Thomas shuffled the papers on his desk. “And, Charles? I do not regret your conversation with Sir Gilbert. Just because my bride is a bit more intractable than I had presumed does not mean that the arrangement is not very much to my benefit. All will proceed as we have planned.”
Mr. Saunders, suddenly animated, leaned forward in his chair, eyes aglow. “I say, Thomas, you’re a great gun! You’re really going to do it then?”
“I am.”
“Does Mrs. Lanning know?”
Thomas looked over his friend’s head, seemingly intent on a nautical scene by Turner. “Has that man-milliner and his fabrics left for Pevensey Park?”
“The upholsterer? Yesterday,” Charles replied, suppressing a smile. “Ah—Thomas?”
“I suppose your family will expect you for Christmas,” Mr. Lanning inquired, with seeming irrelevancy.
“Indeed they will.”
“Then it would seem I will have to beard the young lioness in her den without your support. How fatiguing,” Thomas drawled.
“You’re not going to tell her until Christmas?” Charles burst out, much shocked.
“Perhaps not until the new year,” Thomas murmured blandly. “Good-day, Charles. And may I remind you that you are not the voice of my conscience. I actually have one of my own.”
Charles Saunders was still shaking his blond head when he closed the door behind him. Softly, and with great care.
“Mrs. Stanton and Miss Stanton have called, ma’am,” Biddeford declared. “Will you receive them here or in the drawing room?”
The Pevensey ladies were enjoying a sunny but chill morning in the cozy intimacy of the small morning parlor that overlooked the terraced gardens. Decorated in shades of rose and cream, it was a room both attractive and inviting. “Show them in here, Biddeford,” Relia said. “The drawing room is undoubtedly quite arctic.”
“My dear!” declared the squire’s wife in hearty accents, rushing across the room to draw Aurelia into a firm embrace. “We have not visited until now as we thought to allow you the privacy due newlyweds, but what do I hear but that Mr. Lanning has gone off and left you. Abandoned you for his life in the city, they say. Can it be true, child? I have known you from the cradle and can scarce believe it. Has the man no sense at all?”
For all that the Squire Stanton remained firm in his conviction that his son had suffered a heartfelt disappointment when rejected by Miss Trevor, his good wife Margaret was under no such illusion. A stout woman with a generous nature, she could only thank the good Lord her son had been spared a leg-shackle to Aurelia Trevor. It would take a man stronger than her precious Harry to manage her, indeed it would. But Mrs. Stanton was exceedingly fond of the girl and could not like to see her deserted three days after her wedding. It was unnatural, that’s what it was.
Since the new Mrs. Lanning seemed momentarily speechless, Gussie directed the visitors to their seats and ordered Biddeford to bring refreshments. “We are delighted to see you,” Miss Aldershot said to the Stanton ladies. “I fear it has been rather quiet here the past sennight.”
Relia now had herself well in hand. “When we returned from Tunbridge Wells, Mr. Saunders had had word that Mr. Lanning was needed in London immediately. He is, as we all know, engaged in business there. He is not free to dash about or take his leisure as are—ah—most gentlemen.” How very strange, but her tongue had refused to exclude her husband from the August realm of being a gentleman.
“But married only three days, my dear!” Margaret Stanton tutted. “When does he expect to return?”
Miss Chloe Stanton, blushing for her mama, swiftly interjected a question of her own. “I found Mr. Charles Saunders a most attractive man. Did you not think so, Relia?”
“Yes, indeed.” Relia smiled, grateful for the interruption, as she had not the slightest idea when Mr. Lanning might return. “A true gentleman, I believe. I am told he is the younger son of a fine country family in Somerset.”
But the squire’s wife was not so easily put off. “And I am told he sacked Mr. Tubbs before he left. After all his years of service. Shocking, quite shocking.”
“Mr. Tubbs,” said Relia with some asperity, “forgot that I, not Lord Hubert, was the owner of Pevensey Park. I assure you, I was glad enough to have Mr. Lanning and Mr. Saunders to deal with him.”
