave of comfort washed over Lottie. Although the years showed in her appearance, Agatha remained a force of nature. Mother used to say that thunder, lightning, hurricanes, and Lady Agatha were all beyond the control of men.
“Are the workmen on schedule at your house?”
“That seems to depend on the day and with whom you are speaking. I want to be in my own bed for Christmas, but here we are, entering September already. The construction could have waited had I known this would be the year you finally decided to show your face again.”
Knowing her presence inconvenienced Agatha churned waves of guilt. “The timing was not my decision, I’m afraid. I’m only doing this because Father decided to make a match with the Earl of Danby’s son and I refused. I have until November to find an acceptable husband, or I will be forced to accept Mr. Montague.”
Father couldn’t leave his library to fix the tenants’ roofs or myriad other issues, but her marital status was suddenly more than he could tolerate. Lottie swiped two fingers between her brows, smoothing all sign of emotion from her forehead. Mother always warned about such displays causing lines.
“The Earl of Danby’s youngest? Rumor says he is handsome. But those are not the only rumors about him, my love. Be careful with that one. We will find a better match. You were wise to come to London.”
“I hope you’re right. Father promised an estate of my own in addition to my dowry. Let’s pray that is incentive enough to overcome my past.” With her own property, the decisions she made, the improvements and modernizations, would benefit the lives of her tenants. She’d be making a difference, proving once and for all that she wasn’t the vapid Paper Doll Princess anymore.
“You were a scandal, my darling girl. Unlike some of these debutantes, who are witless as a sack of hair, you were innocent of wrongdoing. In these seven years, countless scandals have come and gone,” Agatha said.
“Whether they love me or loathe me, I’m prepared to face the ton again.”
“Your mother would be proud of that decision.” They shared a moment of silence at the mention of the woman Agatha had thought of as a daughter. Agatha sighed, then clapped her hands once, as if to scare away the glum mood. “We can catch up while I show you to your room. You look ready to drop, my dear.”
The town house dated from the century before, standing tall, elegant, and narrow, like so many others on the street. The houses stood in a line like beautifully decorated toy soldiers, ready for inspection by the king.
Inside the home, carved woodwork framed brilliant silk-covered walls, making each room colorful and opulent. In her bedroom, a canopied bed dominated one wall. It would be hard not to be content here.
“I apologize for the uninspiring view of the stonework on the house across the way. But let us count our blessings. We have a corner lot, and any space in Town is precious.” Agatha parted the drapes, letting natural
light flood the bedroom.
“This layer of sheer curtains for privacy is rather ingenious.” Lottie fingered the delicate cream fabric. “The effect is so welcoming with the sun lending a glow to the blue walls.”
Agatha smiled, but looked a bit weary. “Without them you could see right into the house next door. Lord knows what things you might witness when looking in the windows of Lord Carlyle’s home. Do you remember him? He is quite fashionable despite his reprobate father’s reputation.”
“I can only imagine the kinds of bachelor goings-on.” Lottie peered out the window just in case there was something to see. A few dark windows reflected the pattern of Aunt Agatha’s stone walls. “Lord Carlyle was at the inn too. In fact, after the accident, he made certain of my comfort. He seemed an affable fellow.”
“How remarkable. A handsome, eligible bachelor, right next door, with whom you experienced a harrowing journey.” Agatha raised a brow.
Instead of pondering their charming neighbor, Lottie’s mind wandered to the dark-haired friend of the eligible bachelor in question. The fickle one who apologized oh so neatly and had touched her cheek at dinner. That path of skin tingled at the memory.
She should have bitten his finger.
“Lord Carlyle is not the man for me. Whoever I marry cannot be prettier than I am. My ego won’t allow it.” She mustered a grin for Agatha’s sake. Carlyle’s appeal wasn’t in question. Being so blasted cheerful, he would make a congenial spouse to anyone. The man could probably make friends with a wall if he tried. But she wasn’t on the lookout for a love match, and good-natured Lord Carlyle deserved a real wife.
Lottie tested the thickness of the pillow on the padded seat. It would be perfect for drizzly autumn days with a book. Those would come soon, followed by winter winds that whipped down streets and through corridors of buildings. With any luck she’d be gone before then. “Thank you, again. I don’t think I could do this without you.”
Agatha leaned on her cane in a way that made Lottie wonder if her larger-than-life godmother’s age was starting to have effects other than simply wrinkles in her skin. “To be honest, child, having a companion will be a joy. The years are exhausting and not as enjoyable without a similar mind with which to pass the time. I miss my Alfred.” Her wistful sigh told its own story. “That man laughed at anything. I could not have asked for a better friend to spend the last forty years with. We shall do our best to find you a loving marriage as well.”
Lottie shifted. In her experience, love meant ignoring everyone else around you—even your children—in favor of one person. Her father was proof that even in death the damage didn’t end. He’d spent years grieving, to the detriment of everyone who relied on him. She had no interest in opening herself to that kind of pain. “My reasons for needing a husband are practical, not emotional.”
Agatha appraised her with the direct intensity of a woman who knew she could say anything. Choosing to embrace tact, she changed the subject. “I am happy you are here now. It has been too long. Over the years, I hoped to see you at other events, if not the Season. When your friends married, I expected you would attend the weddings, yet you remained in the country.”
“Those friendships have died off. I don’t know if I’ll see any of my old acquaintances while here, but if I do, it will no doubt be awkward. They’re married, and here I am still hunting for a husband to suit my needs.” At her age, most women donned a cap and settled into life with cats for company. Come to think of it, she would enjoy a cat. It would be a good companion, since she had no intention of keeping a husband nearby for entertainment.
