The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. Off the great hall.”

  “Right. How do we do it?”

  In half an hour, a procession was arranged. Simon and his father led the way and Lord Austrey’s sorrowful valet followed the bier on which the dead viscount was carried by six footmen. They made their slow way out of the west wing and into a tiny, pale marble chapel.

  Jancy observed only to be sure nothing went wrong and then hurried to order the bedroom stripped and cleaned. It was more as ritual than necessity, though when the cause of the sickness was unknown, a thorough cleaning was always a wise precaution.

  She certainly had no intention of sleeping in there, for a whole host of reasons. There were two other bedrooms in this wing, however, as well as the small dining room and drawing room. It was almost a little house save for kitchens and other such offices.

  The guest wing apparently was almost identical, but lacking its own dining room. The other two wings, the ones at the back, though as elegant on the outside, were utilitarian. One housed the kitchens, the other the stables.

  She gave orders for another guest wing room to be prepared for Simon and herself and looked in on Cousin Dorothy. She was sound asleep. After a mental check for anything left undone, she summoned a maid to help tidy her and then found Simon and his father to ask if they were ready to eat.

  They were, and the light meal was perfectly adequate. They all ate hungrily while discussing plans for the funeral. In view of the earl’s state, it would be a simple affair with only local mourners.

  The financial administration of the estate was more complex. During the earl’s long illness, Austrey had run everything. During Austrey’s illness Dorothy and advisers had carried out his wishes. Now she had tossed it into the hands of Simon’s father, but he didn’t have authority until the earl recovered enough to authorize it. Which seemed unlikely. The family solicitor would arrive tomorrow to sort that out.

  After the meal, Jancy took a moment with Simon. “I know how little you relish this kind of administration.”

  He smiled. “And this time, there’s no Jancy to guide me.”

  “I’m sure the earldom’s officers are much more capable that I.”

  His eyes danced wickedly. “Only in certain dry respects.”

  “Don’t be naughty.”

  “I wish I had time to be. Later,” he said and kissed her.

  Jancy wasted a moment wishing she could take all burdens from his shoulders and then summoned Mrs. Quincey for a tour of the house.

  She looked into a number of splendid chambers in the main house, passing by only one—the State Bedchamber, which opened off the main hall, where the Earl of Marlowe drifted with extreme slowness toward death, apparently attended at all times by three servants and a doctor.

  She took a quick tour of complex kitchens and stables about which she knew nothing. The basement of the main house held laundries, stillrooms, storehouses and wine cellars, and accommodations for the male servants. Here, there were all the mazelike corridors anyone could wish but, as Simon had said, briskly clean.

  The female servants apparently had rooms in the attics on either side of the great skylight. Jancy wondered how warm they were in winter but reminded herself it really wasn’t her business.

  By the time Jancy settled into bed that night, her head was aching and she wanted Simon. She hadn’t seen him for hours. She lay there realizing that she’d slept in a different bed for five nights in a row and raced about in between. No wonder the earth seemed to whirl around her.

  Simon came at last, clearly as worn out as she. As soon as he joined her in bed, they tucked into each other’s arms. “You’ve been remarkable here, Jancy St. Bride. I know how uncomfortable this place must be for you.”

  “I had my moments of terror. But poor Dorothy needed help, and managing this place is not so different from Trewitt House when it comes to beds, dinner, and a cup of tea.”

  “I wish the estate and finances were as simple as Isaiah’s.”

  He told her of his day. His experience had been much like hers. Leaving aside the legal complications, the estate was well managed and could sail along with little help.

  “Can’t it be left to do so?” she asked. “I can’t imagine how your family is going to move here happily.”

  “I know. But a great house is like a ship. Even in fine weather, someone has to be constantly in command.”

  “The servants seem excellent.”

  “That never serves for long. And what point in having servants with no one to serve?”

  Jancy thought of the impossibility of keeping a chef here and sighed. Perhaps they sighed together.

  “But doesn’t the same thing apply to Brideswell?” she asked. “It shouldn’t be left empty, either.”

  “I’ll be expected to make it my principal home.”

  Given his love for his home, she was surprised to hear resignation rather than pleasure.

  “You wouldn’t like that?” she asked, feeling her way.

  “Agriculture bores me. It must be Black Ademar’s hair. And anyway, it wouldn’t be the same place.”

  A death, as she’d thought. “The children and old people could stay. . . .” But it wasn’t a solution. She became aware of something strained in the silence. “Simon, what is it?”

  Dacre? Hasketts?

  He gently rubbed his knuckles down her cheek. “Nothing terrible, love. Depending on how you look at it, I suppose. Do you hate this place?”

  “Hate? No. Why should I?”

  “Do you like it, then?”

  She couldn’t see where he was going. “It’s beautiful. But cold.”

  “Yes.”

  “Simon? Just tell me what’s bothering you. Please.”

  He sighed and looked into her eyes. “I don’t want to impose something on you. But . . . I want to take this burden from my father before it breaks his heart.”

  “The earldom? You can do that?”

  “No. But I can offer to live here. To make this my principal residence and take over the management of it. As earl, he’d visit, of course, but he and the rest of the family can carry on as usual at Brideswell.”

