He started to frown again, but stopped himself in time. Why did thoughts of Annette intrude? Here he was in the company of one of the Toasts, and he kept remembering a
plain, outspoken spinster from the Wiltshire countryside. What was wrong with him?
'Tell me, Miss Holbrook, do you ever think about the poor?"
She blinked at him.
He berated himself. Now, what made him blurt out such a question? Those memories of Annette were addling his brain.
'The poor?" she repeated. "You wish to talk about the poor?"
In for a penny, in for a pound. He put on an expression of interest and discovered he did want to know the girl's opinion. "Yes, do you ever do charity work for them?"
Rallying from her surprise, she smiled flirtatiously at him. "Why, Sir Gerard. You know a young girl like myself cannot visit such dreadful places. Although I do feel so sorry for them."
"You have a kind nature," he said.
She smiled at him, her head held at an angle so he could notice her large blue eyes. "It just breaks my heart when I see them begging." She paused, waiting for his next compliment.
He responded mechanically, "Such a scene should never intrude upon the gaze of your lovely eyes. Only beauty."
"It is sad to see." Miss Holbrook pushed her food around on her plate with her fork and began to expound on the topic. "They should be working. It is only their laziness that keeps them in such poverty."
His gaze sharpened upon her. "Do you think so? Perhaps work is not available."
Her laugh trilled out in a carefully practiced melody. "You are such a tease. Of course there is work."
He did not react to her coquetry. Somehow, after knowing Annette, the topic of poverty did not seem one for frivolity. What had possessed him to start such a conversation at a rout? Of course, Annette could have talked a whole lecture on the needs of the local people. Broad theories had no place on her list of specific village needs.
"I could never argue with a lovely lady," he said. "But perhaps the wages they earn are not enough for them to live on."
She blinked her eyes, plainly not understanding his earnestness.
He smiled as he stood to escort her back to her chaper-one. Yet inwardly, he rebuked himself. Miss Holbrook was only a young girl with no understanding of the world outside her protected circle. A very pretty girl, she only seemed so shallow when compared to Annette. It was not Miss Holbrook's fault that she was not the woman he wanted.
At the thought, Sir Gerard paused, causing his companion to look at him in puzzlement.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"No," he answered distractedly, trying to understand that wayward thought. The woman he wanted? Annette? What was he thinking of? His whole life had been spent attaining the pinnacle of society's approval. Now he could dance with any beauty he desired, and no one would rush his intended partner away. In fact, the chaperones encouraged him to cast his glance towards their charges.
He had wanted to dance with Miss Holbrook and was glad of the opportunity, so why did the girl seem like such a child? With relief, he surrendered his partner back to her mother's care. From the glance the girl bestowed upon
him, he assumed she was reluctant to leave, but more than two dances in an evening with the same partner, and he might as well send the engagement notice to the Times. He was not ready to select his bride from the current crop of hopeful debutantes.
Heading towards the punch bowl, he hoped to regain his first eager pleasure in the round of society's events. He surveyed the group of young girls crowding the room in their finery. Because they wore the white dresses of debutantes, they were easy to notice.
He saw pretty ones, plain ones, those who dressed with elegance, and those who did not. Girls of every shape and hue swarmed in the room like bees to a flower, displaying their charms and hoping to attract a husband. The successful girls had a group of men hovering around them. The cacophony that resulted from so much flirtatious conversation trumpeted in his ears.
Yet not one girl appeared any different to him. Despite the outward variations, each one was cut from the same inner material. The similarity disappointed him. Not one of them would ever express a thought contrary to his expressed opinion.
He sipped his punch and missed the spark in his life that Annette had ignited.
As the weeks passed through May into June, Sir Gerard still sought enjoyment from the social round, but now a desperation to find the pleasure in it seemed to dog his every activity. He went from party to rout to ball in a constant whirlwind that brought him no surcease from the pall of boredom which weighed heavier each moment on his spirit. The prosecution of Wallace brought satisfaction, but not the loss of Linton's friendship.
The respectful adulation Sir Gerard met at every social gathering wore on his equanimity. No one disagreed with any of his opinions, no matter how outrageous. Because of this continuous agreement, he had no desire to set up a mistress. Where was the excitement in that? No woman could compare to Annette. Not the giggling debutantes, the serious bluestockings, or the racy widows.
The steward continued to send reports about the estate and the renovations being done on the tenants' cottages. There was no mention of Annette, or even of her school.
It surprised him how much he longed for her expressed opinions or the sight of her capable hands at her sewing or the passionate armful he discovered when he kissed her. Still he clung to the achievement of his dream, which had taken so many years to reach. He was an admired leader of society.
So he told himself while gazing into the looking glass. He tugged at the sleeve of his coat. He was ready for another night in pursuit of pleasure.
Tonight he intended to avoid the parties that clamored throughout the city. He remembered the riotous celebration Linton and he had shared when the news of Sir Nigel's death had reached them. Then, deep play had led him into the clutches of the money-lender. Now the lack of funds was no longer a problem. He had no problems, he told himself firmly.
