“Thank you, miss,” he whispered. “I would surely have died had you not taken pity on me.” Fontaine drew her hand away from him, the flesh where he’d kissed it burning with delight.
“When you are well and safely on your way…only then may you consider yourself to have found good fortune,” she told him before she scurried away.
Knight frowned. What was amiss at Pratina Manor? Never had he seen a more nervous and frightened young woman of means. And to do good in secret? Most aristocracy flaunted their “charitable works,” as an ornament, an embellishment to buoy their pride. But to hide such as she had done for him? It was more than merely odd, and Knight meant to discover the reasons for it. Oh, he would heal…but perhaps a bit more slowly than was necessary, all the while careful to protect his young benefactress. Yes, no harm could come to her through him.
“Where have you been, Fontaine?” Lady Wetherton snapped upon finding her niece hidden away in a library window seat.
“I’ve been but here, Aunt,” Fontaine lied. It was a lie and she knew it, and it was one of the things she resented most about her aunt’s character…the fact she must lie to her in order to do good.
“What dawdling…reading in the library,” Lady Wetherton spat.
Carileena Wetherton was small, but only in stature, and her black hair and pinched nose gave her the appearance of some witch scarcely disguising herself with a sum of beauty. As a child, Fontaine had imagined her Aunt Carileena was indeed that, a witch masquerading as a woman of elegance and means.
“Reading enlightens the mind, Aunt,” Fontaine told her. One of Lady Wetherton’s thin eyebrows arched indignantly.
“Slothfulness softens it,” she countered. “Now,” she began then, “As you know, we’ve important guests to dinner tonight.”
Fontaine sighed. Her aunt’s important guests were always rather elderly men of great wealth whom she coddled in order to win suitors. Fontaine never understood why her aunt insisted she attend such gatherings. It was her aunt who was looking for luxury and wealth in the form of a husband, one who would soon die and leave her to spend his hard-earned prosperity in peace. Fontaine longed for the next ten months to hurry by, for then she would be nineteen and, as per the stipulations in her parents’ will, she would inherit and be free of her aunt’s guardianship. But for now, with another one of her aunt’s ridiculous dinner parties, ten months seemed an eternity.
“Lord Sloan will be attending tonight and Lord Prudice. Lord Greenville as well,” Lady Wetherton said, her eyes flashing with excitement. “His wealth is immeasurable, as you know.”
“No one’s wealth is immeasurable, Aunt,” Fontaine mumbled.
Instantly Lady Wetherton’s expression pinched into an annoyed frown. “You’re counting the months ’til you leave my care, I know,” she rather growled. “But be reminded, Fontaine…your welfare is my responsibility at present.” The woman inhaled deeply, searching for calm again. Smoothing her dress, she forced a smile and continued. “And as part of that responsibility…it is needs be I teach you proper etiquette. That is why I have these social gatherings, dear. That you may master the proprieties of being mistress of your home.” Again Lady Wetherton sighed. “I care not for them, save it be for your benefit.”
Fontaine bit her tongue. Oh, how she wanted to lash out, to scream, to tell her aunt she was no dim-witted child! Fontaine knew full well her aunt’s intentions toward such gatherings; in ten months’ time when Fontaine inherited, Lady Wetherton would be left penniless if she didn’t secure herself a new husband. Once in a while, she pretended to care about Fontaine’s welfare, but Fontaine knew it was only pretense. Only an attempt to make Fontaine feel obligated somehow in the event she needed to live her parasitical life by feasting on Fontaine’s inheritance. And so, there was nothing Fontaine could do…save to play the match until she was free to win it.
“I know, Aunt,” Fontaine sighed.
Lady Wetherton smiled rather triumphantly. “Good girl, darling,” she said. “Now, I want you to wear that green frock we picked out last week, and don’t be late.” She took Fontaine’s hand. “I’ll relieve you from the frivolities of the conversations before dinner…but I want you at the table promptly. Understand?”
There would be no tending to Pratina’s secret stranger until much later, and Fontaine was loath to the idea of dinner with the lords and her aunt. Still, she forced a smile and nodded.
“Yes, Aunt,” she relented. “As prompt as a pussycat on a pillow.”
Lady Wetherton sighed with irritation. “Too much time in the company of the servants, Fontaine. Ladies of title and wealth do not compare themselves to pussycats and pillows.”
“Yes, milady,” Fontaine agreed. Oh, how she wanted to scream and slap the woman.
“And then,” Sally continued. “Then it comes to light through her own father’s will that Lady Wetherton is to be her guardian! And that the young miss can’t inherit her money or her freedom, ’til she be nineteen years of age!”
