A Lady without a Lord (The Penningtons Book 3)

by Bliss Bennet

  “And you, of course, are in a better position to understand the ways of the Lord than one ordained by the church.” A crimson flush stained Mr. Strickland’s fine-boned face.

  “Now, now, that is not what the lady said, vicar.” Sir John patted her hand before accepting the teacup she had prepared for him. “She only means it might be better to reform the fair, rather than to give it up it altogether.”

  “And it would be an ideal time for you to introduce your brother-in-law to the local freeholders,” she added.

  “Am I to understand that you wish my help in suppressing the Oldfield village feast?” Saybrook asked with a frown.

  “Yes.” Strickland leaned forward and clasping his long, tapered fingers together as if he were at prayer. “And I am not the only person who wishes to see an end to such uncouth rioting and drunkenness. For the safety of the village’s inhabitants, we must insist that the laws for the better observation of the Sabbath be strictly enforced.”

  “And do not forget the cost,” Sir John added. “In these difficult economic times, is it wise for the local landowners to spend so much on such frivolities? Do you not agree, Saybrook, that a simpler, and less costly celebration might be in order?”

  Would an appeal to Lord Saybrook’s pocket persuade him, where one to his morality had not? Even an uncontested election would require a substantial outlay of funds. Harry clenched her hands tight in her lap.

  “Why should you solicit my opinion?” he asked, his boot tapping an agitated rhythm against the carpet. “Surely Mr. Atherton is the one to consult.”

  “But naturally we would consult you, my lord,” Mr. Strickland all but stuttered. “You are this community’s leading member.”

  “And you’re the only person who has a chance of changing Atherton’s position.” Sir John sent an apologetic glance towards her. “Traditionist, that one, down to his very roots. Never agree to do away with the feast entirely. Which is why I say reform is the path to pursue.”

  Theo waved a careless hand. “I’m certain whatever course you and Mr. Atherton and the other local worthies decide to pursue will be the right one.”

  “But if you attend the next vestry meeting—”

  “Not likely to be here then, I’m afraid, reverend. Thinking about toddling on down to Brighton when my business here is completed.” He turned to her, cup and saucer extended. “More tea, Miss Atherton?”

  “But, but—” Mr. Strickland sputtered. Harry almost winced at the pinched-lipped expression tightening Vicar Stickler’s face, even though the expression was not aimed at her.

  She frowned at Saybrook, but the affability of his countenance did not waver. What would it take to make such a careless creature bestir himself? She squelched back the urge to pour the remaining contents of the teapot atop his head, rather than into his cup.

  “And how is your son, Sir John?” Saybrook asked, turning the conversation with graceful ease. “Does Haviland’s practice in Market Rasen flourish?”

  “I assure you, Saybrook, I know as little about my son’s practice as you do about herding sheep.” Sir John shook his head, sending his heavy jowls a-swinging. “My own son and heir, an attorney! Forced to serve any petty tradesman or shop-keeper with coin in his grubby hand. As if he had not been brought up to be a gentleman, as much as you yourself, my lord.”

  “No one who has had the privilege of knowing Mr. Haviland Mather could ever mistake him for anything but a gently-bred man,” Saybrook replied with a gracious nod of the head.

  Harry ground her teeth. Oh, yes, he could compliment; words, unlike actions, cost no real effort. Especially when offering praise of a man as upstanding and diligent as Haviland Mather.

  “Yet we cannot deny that the profession in general encompasses a large body of adventurers, who have little education, less principle, and neither capital nor connexion,” Reverend Strickland pronounced, undercutting Saybrook’s reassurances. Would that the reverend would not always feel compelled to tell the truth, no matter how painfully it might grate in the ears of his listener.

  “Too true, too true. If Haviland had to take up employment, why could he have not been called to the Bar, like a proper gentleman?” Sir John fretted. “A barrister’s gentility will never be in question as a solicitor’s so often is.”

