She read the next one, then reread it out loud in a French accent just for amusement’s sake.
A young Frenchman, well educated, of agreeable manners and prepossessing appearance, of a faithful and affectionate disposition, is desirous of forming an acquaintance with an elderly lady of wealth, with a view to matrimony. None need address except in sincerity, as the gentleman is no trifler. Reply: Frenchman, Box 23.
No children wanted in this one. What sort of elderly ladies would want a young Frenchman?
Flexible ones, apparently.
On to the next advertisement.
Matrimonial.—A respectable American bachelor is desirous of immediately marrying an economical Englishwoman, between the ages of twenty and thirty. An orphan preferred. Reply: Alonzo, Box 8.
Alonzo. How could one look at an Alonzo over the coffee cups every morning and not giggle?
But she was not looking for herself, she was looking for the major. Anne scanned the rest of the issue, then read the lead article. She remembered the night she’d plunged into the fountain in her father’s garden. The gentlemen with her had been drunk as lords—actually, they were lords, Baron Benton Gray among them. He’d offered his coat but she had refused, hoping he would like what he saw enough to propose.
Alas, he did not. He now owned The London List and was turning as dull and respectable as a country parson, except for his affair with Evangeline. Anne had promised not to speak of it, but she had once heard them going at it like rabbits. She’d been shocked, entirely misunderstanding the event at first, then jealous that two people could enjoy themselves with such abandon. She could not imagine ever being in such a position.
Her father had ruined that for her.
No. She mustn’t let him. Someday she might want to be kissed.
Really kissed by someone she cared for, not the clumsy fumblings in the bushes she’d allowed from rakes and rogues to make her father angry. Kissed in love, touched in tenderness.
And more.
There was no point in feeling sorry for herself. The major was doing enough of that for both of them.
Tomorrow she would broach the subject of acquiring an heiress for him. Evangeline was an absolute wonder— she was a paramount problem solver. Just look what she had done for Anne, arranging to hustle her out of London in less than twenty-four hours.
Blowing the candle out, she returned to her nest under the covers. The cock might crow at any moment—there was one, and laying hens also which she’d discovered gave delicious eggs. Eggs were easy to cook. The Compleat Housewife had told her how to fricassee them, but as she didn’t have gravy or artichokes or anchovies (anchovies!), plain hard-boiled ones would do for the major’s breakfast.
The cock did crow in what seemed like minutes, without a speck of light to motivate him. Anne groaned and stretched, then stripped out of the worn nightgown and washed with the cold water in her ewer and her precious bar of lilac soap. How she’d love a proper bath. She found it amusing that as everything got tidier around her, she was getting dirtier. Her nails were black with grime. She’d have to ask Major Ripton-Jones where the tub was hidden. Surely there was one? Anne would spend her entire day off in it.
She would pick tomorrow. It was New Year’s Day. She’d start the year off in quiet contemplation and cleanliness. The prospect of a bath tomorrow brightened today, and she dressed quickly to get into the kitchen.
The room was full of shadows, the scent of ashes strong. It was cold enough to light a fire in the cavernous fireplace as well as the stove. Anne opened the flue and stirred some coals to life. After five days, she and the stove were on more friendly terms, just as she felt Major Ripton-Jones was emerging from his fog to become a friendlier employer. However, in four or five months he wouldn’t be hers unless she found him a wealthy wife or discovered a priceless painting in the attics. As she’d gone exploring upstairs already, a wife was much more likely.
Anne hesitated a moment before she poured ale into a mug to go along with the slice of cold ham and wedge of cheese she’d fixed for the major’s breakfast. There were eggs on the boil as well—there would be plenty in his stomach to absorb the alcohol. Gentlemen thought nothing of imbibing from breakfast to midnight supper. Even supposed saints like her father drank all day. Anne had tried any number of ways to numb herself, but had found wine and brandy and gin ineffective. The truth of her life always hovered around the edges of whatever bliss she’d contrived.