“That is an odd age to set,” Knight mumbled. He liked this Sally. She’d come into his room more than an hour before to check on him, at Miss Fontaine’s request. When she’d found him awake, she promptly sat down at his side and began spilling information without stopping for breath. Knight, although not one to take advantage of people in most instances, began baiting her with questions. His benefactress had taken a great risk in helping him, and he felt greatly indebted. Perhaps he would learn something through this kind kitchen maid that might help him repay Miss Fontaine Pratina somehow.
“What of marriage? What if she were to marry before she reached nineteen?” Knight asked. Perhaps there was hope for the girl, a beau on her arm ready to carry her away from her aunt’s tyranny.
Sally’s eyes widened, and lowering her voice she said, “Before the age of nineteen, Miss Fontaine cannot marry without Lady Wetherton’s permission. And it even goes so far as to say Lady Wetherton can choose someone to marry the young miss to…whether Miss Fontaine wishes to or not. So states the will. And believe me,” she said, nodding for affirmation, “Lady Wetherton won’t permit her to marry no one…unless he’s of Lady Wetherton’s choosing.” She moved closer to Knight, and he listened carefully as Sally again dropped her voice. “And that’s why Marta says Milady is having these dinners…she’s auctioning the good miss off to the highest bidder. That’s what Marta says.”
Knight frowned. It all sounded too dubious to believe. But if he knew nothing else, he knew of the wit and insight of the servants of a house. Their knowledge and assumptions, though sometimes marked with flaws, were more often than not exactly right.
Knight found serenity elusive once Sally had left him to himself once again. He could hear the scuffling about in the kitchen beyond, the preparations for the dinner, and he was angry. He saw no way of helping the poor girl, for if he were found out…it would go very badly for her. Still, he would think on it…think on her, the poor girl.
“And was it a lovely dinner party, miss?” Marta asked as Fontaine entered the kitchen dressed in her lovely new green frock and wearing the expression of the bitterly miserable.
“I think she’s chosen Lord Greenville as her next victim,” Fontaine said. “He’s the most wealthy of the three, after all.”
Marta smiled and threw her arms around Fontaine’s shoulder. Fontaine returned her embrace, drawing the warmth of loving friendship into her soul. Marta’s hugs always uplifted her, and she was able to smile.
“Put it from yar thoughts now, me lass,” Marta cooed. “Put it from yar thoughts.”
Fontaine released a deep sigh as she turned toward the sickroom. “And how goes our little patient?”
Marta smiled, “Well enough. He’s on the mend, he is.”
“That’s good,” Fontaine said.
Marta knew Fontaine was restraining herself from going into the stranger’s room. She’d seen the way her eyes lit up whenever she thou
ght of tending to him.
And so she said, “None of us have looked in on him in some time, we haven’t, miss. Might be wisdom to do it now.” Marta smiled when Fontaine’s eyes began to twinkle once more. Still, she wished the stranger in the other room had turned out to be some dashing man of power and means who could spirit her sweet friend away instead of a coachman wandering the world.
Fontaine stood, studying Knight’s face as he slept. He appeared serene, as if he were truly resting. His brow had often been puckered when he’d slept previously, an expression, a grimace of enduring pain while unconscious. But now, now he seemed quiet and so much healed. Fontaine bit her lip, scolding herself silently for wishing for a moment he’d heal more slowly. For three days he’d given her blessed escape from the reality of her circumstances. Distraction in the form of needing her help…and with his uncommonly handsome countenance. What would she do when he had gone?
Carefully she pulled at the quilt covering his legs, drawing it up over his torso.
“A peaceful slumber I wish you, Knight,” she whispered.
When she’d closed the door behind her, Knight opened his eyes and sighed heavily. Tucking his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling of the small room for a long time. Surely something could be done to help the girl, but helping her in the obvious manner would be too revealing, too dangerous. Neither could he linger long, lest he be found out. Therefore, how to help the unfortunate girl eluded him.
He lay awake for a long time, until the scuffling in the kitchen had ceased, until the house was quiet and still…until the sun broke over the rooftops and the scuffling in the kitchen began anew.
CHAPTER THREE
The day Fontaine Pratina had been dreading had arrived. It was with heavy heart she watched as Knight put on the new coat Marta had found for him. Even though she was overjoyed that, after seven days of convalescing in Pratina Manor’s sickroom, Knight’s strength seemed fully returned…she had dreaded his leaving. And now, here he stood, handsome and healed and preparing to leave her.