  She laid a soothing hand on Sir John’s. “That may have been true in the past, sir, but today the profession draws more and more young men from the rank of life who, less than half a century ago, might have spurned the calling as derogatory to their birth. Am I not right, Lord Saybrook?”

  Although he looked startled to have his opinion on the matter requested, he rose gamely to the occasion. “Yes, Miss Atherton, I believe you are. From all I have heard, men of property have increasingly come to rely on the services of solicitors.”

  That should reassure querulous Sir John. Now to distract him with an offer of more tea.

  “In fact,” Theo Pennington continued, “I believe I will call upon Haviland later this week and ask him to serve as auditor for my estate.”

  She set the teapot down with a graceless thud before it could slip from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Auditor? Why would he need an auditor?

  The viscount sat back in his chair, clearly pleased with his neat solution to Sir John’s worries. But she heard little of the baronet’s effusive thanks, so fiercely did her heart pound in her ears. Theo Pennington’s offer appeared to have been made on the spur of the moment, but he might have planned all along to ask Haviland Mather to inspect Mr. Atherton’s bookkeeping. Did he suspect his father’s long-time steward of mishandling his funds?

  And would keen-eyed Haviland discover gross errors in the accounts that she had somehow overlooked?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Theodosius Pennington, as I live and breathe! I thought we weren’t to meet until one o’clock?”

  Theo’s fingers drummed on the frame of the door to Henry Atherton’s office. Despite Parsons’ assurances, no chiming clock had been placed in the dining room, and guessing the time by the position of the sun did not work so well when clouds hung heavy in the sky. Yet the sight of the steward’s familiar face, smile wide in welcome as he rose from behind his desk, sent his frown fleeing. Older than he remembered, Mr. Atherton was, his face lined and his dark hair liberally shot through with gray. But still hale and fit, his frame upright, his face browned by long hours working with his tenants outside in the summer’s light. He hadn’t noticed it before, but Atherton and his daughter shared the same green-brown eyes, bright with intelligence and good humor.

  His father’s steward—no, his, now—held out a welcoming hand. Theo took it between two of his own, giving it a hearty squeeze.

  “Mr. Atherton. How good it is to see you again.” And it was, surprisingly so. What with spending so much of his time in town since reaching his majority, he’d forgotten just how content he’d been as a boy when in the company of the steward, at least when bookkeeping was not involved. Mr. Atherton had always had a kindly word for him, a pat on the back or a quick smile, as he taught Theo about the day-to-day details of overseeing an estate. So different from the doubt and disappointment that perpetually clouded the face of his own father when confronted with the manifold shortcomings of his heir.

  “Sit down, my boy.” Atherton patted him on the back with his free hand. “Or no—first, you must tell me how long you plan to stay. If I’ve only a day or two of your time, I’ll want to spend it out of doors, showing you the site for the new tenant cottages. Once you see what we have in hand, I’m certain you’ll agree that the outlay of funds is more than warranted.”

  Outlay? He’d come in search of funds, not to approve additional expenses. Best not to begin the meeting by alienating the one person who could help. “Oh, I will be here at least a day or two, if not more. My plans are as yet unfixed.”

  Atherton chuckled. “No, never one for arranging things ahead of time, were you, young Theo?”

  Theo took his seat, frowning. In
town, among company, his spontaneity always stood him in good stead. Not the most useful characteristic, though, for the owner of a large estate, perhaps.

  “You must forgive me for my informality,” Atherton said, mistaking the source of his displeasure. “I will of course refer to you by your title when we are in public. And, if you wish, when we are in private. May take me time to grow used to the habit is all.”

  How odd, for kindly Atherton’s words to take on such a querulous tone.

  Theo laughed. “Sir, there is nothing to forgive. Even a year after his passing, I can hardly remember myself that when someone calls out ‘Saybrook,’ they are hoping to catch my attention and not that of my father.”

  Atherton smiled in sympathy as he sat down behind the desk.

  “But that is not the only change with which you are coping of late. Although the return of your daughter from Brighton must be a far happier one for you.”

