“My goodness. I never suspected you had a yen for melodrama,” she said, hoping to return to the lighthearted banter they usually enjoyed.
He backed up the horses.
“Where are we going?”
“I had planned to take you for tea at the Walks,” he said. “Although it wouldn’t do to provoke gossip now, would it? And I find I require something stronger.”
“I’m sure Father has a good supply of spirits.” Charity eyed him anxiously. Father must never learn of this. If he knew she’d refused a duke, he’d suffer the apoplexy.
****
Two days later, after a bout of rain cleared, Robin rode across the meadow toward the river in search of the elusive bird. He’d escaped the house after Charity’s refusal had brought him lower than he’d thought possible.
As he approached the river, a small, dark-haired figure popped out from behind a tree. Spooked, Robin’s horse reared, and it took Robin a moment to calm him. When he looked up again, the boy had backed away, his dark eyes filled with terror, his face smeared with blackberry juice.
“Don’t be frightened.” He was one of the nomadic gypsies from a nearby camp and young to be about on his own. Robin dismounted, but the boy turned to run toward the river.
Robin decided not to pursue the matter. He was about to remount and ride home when he heard a cry.
The riverbank, softened by the recent deluge, had given way, and the boy had fallen into the fast-flowing water.
Tearing off his coat, Robin ran to the river. He pulled off his boots and dived in. The shock of the cold water almost robbed him of breath. When he broke the surface, he frantically searched for the boy, not confident he would find him afloat, but then saw his head bobbing, his arms flailing. Robin quickly reached him. The boy’s cold body shivered in his hands. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
The tide grabbed them and swept them along as Robin fought to keep their heads above water.
The river narrowed. Raising the boy’s chin, Robin kicked out toward the bank. Once he could feel the river bottom beneath his feet, he hauled the boy onto the grass. The lad, who couldn’t be more than seven years old, flopped down, coughing. He edged away from Robin, his dark eyes wide with fear.
“I’m Robin. What’s your name?” he asked, chilled to the bone by his wet linen shirt, leather breeches, and soaked stockings.
“Lash,” the boy whispered after a moment.
“Would you like to ride on my horse, Lash? I’ll take you home.”
Lucca cast an appraising glance at Robin’s chestnut stallion, who tore at the grass a few yards away. He nodded his head shyly.
They walked along in silence to where Robin had discarded his clothing. He wrapped his coat around the boy then sat to pull on his boots. When he placed the boy on the horse, Lash gripped the mane, looking very much at home. Robin swung up behind him and walked the horse over the uneven ground as a cool breeze swirled around them, plastering his wet shirt to his chest. When they reached the road, he nudged the horse into a canter. The boy leaned over the horse’s neck, obviously enjoying the ride.
The Roma gypsy camp lay a half-mile away on Robin’s land. He spotted smoke rising through trees and trotted his horse along the lane. Entering through a break in the paddock fence, he rode closer to a group of vardos drawn in a circle. Cobs and livestock were penned beneath a stand of elms. The gypsies were clustered around a fire where something cooked in a large pot. They saw him, and the men stood, arms folded, scowling. The women rounded up the small children and herded them to the vardos.
“Lash!” A woman separated from the group of women and hurried toward him.
“He is your child?” Robin dismounted and lifted the boy down.
The boy shrugged off Robin’s coat and ran to her. He clung to her dark skirts.
“Your lad fell into the river.” Robin didn’t expect thanks. These people were proud and mistrustful, perhaps with good reason. They were seldom friendly or grateful for any help.
Her black eyes raked Robin from his wet hair to his boots then settled on his chest as he donned his coat. She showed her teeth in a smile as she swayed closer. Her skirts, adorned with coins, molded to her legs as she walked. “I am beholden to ye, sire, and must repay you.”
“There’s no need,” Robin said, surprised. She was attractive in an earthy and exotic fashion. So different to the women he knew, especially Charity, who would never move her hips in that fashion and hint at so much. Pity.
