But all of that was nothing to the role that he’d taken up now—that of investigator on behalf of his seven-year-old nephew, and, if his suspicions proved correct, judge, jury, and executioner, all in one.
“Where are we off to?”
“Doyle’s Grange first. That is what you requested, yes? It’s not even a mile away. You’ll like Sir Walter. He’s a capital fellow.”
“I’m sure he is,” John said. He gave further directions to the men who were working under him, straightened his coat, and then mounted his horse. But as the mare beneath him ambled down the lane to Doyle’s Grange, it wasn’t Sir Walter—whoever that was—who occupied his thoughts.
He’d looked for Mary Chartley for months after she left, but his efforts had ended in Basingstoke. She’d arrived there via rail; after that, he had only conjecture. She must have met her father, because two days after she’d fled her home, a doctor had issued a death certificate for Mr. Chartley. The parish church records showed that he’d been buried the day after.
Very convenient, that certificate of death. Almost as convenient as the book that Mary had put in the post to Mr. Lawson that same day—her father’s secret account book, the one they’d torn the house apart trying to find. The one she’d sworn she knew nothing about. It hadn’t shown the details of Mr. Chartley’s thefts, but it had contained all the information about the account he’d maintained with a separate London bank. The book itself had noted a few withdrawals, but the balance should still have been intact, at least as of a few months before his embezzlement was discovered.
But the record of those last months had gone missing. Someone—Mary herself, or perhaps her father—had sliced the last four pages from the accounting. When Lawson had his solicitors make a written demand on the bank, the account had yielded a few paltry hundreds of pounds. Not enough to give John’s nephew the start he deserved in life. But the accounting had told him one thing: The money was out there. He’d lost it once when he’d let Mary go. This time, he was going to find it.
John had been looking for Mary Chartley ever since. But he’d found no sign of her—nor of those four missing pages, nor even the eight thousand pounds that should have been waiting in the bank. He’d had no leads at all until Beauregard had mentioned her in passing in one of his letters.
Even Miss Mary Chartley, Lady Patsworth’s companion, noticed that the south field has become a swamp this spring.
It could have been some other Mary Chartley. The name wasn’t uncommon. But the letter had come two days after the investigator he’d hired had officially declared the search hopeless. It had seemed providential. And so instead of washing his hands of Beauregard and his swampy fields, John had written back.
If it’s not too forward, might I suggest that I come and see to their drainage myself? It will be much easier than trying to explain the principles via correspondence.
“There it is,” Beauregard said as they rounded a bend in the road and the trees of the wood gave way to open meadow. “Doyle’s Grange.”
It was, he was sure, a charming cottage. But John didn’t care about the ornamental hedges out front. The gate—if you could call it that—was a mess of grape leaves and such, decoration so overblown that it rendered the fence useless as a barrier. It had no doubt been commissioned by a lazy fellow who preferred tipple to work. Someone had taken care with the flowers; they sprang up in a glorious summer profusion of pinks and reds.
But this was undoubtedly a rich man’s country hideaway. There was no kitchen garden to speak of. Still, it was not the plantings that he cared about; it was the scene on the back terrace. The terrace itself was a golden limestone, ringed by a guardrail in the same pattern as the gate. A table was set up in the shade cast by a rowan tree. It was forty yards away—he could make out a white cloth hanging listlessly over the edges of the table and a folding screen set up as a shield against the hot morning sun as best as possible.
Sitting at table were a large man with a graying handlebar mustache and a small, dark-haired woman. No doubt Sir Walter and his wife. Down from them, and farther away, sat a younger woman. Her hair was a burnished gold. She sat, her head held in book-balancing precision. He couldn’t make out her features. He didn’t need to. God, he even remembered the curve of her spine. A little spark traveled through him.
He’d found her.
The only question, now, was what to do with her. It was a bittersweet triumph. On the one hand, he’d tracked down an unrepentant thief. But seeing the woman he’d planned to spend the rest of his days with struck a peculiar ache in his gut. Matters might have been so different between them. He couldn’t think of her without feeling the quiet what-if that lay between them still.
Lady Patsworth turned to the younger woman; a few seconds later, Mary stood. Without turning to look at the horsemen coming up the lane, she slipped into the house.
John tamped down his frustration. She’d not get far, not on foot, and it was unlikely that she was expecting him. Still, he felt a bit dazed at the reality. She was here—close enough for him to run her down and ask all the questions that had gnawed at him over these long months.
Why did you lie to me? If you intended to steal the money outright, why did you send back the account book? Is your father dead, or is that another lie?
Was it all just lies between us, or did you ever feel anything?
No, not that last question. No point in even thinking about that.
They arrived at the house and handed their horses off to a groom. A silent, surly maid led them around the side to the back terrace. Mary was still not present. Beauregard made the introductions; John managed to get through them as silently as possible. Soon, the other two men were discussing the technicalities of drainage—badly and wrongly.
“And so the upper fields drain now,” Beauregard was saying, “but as Mason here explains it, the water flows from them into the lower field, leaving me with a fine quantity of mud in the spring. We must reroute—”
The door to the house opened, and Mary stepped out, burdened with a paper fan and a parasol. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of John.