  “My daughter, yes. Somewhat unexpected, to have her back. Her great aunt assured me that if I sent her to Brighton, she’d have Harriot married off in a trice.”

  “Is that why you did it, sir? I confess, I often wondered how you could let her go, so soon after you had lost your own wife.”

  Atherton’s eyes fixed on his. “I’m afraid I felt ill-equipped to see to the needs of an adolescent female. Especially a motherless one. Far too busy to watch over her properly, make sure her head wasn’t turned by fanciful dreams of rising above her station.”

  “Rising above her sta—”

  Theo’s hands fisted on his thighs. Oh Lord, how could he have forgotten? That day in the stable block hayloft, when she’d found him bawling his eyes out the day after his mother had died. She’d offered him the comfort of her arms, comfort she could little afford, having lost her own mother only the week before from the same influenza that had stolen away his. And then his damned, unruly adolescent body had taken that comfort for something else, something entirely inappropriate . . .

  The look in her eyes when she jerked away from his searching lips, the smack of her open palm against his cheek, the way she’d tumbled toward the ladder, clumsy with embarrassment, after hearing her father’s sharp call of “Harriot?” from the floor below—he’d done his best to banish every humiliating moment from his brain. But Atherton’s words brought them all rushing back.

  He gave Atherton a speculative look. Had he known his daughter had not been alone in that hayloft? Damnation—had he been the reason why Harriot Atherton had been exiled to Brighton?

  He would not be at all surprised. Did he not always fail the people for whom he cared?

  And he’d never apologized to her, not for the unwelcome kiss, nor for this far greater harm. He shook his head in disgust.

  Atherton, however, seemed to feel he, at least, had said enough on the subject. “You’ve come from town with a question about the accounts, Harriot tells me?”

  “Yes, sir.” He poked a finger under his neckcloth. Why had he tied it so damned tight? “Since the death of my father, no, even before, when he was so ill, Child & Company, the family’s London bankers, has received a far smaller sum than usual from the estate. I daresay I haven’t looked as closely at the reports you’ve sent me on the state of the holdings as I should have, but even my wandering attention would have been caught by mention of such a noticeable downturn.”

  “There has been no such downturn,” Mr. Atherton said, his brow furrowing.

  “No. I thought as much.” Theo cleared his throat. “Perhaps, then, there has been an error in the accounting?”

  “Error in the accounting? Do you accuse me of not knowing how to keep the books?” Atherton snapped. “And this after your father nearly begged me to stay on after his passing, fearing that you—” Atherton broke off without finishing his sentence. But the unspoken words rang loud in his ears.

  He took a deep breath. “Mr. Atherton. Sir. I mean no disrespect. My father held you in the highest esteem, as do I. But still, we all stumble upon occasion—”

  “I may stumble, old man that I am, but I do not make errors in the accounts,” Atherton bit out. “Examine the books yourself, if your confidence in my abilities is in question. I keep them right here, ready at all times for inspection.”

  He began to pat about on his desk as if the volumes might be secreted somehow behind the pounce pot or inkstand. “The devil and his minions, where has she put the dratted things?”

  His brow furrowed. Why should Atherton think to find the account books on his desk? His eyes drifted to the shelf from which yesterday his daughter had removed the ledgers in question.

  “Miss Atherton is as meticulous as yourself, sir. The books for which you search are in their accustomed place.”

  “Their accustomed place?”

  Was that puzzlement, or something more worrisome, creasing Mr. Atherton’s brow? “Yes. The bookshelf by the window.”

  Atherton jerked from his chair, joints creaking. “The shelf by the window. Yes.” He crossed the room with a purposeful stride, but when he reached the window, he stopped, as if some object of interest out on the lawn had arrested his attention.

  Theo waited a few moments, but when his steward made no further move toward the bookshelf, he rose to join him.

  “What is it, sir?”

  But Mr. Atherton did not answer. And when Theo followed the line of the steward’s gaze, all he saw was an unoccupied lawn, with a few sheep dotting the hill of a distant field. Nothing the least bit out of the ordinary.