“I will tell your fortune. Should you like that? You need not grease my palm with silver.”
“Thank you. But I would prefer my future to come as a surprise.”
She coiled a lock of her waist-length, black hair around her fingers exposing a gold hoop dangling from her ear. “It may be to your advantage to learn of it.”
It would not be to his advantage to have the men after him. They guarded their women fiercely. Robin shook his head. “As tempted as I am, I must decline. Look after your boy. The river bank is dangerous after the rain, and your lad is very keen on blackberries.”
She nodded with a flash of her black eyes.
Robin mounted and rode away, aware of the rise in the men’s voices behind him and the black gazes on his back. Gypsies could be a damned nuisance to landholders, traveling the land selling goods and horses, but they did live by a certain code. His bailiff arrested any poachers in his woods, but these gypsies only stole to feed their families and he had no trouble with that. They were popular at the village fair every year, selling their goods and telling fortunes.
Arriving home, he strode into the house. An unpleasant squelching sound emanated from his boots. His butler, Franklin, stared at him open mouthed.
“Fell afoul of the river, Franklin.” Robin raced up the stairs to change his clothes. He planned a more sedate afternoon in his library.
An hour later, after he’d changed and settled at his desk, a knock sounded at the library door.
“Come.”
Robin’s butler entered. “A footman has just brought news from Harwood Castle, my lord.”
Rising slowly from the chair where he’d been studying a book of drawings, he took the letter, his chest tight, and seized his pearl-handled paperknife, slicing it open and quickly scanning it. Closing his eyes briefly, he moaned softly under his breath.
“My uncle has passed away, Franklin.”
Franklin bowed low. “I am indeed sorry, Your Grace.”
Your Grace! As his legs were in danger of giving way, Robin sat again and stared blindly at the wide mahogany desk where his manuscript and reference books were spread out. Uncle Robert and his son, Charles, gone without issue. What a dashed sad business. They’d never been close, but he still felt hollow. Well, that was that. He was now the Duke of Harwood, something he’d never wished for. He hated pomp and circumstance. He would be expected to marry in St Margaret’s Westminster and mix with royalty. Not to mention having to sit in the House of Lords and accept the responsibilities of a huge estate and a multitude of properties and investments. Robin hadn’t been raised to take on such an exalted position. His father, the 3rd Viscount Stanberry, had lived his life quietly and modestly in this manor house. There’d been little question of Robin inheriting the dukedom, especially after Charles married and his bride fell pregnant. It seemed likely sons would follow. But fate took a hand when Charles’s bride died in childbirth, and broken-hearted, he’d gone abroad and died of smallpox in France, several months later.
Robin sighed and took out a sheet of bond to write a reply to his uncle’s man of business. He’d hoped to have married Charity before this. Her pragmatic nature and her strength of character would have been of enormous help to him. Not to mention the rest of her attractions. Could he have done a better job of persuading her? Thrown himself at her feet and declared an undying love? He didn’t believe she’d fall for that, not with the sort of friendship they enjoyed. Though he wished he’d done more. Had he given up too easily, let pride and hu
rt defeat him? She’d made it plain that she wanted to pursue her art, and he supposed he’d have to accept it. But a kernel of hope lingered, that she might change her mind, especially if her dreams failed to be realized. While he applauded her talent, he was more familiar with the ways of the world than she. It was one thing to paint family portraits, and the odd neighbor’s, another for a woman to become a well-known, sought-after artist. He would continue to correspond, not only because he would miss her and enjoy her letters but also to see if his suit might have a better chance in the future.
“There’s much to do, Franklin. I shall depart for Northumberland tomorrow. I’ll return after the funeral and the reading of the will. Tell my valet to pack enough clothes for several weeks.”
Robin considered Harwood Castle. So far as he remembered, it was a confusing maze of stone passages and barn-like rooms with cavernous fireplaces, but he’d been ten years old when he’d last visited. His fondest memory of the place was salmon fishing in the river.