She chuckled ruefully. No bliss was to be found this cold dark morning. But all the hard work to be found at Ripton Hall had been good for her. It was so boring and repetitive it gave her time to think about her future and what she might expect from it. It was obvious her reputation among the ton was ruined—she’d done that to herself with her elopement and escapades. She’d have to immigrate to America where no one—not even that Alonzo—would have heard of her.
That would take money and pluck. She had plenty of the latter. The money would come when she turned twenty-one or married.
The fork she was holding dropped to the slate floor with a clang. Lord but she was a nitwit. The major needed a rich wife, and she needed her money to become independent. Major Ripton-Jones could marry her! Not a real marriage, of course. She hardly knew the man and what she did know did not bode well for any Mrs. Ripton-Jones. Who wanted a sot for a husband? For all his assurances that his habits were harmless most of the time, she was suspicious. He had a melancholy look about him quite apart from any depression he felt over the loss of his house. He was too lean (and wouldn’t be apt to fatten up from her ministrations unless she studied her cookery book with more diligence) and darkness hung over him like one of the ever-present Welsh clouds.
Anne heard the groan of floorboards above. She had two propositions to put before her employer this morning—he could advertise for a wife, or he could enter into an agreement with her. If they married, he’d have enough to pay the mortgages and there would be plenty left over for Anne to start a new life somewhere else.
That would be tricky—all property a bride brought into a marriage belonged to the husband. She would have to trust him to do right by her, and so far she didn’t trust him an inch. He might marry her and then refuse to release any funds to her, and she’d be stuck in this backwater forever.
And he could insist upon his husbandly rights. If she didn’t comply, Gareth Ripton-Jones needed no one’s permission to beat her. Nobody would lift a finger to intercede between a man and his wife.
Marriage was altogether an undesirable state for a woman unless she was so keen to have children that she could overlook the disgusting and difficult way they came about. Anne had no interest in sticky, squalling infants that ruined one’s figure and caused one to prattle on about them as if they were little miracles. Her friends—when she’d had them—had lost all sense in thrall to their husbands’ heirs, cooing and gooing until Anne thought she might be sick. Children were fiends, and their fathers little better.
Maybe offering up her fortune was folly. Would her unwanted husband let her leave once her trustees released her funds? There were far too many questions rattling around her brain for such an early hour. Perhaps it was best that she stick to her first idea of advertising for a rich bride and see how that was received.
Anne set a boiled egg in an eggcup and surveyed the major’s breakfast. It was her finest culinary achievement yet.
Major Ripton-Jones ducked his head under the doorframe and entered the kitchen. “Good morning, Mrs. Mont. I want to thank you for coming to my rescue last night.” He sat and whacked the egg with a spoon. Should Anne have removed the shell for him? What would a proper housekeeper have done?
“You’re welcome, Major. When you’ve finished your breakfast, I’d like to speak with you. About another rescue, if you will.”
The major looked up from peeling his egg with his thumbnail. Flecks of shell arced onto the pine table, where he swept them under the rim of his plate. “You’ve intrigued me, Mrs. Mont. I believ
e I can eat and listen at the same time.”
“Sh-should I cut your food for you?”
His face darkened. “I’m relatively efficient.” He proved it by quartering the slippery egg onto his plate and sprinkling it with a fearful amount of pepper. He then picked up the ham slice and bit into it rather savagely, alternating forkfuls of egg and cheese in rapid succession. Anne would remember to cut his meat next time, feeling ashamed she had not thought to do so this morning.
“Go on. Or am I too fascinating to watch as I eat? I feel like an animal in a zoo.”
Goodness. She couldn’t help but stare at him—he was right there in all his masculine forcefulness, his blue eyes velvety dark this morning. “All right.” Anne wiped her hands on her apron and joined him at the table. “I’ve been giving your financial dilemma some thought, and I believe I might have a solution.”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Are you an heiress then, Mrs. Mont? If you are and this is a proposal, I accept. You’ve seen me at my worst, and if I haven’t frightened you off, we might do very well together.” He gave her a cheeky grin and took a sip of some ale.
