The Accidental Wedding

by Anne Gracie

  Twelve

  “You, too,” Maddy told Nash. “Outside please.”

  “I’ll stay,” Nash said grimly. Suddenly he was no longer tired.

  She flung him an incredulous look. “Are you mad? I can’t let him know I have a man staying here! Out, quickly! He’s here!” A heavy knock sounded at the front door.

  She was right, he knew, but he was damned if he’d leave her alone with that fellow. She’d sent the children away for a reason.

  Besides, he wanted to hear what Harris had to say. Swearing under his breath Nash climbed into the bed and drew the curtains, leaving a small gap to watch through.

  He was fed up with hiding. It went right against the grain, even though he knew there was a sound reason. But he was a man, dammit, not a mouse.

  “Mr. Harris, how do you do? Please come in,” he heard Maddy say.

  Harris mumbled something and entered. He stood, his arms folded, legs braced apart, looking around the cottage with a proprietorial air. “So, you haven’t packed yet?”

  “As you see,” Maddy said politely.

  “I don’t suppose it’ll take you long,” Harris said bluntly. “Not much to pack.”

  As before, Harris seated himself without being invited to. His breeches were even tighter, his waistcoat more garishly embroidered, and even from the bed, Nash could smell the man’s scented pomade.

  Maddy placed a pot of tea and some cups and saucers on the table. “Did you inform Mr. Renfrew or his brother, the earl, that Sir Jasper promised me we could stay here, in exchange for honey, until John turns twenty-one?” Her tone was mild, conversational.

  “I told you, no record of that promise exists in the estate records.” He leaned back, balanced on two legs of the chair, looking smug and totally in command.

  Nash prayed for the chair to break.

  Maddy said pleasantly, “I didn’t ask if you’d found evidence of the promise, I asked whether you told Mr. Renfrew or his brother about it.”

  “Of course I didn’t.” Harris picked his nails in a show of supreme indifference. “The Honorable Mr. Renfrew has better things to do than worry about a claim that can’t be proven. And he made it very clear that he wants you out of this cottage at once.”

  The devil he did, Nash thought. To his best recollection he’d never exchanged a word with this fellow. All immediate estate questions had been referred to Marcus.

  Then again his memory hadn’t been the most reliable lately. But it didn’t make sense to be making decisions about an estate when he’d never inspected it. Neither he nor Marcus would do such a thing. Their father had drilled them both in the principles of estate management.

  And to throw a woman and children out of their home? He didn’t need a memory to tell him he’d never do such a thing, and nor would Marcus, so what the devil was Harris up to?

  Maddy said, “I thought that might be the case, which is why I wrote to Lord Alverleigh himself and explained the whole situation. Tea?” She picked up the teapot and gave him a bright, false smile.

  With a scowl, Harris pushed the cup aside. “Not for me.” He glanced around the room. “So where’s the letter? I’ll forward it for you.”

  Maddy poured herself a tea, added a little honey, and stirred it thoroughly before answering. “Oh, I posted it myself. Rev. Matheson had a copy of Debrett’s Peerage, you know, the book that lists all the peers of the kingdom and—”

  “I know what Debrett’s is.”

  “Such an interesting volume, is it not? And so I found the address of the Earl of Alverleigh and sent the letter off myself.”

  Harris glared at her. Maddy sipped her tea, apparently oblivious of his annoyance.

  He grunted. “Well, I’m not here to talk about letters. I’m here to collect the rent. Five pounds now, and no excuses.”

  “Of course.” She fetched the tin.

  Harris blinked in surprise. “You’ve got five pounds?”

  “Not exactly.” She struggled with the lid of the tin, which appeared stuck. “I still say it’s an exorbitant rent and I intend to take it up with Mr. Renfrew when he gets here—”

  “I’m warning you—”

  She placed the ten pound banknote on the table between them. “I assume you can give me change?”

  Harris stared at the banknote in disbelief, then picked it up and examined it carefully. He went to put it in his pocket but she twitched it nimbly from his fingers. “My change first, if you please,” she said in a firm but pleasant voice.

