by Bliss Bennet
“Four?”
Theo frowned as he made his way down the stairs to his father’s—no, his—library. He rarely dwelled on the past, neither its pleasures nor its pains. So why should such childhood memories be plaguing him now?
Because it was too damned quiet here in the country, that’s why. He’d never stayed at Saybrook House alone before. And without the incessant chatter of a house party, without even a single other member of his family with whom to exchange commonplaces, every sound he made seemed to echo throughout the building’s vast rooms and down its expansive passageways. Almost as if his fear that his siblings would never speak to him again had already been realized.
Surely, though, knocking about in such a cavernous place alone would drive any man inside his own head in search of company. Damn the missing money for leading his mind to dredge up such an uncomfortable companion as his dour first tutor.
A footman bedecked in Saybrook livery—a new man?—stood at attention by the front door. Tall, well-built, just turning the corner from adolescence to adulthood. Something familiar, though, about his eyes. A sprig from one of the village families, in all likelihood. Might he have news to share?
“Looks to be a lovely day, eh, young—?” Theo said as he reached the bottom of the staircase.
“Parsons, my lord. Lovely day, yes.” The footman cut a glance toward Theo, then fixed his gaze back on the opposite wall.
“Parsons? Any relation to Jeremiah Parsons, the Oldfield blacksmith?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Theo paused, one hand on the banister. Not very forthcoming, this one. “Brother? Cousin?”
“Son, my lord,” Parsons answered.
“Son? Why, Jeremiah’s only a few years older than I am. And he’s a son near full grown?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Theo waited, just to see if the silence would discomfort the fellow enough to make him speak, or even to raise his eyes. But he remained determinedly still.
“Tell me, have the clocks I brought down from London been placed and set?”
“Yes, my lord. A chiming clock in every room, just as you ordered.”
Even a deferential retainer might have made a comment about the oddity of having not just the grand long-case clock chiming the hour, but a veritable chorus of bells scattered throughout the house. Not that Theo would explain to Parsons about his difficulties reading a clock face, and how he’d trained himself to pay attention to the chimes. But this footman hadn’t even blinked at the unusual arrangement.
“They say a cat may look on a king, you know, Parsons.”
“I’m sorry, my lord?”
Theo sighed. “Never mind, Parsons. Just send for Mr. Atherton. I’ll await him in the library.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Theo continued down the passageway, shaking his head. So much for finding a conversational partner amongst the unfamiliar staff. Randall, the new Saybrook House butler, had clearly trained Parsons, and likely all his fellow footmen, to keep their proper distance from those whom they served.
Damnation. He’d not invited any of his friends to come with him to Lincolnshire, not wanting word of his financial difficulties to spread any further than himself and his brother-in-law. But after less than a day alone, he felt—what was that expression the locals were wont to use for a dull, listless fellow? Ah, yes, as dead as mutton. If only Miss Atherton would rescue him as handily as she’d saved that poor sheep . . .
Theo dropped into the chair behind his father’s massive mahogany desk. No, his desk, now. All his life, he’d longed to be worthy of the title he’d one day inherit. But this was far too soon; his own lack of merit hung on him, heavy as wet winter wool. Theo jerked on the handle of a desk drawer. Empty. He tried another, then a third. Empty, empty, empty, every single one.
If he couldn’t have company, at least he might have a drink.
Theo stopped mid-rise, then sank back down in his chair. He’d promised Sibilla his days of drinking himself into oblivion were behind him.
Theo slammed the drawer closed, almost drowning out the sound of a knock at the door. Praise the heavens, Atherton had finally arrived.
“Miss Atherton, my lord,” Parsons announced.
Miss Atherton? Where in the hell was Mr. Atherton?
The oath on the tip of his tongue died as Atherton’s chit thanked Parsons and made her way into the library. Not quite the right word, chit, was it, not for a girl so tall and willowy. Strange, how the mere sight of her lifted some of the invisible weight off Theo’s chest.