Chapter Two
Tunbridge Wells, Two Months Later
As a rule, Charity wasn’t keen on dancing, but she did take a few steps around her studio. Three of her landscape paintings had sold at auction. Her success, while still modest, was growing. One eminent personage had expressed the wish to sit for her since she’d painted Chaloner and Lavinia, whose children she was now capturing on canvas.
“You must be thrilled. I’ve heard your work spoken of in London,” Hope had told her before she and Daniel returned to their chateau in France.
Charity was cautiously pleased, especially as Father had ceased his nagging. Her mother, however, had not let go of the notion that Charity would follow her sisters into wedlock.
“My dear girl. It is natural for a woman to want a child. I don’t believe you to be any different,” she’d repeated this morning at breakfast. She had cast Charity a sly glance. “But I daresay it will be pleasant to have an unmarried daughter to care for us in our dotage.”
Charity grinned. “Oh Mama, you won’t often be here. You will be away visiting my sisters, or attending the balls in London.”
Left alone after her mother went down to the kitchen, Charity stirred her tea and frowned. Her art had occupied a good deal of her thoughts for years. She liked babies, especially Lucas, Honor and Edward’s baby. A bonny boy with his father’s black hair and his mother’s brown eyes, he’d laughed and gurgled up at her and was perfectly adorable. As were Chaloner’s children, Freddie particularly, who was a bit of a devil. And she did want babies of her own one day.
She poured herself another cup of tea as Mercy wandered into the room, yawning. “I’m off to the home farm after breakfast.” She placed a muffin on her plate and reached for the teapot.
“Not more experiments, I hope.”
Mercy still bore a tiny scar on her chin from an explosion when developing one of her skincare creations, which had gone awry. It was more like a charming dimple.
“No, I’m finished with experiments. I’m going to see the foal with the four white fetlocks. He gallops around the paddock so fast Father’s groom says he will make a good racehorse. His grand dam ran second in the Oakes in ’15. Father is considering sending him to Tattersall’s for auction. You must come and see him before he goes.”
“I will, later.” There was no doubt her younger sister would marry, even though the man would have to accept her menagerie of spoiled pets and other unusual interests. And that would leave the family sadly depleted. The thought was unpleasant, and Charity shoved it away.
Returning to her studio, Charity pinpointed the troublesome dissatisfaction with life that marred her recent success. She missed Robin. Her triumphs seemed hollow when she couldn’t share them with him. He was her best friend, who had treated her as an intelligent female. He never guarded his language around her or paid her flowery compliments, although she was prepared to accept a few from him. They’d spent many a satisfactory evening playing cards and chess while enjoying a good laugh. There was no one to take his place now that her older sisters had left because Mercy preferred to write, Health and Beauty for All Ages, a book based on her creations that she planned to publish one day under the pseudonym, Madame Véronique.
Before Robin, now the Duke of Harwood, had left for Northumberland, he’d promised to write every week. And for a while, his letters had arrived like clockwork, describing the daunting task ahead of him, the staff, society, the house, the gardens, and the climate in Northumberland, with which she was unfamiliar.
She slipped on her smock. Robin had not replied to her last letter. That had been almost three weeks ago. She knew he must be dreadfully busy, but it made her wonder if he’d found someone who sparked his interest. A lady who might have pushed any thoughts of their friendship from his mind. Should it be so, it would be extremely foolish of her to resent it.
Charity pushed back her hair with her arm and leaned over to squeeze more white paint onto her palette, suddenly aware of an inexplicable tightening in her chest.
****
Harwood Castle, Northumberland
“Your Grace?”
“I am here, Manners.” Robin looked down from the top of the ladder in the library.
His efficient steward had found him, despite Robin’s attempts to avoid him for a few hours.
“Franklin has asked me to inform you that the Marchioness of Boothby and her daughter, Lady Katherine, have called,” Manners said, gazing at him from below.