Anne felt her cheeks flame but forged ahead. “You secured my employment through The London List. Why not find a wife the same way?”
The mug nearly slipped from his hand. “I beg your pardon?”
“People advertise for all sorts of things in the paper. There is a matrimonial section in every edition. Surely you’ve noticed it?”
Gareth Ripton-Jones set the mug down and gave her a blue glare. “Hiring a housekeeper is one thing. I am not yet desperate enough to shackle myself to a stranger for money.”
“But she needn’t be a stranger, your wife. You could invite the candidates here, interview them, get to know them. Pick the lady you like the best.”
“Blast it! I didn’t even interview you! I’m no good at charm and small talk. And what kind of women would come here alone to visit a man? She’d have to be more desperate than I am. Ugly, too.”
“Beauty is only skin-deep, Major,” Anne replied tartly. “Character should count. Not everyone is as blessed as you.”
Gareth’s mouth dropped open. “Blessed? Are you daft? I’ve only got one arm.”
“But the rest of you is very comely. Or comely enough,” Anne amended, retreating from her praise. It would do the major no good to think he had turned her head. She needed to keep him at bay for both their sakes.
But he was tall and lean and really quite lovely now that he’d washed and didn’t stink of gin or whatever he’d been drinking. His eyes were framed by thick lashes she was envious of—no lamp-black needed for him. Her own were red and blond-tipped and made her feel like a rabbit. She blinked his beauty away and adjusted her mobcap.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mont. No doubt you mean well. But I can’t have a parade of women coming to Wales all winter. The neighbors would talk, not to mention there would be difficulties getting here from London.”
Anne bit a lip. “What if you advertised locally instead of in The London List? Hay-on-Wye and Hereford must have several newspapers.”
“And everyone hereabouts knows me. I’m famous. Or infamous,” he muttered.
“What is your reputation?” Anne stilled. Was it so awful that he had to advertise in The London List so unsuspecting idiots like her could come here?
He sat as still as she for a full minute, looking as if he was searching for the right words. “Yesterday, I made a confession to you about my troubles. I’m afraid things are a bit more dire than I said.”
“What could be worse than losing your ancestral home?”
His lips quirked. “Come now, Mrs. Mont. The Ripton-Joneses are not a ducal family. Ripton Hall isn’t even entailed—that’s why I can sell it. We have been around these parts a while, I grant you. Hundreds of years, for all the good it’s done us. But there will be no neighbor woman, rich or poor, who will consent to be the Hall’s mistress. You see, there are whispers about me. People say I killed someone.”
Anne was grateful she was still sitting down. “P-pardon?”
“You’ve gone quite white—I say, what a lot of freckles you have. I didn’t kill anyone, except in war, so don’t look so horrified.” He casually speared the last of the cheese and chewed, keeping Anne on tenterhooks to hear the rest of the story.
The ancient case clock in the front hall chimed the hour. When the major did not volunteer any more once the house was quiet again, Anne couldn’t stop herself.
“Why do people think you did such a thing?”
The major pushed himself away from the table and rose. “You’ll have to ask them. I suppose it makes a good story on a long winter’s night—the war hero who came home to claim his childhood sweetheart once her rich old husband had the good grace to die. With all the marital stars finally aligned, the banns called, the invitations sent, what should happen? The soldier loses his arm in the Battle of the Roof. One careless step, one fall, one putrid arm, and the widow refuses to take him after all. And once the hero has more or less recovered, what should happen but they argue over some trinkets she should return? A week later she’s found dead in her bed, strangled, but not before she was sexually assaulted. It’s a shocking story, is it not? There’s a villain somewhere about, but it’s not I.”
He delivered this speech in a mocking tone, daring her to believe him. But somehow she did. There was pain behind the cynical sentences, and loneliness.
Murder. Such an accusation gave him every justification to drink himself to death.