Sir Gerard nodded with approval. Tonight good fortune smiled upon him. He could feel it in his bones. With a final smoothing of his coat, he headed for the exclusive gaming hells on St. James's Street, where the thrill of winning hands awaited him.
G/iaptet ^fifteen
He lost. Even as he slumped over Silver Shadow for the ride home, Sir Gerard still could not believe it. He had been so sure. His hand had been a winning hand. He knew it. But the cards had not been good enough.
Almost without being aware of it, he guided Silver Shadow through the city's crowds. On this bright May morning, everyone bustled about his business. The cry of the muffin man competed with the shrill shouts of bargaining housewives. A mixture of scents assaulted his nose, dominated by fresh-baked bread, horse, and the smoke from the coal fires that always lingered in the air. The smells turned his stomach.
Or maybe it was the late night of drinking that caused his stomach to heave and his head to whirl in this crowd. He did not know or care. He only sought to reach his home and escape under the bedcovers.
He directed Silver Shadow around a stopped wagon. "Come on, boy," he told the horse. "There is no need to be so miserable. You will recover."
His laugh sounded forced even to his own ears. Yet, there was no reason to wallow in misery. He certainly had
the funds to pay off his losses. Sir Gerard shook his head and then wished he had not. He was acting as if Annette had not returned his fortune to him.
Annette.
She would not be proud of him, if she saw him now. He groaned. Why did he always live up to people's worst expectations about him? If he wanted her to admire him, this was not the path to take. He knew that.
Likely Annette would never know about this night's work. There might be the odd gossip about him in the drawing rooms of London, but he was not so important that the news would leak to Upper Brampton. Not one loss.
Yet a little voice nagged at the back of his mind, "Your uncle heard of your
escapades. Why won't she?"
Only if he continuously repeated the last night's losses would word of them reach the village. Why, they might not even be reported in the society news of the Times.
He would never lose again.
Of course, he had claimed the same thing last evening when he sat down at the green baize table and the promise of good luck had been broken. He wondered what had happened to that promise.
Patting Silver Shadow's neck, he said, "We will keep this just between the two of us. Is that all right, boy?"
The horse tossed his head, and the upset churning within Sir Gerard began to calm. He worried over nothing. After all, he had the money to pay his gambling debts. He just was not yet accustomed to having a fortune at his disposal.
Is it yours to spend?
Sir Gerard abruptly reined in his mount. Where had that thought come from?
He glanced at the crowd eddying around him. Men and women bustled about their errands or cried out their wares. No one had stopped to speak, except perhaps to curse him as an obstacle in their paths. Amid the noise and confusion, they had not posed the question about his ownership.
Shaking his head, he nudged Silver Shadow forward. He must have drunk more than he realized. It would be best if he found his bed before he started seeing things, as well as hearing them.
What a foolish thought! Of course the money was his.
Unbidden, he remembered his tenant Tim Farmer and his new cottage. If Annette had not returned the money when she did, Sir Gerard knew he would not have been able to pay for the building and stove he had promised. As it was, the payment had been a little late, due to the paperwork involved in the transfer of possession. Now he hoped Tubbs the carpenter had not suffered by the delay. The man deserved to be paid promptly for his work. He likely had a family depending upon him.
For the first time, Sir Gerard realized using a draft on his bank would not mean he was the one paying off his debts. Only that he used the labor of others to do so. The people who worked his farms or in the other business interests he now controlled, toiled to create the money he had bet so carelessly.
Like his title, the fortune was only held in life trust. It should serve the needs of the estate. If he were honest, his gambling debts did not serve the needs of the estate. And he was being brutally honest with himself.
His lips thinned. He could not waste their hard work in such a fashion. Maybe if he had never lived in Upper Brampton, his tenants would not have names and faces,
and then he could live ignoring them like the rest of society. But he had lived in the village, and thanks to Annette, he did know their names. In all justice, his work should pay his debts.
He patted Silver Shadow's neck. They were nearly at his apartments, but he did not urge the horse to a faster pace. He needed to consider where he could obtain some money of his own to pay his last gambling debts.
As before, he had no assets and no income to his name. He really only owned his clothes and his horse.
Silver Shadow was an asset.
"No!" He spoke the protest aloud.
Yet even as he cried against the prospect, he realized it was the answer. The sale of his beloved horse would bring in the money he needed.
"I will never bet again," he promised.
Still, his inner sense of justice would not allow him to misuse the fortune he had inherited. Silver Shadow must be sold, and then he would return to Upper Brampton. The need to be in that small village flamed within him. He must escape London. All the promise of the city's delights had turned to ashes when he partook of them. In truth, he had not enjoyed them. Only in Upper Brampton had he enjoyed the life he wanted. Once he finished his business in London, he would return there.
Sir Gerard directed his mount towards the horse sellers at Tattersalls. He would never gamble again. The price was too high.
The mail coach seemed destined to seek out every rut and bump on the road between London and Upper Brampton. Sir Gerard gritted his teeth as the bouncing rattled every bone in his body. Fortunately, he sat near the window and
was able to grasp the strap in an effort to maintain his balance.