“Miss Atherton,” he said, rising from the chair to cross the room. “An unexpected pleasure. Though none the less welcome for it, I assure you. Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you, my lord, but I’ve no desire to interrupt your work. I simply wished to inform you that my father is in the south field this morning, and will be happy to attend you after the dinner hour, if that suits.”
She curtseyed, clearly expecting a nod of dismissal. But Theo was not inclined to let the one human being he’d encountered all morning with whom he might hold a conversation of more than a few words escape so quickly. Especially since today the comely Miss Atherton was unencumbered by any of those odious account books she’d clutched so tight to her chest yesterday afternoon.
“Ah, a diligent man, your father.” Theo gestured toward a pair of deep leather chairs that faced the library hearth, inviting her to sit. “Not one to use the excuse of a late-rising landlord to idle about himself. Do you follow in your father’s footsteps, Miss Atherton? Busy as the proverbial bee?”
Her eyes cut toward the desk behind which he’d been sitting, which was conspicuously free of any papers or correspondence, then lit on his face, a crooked smile turning up one corner of her mouth. “They do say idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
Twitting him, was she? Or merely embarrassed on his behalf? He placed a hand on the back of one of the chairs she had ignored, eager to find out.
“And with what do you busy yourself, so the devil always finds you occupied when he comes to call?”
“Why, there is always much to do on an estate the size of Saybrook,” she answered, at long last taking his hint and perching herself on the seat opposite his. “Especially when the family is not in residence. The ill and the elderly must be visited. The indigent need help finding suitable employment. The church’s altar cloths are in need of mending, and funds must be raised for the purchase of Bibles for the new Sunday School—”
“The poor devil,” Theo interrupted, giving a doleful shake of his head as he took a seat. “Forever doomed to call at Mr. Atherton’s, only find his daughter never to home.”
“You make me sound like a veritably gadfly, my lord,” she replied with asperity. But even drawn tight, her lips could not mask their underlying lushness. “I’m often to be found at home, seeing to my domestic duties and my father’s well-being.”
“I’ve not a doubt of it. But in which of your duties do you find the most pleasure?”
“Pleasure?”
“Yes, pleasure. Surely you would not spend so much time in the service of others if you did not find at least a few of your chores to your liking. Or are you one of those self-righteous, sanctimonious young women who can only take joy in dutiful self-sacrifice?”
“If I were, you’d not ingratiate yourself by so asking.” Miss Atherton’s green-brown eyes alit with something he could not quite make out.
“If you were, I’d not care so much about ingratiating myself to you.” He gifted her with his most engaging smile.
How charmingly she blushed, the merest hint of rose blossoming over the deeper olive tones of her complexion. Had he embarrassed her? Or intrigued her?
Miss Atherton held still until her blush subsided. Then, scooting towards the edge of her seat, she leaned forward, as if she were about to tell him a secret. Her muslin dress was cut low enough to provide a delectable view, if only she’d not tucked that officious fichu into its décol
letage.
“And do you care? To ingratiate yourself with me?”
Theo’s stomach drew tight at the sudden smoky depths of her voice. He’d assumed her a virtuous lady, but she lived in fashionable, often decadent Brighton. If she were a woman of sexual experience, his days—or nights—in Lincolnshire might not prove quite as dull as he had feared . . .
Theo’s hands fell, clutching against the tops of his thighs. “More than I can express,” he whispered.
“Shall I tell you the best way to do so?” Her eyelashes fluttered, quick like a butterfly’s wings.
Theo leaned forward until his face was mere inches from hers. “Please.”
Miss Atherton stood, the sultry temptress replaced by a stern, unsmiling taskmistress. “Pay attention to your own duties, my lord, rather than wasting your time on ridiculous gallanting. I assure you, I take no pleasure in your misguided attempts at flirtation.”
The devil. He’d walked straight into that, hadn’t he?
