The Accidental Wedding

by Anne Gracie

  The butler looked even more unhappy and introduced him to Mrs. Goode, the cook, and her niece, Emily, some sort of housemaid or kitchen maid, Nash presumed.

  “There is a great deal to be done,” Nash told Ferring. “But first I must write some letters. I’ll require four grooms to deliver them on horseback: one to ride to Bath, another to London, one to Alverleigh, my brother’s house, and the fourth to Firmin Court, which is near Ferne, in the next county.”

  Ferring and Mrs. Pickens exchanged glances. Perhaps they were out of the habit of grooms delivering notes, but Nash had no time to waste. “In addition I’ll need my uncle’s carriage—I presume he has something better than the antiquated vehicle he had last time I was here.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “Good God. What did he use?”

  “Nothing, sir. Sir Jasper rarely left the estate.”

  “Oh, well, you’ll have to send someone to hire one—”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Ferring quavered. “But I don’t see how I could manage it.”

  “Why not?” Nash suddenly realized the problem. The old man probably should have been pensioned off years ago. “Very well,” he said in a gentler voice. “Assemble all the staff in the library in fifteen minutes and I will find someone to run the errands myself.”

  “But, sir, the staff is already assembled,” Ferring told him. “Where?” Nash looked down the hallway.

  “Here, sir.” Ferring gestured with a sweep of his arm.

  With a sinking feeling, Nash stared at his staff. All four of them. Not counting the groom who’d taken his horse. “I suppose Grainger is the only groom left?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “Any horses?”

  “Just the one that pulls the gig, sir, for shopping and to take us to church on Sundays.”

  Nash ran his fingers through his hair. No doubt the horse was as slow and elderly as the retainers. A skeleton staff was one thing—that was normal when the family was not in residence—but he suspected he was about to discover years of neglect.

  “Ferring, I’ll speak to you and Mrs. Pickens in the library in fifteen minutes, and then I want to speak to you all twenty minutes after that—that includes Grainger and the gardener, if there is one. Anyone who currently works on the estate.”

  “The estate manager, Mr. Harris?”

  “Not Harris. I’ve already met him. And Ferring, bring down all my uncle’s boots.” Catching Ferring’s expression, Nash added, “I hope to find boots to fit me; you can see the state of mine.”

  Ferring glanced at the ribbon-wrapped boot and his face resumed its human expression.

  In the next fifteen minutes, Nash dashed off two identical letters to Aunt Maude—two because he wasn’t sure whether she was in Bath or London—a hasty note to Marcus, and a fourth letter to accompany the items he extracted from the cloth bundle that Grainger had brought in. He wrapped them in brown paper and tied it up with string.

  He started a fifth letter to Harry and Nell at Firmin Court, but recalling the difficulty in finding delivery boys, decided they could do without. He hoped they liked surprises.

  Ferring coughed at the door, his arms full of boots. Nash tried several pairs on, but the boots were too small.

  “Pity.” He set them aside. “Now, a tour of the house, if you please.”

  Fifteen minutes later he’d inspected most of the house. Its condition wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. It was old and shabby and worn at the edges, but that was no surprise in the home of an elderly bachelor. With a little spit and polish, it would do, at a pinch.

  He returned to the library, seated himself at the large carved oak desk, and called in the rest of the staff. They filed in, their faces glum.

  “I’m about to be married,” he told them. “The wedding will be on Friday week, which gives you just over a week to prepare for guests.”

  Their jaws collectively dropped. “How many guests do you expect, sir?” Mrs. Pickens asked hesitantly.

  “Not many, just my aunt, Lady Gosforth; my brother, the Earl of Alverleigh; my half brother, Mr. Morant; and his wife, Lady Helen Morant; and possibly some others. And, of course, their servants—my aunt will bring her dresser, her coachman, and several grooms. Oh, and of course the bride, Miss Madeleine Woodford, and her siblings—five children under the age of twelve, so the nursery will need to be opened.”

  “Five children?” Ferring quavered.

  Nash frowned. “Is that a problem?”

  The old man looked about to burst into tears. “Oh no, sir, it’s just that, that . . .”