  Grudgingly Harris fished in his coat pocket and pulled out a fistful of change. “Where the hell did the likes of you get a sum like this?” he growled as he picked through the coins.

  Her brows rose and she said crisply, “Where I got it is not your concern, Mr. Harris. All that should interest you is that I can pay.”

  With a bad grace, he tossed onto the table two sovereigns, three half sovereigns, a crown, six half crowns, and five florins. As Maddy counted up the coins, Harris reached for the ten-pound note.

  In an instant, she slid it back across the table. “The receipt first, if you would be so good?” She stacked up the five pounds in coins he’d given her beside it.

  “Receipt?” His face reddened. “Receipt?”

  She kept her tone mild. “I believe it’s standard business practice.”

  “Standard business practice!” He snorted. “What would you know of standard business practice? Or did Sir Jasper issue a receipt each time he dipped his wick in your honey pot?”

  There was a sudden silence, then a loud slap echoed through the cottage.

  Through the gap in the curtains, Nash could see Maddy leaning over the table, the picture of outraged female fury. He moved but she met his gaze squarely. Get back, her look said. This is my battle.

  It took all of Nash’s willpower to obey. If the bastard made one move toward her . . .

  Harris jerked to his feet, knocking his chair backward, a hand to his cheek. “You little bitch!”

  “How dare you!” Maddy blazed. “There was nothing, nothing improper in our friendship. Sir Jasper was a gallant old gentleman who knew my grandmother. And for her sake, he gave us this place and accepted honey as rent to save my pride!”

  Harris sneered. “Save your pride? More like get his hands on your pretty hide, which is what I—” He lurched toward Maddy, his beefy hands reaching out.

  Nash stepped from the alcove. “That’s quite enough!” His voice was like a lash.

  Harris swung around and stared, taking in Nash’s stubbled chin, his riding breeches, the shirt open at the throat and with the arms rolled up, no coat, neckcloth, or waistcoat and, most damning of all, no shoes or stockings. “Who’s this? Your fancy man, eh? Now I see how you got your ten-pound note, earned it on your ba—”

  Nash punched Harris in the face.

  Harris reeled and staggered back. “You bastard.” He rallied and swung a blow at Nash, but beefy brute though he was, Nash was well skilled in the art of boxing. He blocked it easily.

  “Watch your language. There’s a lady present,” Nash snapped.

  Harris made a rude sound. “Lady? That little slu—”

  Again Nash’s fist smashed into Harris’s face. “Apologize.”

  Harris grabbed a chair and swung it at Nash. He ducked but it caught him a glancing blow on the face. He wrenched it from Harris’s grasp and tossed it aside.

  “Apologize,” Nash repeated.

  “To her? You might take an old man’s leavings but—”

  This time Nash’s blow sent Harris sprawling on the stone flags. He lay there, cowering, his nose bleeding profusely.

  Nash stood over him, panting, his fists clenched. “I said, apologize to the lady.”

  Maddy tugged at his elbow. “He’s had enough, Mr. Rider.”

  Nash didn’t budge.

  “Sorry, miss,” Harris mumbled through his handkerchief. It was halfhearted at best.

  Nash was tempted to thrash a proper apology out of the fellow, but M
addy clung to his arm so tightly he lowered his fists and stepped away.

  Still on the floor, Harris snuffled noisily into his handkerchief. “I’ll have the magistrate onto you,” he mumbled in a very different tone from the way he’d apologized a moment earlier. “See if I don’t. Onto the pair o’ you.”

  “Do so with my goodwill,” Nash said crisply. “And then you can explain to the magistrate why you’ve been threatening this lady—”

  “Threatening? I never did.” He heaved himself to his feet and gave Maddy a venomous glare. “Did she tell you that, the little—”

  Nash took a step forward. Harris hastily scuttled sideways like a crab, putting the table between himself and Nash. He blotted blood from his nose. “You got no right—”

  “Get out,” Nash said coldly. “You’re dismissed. Go and evict yourself from wherever you live, and if I catch you on my property again, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.”

  Harris’s brows gnashed together. “Evict myself? What the ’ell are you talking about? Your property?”