The burly man in the middle had nothing to hold onto. His weight shifted with every movement of the coach. Sir Gerard was taking as much of a punishment from the man's body blows as in the attack by Wallace's ruffians. There would certainly be as many bruises.
In addition to the bruising he was receiving, he had to fight off nausea. The overpowering smell of very ripe onions burned the air. The farmer's wife sitting across from him had a basketful of the vegetable on her lap. She had informed her traveling companions she was going to visit her daughter, who had three children. Apparently the onions were part of the many gifts she intended to bestow upon the mother. Or maybe it was the grandchildren. Sir Gerard really did not care to puzzle it out. Instead he concentrated on breathing through his mouth and remaining upright.
He would make no complaint about this trip.
He had to return to Upper Brampton. Now that Silver Shadow had been sold, the mail coach was the fastest way.
In an effort to ignore his surroundings, Sir Gerard tried to remember Upper Brampton. Hathaway Hall sprang into his mind as he wanted the house to be—filled with light and laughter, but the manor house was no longer the lure that reeled him in as it had last January after his uncle's death. Then he had longed to see the hall again and to know that at last it was his.
Hathaway Hall was still his. Familiarity must breed comfortable acceptance, for the house did not appeal so strongly this time. The need for something else burned within him and pulled him home. That was something he had learned. He wanted a home, not a house.
The coach hit a particularly vicious hole, sending the burly man crashing into him. Sir Gerard's breath escaped with a loud whoosh. The onions flew from their basket like rocks thrown by the village boys. One clobbered Sir Gerard's forehead.
The curses of the other passengers rang in the air as they struggled to right themselves in the jouncing vehicle. Sir Gerard would have joined their chorus, if he had not bitten his tongue. Battling to set the burly man upright, at the same time he attempted to reach the handkerchief folded in his coat's pocket. Black spots from the onion blow swam before Sir Gerard's eyes.
"Don't step on them," the farmwife shrieked. "They're gifts for my daughter. She has three little ones, too."
The woman reached down to pick up her onions rolling on the crowded floor between the passengers' feet. Her off-balance posture sent her bumping into their legs. Her foot came down heavily on his polished boot.
"Sorry, sorry," she muttered, gathering up her vegetables.
Sir Gerard smiled painfully as he pressed the handkerchief against the lump forming on his forehead. He would never forget this miserable trip. He missed Silver Shadow more than he thought possible.
But he missed Annette more.
She was the lure that drew him. London had not satisfied him because she had not been there. At every function and activity, he had missed her.
The prospect of seeing her again in Upper Brampton lifted his heart. Momentarily he forgot this wretched coach ride. Anticipation sang through his veins.
Annette. He would see Annette again.
Another vicious jolt of the vehicle reminded him of his
surroundings. With determination, he refused to allow the crowded conditions to make him downcast. He looked out the window at the passing countryside, watching the hedges and neat farms. They reminded him of the lands around Hathaway Hall—Annette's domain.
He would marry her and make it her kingdom forever.
The sudden thought caused him to blink. Marry her?
But of course. In all the time he had missed her, he had not realized he loved her. Now he did. He loved her with all his heart, mind, and body.
She made his life complete, and he wanted to share the rest of it with her. He wanted to share in her dreams of the school. He wanted her to share in his building p
rojects for Hathaway Hall's farms. Most of all, he wanted to share her bed, and maybe someday, he and she would share children.
He had to convince her, but this time, the lucky feeling surging through him like the sea against the coast would not play him false. This time he would win. All the travel inconveniences melted away.
Sir Gerard rapped on the coach's ceiling. "Get this rig moving faster!"
Annette yanked at the stubborn weed and pulled its roots free from the clinging garden soil. It felt good to attack something she could see. For so long she had struggled against the children's ignorance. Fighting to educate them was like battling an invisible enemy. She knew it existed, but very seldom did she seem to inflict any wounds upon it. Only occasionally did the spark of understanding send a student leaping ahead in his studies. Mostly it was a bitter ground warfare, as she and her pupils slugged it out over the alphabet and the basics of arithmetic.
She set the weed in her basket to be added to the compost pile later. She gazed around at her flower bed. It bloomed in a riotous green, dotted with the vivid colors of sunshine yellow, dawn pink, and periwinkle blue, providing a vibrant contrast to the gray stone front of her cottage. She could hire a boy to do such a messy chore, but doing it herself filled her with satisfaction.
When the weather turned cold again, she would be among the boys and girls again, but for now she relished her solitude. With determination, she had made her life one of fulfillment and service to others. The annuity reserved from her brief fortune would keep her and Lucille for the rest of their days.
It was enough to expect from life. She convinced herself she was content. She applied her efforts to the flower bed.
The sound of a cleared throat behind her signaled she was no longer alone. Glancing backwards, she spied the tall form of the baronet.
She sprang to her feet. "Sir Gerard! I did not realize you were there."
The spinster and the wastrel Page 17