Theo jerked to his feet and extended his hand in supplication. “Miss Atherton, I’ve behaved badly, and offended you, which I deeply regret. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”
“No, I am the one who should apologize, my lord,” she said, her voice ripe with consternation. She, too rose, and backed away toward the library door. “What in the world was I thinking, to upbraid a nobleman so?”
“You were thinking that said nobleman was a right fool. But please don’t leave. Not before you’ve told me more about these duties I’ve been neglecting.”
Before she could answer, the footman knocked once again on the door. “Sir John Mather, my lord, and the Reverend Strickland.”
“Lord Saybrook. Let me be the first to welcome you h—” Reverend Strickland paused mid-bow. “Oh. Miss Atherton. I did not expect to find you here.” The earnest clergyman offered her a smile as thin as watered-down gruel.
“Reverend Strickland. Sir John.” Harry made her curtsies, cursing her bad luck. Not only had she missed the rector’s meeting yesterday, but now she’d raised the hackles of his propriety, being discovered tête-à-tête like this with the disreputable Lord Saybrook. Ever since she’d returned to Lincolnshire from the decidedly suspect environs of Brighton, she’d taken particular care to avoid being on the receiving end of one of Reverend Strickland’s famously sour looks. But today she could sympathize with those members of his congregation who referred to the handsome but severe young man behind his back as Vicar Stickler.
Thank heavens he hadn’t arrived a few moments earlier. What would Mr. Strickland have done if he’d overheard her falsely tempting Theo Pennington with the ridiculously small modicum of feminine wiles she possessed, solely to throw his own shortcomings in his face? Read her a stinging sermon about the dangers of allowing emotions to overcome good sense, no doubt.
But how a man of such power and privilege as the new Lord Saybrook could waste his time flirting with her instead of giving his full attention to his responsibilities as a landowner was beyond her understanding. Especially when his steward’s own diminishing faculties made it more and more difficult to compensate for a careless absentee landlord.
Of course, Saybrook did not know about those diminishing faculties. Not yet.
And ignorant he would remain. She’d walk out to the south field to make sure her father did not forget his afternoon appointment with his employer.
Leaving now would also allow her to avoid the inquiries from the rector that were certain to ensue.
Harry took a step toward the door. “If you will excuse me, I was just—”
“Helping a friend by catching him up on all the local news,” Saybrook interrupted, placing a hand on her shoulder. Heavy and warm, that hand. If she weren’t so annoyed with him, she might almost find it a comfort.
“You may not know, Mr. Strickland,” the viscount continued, “as you came to Oldfield after Miss Atherton left to care for her aunt in Brighton, but she and my brothers and I, along with Sir John’s son Haviland, practically grew up together. Surely you would not expect me to stand on ceremony with a friend of such long acquaintance.”
She held back a snort. As if she and Theo Pennington had had anything to do with one another in more than a decade. But at least he was making an effort to soothe the rector’s ruffled feathers, which was more than she had expected of him. She offered him a smile of gratitude, one far more generous than perhaps he deserved. Well, always better to offer encouragement than to offend, as her mother had often said.
“Of course not, my lord,” the genial Sir John agreed with alacrity. “Like a pack of puppies you all were, gamboling between this house and ours, back when Lady Mather and your good mother still graced the earth.”
If she hadn’t been watching, she might have missed the frown that crossed Theo Pennington’s face, so quickly did he cover it with an expression of affability. Yes, she’d not thought such grief as his would be so easily forgotten.
“I’m so sorry to have missed yesterday’s meeting, Reverend,” she interjected before Sir John’s reminiscences could cause Theo Pennington any further distress. “Lord Saybrook’s unexpected arrival prevented me from attending.”
Strickland gave a graceful nod. “No matter, no matter. We of course postponed the discussion when word of Lord Saybrook’s coming reached us.”
“Gentleman, I was about to ring for tea. Will you join me in the drawing room?” Saybrook waved a hand, then crooked an elbow in her direction. “Miss Atherton, would you do the honor of pouring out?”
Harry swallowed back her surprise. He could play the genteel landowner as easily as he could the suggestive roué. “Of course, my lord, if you wish it.”