To cover her mama’s most unladylike snort of disapproval, Miss Stanton asserted, “I never liked that man. Much too uppity. There were times he gave me a look that made me think he was trying to see straight through—beg pardon, mama, but truly, Mr. Tubbs was not a nice man.”
“And pray who is in charge of Pevensey Park?” Mrs. Stanton demanded.
“I am,” Aurelia declared. “Mr. Saunders is currently searching for a new steward. Since I am sure we are all agreed he is as competent as he is charming, I am confident he will find an admirable candidate for the position.” She could not possibly have said that! Yet it was true. Whatever one might say of Thomas Lanning or his friend Mr. Saunders, they were each remarkably capable men. For a moment Relia allowed herself to think of Oswald Pitney and Viscount Hanley. Where would Pevensey Park be if she had married either of them?
She shuddered. It did not bear thinking on.
Fortunately, Biddeford returned with a tray of tea and scones, and the conversation fell into a general exchange of country gossip. An illness here, a new baby there, a possible romance, the continuing (and quite delicious) feud between wife of the dean of the village church and the vicar’s wife. Indeed, the visit of Margaret Stanton and her daughter went far beyond the customary half hour, brought to an end only by Biddeford’s reappearance.
“A Mr. Arnold has arrived, Ma’am. The upholsterer Mr. Lanning said he would send down from London,” he added with significant emphasis. Clearly, Biddeford felt the need to let their visitors know that Thomas Lanning had not totally abandoned his wife.
“You may tell him I will be with him shortly,” Relia said, hoping she had managed to maintain a dignified façade even as her heart raced. He had not forgotten! Thomas had sent someone to effect the redecoration of the bedchambers, just as he had promised. He was coming back. When, she didn’t know . . . but it would appear he expected to return. How very lowering to admit, even to herself, that she had, indeed, felt abandoned.
Thomas Lanning had done exactly what she had hoped her hired husband would do—return to his own affairs in London, leaving her in charge of Pevensey Park. And yet, as much as she hated to admit it, his departure had brought gloom instead of relief. Unfeeling, despicable lout.
Wrong. No matter what had sent him haring off to London—her own arrogance and sharp tongue?—Thomas Lanning was the rock on which Pevensey Park would be fixed for the next thirty, forty, perhaps even fifty years. Surely, she could endure almost anything for an assurance of that security.
A sensible and admirably pragmatic concept. But, later, Aurelia would wonder what she would have done if she’d had so much as an inkling of what was to come.
Life soon settled back into the even tenor of earlier days at Pevensey Park. Aurelia ordered long-delayed repairs and improvements, for which the bills were so promptly paid by Mr. Josiah Eastbridge, who had been astonished to find himself in charge of a very large sum of Trevor funds. Mr. Lanning’s credit among tenants and villagers soared beyond their initial tentative approval. Not what the nobles called good ton, paying bills so fast, but Cits understood about business, they did. Understood a man had to eat, feed his family. Looked like Miss Aurelia had done well for herself. For all of them.
Although Relia still suffered from the loss of the life she had enjoyed when her parents were alive, she reveled in her new power. Thomas Lanning had not lied. He had given her what she wanted. She had even managed to recapture the aura of serenity that had been so much the hallmark of life at Pevensey Park. With broad strokes of his pen on a stack of papers he had lifted the pall over Pevensey Park, her terrible urgency to find a mate, and had returned her world to the beauty, peace
and tranquility she had once known.
Once Mr. Saunders found a steward, she would even be able to abandon the desk in the estate room, where she currently spent so much of her time. She would be able to indulge in books, as her dear papa had done. She might even take up embroidery again or possibly petitpoint. In a few months she would be out of mourning and able to attend parties. Yes, indeed, everything was exactly as she wished.
Be careful what you wish for. The old warning hissed at her out of the gloom of the December day.
It was not too quiet. She did not miss him! He might stay away forever.
The renovation of the two bedchambers and shared sitting room was nearly complete. Thomas would wish to see it. He would come to the country for the holidays. Of course he would.