  Nash gave a slight ironic bow. “Nash Renfrew, at your service. The Honorable Nash Renfrew.”

  There was a long silence. Over his bloodied handkerchief, Harris glanced from Nash to Maddy and then back to Nash. “That’s a lie,” he sneered, taking his cue from Maddy’s surprised expression. “You heard me talking to her and—”

  “I did,” Nash agreed. “I heard you issue orders in my name that you never received from me and which I’ll take my oath you never received from my brother. I heard you demand sums of money you had no right to demand, and”—his tone grew icy—“I heard you try to evict a young woman and five orphaned children, and when she demanded a fair hearing, you impugned her honor and the honor of my late uncle, Sir Jasper Brownrigg.”

  Harris mopped his bloodied face with a grubby handkerchief. His gaze darted back and forth between the two of them, gauging Maddy’s bewilderment against Nash’s icy poise.

  “I don’t believe you. She called you Rider before.”

  Nash shrugged. “A name from childhood.” He could feel Maddy’s gaze on him. She wasn’t yet convinced it wasn’t a clever bluff on his part.

  Harris shook his head, unconvinced. “Nash Renfrew lives abroad.”

  “Usually I do, but at the moment, I’m home.”

  “Prove you’re him,” Harris said belligerently, clutching the edge of the table.

  Nash shrugged. “I have no documents, if that’s what you mean. But I have no need to prove myself to such as you.”

  Harris gave a triumphant smile. “Because it’s all lies, and so I’ll tell the magistrate.”

  Nash said coolly, “Go ahead.”

  Harris glared, hostile yet baffled.

  Nash’s energy was fading fast. His ankle and head were throbbing. He leaned inconspicuously on the edge of the bed and mused aloud, “Is Ferring still the butler at my uncle’s house? I haven’t been to Whitethorn since I was a child, but I don’t imagine I’ve changed so much. And the housekeeper, what was her name? Terrifying woman—oh, yes, Mrs. Pickens. If you can produce them, they’ll vouch for me.”

  A hunted expression crept over Harris’s face. “Someone told you those names,” he blustered. He jabbed an accusatory look at Maddy, but she was staring at Nash, looking just as puzzled.

  Nash waved a hand. “By all means tell the magistrate so.” He straightened, flexed his fingers, then formed two fists, and in a voice of steel said, “Now, I thought I told you to leave.”

  Harris eyed the ten-pound note still sitting on the table and reached for it.

  “Leave it!” Nash ordered.

  “What about my five quid in change?” Harris said belligerently.

  “Compensation to the lady for the disturbance.”

  Harris scowled, wincing as he did from the cuts and bruises on his face. “I’ll get you back, both of you,” he swore as he stumbled from the cottage. “You see if I don’t.”

  Maddy plonked a bowl of hot salty water, some rags, and a salve for cuts on the table. The water sloshed over the rim; she didn’t care. “Is it true?”

  The hands washing the blood off them stilled. “That I’m Nash Renfrew? Yes, it’s true.” He dried his hands on a towel.

  Maddy looked away, too upset to meet his gaze. So, he was Nash Renfrew—the Honorable Nash Renfrew—brother of an earl, no less. Her lodger. Her landlord.

  And a big fat liar!

  “How long have you known?”

  He folded the towel carefully and put it on the table. As if tidiness would somehow appease her. “Since Harris’s visit yesterday.”

  A tight, angry feeling lodged in her chest. He’d chosen to not to tell her.

  “It was the most extraordinary thing,” he explained, oblivious. “It was hearing Harris speak the names: mine, my brother Marcus’s, and Uncle Jasper’s. It shook something, some blockage, free and suddenly it all fell into place.” He smiled at her, as if expecting her to celebrate with him.

  She stared at the bowl of dirty water and thought about dumping it over his thick, handsome head. Did he have no idea of the position he’d put her in? And how stupid he’d made her feel?

  And how hurt?

  The intimacies they’d exchanged, those tender kisses . . . She’d shared her past with him, telling him about her life in France . . . They’d buried the bees together, worked in her ruined garden and all the time, all the time he knew.