  Live here?

  “But you love Brideswell,” she protested.

  “Yes, but as a place to visit. I never expected to make it my home until Father died, and as I said, the business of Brideswell—tending the land and tenants—isn’t the life I’d choose. I want Parliament, a small house in town, and Brideswell for country visits.”

  “But if you take over Marlowe . . .”

  But he understood the implications. She wanted to protest against such a sacrifice, but it was in Simon’s nature and part of why she loved him so much.

  “It won’t be the same here,” he said. “My father and my father’s father, and probably all their fathers, have actually run the Brideswell estates and been closely involved with everything in our part of Lincolnshire. St. Bride tendrils run through every field and into every home, though in a benign way. Marlowe is more . . . distant.”

  “More like a machine?” she suggested.

  “Yes. After all, in his young years Marlowe hardly lived a rural existence. He inhabited London and court and even Paris before the revolution.”

  “So you’ll still be able to stand for the House of Commons? Until you become Lord Austrey, at least.”

  “Even then. Austrey’s a courtesy title. I won’t get a seat in the House of Lords until I’m Marlowe. It won’t be so bad, Jancy. We can still have the house in town. In fact the earldom owns one.”

  Doubtless not the small, cozy house they’d talked about, but she didn’t say that. He sounded as if he was persuading her, but she knew he was trying to persuade himself.

  She had to make sure he was thinking clearly. “You’ll have to spend quite a bit of time here. We will, I mean.”

  “It seems a small price to pay for Brideswell.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If we do this, Brideswell will still exis
t. It will be there, ready to embrace us and our children whenever we care to go.”

  “I see,” she said, and indeed she did. “Then we’ll do it.”

  He rested his head against hers. “You don’t mind?”

  She hugged him close. “I value Brideswell, too. And I was worrying about the children in this chilly space.”

  And I’ll find a way for this not to freeze your heart and quench your spirit.

  “We will have children of our own, I hope,” he said.

  “Then we’ll find a way for them to be comfortable here. We could always give the marble hall a coat of pink paint.”

  “Sacrilege,” he said, laughing into her neck. “But you know, the walls there are only painted to look like marble. So why not? Not pink, perhaps, but color of some sort.” His lips found hers. “Thank God for you, Jancy.”

  She kissed him back, rolling him so she could drive away his worries for a little while.

  Jancy woke the next morning and had to sort out her mind to discover where she was. When she remembered, she realized that she’d been confused by the modest size of the bedroom and even, perhaps, by the sense of being in a small building. As she’d thought, these villas were like small houses.

  When Simon woke, he smiled at her, but she saw the hint of burden in them.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  “Oh, woe is me.” But his eyes smiled.

  “Simon, why can’t we think of the family wing as our home? I believe we could even make an outside entrance. Then we can look after this place without having to live in it most of the time.”

  He rolled onto his front, head pillowed on his arms, smiling brilliantly at her. “We could, couldn’t we? Add in the occasional grand house party to keep the place alive, and duty is served.”

  “Perhaps a party for all the Rogues.”

  “Now there’s a thought. My angel bride.”

  “You’d have thought of it. I just have less to worry about right now.”

  “All’s right with the world when my Jancy is in it.” He rolled out of bed. “I feel poetry coming on. All’s right with the world when my Jancy is in it. She has lovely hair but then she will up pin it. . . .”

  She pulled a laughing face at him.

  “She conquers all problems . . . and sings like a linnet.”

  “Idiot!”

  “I love her, adore her, and there’s the full truth in it.” He blew her a kiss and went into the small dressing room next door.

  Jancy sat there, hugging her knees, grinning like the idiot she’d called him.

  She did as she ought and rang for a maid to assist her. She had no choice if she wanted to wear Lady Thea’s dark dress. She supposed more mourning clothes were an urgent necessity but had no idea how to go about that right now.

  They crossed the house to the family dining room, where Simon’s father was already at the table. Once they were served, Simon dismissed the footman and made his suggestion.

  His father stared. “What? No, no, Simon, I won’t place such a burden on you. You want Parliament, and I’m sure you’ll serve the nation well.”

  “I hope so,” Simon said with skillful carelessness. “But a country house is no bad thing for a politician, Father. And I’m hoping for free use of the town house.”

  “But you can have that without taking on this place. Don’t try to tell me that estate management is suddenly to your taste, because I know it’s not.”

  He cut his beef as if that was the end of the matter.

  “Of course it isn’t,” Simon said, “but this place almost runs itself. Admit it, Father, apart from all the other problems, you’d be bored here. It’s a perfect jewel. There’s no building to be done. The park defies the notion of more improvement. And as the tenants and local businesses are used to a cool and distant hand, you’d probably drive them to rebellion by trying to improve their lot.”

  Mr. St. Bride glared at him, but his mouth worked and Jancy thought a tear might be forming.

  “What’s more,” Simon said, “Jancy points out that we can live in this wing very cozily while having a grand house for entertaining. Truly, Father, there’s nothing we want more.”

