“You didn’t say it had to be Juliet,” Knighton said smoothly. “Your letter said I could choose any of your daughters.”
Percival could not have been more astonished if Knighton had said he fancied the housekeeper for a wife. “That is true, but I did not think…You would rather marry Rosalind? Or Helena?”
The man’s thoughts were impossible to guess from his wooden expression. “I don’t know. How can I say until I know them better?”
The thought of remaining in this limbo any longer made Percival shudder, yet he was hardly in a position to protest. Still, he must not let the man drag his feet for long. There was not much time. “Very well. Stay here for a while to acquaint yourself with my daughters. In a week or so, we’ll discuss this again.”
Knighton’s smooth smile unnerved Percival. “Thank you, m’lord. I promise you won’t regret it.”
Chapter 6
Won’t you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Anglo-Irish playwright and owner of Drury Lane Theatre, to a young lady
The man was sly, she’d give him that, Rosalind thought as she swept ahead of Mr. Brennan into the deer park. It had taken her all morning, but she’d finally figured out what he was up to.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said behind her in his annoyingly snide tone. “We’re entering the Forest of Arden.”
“You’re thinking of a different part of the shire,” she said dryly. “This is our deer park. It is widely accounted to be the finest in all of Warwickshire.”
She sucked in a deep breath of woodruff-scented air and held it, eager for his answer. If her theory were correct, he would now expound upon the deer park’s faults as he had with all the other portions of the estate she’d shown him this morning.
Well, she would call him a liar to his face if he did. No one could possibly object to the deer park. Papa himself had overseen its progress through years of careful management.
With the air of a man examining a property for purchase, he scrutinized his surroundings. “It well warrants such praise.”
She nearly collapsed in surprise. The man was actually admitting that some part of Swan Park met his high standards! “Do you mean to tell me that it does not ‘require improvement’?” That had been his claim for every single room in the manor house.
He raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think it does.”
“You certainly can’t call it a ‘funeral pyre for foliage’ as you did the greenhouse,” she persisted.
“Very true.”
“But wait, the deer park is dirty—I had forgotten how important cleanliness is to you. It must be, if you could call our dairy unclean. Your assertion came as quite a shock to my dairy manager, the woman we have all nicknamed Mrs. White Glove.”
It was that absurd assertion that had led Rosalind to figure out his scheme. The foolish man apparently intended to provoke her into fleeing his disagreeable company, leaving him free to roam the estate alone.
His lips were twitching now. “Ah, but a deer park is supposed to have a certain amount of dirt, is it not?”
“It is indeed.” She steered left to avoid tripping over a fallen tree that protruded into the path. Would he pounce on that as a potential danger to deer and hunter alike? Curious to see if he would, she halted in the path and faced him, sweeping her hand in an arc about her. “Do you mean to tell me that you see nothing whatsoever in our deer park to complain about? No flaws, no hazards, no disappointments?”
“Oh, it’s a lovely deer park, I’ll grant you that.” His eyes twinkled. “But I don’t think it wise to allow the woods to remain so thick this close to the house, do you?”
She couldn’t help it—a laugh exploded out of her. Yes, the elms did crowd in upon the lawn, and the oaks seemed on the verge of squeezing the footpath out of existence, but that had always been one of the deer park’s peculiar charms. And he knew it, too, the scoundrel, even if he was standing there looking at her with an expression of complete innocence.
“I’m sorry you find it lacking,” she said, “though I believe the deer like it. They seem to prefer having a lot of trees about—probably something to do with staying hidden from hunters and hounds.” An impish impulse seized her. “But I may be wrong. Perhaps we should find some and ask them?”
A smile played about his lips. “I was merely pointing out that woods this thick make it easy for poachers to hide. They could shoot a deer or bag a grouse and be away without anyone ever realizing it.”
“Poachers. Hmm. I hadn’t considered that. But you forget that this isn’t London.” Sobering, she added pointedly, “Nor is it one of your coastal towns with its enclaves of smugglers. We rarely have poachers around here, and if one should happen to show up, he’d be welcome to a deer or a grouse.”
“Really?” His smile faded abruptly. “You weren’t so friendly toward thieves last night, Lady Rosalind.”
Blast, the man twisted the conversation against her as easily as he’d turned that sword against her last night. But she could do the same, couldn’t she? Why not turn the conversation toward his master’s secrets? Her previous three attempts had been rebuffed, but they’d also been more subtle. And subtlety had ever never been her strong suit.
She angled her head so her bonnet would hide her expression. “To my mind, a man who poaches a deer to feed his family differs vastly from a thief. The first is a poor soul struggling to survive; the second is motivated by greed, thus deserving the name of criminal.”
“You’re kinder than the law of the land. It makes no such fine distinctions. The law brands as a thief and criminal anyone who takes what doesn’t belong to him, no matter what motivates his actions.”
She shot him a keen glance. “You should know, shouldn’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Do you allude to your ridiculous assumptions last night? I thought we settled that.”
“Actually, I refer to the man for whom you work.”