His uncle, the former duke, had had surprisingly diverse tastes, Robin thought with a smile as he replaced the book of ancient erotic art on the shelf and climbed down. He’d debated whether to refrain from entering Northumberland society until he’d gained the upper hand with his other duties. But he soon realized that his uncle had been a popular, social man, and he was expected to follow in his footsteps. Despite his abhorrence of being made the subject of speculation by the mothers of debutantes, he decided to grin and bear it and even make it work for him, for he might find his future wife amongst them. He paused to examine his cravat in the ornate gilt mirror then raked his fingers through his curly hair.
“Where has Franklin put them?”
“In the small salon, Your Grace. It’s less drafty there and warmer with the fire lit. Tea has been served.”
He could do with something stronger, Robin mused, as he descended the curved stone staircase. Franklin had been more at home in the smaller house in Tunbridge Wells. He was feeling his knees these days, and it might be kindest to offer him retirement and employ a new butler. His uncle’s butler had taken his pension after his master died. Perhaps butlers aged faster in this vast house, although there was a small army of servants scurrying around behind the scenes. Reaching the bottom, Robin made his way along a chilly corridor. The warmth of a late summer’s day had failed to penetrate the thick stone walls of the castle. Autumn was almost upon them, and large areas of the house would be impossible to heat.
Two ladies sat together on one of a pair of sofas covered in blue and gold damask in the small salon, Robin’s favorite room, which opened onto a terrace with a pleasant view of the topiary garden. Lady Boothby, wearing a colorfully plumed hat, eyed the dark green velvet coat slightly worn at the elbows that Robin preferred to wear when at leisure. He cursed under his breath; he should have taken the trouble to change. Her daughter—called Kitty by her mother—was a petite, dark-haired young woman in pale pink. She offered him a tremulous smile.
“How delightful to have such decorative company,” he said, making his bow.
Lady Boothby stretched her neck as if it pained her. “I do trust you haven’t forgotten that you invited us to call this afternoon, Your Grace.”
With difficulty, Robin dredged up a memory of Lady Boothby inviting herself when they’d spoken at the Draycotts’ dinner party. He took the wing chair opposite. “As if I could.”
She looked mollified. “We have several afternoon calls to make,” she said briskly, as though he’d detained her unn
ecessarily. “We shall not remain above fifteen minutes.” She turned to her daughter, “Well, speak up, Kitty. You are here to invite His Grace to your come-out ball, are you not?”
A macaroon dropped from Kitty’s nerveless fingers onto her plate, her eyes registering panic, her cheeks flooded crimson.
“No need to say another word,” Robin said hastily. “I shall be delighted to attend your ball, Lady Kitty.”
“It is to be held in three weeks, Your Grace. A formal invitation will be sent.” With a look of satisfaction, Lady Boothby added a jam tart to her plate and regaled Robin with the latest gossip of which she was remarkably well informed. After she’d run through the gamut of Northumberland’s secrets, and he’d put down his cup, she gathered up her gloves and stood. “It’s been a pleasure, Your Grace. Come, Kitty.”
When the door closed on the two women, Robin approached the fire to warm the chill that had settled in his chest. He wondered vaguely if he was sickening with something. Not surprising in this cold house.
Kitty was by far the prettiest of the daughters paraded before him. He had yet to visit London, as most of the beau monde had returned to their country estates for grouse shooting. The metropolis would not come alive until parliament sat again. Robin returned to the sofa and sat, selecting a small cake from the plate. Despite his excellent, efficient secretary, he’d been slightly fazed by the frenzy of invitations and morning calls that had plagued him every day since he’d arrived. There seemed only one way to get his life in order. He must become engaged. He thought over the young women he’d met. None had interested him, but it might be that the young women failed to show their true natures when scrutinized. Certainly, none were as vital and interesting as Charity. Tamping down the rush of disappointment that thought had caused him, Robin brushed crumbs from his coat and went in search of his secretary.
The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four Page 2