“Ma’am?” Biddeford, looking a trifle shaken, appeared in the doorway of the estate room, which was lit only by windows high on the wall, thus requiring a good many candles, even in early afternoon. “Two young persons have arrived. I have put them in the Red Ante-Chamber, ma’am. The female . . . a young female says her name is Lanning.”
“Lanning?” From behind the shelter of the broad estate desk, Relia stared up at her butler. “You are certain it was Lanning?” Dear God, did Thomas already have a wife?
Or perhaps a child?
He never said . . .
Placing her palms flat on the desk, Relia forced her weak knees to straighten. She could, she would, meet this challenge, as she had met the last. How could she have been foolish enough to think that marriage would solve all her problems?
“And the person with her?” she inquired of Biddeford.
“Nate Fairchild’s eldest, ma’am. Brought the young miss here in his farm cart. And may I say neither one looked too pleased about it?”
Relia took a deep breath, assumed her most arrogant Trevor countenance. “Very well, Biddeford, let us see what has been dropped upon our doorstep. And please send for Miss Aldershot.”
“And there she be,” Jake Fairchild declared, “a-sittin’ in the common room, cryin’ her eyes out—”
“I was not!”
“Yes, you wuz!”
“That is enough!” Relia roared over the two young people who seemed too intent on quarreling to offer any coherent explanation of what they were doing at Pevensey Park. “You will sit down. Both of you,” she added as Jake Fairchild looked at the gold- and cream-striped satin chair and then at his well-worn brown cord breeches in something akin to horror. “And then you, Mr. Fairchild, will tell me your version, while Miss . . . Lanning, is it?”—the girl nodded vigorously—“remains completely silent. Is that understood?”
“But I—”
“Silence!” Relia looked up, relieved to discover Gussie standing in the doorway, surveying the scene with what could only be termed avid curiosity. When all four had settled into chairs—Miss Lanning with a flounce and Mr. Fairchild rather gingerly—Relia regarded the young man, whom she had known for many years, with what appeared to be nothing more than calm expectancy. She nodded, encouragingly.
“It’s like this, y’see,” said Jake, “I was taking hay t’ the Pig’s Whistle this side of Maidstone and decided to ’ave a pint before I come home. And I see all t’ men in the tap a-peerin’ into the common room. And there she was on the settle, a-lookin’ like she lost her last friend.” Jake ducked his head, tugged a forelock of his straight brown hair. “I know I shouldn’t ’ave spoke to her, miss—I mean ma’am. Her bein’ a lady and all—”
That remained to be seen! But Relia managed to keep her uncharitable thought to herself.
“I’d run out of money, you see,” Miss Lanning interjected.
“You,” Relia snapped, “will have your turn. For now, pray do not speak!” The girl, who could not be a day over seventeen, slumped back in her chair, lower lip protruding in a decided pout. Heavens, Relia thought, is that how I looked when I defied my parents? “Pray, proceed, Mr. Fairchild.”
“Well, ’tis as she said. Seems like she’d set out for Pevensey Park without having enough of the ready. She’d had to sleep on the settle. Bill Tully, the landlord, woulda throwed her out, but Pevensey Park be magic words. His missus told him he might be sorry, for certain sure. So I told her—Miz Lanning— I’d bring her on. Had to get Mrs. Tully to say she’d known me since I was a nipper, but the young miss didn’t have much choice, now did she? So that’s what I did, and here she is, safe and sound. If not the most ungrateful wench I’ve seen in all my born days,” Jake Fairchild added on a more plaintive note.
“That was very good of you, Jake,” Relia told him. “We are all most grateful. I think,” she added with a swift glance at Miss Aldershot before turning her attention to Miss Lanning—who was altogether too pretty, as well as lacking in manners. Dark hair, enormous green eyes. Even sleep-deprived and somewhat bedraggled, she was a stunning beauty. “And now,” Aurelia declared, “let us hear who you are and what you have to say for yourself.”
“I am Olivia,” the girl said, nose in the air, as if that were all the explanation Aurelia Lanning should require.
“And who, pray tell, is Olivia?”
“Olivia Lanning, of course. I told that old butler, but he probably never said a word. He’s so high in the instep you’d think he was master here instead of my brother.”