  Mrs. Pickens stepped forward. “It’s just that the last child that was in this house was yourself, sir. And may I say”—she glanced at the butler—“and I speak for us all, sir, that it’s been too long since this old place had children running about in it.”

  Ferring pulled out a handkerchief and blew on it loudly, nodding vigorously to show his agreement with the sentiments expressed. “Whitethorn will be a family home again, as it was when I was a boy.”

  “Only for a week I’m afraid, and then I’m closing it down—”

  “Closing it down?”

  “For repairs and refurbishment. I’ll be returning to Russia shortly, but this will be our country home. I will, of course, keep you all on here. Those who wish to retire will receive a pension.”

  There was an almost audible exhaling of breath.

  Nash continued. “First things first. I want the house thoroughly cleaned, the rooms opened up, the bedrooms scrubbed, the sheets and bedding aired, and . . .” He made a vague gesture. “You will know better than I what needs to be done.” He turned to Grainger. “I haven’t inspected the stables yet—”

  “All tidy and shipshape, sir,” Grainger said.

  Nash wasn’t surprised. “Good man. You’ll be busy, too. Most of the visitors will bring their own grooms and drivers, but you’ll need to get in supplies and manage the whole.”

  Grainger’s eyes gleamed. “Like the old days, it’ll be, sir. Be good to see the stables busy again.”

  Nash looked at the cook. “Mrs. Goode, can you cook for that number of guests? And for a small reception for the wedding guests, after the ceremony?”

  “I can, as long as they don’t mind good country cooking—there’ll be none of your fancy French dishes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Now, Ferring—”

  But the cook wasn’t finished with him. “And if you give me a proper budget, freedom to order what I want, and if you give me the help I require.” She tilted her jaw pugnaciously.

  Mrs. Pickens and Ferring whispered in an agitated manner to her, but she only set her jaw more firmly and said, “And I want my wages. And Emily’s.” At which Ferring and Mrs. Pickens fluttered in visible distress. Grainger stared at a spot on the carpet, plainly wishing himself elsewhere.

  Nash raised a brow. “Your wages?”

  “She didn’t mean anything by it—” Mrs. Pickens began, but Nash held up his hand.

  “What do you mean, you want your wages, Mrs. Goode?”

  “I’m owed nearly six months,” she told him with nervous belligerence. She jerked her head toward the other servants. “And they’re owed more, though they won’t say how much. I’ve gotten some money out of him but only when I’ve threatened him with the law.”

  “You’re speaking of Harris, I presume?”

  “I am.”

  “He’s in arrears with your wages?” Why was Nash not surprised? “How long?” he asked each of them, and when they told him, he was shocked.

  Except for the cook, who was obviously a woman to be reckoned with, the others hadn’t been paid in more than a year—since before Sir Jasper had died. Harris had claimed he had no authority to pay wages. The heir’s instructions, he said; he was only following orders. It would all be sorted out when the heir took over. All Harris did was pay for their food, and even that, according to Mrs. Goode, was a niggardly amount.

  “But why have you all stayed s
o long?” Nash asked, appalled, and found they couldn’t afford to leave. They had nowhere else to go.

  “I will sort everything out,” he promised them. “I sacked Harris yesterday.”

  “Sacked him?” All the servants brightened.

  “Yes, he had no authority to handle matters the way he has. I apologize most profoundly for the situation you’ve been in. Naturally I’ll make up the deficit in your wages.”

  “Would it be you, sir, who gave Harris the black eye and the bruises he was sporting at the inn last night?” Grainger enquired laconically.

  “I don’t tolerate incivility to women,” was all Nash said. He pulled out his roll of banknotes—thank goodness he’d come well provided—and peeled off a number of notes. “Ferring, here is five pounds for each of you owed wages. The rest is to be used for immediate needs. Present me with a list of what is owed and I will make up the balance. You and Mrs. Pickens have carte blanche to take on temporary staff; do not stint, I want this place to be sparkling clean, the garden to be tidied, and the grass to be cut.

  “Grainger, hire some likely lads from the village to help you out in the stables, and also to deliver my letters.”