“And what needs are those?” Perched on the window seat in her black dress, Agatha eyed Lottie with interest, like a crow spotting a shiny object.
“The man I marry will be content to stay in London with his cronies and clubs and leave the management of the estate to me. Then, finally, I can work on building my future with my dowry. That money is rightfully—if not lawfully—mine. An apathetic spouse shouldn’t be hard to find with a dowry that’s nothing short of vulgar.”
The silence stretched between them until Agatha finally said, “I trust you will not mind if I hope your plan fails spectacularly.” Ah, there was the blunt Agatha she knew and loved. “There is no better gift in this world than to have a marriage based on affection and love. To that end, tomorrow we visit Madame Bouvier. Now that you’re in Town, we must at least try to make you look as if you have not been traipsing through a cow field.”
Chapter Six
Ethan spent a week at his estate, buried under the duties and responsibilities it took to keep Woodrest running smoothly. Account books needed updating, the hops required inspection after wet weather swept through the region, and plans for his new business enterprise were coming to a satisfying conclusion.
Joseph, the local pub’s landlord, had the idea to create a beer using Woodrest’s hops. From there, the concept had grown. A separate brewery would mean more jobs for the town, making a name for Woodrest, as well as opportunities to sell in London and the surrounding areas. The town would have a source of income and the ability to thrive outside the largesse of whomever the current viscount happened to be.
Woodrest and the tenants had lived with strict economies while he built the estate back into a profitable property. Years working the fields and tending livestock as a commoner had served him well, since it had taken the same hard work and skills to bring the estate back to health. Little by little, Woodrest began to see profits. Those precious funds were barely enough to split—with half invested in the Exchange, under the advisement of Cal’s Midas touch, and the other half poured back into the estate. The brewery was a fresh start but also a risk he was sinking most of his money into. If it worked—and it had to work—the town would thrive, the estate would benefit, and he’d have made a difference for the better. If it failed…well. Best not think on that for too long.
This was everything he’d worked for since inheriting. It also meant ironing out mind-numbing contractual details, hiring laborers, and doing backbreaking work to clear the land for a new building.
Even with all that on his plate, the days since leaving the inn had consisted of near-constant thoughts of Lady Charlotte. He’d left her at that breakfast table at the Boar and Hound, yet she followed him everywhere, even into his sleep.
After the fifth night of bizarre dreams, Ethan would have volunteered to single-handedly construct the brewery if it meant working himself to the point of being able to sleep. If the dreams had all been erotic, he’d have had no complaints. But he wasn’t that lucky.
The first night’s dream starred Lady Charlotte, blooming with passion, as he filled his hands with every delicious inch of her. He’d gasped her name as he awoke, hard and needy. The next night, his carriage accident with Connor played on repeat. The dream had him stuck on the side of the road, holding his broken friend, while his da looked on disapprovingly and his mum wailed to the skies, asking how she’d failed as a mother.
Those two extreme dreamscapes mingled into a messy, angst-ridden nightly disaster he had to live through over and over. A week of this meant he slogged through the days foggy and cranky with exhaustion.
After dinner he fell asleep by the fireplace with a book open on his lap. In this dream, his teeth explored the delicate skin on Lady Charlotte’s tanned neck with light nips, then soothing openmouthed kisses. Thready breaths feathered against his ears while busy hands roamed his back. Ethan raised his head, needing to see her eyes half-lidded with desire, but instead saw the black toe of an evening shoe beside her hair. And above that, a white stocking with silk knee breeches. Then other people surrounded them, his dead cousin’s cronies hiding their laughing faces behind masquerade dominoes. One man’s mask became the sneering face of Charlotte’s father, chastising her for debasing herself with an upstart Scotsman who smelled of damp sheep. In his arms, Charlotte drew away, with an expression to match her father’s.
The man beside the earl, leading the m
ocking crowd, could be easily recognized by the bleeding, empty pant leg that hung useless and tattered beside his other healthy limb.
“Lord Amesbury. Milord? Get up, Ethan. You’ll wake the maids with your caterwauling.”
“Connor?” Ethan winced against a bright lantern shining in his face.
“Aye. You’re knackered, your lordship. Go on up tae bed.” Connor jerked his head toward the library door and the dim hallway beyond.
Ethan rubbed his neck. Of course it was Connor. After the accident, his stubborn clansman had refused to accept guilt money and a cozy place back in their village on the Solway Firth. Instead, he’d taken a job managing Woodrest. Providing a livelihood was the least Ethan could do, since his drunken recklessness had nearly killed the man. At the time, they’d figured that if Ethan could learn to be a lord instead of a common shepherd, then Connor could learn how to be…whatever his job title was. Butler, head footman, valet, and general pain in the arse most days. As luck would have it, Connor excelled at both running a home and reminding Ethan that despite a title, he was still just a shepherd. It was only by dumb luck that he had a nicer house these days and more sheep.
Clapping a hand on Connor’s shoulder, Ethan grumbled a “good night,” then stumbled toward his chambers.
The next morning found Ethan holding his third cup of tea, staring out the window, waiting for the energy to face the day. The grounds of Woodrest were particularly beautiful as the trees put on their autumn dresses one by one. It would be a few weeks before all the leaves changed, but the first colors were appearing.
“Have ye gotten used tae it yet?” Connor’s voice interrupted a period of staring out the window for God only knew how long.
Shaking his head to clear the brain fog, Ethan turned around. “Used tae what? The view?”
“All of it, I suppose. ’Tis a far cry from our village, aye?” The thump of Connor’s gait was more uneven than usual as he swung a cylindrical bundle from beside his feet to the floor by the desk.
Any Rogue Will Do Page 5