His eyes shone a vivid blue. “Knighton, a thief? Why? Because he’ll inherit Swan Park?”
“Of course not. Because of his connection to smugglers.”
“Ah yes,” he said tightly. “You must lead a very dull life, Lady Rosalind, since your favorite subject always seems to be the criminal population.”
She studied him as he strolled to the nearby fallen tree and lowered his lean frame to sit on it. Was her supposition about him correct? Was that why mention of “the criminal population” disturbed him?
Yet when he gazed up at her from his seat, he didn’t look disturbed. No, he looked amused…nonchalant…
Attractive, blast him. A man like that shouldn’t be unleashed upon a woman alone. She’d found it difficult enough last night not to dwell on his male perfection in the poorly lit study. In the light of day, it was bloody well impossible.
The tree shifted beneath his weight, forcing him to widen his legs and lean back for balance. Her gaze shot straight to where his coat fell open to reveal sinewy legs well sculpted by kerseymere trousers that disappeared into polished leather boots.
Riding boots. Would he sit a horse well? They’d have to ride to reach the wheat fields and the tenant farms. She flashed on an image of him astride her father’s best hunter, his muscular thighs gripping the sides of the powerful beast…
Her mouth fairly salivated before she caught herself. Dear God, she must rein in her woeful imagination. But who could fault her for it when there’d been no man at Swan Park in years with such nice…equipage? How she’d survive this one’s arrival seemed uncertain.
But survive it she must. After all, she didn’t even know if the man was married. That oddly depressing thought made her jerk her gaze back to his face. “Well? Mr. Knighton does have connections to smugglers, doesn’t he?”
“Not that I know of. Even if he did, smugglers aren’t thieves, my lady. They purchase their goods.”
She eyed him askance. “Yes, but they steal the taxes owed to th
e government once they bring the goods into the country. And the men who sell the goods are guilty of it as well. Not to mention that they shouldn’t have been buying French goods at all, since we were at war with France. Surely you can see how that makes them unsavory characters.”
“I assure you my employer does not associate with ‘unsavory characters.’ His business is completely legitimate.”
“Now, perhaps. But I heard that it wasn’t at one time.” A thickening of clouds overhead obscured the sun and muted the already dim light of the forest. “You won’t evade my questions as easily as you did this morning, so you might as well tell me the truth. Did Knighton Trading begin as an outlet for smugglers’ goods? And don’t change the subject.”
There was no mistaking the humor glinting in his eyes now. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Yet he merely tipped his head back to stare across the path. The hazy light showed lines of weariness cut into the high-boned cheeks and tanned brow. She followed his gaze to where a busy green woodpecker riddled a hapless chestnut tree with holes.
“Tell me,” he continued, “do you think that bird will kill the tree?”
“You said you wouldn’t change the subject.”
“I’m not. Humor me and answer the question.”
“All right.” She stared at the woodpecker a moment. “I doubt he’ll kill it. Woodpeckers are troublesome, but not lethal. And they need the grubs to survive.”
“Exactly. One could say the same for smugglers. What they do is troublesome but not lethal to society, and in most cases they do it to survive.”
“Did Mr. Knighton do it to survive?” she asked pointedly.
His gaze swung back to hold hers for a long, weighty moment. Then he cursed under his breath. “Yes. Knighton Trading was founded when your cousin bought French brandy from a smuggler and sold it at a profit to some of his Eton school acquaintances.”
“I knew it!”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “He and his mother had long been in danger of being sent to Fleet prison, since his father’s death left them deeply in debt. Knighton did what work a lad can do to make money, but he earned more on that sale of smuggled brandy than he had in a year of odd jobs.” Glancing away again, he added, “Or so he told me.”
“Well, it sounds suspicious to me. If he and his mother had so little money, how did they pay for Eton?”
He stiffened. “His father had been the one to enroll him there. After the man’s death, Knighton’s mother managed to keep him at Eton for a few years as a charity pupil who worked off his expenses, but eventually that too became impossible, for the other debts were too high to manage.”
“So he started buying goods from a smuggler and selling them for profit. He did do it more than once, didn’t he? One could hardly build a trading concern on a single sale.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “Lady Rosalind, has anyone ever told you that you have an annoying curiosity?”
“Nearly every day.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Well? Am I right about Mr. Knighton?”
“Your cousin,” he bit out, “hadn’t the blunt to purchase a commission or the connections to find any other sort of advancement, so yes, he sold smuggler’s goods.”
Propping one booted foot against a dead branch of the tree, he leveled a penetrating look on her. “Tell me, when the opportunity came to sell brandy to wealthy schoolboys and thus provide for his mother and pay his father’s debts, should he have refused? Told his mother to hie herself off to debtor’s prison while he fled the country to seek his fortune? What would you have done in his place, my Lady Righteous?”
She knew only too well how difficult life could become when money was scarce, and her family hadn’t even been in danger of debtors’ prison. What’s more, his words corresponded with what Papa had said—that Mr. Knighton had dealt with smugglers out of necessity.
Still, it was odd how strongly Mr. Brennan seemed to feel about his employer’s situation. It certainly bespoke a close acquaintance.