He couldn’t move, either. It was electrifying to see her this close. It had been that way ever since he first laid eyes on her. She had all the features of classic English beauty—a creamy complexion, rose-pink lips perfectly formed in an expression of surprise, and clear blue eyes. But calling her beauty classic didn’t capture the essence of her.
She was like a cream-cake with an added hint of lemon. Familiar and comforting in aroma…and yet when one got close enough, one realized that all that sweetness was balanced by something deliciously tart. She had even used to smell of sugared lemon—a clean, fresh scent that made him think of unsullied purity.
It had also made him want to lick her. Everywhere.
She’d seemed so innocent on the surface, but when he peered into her eyes, he’d seen a spark there, a hint of mischief that drew him in. She’d looked on the verge of laughter, and her merriment had spilled out of her all too easily. She’d had an air to her—one that had made him think that she didn’t know anything about passion…but that she wanted to learn.
Mary was disarmingly attractive, and he’d wanted her. Badly.
If only he’d known that there was more mischief and less innocence in her. Still, even now, even knowing that everything about her was a sham—that she was a thief and a liar—it made no difference. He still wanted her.
“Dear Lady Patsworth,” Mary said into the awkward silence. “I’ve brought your fan.”
“Thank you.” Lady Patsworth did not move to take Mary’s burdens.
“Miss Chartley. You know Mr. Beauregard from church,” Sir Walter said. “This is his friend, Mr. John Mason. But…it looks as if you might already be acquainted.”
Mary’s face was schooled to careful blankness. She glanced warily at John, and dropped a polite curtsey in his general direction.
“No,” John heard himself say. “I’ve never known h
er. Not at all.”
She didn’t grimace at that disavowal. Her expression remained china-doll smooth.
“Mary, dear, if you could move the Japanese partition…” That from Lady Patsworth.
Mary set the fan and parasol on the table and brushed past John. He caught a hint of something like sweet citrus as she passed, and those same old urges welled up in him—to lick her, despite everything. Then she crossed to the other side of the terrace and fiddled with a folding screen constructed from cherrywood and delicate paper. The so-called Japanese screen, John supposed; the paintings on its side were no doubt intended to recall the Far East to men and women who had never traveled farther than Birmingham.
She adjusted the screen to allow a few more inches of shade to fall on Lady Patsworth’s side of the table.
Mary’s scent hadn’t changed, but her eyes had. Once, they’d sparkled. Now, they looked flat. All that hidden mirth that he’d seen in her—it was as if it had been wiped clean and replaced with stark gray slate.
Well. He’d not expected her to smile when she was caught. As methodically as she’d gone, she returned, seating herself at the table next to Lady Patsworth.
She’d not said a word in greeting to him.
“What does the fashion column have to say?” she asked, her low tones directed to the lady near her.
Lady Patsworth lifted a monocle and peered at the paper. “It describes a day gown with well-fitted sleeves of sarcenet, embellished at the wrists with cord of silk.” Lady Patsworth frowned. “Cord of silk. I have never been fond of cord of silk, and at the wrists?”
“Indeed,” Mary said. “It is too shiny.”
Too shiny?
John glanced over at Mr. Beauregard, but apparently he found nothing strange in this exchange. He’d gone back to talking fields and drainage with Sir Walter as soon as the introductions had been made.
John made appropriate noises at what he hoped were appropriate times. But apparently, he’d done a poor job of hiding his true interest, because when Beauregard left to ready their horses for their next visit, Sir Walter caught his eye.
“Mr. Mason,” he said stiffly. The other man looked him up and down, from head to toe. “By the looks of you, you spend much of your time out of doors.”
John gave him a curt nod.
“I hear you’re staying at Oak Cottage.” Sir Walter’s mouth compressed into a thin, squashed line. “That’s not even half a mile distant.”
Beauregard had offered the tiny outbuilding as a potential shelter rather halfheartedly; John had accepted it with gratitude.
“Mm,” John said.
“Beauregard implied you were a gentleman.” Sir Walter looked dubious. “You’ll excuse me, then, for speaking so directly. You’ll understand that a gentleman must protect his own.” He paused again and licked his lips. “The ladies of this household are entirely under my protection.”
John swallowed. This conversation must have been audible to the women, but neither one so much as glanced in their direction. It was disorienting—as if perhaps this wasn’t really happening.
Perhaps he had been looking at Mary overmuch. She was still beautiful, no matter what he thought of her character.
“I won’t hold with any insult to them,” Sir Walter continued. “That’s why God made milkmaids.”
Neither Mary nor Lady Patsworth blinked at this assertion. It was as if their ears were incapable of hearing the men’s speech. And perhaps it was just as well, because Sir Walter had not only implied that John was one step from pillaging and raping his way through the household, he’d suggested that he pillage and rape his way through the dairy instead.
No doubt men said odd things at uncomfortable times without intending all the implications.
“Never you worry,” John said gruffly. “I have no interest in ladies.”
That got Mary’s attention for the first time since she’d returned. Her head jerked up and her eyes met his in shock.