  He turned to the cook. “Mrs. Goode, draw up an estimate of your requirements for the week to come—food and staff—and present it to Mrs. Pickens for approval. Again, do not stint. I want my guests to be as comfortable and well fed as we can make them. I’m leaving almost immediately but will return in a day or so. Questions?”

  They were too shocked to say a word.

  Nash stood. “Grainger, come with me to Harris’s house. I told him to be quit of it immediately, but I must warn you, if he’s there, it’s bound to get ugly.”

  “In that case, it’ll be a pleasure, sir,” Grainger said with a grin.

  “Good man.”

  Nash took his pistol from the portmanteau that Grainger had brought in, checked it, then placed it in the pocket of his coat. “I intend to have him arrested. I’ll need to examine the estate records, but there’s no doubt in my mind there are criminal charges to answer. The man’s no fool, however, so I expect he is long gone.”

  “Not so sure of that, sir,” Grainger said. “Harris was dead drunk in the inn by closing time last night. Couldn’t hardly sit his horse, so I reckon he’ll wake late. And in an ugly mood.”

  Nash wished now he had knocked the man cold and conveyed him to a magistrate then and there, but it was too late for such regrets.

  “That’s the house.” Grainger pointed to a solid-looking gray stone house on the edge of the estate. Smoke curled from one of the chimneys. Someone was home. curled from one of the chimneys. Someone was home.

  “Go around the back,” Nash told Grainger. He knocked on the front door. No answer. He knocked again. Silence.

  He peered in at the windows but could see no sign of anyone. After a few minutes, Grainger came back.

  “He’s gone, sir. His horse isn’t in the stable. He hasn’t been gone long, though; there are warm horse droppings near the back door. And he don’t keep any servants. Can’t, I should say. Can’t get nobody to live in. Only dailies.”

  Nash picked up a stone, intending to break in, but Grainger stopped him. “Back door’s only on the latch, sir.”

  Inside, they smelled a strong stench of burning. They found the estate office fireplace gushing smoke and a fire smoldering, half smothered under a pile of papers and heavy, bound books.

  “The estate accounts!” Nash dived toward the fireplace and dragged the smoldering pile onto the hearth, ruining his gloves in the process. Most of the papers were unreadable, but books didn’t burn so easily. The edges were charred but they were still usable.

  “Good thing he was so mashed last night,” Grainger commented. “In no fit state to destroy the evidence.”

  Nash went through the office, making a pile of whatever he thought was relevant. He wrapped them in an oil-proof cloth and tucked the bundle under his arm.

  “I’ll take these away with me,” he said as Grainger locked up behind them. “Find me a couple of trustworthy men to stay here. If Harris comes back, they’re to arrest him and take him to the local magistrate on my authority.”

  Grainger grinned. “I know just the men. Be a pleasure for them to deal with Mr. Harris, I reckon.”

  As they passed the stables, Nash was reminded of the need for transport. “Where can I hire a carriage to transport six people as far as the next county?”

  “Have to ride into Salisbury, I reckon. Unless the vicar will lend you his traveling chaise,” he added as an afterthought. “It’s a fine vehicle.”

  “Excellent,” Nash said. “I’ll speak to him this afternoon.”

  It occurred to Nash suddenly that he was expecting rather a lot from a small group of servants getting on in years and possibly set in their ways. “I’m not asking too much of you all, am I, Grainger? Expecting you to perform a small miracle in such a short time? Be honest now, I won’t hold it against you.”

  Grainger laughed. “Mr. Renfrew, sir, I’m going to be the most popular man in the village, I reckon, handing out jobs, right, left, and center. Same goes for Ferring and Mrs. Pickens. And Mrs. Goode. Don’t you worry about us, sir. We know how the old house ought to be, and it’ll be our pleasure as much as yours to see it brought back to rights.”

  Nash gave a satisfied nod. “Excellent. Then if you could bring my horse around, I’ll be off to see a vicar about a chaise.”

  As Nash crested the hill that led down to the vicarage, he couldn’t help but glance across at Maddy’s cottage. What the devil? A smart traveling chaise and four matched bays waited on the road outside her cottage. A coachman sat on top, and a groom in plain gray livery walked the horses back and forth so they wouldn’t take a chill in the cold breeze.