She sniffed. “I suppose I might have succumbed to temptation temporarily. But once I found success, I would’ve broken off my association with criminals, I assure you.”
“Aren’t you the noble one,” he said sarcastically. “Your cousin wasn’t so noble. He succumbed to temptation for several years. He discovered that he liked paying off his debts and having the blunt to plow into his new trading concern. But then, he was more susceptible to temptation than you, my lady, since he wasn’t born to privilege.”
She bristled at his assumptions. “He might not have been born to privilege, Mr. Brennan, but he was born a man. Try being a woman for five minutes, and you’ll rapidly discover that a man of the lowest station has more privilege than any woman. I have the privilege of being told I can’t control my own money or govern my own life or seek the sort of future I desire. I have the privilege of running an estate alone, of looking after my two sisters and my father, with the knowledge that I can’t even inherit the property I maintain. Such ‘privilege’ I could do without, I assure you.”
He looked as if he might retort, but she cut him off. “Besides, it isn’t a matter of privilege—it’s a matter of right and wrong. You seem very sympathetic to free traders. I suppose you have firsthand experience with them?”
His eyes glittered. “Beyond working for my nefarious employer, you mean?”
“Precisely. You handle a sword very well for a man of affairs.”
“And you handle a sword very well for an earl’s daughter. Yet I haven’t accused you of ‘firsthand experience’ with smugglers.”
“Of course not. The very idea is absurd.”
“Why? Because you’re a woman? And I must be a smuggler because I’m Irish and handle a sword well? Women can be criminals, too, you know. And Irishmen who excel at swordplay can be respectable.”
She colored. She hadn’t meant her speculations to be so obvious as all that. “I didn’t say you were a smuggler.”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve become adept at guessing what your overwrought imagination will conjure up.” He rose from the log, a devious glint in his eyes. “But as it happens, you’re right—I was a smuggler once.”
She pounced on the admission with glee. “That’s why my cousin hired you!”
“No. Your cousin hired me because I saved his life when my companions tried to murder him.” He tipped back his beaver hat and a lock of sin-dark hair fell over his brow. “He was…impressed with my particular talents, and they’ve served him well through the years. No one has lived to complain of them, in any case.”
A chill skittered along her spine before she caught the gleam in his eye. “Now you’re teasing me.”
“Am I?” Leaving the words hanging in the air, he strolled off down the path again with all the arrogance of a man sure of his own power.
She followed him, pondering this new strategy. Was he deliberately trying to frighten her? Or was this simply another tactic for ridding himself of her company? She would assume the latter, except for the unnerving memory of how easily he’d held that blade to her neck last night.
Increasing her pace until she walked beside him, she probed for more information. “What made you become a smuggler?”
Was that a smile she glimpsed on his lips before he averted his face? “What simple thief brags of his own attaint?”
“Comedy of Errors. Very good, you do know your Shakespeare. I don’t mind if you brag, however. As you pointed out, I have a most annoying curiosity. If it isn’t indulged, I’m liable to bedevil you with questions until it is.”
“You’re already bedeviling me,” he grumbled. “But if you insist on knowing all the nasty details—”
“I do.”
“—smuggling presented a welcome change from the workhouse where I lived from the age of six until I was given the chance at nine to join a gang of smugglers.”
“The workhouse!”
“I can see how learning of my disreputable past would alarm you,” he comme
nted.
“No, indeed! I find it fascinating! You seem so…that is, I would never have guessed—”
“That I’m not a gentleman?”
“Oh, that I already knew,” she quipped. “But I thought you might have been raised as one and were merely ignoring your education.”
“Your flattery overwhelms me.” He increased his speed until she was almost running to match his brisk gait through the drifts of leaves. “However, if my rudeness annoys you, you needn’t continue in my company. I can find my way around now. I’m sure you have better things to do than accompany a disagreeable man about your estate.”
He was really too sure of himself for words, believing she’d be so foolish as to fall for his ploys. Why, he’d probably never been a smuggler at all. Or lived in a workhouse.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said blithely. “I enjoy a good stroll around the estate, even with a dangerous criminal like you.”
They continued in silence, the only sounds their hushed footfalls and the chatter of frolicking squirrels. Then it occurred to her that she could take advantage of his frankness—if she could believe a word he said.
“Tell me,” she asked, “how did you come to be in a workhouse?”
He shrugged. “My parents died, leaving me to fend for myself. So I filched an orange from a fruit seller and ended up where all young ruffians end up.” He brandished words like a weapon between them. “Needless to say, the magistrate recognized a potential menace to society when he saw one.”
She didn’t flinch; if anything, his tale intrigued her even more. “How did you lose both your parents at once? Was it the pox? Or a drowning accident?”
He snorted. “Do you ever mind your own business, Lady Rosalind?”
“Not where my family is concerned.” When he shot her a black look, she added mischievously, “You’re staying under our roof and roaming the place rather freely, so I think it only fair that you help me determine your potential for mischief. I can’t have a genuine menace causing trouble on the estate.”
A Dangerous Love Page 7