“No interest in—!” Sir Walter repeated. “I…I’ll not have such things spoken of in this household.”
“Women, yes. Ladies, on the other hand…” John spread his hands and examined his fingernails. “They’re like mistletoe—pretty enough, if you like pale berries and useless greenery. But just let it take hold, and it will choke the entire tree.”
Mary looked away again.
But Sir Walter did not quibble with John’s description. He didn’t even protest it. Instead, he merely chuckled. “You have an extremely dim view of our ladies. I do allow the expense can be considerable. But I find them quite worthwhile, assuming you can afford to protect them.”
“Perhaps.” John shrugged. “Or perhaps not. I have no tolerance for parasites.”
Sir Walter clasped John’s hand. “Then I’ll keep my ladies, and you can stay with your milkmaids.”
“You do that,” John said. He extricated his hand and hoped that Sir Walter had not noticed his failure to accept the milkmaids.
Aside from that one glance, Mary hadn’t so much as looked at him. Her attention was directed far off, her gaze fixed on the purple silhouette of a hill on the horizon.
“A word of warning,” John said. “As a farmer, I pull out mistletoe the instant it takes root. And I won’t rest until I’ve cleared it away.”
She didn’t react to that. But she didn’t need to. Mary had always been quick. She had no doubt known she was doomed from the moment she saw him.
Chapter Three
MARY HAD KNOWN SHE WAS doomed from the moment she saw him.
Somewhere, someone was laughing at the horrid trick of destiny that had brought John Mason, of all people, to Doyle’s Grange. She could almost hear the laughter echoing through the back garden. Sir Walter stood on the terrace, watching John to be sure that he left. Mary stayed, frozen to her chair by a deep despair.
I have no tolerance for parasites.
It was not even as if she could contradict him. She had no defense—certainly not against his hatred, and probably not against any accusation he might level. Lying, thieving, fleeing the scene of a crime… He could have made quite a list of her crimes, and he didn’t even know the half of them. The only ray of hope that she had—and it wasn’t much—was that he hadn’t come with a constable in tow and a warrant for her arrest.
Yet.
Sir Walter frowned and turned back to her. His gaze flicked from Mary to his wife, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“You are to have nothing to do with him,” he said to Mary after a moment. “You are to see that Lady Patsworth does not, as well.”
Normally, she resented his edicts. This one, she welcomed with open arms. “He seems a great brute of a man.”
“I dislike his staying at Oak Cottage. So close.” He glanced at his wife who sat, arms folded, head bowed over the paper, as if she could not hear the conversation. “Who knows what might happen?”
He spoke as if his wife might accidentally run into Mr. Mason, might just as accidentally have an affair with him—and all that, as easily as she might accidentally stumble and take a fall. If there had ever been any trust in Sir Walter, there was no evidence of it now.
“From what Beauregard says, he’ll be here for weeks. If I hear that either of you have spoken with him, have even looked at him in passing…”
“I won’t,” Mary promised. But deep inside, she wanted to shriek.
He was going to be here for weeks? She was going to have to leave. The only question was how she was to manage such a thing. She had few enough possessions, and Lady Patsworth could do very well without her. The bigger problem was more mundane: She had no money. Without enough to pay for transport and lodging until she could find more work, she’d end up even worse off than she was.
Don’t exaggerate, she scolded herself. You have funds aplenty. You just have to get at them.
Sir Walter looked murderous. “You stay away from him,” he repeated. “In fact, your afternoon walks…”
“I’ll walk toward Nor
thword Hill,” Mary said swiftly, before he could take that privilege away, too. “Between the two hedges—he’ll have no reason to encounter me there.”
He considered this. “Very well,” he finally said. “For now. But we must think of your safety.”
She was beginning to hate that word. That was all she and Lady Patsworth ever heard—of his concern for their safety, their wellbeing, their dignity. It was on those grounds that he barred her from speaking to the other women in the neighborhood when church services were over. He spoke of his wife’s delicate health when he refused to allow her brother to visit. To hear him speak, it was always about his solicitude for the two of them—and never about his own twisted jealousies.
“One thing, Sir Walter.” Her heart kicked up a beat. “You recall that you’d agreed to hold last year’s wages for safekeeping.” She swallowed and looked down. “Would it be possible to request that I receive a portion of those funds?”
Sir Walter’s frown deepened. “Whatever for?”
“It’s so hot these days. I should like to make a summer gown.”
He contemplated this. “Peter will be happy to take any orders you have to the store. I’ll deduct the necessary funds from your account.”
A bolt of linen, obtained by their groom, wouldn’t do her any good. “Nonetheless,” Mary persisted. “I should like to purchase it myself.”
Going into the shops was not allowed. Having money was not allowed.
He sighed and shook his head. “Miss Chartley. When I said I would hold your wages for safekeeping, I took that charge quite seriously. You are in my employ, and you are therefore my responsibility. If I gave you your wages outright, you might squander it on all sorts of fripperies. Trust me, my dear, and allow me to refuse this request. You’ll thank me later, when the principal is still intact years from now.”
Courtney Milan Page 2