CHAPTER 5
He turned his head and walked out. He didn’t want to see the doubt or dismay on his housekeeper’s face after his ill-timed confession. Why hadn’t he kept his bloody mouth shut? She didn’t need to know the true misery of his life. Bad enough she though he was an impoverished drunken cripple about to lose his home. Now throw accused murderer into the mix, and he estimated she’d be gone by late morning.
The poor girl had not known what she was getting into, had she? She was just one of many across the British Isles in search of security in these uncertain times, seeking work, no matter the conditions or pay. She’d made a bad bargain when she’d come here.
But there was no way for Gareth to make it up to her. He couldn’t change what was said about him, couldn’t offer her sufficient coin to ignore the rumors. He was frankly surprised that someone hadn’t bent her ear the other day when she went to the village store. Mrs. Mont’s presence here must be a subject of even more gossip. No doubt wagers were being laid as to when her body would turn up brutalized.
Gareth had seen what was done to Bronwen. Lovely little Mrs. Mont did not deserve such a fate—no woman did, not even Bronwen. He should warn her to be careful—hell, he should accompany her to the village himself when she went to the shops. Wouldn’t that cause talk?
His bitterness rose as he mounted the stairs, choked him. He slammed his bedroom door, then punched it with his fist. The breakfast he’d been served threatened to make a reappearance, and he gasped for air. His room had not seen any of Mrs. Mont’s earnest efforts yet, so the air was foul enough to make him sorry he was breathing. Stumbling to the set of windows, he pushed open the leaded panes against the rain-soaked wind and gulped. The blast of fresh wet air was not enough to wash his mind clean. There was only one thing that came close. He kicked aside a pile of clothes on his way to the bedside cabinet where the dependable and not-quite-full-enough bottle resided in the dark.
The insistent knock on his door stopped him in his tracks.
“Go away, Mrs. Mont. I’ll understand if you want to leave. I’ll get Martin to take you into the village. Someone can drive you into Hay-on-Wye for the mail coach.”
The click of the latch lifting told him the blasted girl was not satisfied to stand in the hallway. He waited patiently to receive his dressing-down. Lord knew he deserved one.
“Major Ripton-Jones.”
There she stood in the doorway, the graying lace on her mobcap twittering in
the breeze blowing down from the Black Mountains. Her stunned face matched her headgear, save for the golden spangles that covered her from forehead to her pointed chin.
“Speak your peace, Mrs. Mont, then leave me be,” he said, feeling utterly exhausted.
“Who do you think murdered your fiancée?”
Gareth had not expected that question and found he had to sit down on the edge of his rumpled bed. “I have no idea.”
“What do the authorities think?”
Gareth gave a hollow laugh. “I’m the authorities. I’m magistrate here when Lord Lewys is away, and don’t think that hasn’t caused a stir. Most people believe I’ve tainted all the evidence. If Cecily hadn’t sworn I was home with a fever the day Bronwen was murdered, I’m sure I’d be in prison.”
“Were you? Home with a fever, I mean?”
“Home, yes. But dead drunk, I’m afraid.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I suppose I could have killed Bronwen and not remember a minute of it. Cecily was too sick then to know if I was abed or not.”
Mrs. Mont was quiet for a long minute, then clucked her tongue. “This room is a disgrace. How can you live like this?”
He had expected that. “Don’t you have enough to do?” He watched as she entered the room and bent over to pick up the soiled clothes that covered his threadbare carpet. Gareth stifled the urge to take her over his knee and spank her pert little arse. What was she thinking coming up here? He’d told her his study and his bedroom were off-limits.
“I do, and it’s time you helped me.” She turned to him, clutching shirts to her bosom. “It’s time you helped yourself. You cannot let what other people think and say ruin your life.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “My life is ruined.”
“Why? Because the woman you loved is dead?”
“God, no. Bronwen killed my love just as surely as someone killed her.” He thought he meant that, but he couldn’t help dreaming of her. She had been his first—and his last—lover. But when she had turned on him, poisoned the community against him, he had finally exorcised her from his heart.
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 4