“Brother?” Relia echoed faintly.
“Thomas. You are Mrs. Thomas Lanning, are you not? The heiress my brother married?”
“I am,” Relia managed, though the words came out on a whisper. “I am so sorry. I’m afraid . . . Thomas never mentioned a word about you.” As the girl’s face fell—only for a moment before pride reasserted itself—Relia realized how much her words had hurt. “Where have you been living, Miss Lanning?” she inquired quickly. “And how is it that you found yourself stranded on the road? I am certain your brother would be appalled to learn of it.”
Miss Lanning turned quite pale; her green eyes widened in horror. “Oh, you must never, ever tell him. He would be furious. I have been living with my Aunt Browning, you see, my mother’s sister, but I cannot like her, and I have been quite miserable. When Thomas wrote to say that he was married . . . well, you see, I just had to come. You will take me in, will you not? Thomas is my guardian, and I simply cannot bear to stay with my aunt another moment now that Thomas has a wife and a real house and—”
Relia held up a hand to stem the spate of words. Silence fell. She noted that both Gussie and Jake Fairchild were watching this family drama with avid fascination. “Am I to understand,” the new Mrs. Lanning asked with care, “that you wish to live here at Pevensey Park?”
Miss Lanning clasped her hands in front of the top buttons of her rumpled green velvet pelisse. “Oh, yes, oh, please! I’ll be good, I promise. I beg of you, do not send me back to Aunt Browning.”
And, of course, Aurelia could not. Yet how could Thomas not have told her he had a sister? The dangers the child had been subject to, traveling all alone from . . . from wherever she had lived.
Jake Fairchild was thanked for his timely rescue and taken off to the kitchens for a bite to eat and a replacement for his interrupted pint at the Pig’s Whistle. And Gussie, patently overjoyed at the opportunity to exercise her governessing skills once again, was whisking Miss Lanning out the door when the newest member of the household paused, announcing, “I don’t really like Olivia. I would much prefer to be called Eleanor.”
“But what would your brother say?” Miss Aldershot asked.
“I daresay he won’t mind,” Miss Lanning replied airily. “Eleanor Ebersley is his mistress, and she’s ever so grand. It is my fondest wish to be just like her.”
~ * ~
Chapter Eleven
“Charles!” Thomas Lanning, clutching his wife’s letter in his hand, bawled once again, “Charles!”
Since Mr. Lanning’s many enterprises required Charles Saunders’s undivided attention, the young solicitor had the sometimes dubious honor of a spacious office next to his employ
er’s own. It was, therefore, not necessary for Thomas Lanning’s furious bellow to carry all the way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
“Oh, there you are!” Thomas growled as Charles appeared. He thrust the letter into his friend’s hand.
“Good God!” Mr. Saunders breathed as he scanned the missive from Pevensey Park. “I knew Livvy was a minx, but this . . .” Charles pinned his friend with an accusing gaze. “Is it true you never told Mrs. Lanning you had a sister?”
“We departed rather precipitately, as you recall.”
“You had three whole days in Tunbridge—” Charles broke off, his classically pale English complexion turning puce. “Beg pardon. Most stupid of me.”
“If you are implying I was distracted by connubial bliss, you are fair and far out, I assure you,” Thomas responded grimly.
“Whyever not?” Purple succeeded puce as Mr. Saunders choked, coughed, pounded his forehead with his fist. “Beg pardon. I fear I left my brains at home with my breakfast.”
“No, no,” Thomas demurred, “’tis I who am all about in my head. I had not anticipated . . . so many—ah—complications in this marriage. I was notified yesterday that Nicholas has been sent down,” he added with seeming irrelevance.”
“The devil you say!”
“Charles”—Thomas sighed—“are you quite, quite sure you cannot lend me support when I go down to Pevensey?”
“Quite,” Mr. Saunders stated firmly. “M’mother would have me boiled in oil and served to the poor on Boxing Day like leftover Christmas goose.”
“Then God help me,” said Thomas Lanning.
A Gamble on Love Page 10