“I understand congratulations are in order, Saybrook,” Sir John said as they crossed the grand entrance hall to the drawing room, their footsteps echoing off the black and white squares of marble tile. “Not only for your sister’s marriage, but for your youngest brother’s as well?”
Theo nodded. “Yes, both Sibilla and Christian married this spring.”
“Miss Pennington to a baronet, Sir Peregrine Sayre,” Strickland added. Though the good reverend preached vehemently against gossip, somehow he always managed to know all about his most influential parishioners’ concerns. “And your new brother-in-law will be standing for Mr. Norton’s seat in Parliament?”
Theo nodded as he ushered his guests into the drawing room.
“But we’ve heard naught of young Kit’s bride.” Sir John waggled his eyebrows.
“Yes, will they all join you here at Saybrook House to help the baronet canvass the voters?” Strickland asked.
The other men could not see it, but Harry, walking beside him, saw his deep grimace. Had kindly Kit involved himself in some mésalliance? One that might reflect poorly on the Saybrook name?
“You must do as your siblings have done and marry,” Sir John pronounced before Theo had a chance to answer. “Bring a lady of your own home to Oldfield, my boy, and take up where your parents left off. Ah, such parties as Lord and Lady Saybrook used to host! At one time, it was said, an invitation to Saybrook House was like an invitation to the ton itself, so many of our leading families visited here over the years. Doesn’t seems right, this house being so quiet and empty the past few years.”
“We’ve not come to ask Lord Saybrook to host a party, Sir John.” Mr. Strickland frowned as he took a seat. How straight and stiff he always carried himself, as if he still wore the backboard he must have been strapped to as a child to improve his posture. She struggled to prevent her own spine from straightening in sympathetic response.
“No, certainly not,” Sir John assented, although he continued to gaze with a reminiscent eye about the room.
“In fact, we have come intent on asking you to help us suppress a particularly noxious one. Do you recall the annual Oldfield village feast, my lord?”
Harry scowled. Yes, they would wish to convince the head of the area’s leading family to join them in their plan to do away w
ith the feast. It had been a small event before her mother’s time, but Mrs. Atherton and Lady Saybrook together had transformed it into one of the largest, and most joyful, harvest celebrations in all of Lincolnshire. To return home and discover how quickly it fallen into disrepute, her Mrs. Atherton’s legacy forgotten, had been a deep blow.
She had promised herself to see the feast returned to its former glory. Not only in memory of her mother, but for the sake of the villagers themselves. What right did their betters have to take away the one day out of the year when the working men and women of Oldfield set aside their daily tasks and gathered together in celebration of another year’s harvest, another year of life’s challenges met?
“How could I forget?” Theo Pennington dropped into a chair. “Such booths of delicious treats and trumperies. And the rosy-cheeked damsels with their smiling faces and merry tongues. And what races! How the horses, carts, and carriages thundered down Oldfield High Road all the day long. Oh, and do you recall, Miss Atherton, the year my mother arranged for that splendid collection of wax works to be displayed?”
She smiled at Theo Pennington’s enthusiasm, careful not to cast a look of triumph in Mr. Strickland’s direction. Such happy memories of the feast should make it difficult to win Lord Saybrook to the rector’s way of thinking.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” she said as she handed round a plate of cakes. “How amazed we were to discover that it took seven traveling carriages to convey the collection from one village to the next.”
Strickland set his teacup down against its saucer with a sharp click. “Yes, the feast offers its full share of corporeal pleasures. But its original intention—to celebrate the consecration of Oldfield’s church—has long been forgotten. Today, it does little to address the spiritual needs of the community. In fact, it only encourages drunkenness and vice amongst the rabble. And on the Lord’s Day, no less! We can no longer tolerate such a profanation of the Sabbath.”
“Only one summer’s day out of the entire year?” She frowned as she poured out the tea. “Our Lord would not begrudge his people a single day to make merry, I hope.”