  Though Simon’s words were true in context, Jancy didn’t think his father was fooled. But that tear escaped, to be dabbed with a handkerchief. “Thank you, thank you, my dearest son. Would have broken your mother’s heart to leave Brideswell, you know.”

  “I know,” Simon said, smiling. “And we couldn’t have that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jancy left Simon with his father, happy overall with the way things were turning out. She’d never have chosen to live in a place like this, but she could and would make a home here.

  She visited Cousin Dorothy and found her still worn down and grieving, but she appeared to want to take up management of the house. Occupation would doubtless be good for her, so Jancy expressed gratitude but was left at a loose end.

  She wandered the house again, enjoying it as a guest. It truly was beautiful in its proportions, and the bas-relief classical figures, lovely plasterwork, and works of art were a wonder to her. She simply couldn’t understand why anyone would create a house for show, however, especially when they then mostly lived in an annex. Marlowe wasn’t even particularly accessible to people who might want to come and admire.

  She wondered if it would be scandalous to have true public days when everyone, even the Hasketts of the world, could come and gawk at it.

  The family portraits interested her, but if any of this branch of the St. Brides had been inflicted with Black Ademar’s hair, it hadn’t been recorded. Of course, for the past century or more, men had often worn wigs.

  Restless, she put on a cloak and went for a walk to assess the place from the outside. She left by the terrace at the back, which led down to formal gardens clearly as meticulously cared for as the house. No moss grew on paths, and there was scarcely even a fallen leaf on the ground.

  She encountered a few gardeners but suspected there must be many more, carefully keeping out of her way. She’d rather be aware of them. The sense of being alone in a vast empty countryside was unsettling. They could certainly open the garden to visitors. The gardens, like the house, had been created for show.

  But she wanted an ordinary garden, like the ones in Carlisle and York—for fruits, vegetables, and perfumed flowers. She pulled a face at the shock she’d cause by planting her own beans.

  She sat on the rim of a still fountain where big stone fish would spout water in summer, considering where such a little garden could be made. Horrendous, she supposed, to put it right by their villa home. She swiveled to take in the view away from the house, which included miniature temples and even some broken pillars suggesting that a Roman house had once stood there. It almost certainly hadn’t.

  In the distance a large stone house reminded her that she and Simon would have wealthy neighbors. Worries crept back like damp. Living here would mean becoming part of an elite county society. She’d have to host dinners and balls, perhaps for people like Mrs. Ransome-Brown.

  Hasketts were good mimics, she reminded herself. Look how she’d put on the Grand Panjandrum for the maid at Long Chart. But thought of Dacre and the picture fretted her. If Hal had failed to deal with the man, what would he want?

  Money? In this world that might not be a problem, though she’d hate to give him a penny.

  Influence? Again, she’d not wish to favor anyone on those terms, but he seemed intelligent and hardworking, so perhaps it wouldn’t be too corrupt.

  But she and Simon would live under an ax of exposure, subject to infinite demands. That would be intolerable, and now, with Simon taking charge of Marlowe and soon to become Lord Austrey, her origins would be a horrible scandal. She’d probably be banned from good society, which would be unbearable for him. . . .

  She couldn’t imagine how she’d let him soothe her. They’d not dealt with the fact that her switched identity threatened the validity of h
er marriage. She remembered hearing about a case of an heir denied his father’s title and estates because the courts decided his father hadn’t been properly married to his mother at the time of his birth. A man could will his property where he wished, but a title had to go to his oldest legitimate son.

  What if Dacre was clever enough to bide his time until after she and Simon had a son? Then he’d have a horrible hold over them. Now was not the time to make Simon face these things, but she would have to.

  And behind it all, Hasketts lurked. What if Dacre went checking on her parentage? Had Martha told her secrets to anyone other than Isaiah?

  She saw a movement to the side and turned, expecting another gardener. Then she rose to her feet. “Captain Norton! What are you doing here?” Feeling ungracious, she smiled. “You find an unhappy house, but welcome. The Eweretta made smooth passage to London?”

  “Very smooth. We disembarked days ago. I’ve been traveling.”

  She couldn’t imagine why he was here.

  “And heard Simon was here? Please, come up to the house.”

  He strolled beside her. “A very fine property. And all to be Simon’s one day, I gather, on top of Brideswell. Some people are blessedly born, aren’t they?”

  She could have told him what they thought of this blessing, but there was no point. “Do you have family in this area?” she asked, wondering where to put him if he wanted to stay.

  “No, I came to see you—Nan St. Bride.”

  She stopped and turned slowly to face him. “But you were Simon’s second!”

  He shrugged, at ease and slightly amused, like a cat with a trapped mouse.

  “I didn’t realize quickly enough what was afoot. You’re looking very fine, Nan. Quite the grand lady now. But I think, if you came face to face with your old neighbor Mrs. Entwistle, she would know the truth.”

  Jancy fought to hide a pounding heart and dry mouth. “What do you want?”

  He smiled. “So quick. I always did admire your wits. Why did you do it? To get your cousin’s inheritance, I suppose, so don’t look down your nose at me. Then you worked your wiles on Trewitt to get his money, and now this on top. I do so admire success.”