  “Mr. Atherton?” He touched the older man’s shoulder. “Sir, are you unwell?”

  “What? No, certainly not,” he snapped, even while raising a hand to his brow. “Only I’ve just remembered I’ve a meeting with the architect for the cottages. This afternoon, in Market Rasen. Damned fellow’s always trying to add improvements more suited to the house of a lord than to that of a laborer.”

  “In Market Rasen?” His heart leapt at the sudden reprieve, even as he cursed his own cowardice. “Will you not have to leave soon, if you are not to keep him waiting?”

  “Yes, immediately.” Atherton strode over to his desk and gathered up the pile of scattered building plans. “May we discuss this matter further tomorrow?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Very good. Tomorrow I will be entirely at your disposal.” Atherton gave a short nod, took up his hat from the peg on the wall, and hurried from the room.

  Theo gazed back out the window, watching as his steward made his way to the stable block. How very odd. Was Atherton growing forgetful as he stepped deeper into the vale of years?

  Better that than the alternative: that Atherton, the man he was counting on to track down the missing funds, was the one responsible for their disappearance.

  Damnation. To whom else could he turn?

  The heavy odor of a poorly drawing chimney hung upon Theo as he climbed the stairs to Haviland Mather’s office. Sir John’s son had opened his solicitor’s practice not in Lincolnshire’s capital city, but in the smaller but growing town of Market Rasen to the north. When they’d been children, he and his brothers had always called it “The Raisin.” Alas, the passageways in this building smelled less of raisin-made wine than they did of damp, and must, and smoke. A newly minted solicitor, even one whose father was a knight, could not afford rooms in the best The Raisin had to offer, it seemed.

  A small, wizened clerk answered Theo’s knock. “What business have you with the master, sir?” he asked with a fierceness that boded well for Haviland Mather’s safety, if not for the growth of his law practice.

  “Lord Saybrook to see Mr. Mather,” Theo said, holding out his hat and whip.

  The clerk paled. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” he said, dipping into a deferential bow. “This way, if you please.”

  Yes, rank certainly had its privileges, did it not? Even if the poor clerk knew all of Theo’s shortcomings, his title would ensure the man paid him all due respect. More respect than he paid his master, though Haviland
Mather was a far more intelligent man than Theo would ever be. Haviland would never have ignored those letters from his steward, or put off hiring a new secretary, or allowed four thousand pounds to go missing, not on his watch.

  Theo gave himself a brisk shake. He’d spent too much time already wallowing in self-indulgent guilt. Not noticing Sibilla’s dowry money had gone missing was his fault, and he would just have to take responsibility for finding it.

  Or at least employ someone who had the financial expertise to find it for him.

  Haviland sat behind a massive but rickety-looking desk, his hand carving through his black hair as he flipped through the pages of a lengthy legal document. He and Theo were of an age, but Haviland had always been the slighter, in height and now, too, in build. The spectacles he had worn since he was a boy usually gave him the air of a slightly surprised owl, although today, the tight lines by his eyes, and the dark circles beneath them, hinted more at worry than wonder. From the onerousness of the work? Or from his father’s disapproval of his profession?

  “Lord Saybrook to see you, sir,” said the clerk, then made his way back to his own, far smaller, desk in the outer room.

  “Theo Pennington!” Haviland exclaimed, bustling across the chamber with an amiability that was probably the despair of his pugnacious clerk. “I’d no idea you were in Lincolnshire, never mind Market Rasen. Don’t you recall, the racing doesn’t start until September.”

  Theo fought back a frown. He might be inept at keeping track of the time, but even he wasn’t fool enough to confuse autumn for spring. But Haviland had meant it as a jest, of course. Not his fault that his attempt at jocularity pricked at Theo’s own insecurities like a burr under the saddle of a horse.

  Shaking off his ill humor, Theo extended his hand. “Haviland. Surrounded by books as usual. And now deeds, and conveyances, and writs as well. Surprised you don’t suffocate under the weight of it all.”