  “So, you got your memory back, just like that—how lovely!—but didn’t think to mention it at the time?” Why wait so long to reveal it? And to Harris, of all people. Why not to her? Didn’t he trust her? She’d saved his stupid life, risked her reputation to keep him safe.

  “I started to, but—”

  “But?”

  “You left, and by the time you got back I’d decided it would be better if you didn’t know who I really was.”

  “And. Why. Was. That. Pray?” Maddy sat on her hands to stop her fingers curling into fists. Did he have no idea of the damage he’d done her? Did he think nobody would find out that for all these days—and nights!—she’d had the lord of the manor in her bed?

  “I wanted to find out what Harris was up to.”

  She snorted. “And I would have done everything I could to prevent you finding that out, of course.”

  “In a way. You’d have wanted me to leave.”

  “Hah! So I was right all along—it was a bribe—a bribe to let you stay on here!”

  He looked puzzled. “You knew that.”

  “No! I thought it was because you didn’t want to stay with the vicar—your oft-vaunted allergy to clergy and all. But that doesn’t wash!” Too angry and hurt to stay in the same room with him, she got up and stalked to the door. “You didn’t have to go to the vicar’s; you could have gone to your own house, to Whitethorn Manor, not two miles away, with a dozen beds to choose from and a handful of servants to take care of you.”

  She wrenched open the door. “Instead you chose to hide your identity from me, bribe me, and then, after all our secrecy, you must reveal yourself to the one person in the village who wishes me ill!” She grabbed her cloak from the hook and left, slamming the door behind her.

  She ran into the garden, battling tears of rage and frustration. And hurt.

  He didn’t need to give her that ten pounds. He’d let her sweat over that letter to his brother, when all the time he’d known there was no need. He could have solved all her problems with a wave of his hand.

  And that ridiculous charade about his brother’s address and Debrett’s—how he must have laughed up his sleeve at that one!

  He’d even poked through her most private things and she’d forgiven him, eventually—the poor man who’d lost his memory!

  What a fool she’d been, a stupid, trusting fool! It would be all over the village soon that he’d jumped from her bed, half dressed and without his boots! And in broad daylight! Defending her honor!

  Her honor! That was rich! The Honorab
le Nash Blockhead had no idea of the fix he’d put her in.

  Nobody would believe she was innocent, that nothing had happened between them. Except that foolish Maddy Woodford had gone and given her heart in exchange for a few tender kisses. Heartbreaking kisses!

  Kisses for a foolish, gullible girl from a lying rake!

  The villagers would think the worst. Everyone would believe she’d tried to trap the lord of the manor into marriage. And failed.

  The man never suffered, was never blamed. It was always the woman.

  She’d been walking—storming along—with no thought for where she was going. Now she came to a sudden, sickening standstill. Without thinking, she’d headed for her favorite place to take her troubles to—the beehives.

  The empty hive spaces were still charred and sticky from the fire. A sick feeling welled up in her. There were no bees to tell her troubles to. Grand-mère was dead. She didn’t even have a child to hug. And her life was in ruins.

  She burst into tears.

  She sat on the cold, stone seat, tears of anger and misery and betrayal pouring down her cheeks. How long since she’d cried, really cried? She couldn’t remember. When she’d buried Grand-mère probably. Or when she’d closed up their cottage for the last time. Not for Papa. His death had been a blessed release.

  She wept until she had no more tears.

  She took a deep, shuddery breath and stood up, calm and weary. The storm of tears had done her good, like a rainstorm that washed away the detritus, leaving everything clear.

  She scrubbed the tearstains from her cheeks and took the path next to the forest. It was a favorite walk, the still, silent forest on one side, green rolling hills on the other, and it led to the top of the hill, where you could see for miles in several directions.

  She loved that view, loved knowing herself a tiny creature in a huge landscape. It always put her problems into perspective, that view.

  The trees were already budding with green tips. In the fields, snowdrops bloomed in drifts, their dainty heads nodding like shy maidens. Several fields over, a couple of lambs, bright white against the grass, stood on long, ungainly legs, drinking from their mothers, their tails wiggling in delight. Spring was all around her.