  Who was bothering her now? He left the road and galloped toward the cottage.

  He approached from the back so he wouldn’t be seen and quietly entered by the back door. Voices were raised in argument, two female and one male, voices he recognized. The male was his brother, Marcus.

  Nash leaned against the doorway, just out of sight, and unashamedly eavesdropped.

  “He said there was funny business going on here and I don’t doubt it!” Marcus at his most cold and menacing.

  “Oh, sir, Miss Maddy would never—” Lizzie began.

  Maddy cut her off. “What sort of funny business, pray?” Her tone of voice would be a warning to any other man. A man who understood anything about women, that was. Not his brother.

  Nash folded his arms and settled back to enjoy the exchange. Flame meeting ice. There was no doubt in his mind who would win.

  “He said I should meet all of your demands but—”

  “Demands?” Maddy was outraged. “I never made any demands of him or his brother. I wrote a perfectly civil—”

  “I have written evidence, madam,” Marcus’s voice was an icy whiplash. “In which my client begged me to give you whatever you asked for, and that, I tell you, is not at all like—”

  His client? What the devil was Marcus playing at? He didn’t have any clients.

  “I don’t believe you! There was no reason for him to—”

  “Enough! If you don’t produce him this instant, I’ll have my man fetch the local magistrate.”

  “Oh, your honor, sir, Miss Maddy never done nothing wro—”

  “Be quiet, Lizzie, I have no need to defend myself.” Maddy’s voice sharpened. “I tell you he left here this morning, perfectly unharmed—”

  Marcus snorted. “Without his boots? I think not!”

  “Of course he wore his boots.”

  “He told me they’d been slashed. And to bring these.” Nash peeped around the corner and saw his brother brandish a pair of boots. Excellent.

  Marcus continued, “How could he go out without boots? Now, enough of these evasions, madam: produce your prisoner, or I shall send for the magistrate.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, he’
s not my prisoner, he never was my prisoner, and he left here of his own volition!” Maddy said through audibly gritted teeth. “And his boots were ruined, at least one was, but he tied it on with black ribbons.”

  “With black ribbons?” Marcus said in frigid disbelief. “You show your ignorance, madam. Na—my client is always immaculately dressed and complete to a shade: he would never tie his boots on with black ribbons. He wouldn’t be seen dead in boots tied with—”

  “Ah, but as you see, my standards have slipped sadly.” Nash sauntered in.

  “Nash!” Marcus exclaimed. “You’re all right?”

  “In the pink, as you see.” Nash smiled and spread his hands. “Afternoon, Marcus. Miss Woodford, Lizzie, I see you’ve met my brother, Marcus, the Earl of Alverleigh.”

  Marcus’s gaze ran over him quickly, freezing on Nash’s left boot. His brow arched, seeing the black ribbons tied in neat bows.

  “Oh my Lord,” Lizzie moaned.

  “What?” Marcus glanced at her.

  “Oh, no, I meant . . .” Lizzie sheepishly pointed to the heavens. Marcus’s eyes glazed.

  “Your brother?” Maddy gasped. “The Earl of Alverleigh? I thought he was some kind of lawyer. He said as much—”

  “Implied,” Marcus corrected her frostily. “I simply referred to ‘my client’ and you jumped to the conclusion.”

  “No, you deliberately misled me,” Maddy began. She was practically toe-to-toe with his brother.

  “And you defied me, madam.”

  “Children, children, stop this unseemly brangling,” Nash said soothingly, though truth to tell he was enjoying the sight of his fiery little fiancée ripping into his normally cool, contained brother.

  They both ignored him. “Why did you not simply tell me who you were? Why stalk in here under false pretenses and start throwing threats around?” Maddy demanded.

  Nash would wager nobody had ever spoken to Marcus like that in his life. He had their father’s knack of silent intimidation.

  It obviously didn’t work on Maddy.

  Marcus stared down his long nose at her. “Because I was under the impression that Nash was injured and being held prisoner by you, possibly to prevent him leaving, or possibly in exchange for a pair of new boots. That part was not clear.”