“Them breeches fit fine, they do,” Marta said, prideful in her ability to judge Knight’s size so perfectly. “The boots, too. And the coat.”
Knight smiled at the cheerful woman. “You’ve certainly a gift for dressing a man,” he said, chuckling at Marta’s resulting blush.
Attempting to appear indifferent and calm, Fontaine stepped forward and stuffed several notes into Knight’s coat pocket. He immediately withdrew the tender and held it out to her.
“No, miss. I’ll make my way in a day or two,” he told her. But Fontaine forced a smile to mask her aching heart.
Shaking her head she said, “Please accept the sum, Knight. I’ll not sleep a wink thinking of you penniless while enduring another winter’s night.”
Clinching his jaw, he sighed heavily. Fontaine knew his pride was hurt by her offering of the sum. Still, better his pride than his hide, she thought. She felt her hand go to her throat, attempting to stifle the emotion rising there as she watched him fasten the buttons on the heavy coat Marta had purchased for him.
“If you ever need help…” Fontaine began, but his eyes locking on her own, their emerald fire flashing with determination, silenced her.
“If you ever need help, miss,” he told her. “Write to me at the March Inn in Pemmbrook. I know the innkeeper, and he’ll be able to contact me.”
For a brief moment, Fontaine felt her heart leap with the possibility of seeing him again. Yet she knew it could not be, for were her aunt ever to set eyes on Knight, he would certainly be lost to her.
At the very thought of her Aunt Carileena, panic began to engulf Fontaine, and she urged Knight, “Thank you, Knight. But I would see you safely on your way now…before…”
“Who have we here, Fontaine?” Fontaine’s hand tightened around her own throat at the sound of her aunt’s voice behind her. “And what are you doing in the kitchen…again?” Lady Wetherton said, stepping up to stand beside her niece.
Knight had seen this kind of woman before—a wealthy, manipulative aristocrat with nothing better to do than spend her husband’s money and flirt with servant boys. His distaste for the kind of woman that now stood studying him from brow to boot was complete. Further, he noted the way the color left Fontaine’s lovely face, the way fear crept over Marta’s expression. So this was Fontaine’s venomous aunt.
“A…a man seekin’ a position at the manor, he is, milady,” Marta said. She was quick on her feet, and Knight could see Fontaine was ever grateful for it. “I saw Miss Fontaine passin’ and asked her to speak with him.”
“I’ve…I’ve explained we’ve no need of extra help at this time, Aunt,” Fontaine stammered. Knight’s eyes narrowed with curiosity. It was all the more clear to Knight then. The young miss of the manor did not want him to stay, and he could guess why…she cared for him. She did not want to see him fall prey to the wiles of her aunt.
Then to Knight, Fontaine began, “Again I’m sorry I cannot offer you a position at Pratina Manor, sir…but we have…”
“One moment, Fontaine,” Lady Wetherton interrupted, placing a hand on Fontaine’s shoulder to stall her. Knight watched the frown of painful defeat pucker Fontaine’s brow, watched something akin to anguish cloud her lovely brown eyes.
Lady Wetherton stepped closer to Knight, and he forced an accepting smile. “What skills do you have, young man? What posts have you held previously?” she asked.
Knight glanced at Fontaine as she stepped back, conceding defeat in her aunt’s wake. And he knew then…a game was afoot, and he was not one to back down from a challenge.
“Of recent I was coachman to Lord Tarria of Pemmbrook, milady,” he answered. “But I’m suited to any post requiring hard labor as well.”
Fontaine felt her stomach churn with disgust as her aunt mumbled, “I’m certain you are.” Even Marta’s reassuring arm about her shoulders did nothing to comfort Fontaine. She’d lost. Again she’d lost to her aunt, and this loss was the most painful she had ever known.
She gazed up rather longingly at Knight. What a beautiful man he was, if men could be called beautiful. Not simply in appearance, but he’d treated her with respect and gratitude. In the confines of the tiny sickroom he’d talked with her, been genuinely interested in her existence. Not to mention the thrill he’d given her the day he’d pulled her into the sickroom closet with him, securing her tightly in his strong arms, causing her to feel safe, if only for a few blessed moments. But now, he would be lost to the wiles and cunning ways of her aunt.
“Coachman?” Lady Wetherton repeated. “Why…why that’s perfect! I’ve been without a proper coachman for years,” the witch exclaimed.
Fontaine looked to Marta, who shook her head in disbelief. Lady Wetherton had a perfectly wonderful coachman in Big William. Furthermore, Big William had been driving the Pratina family coaches since before Fontaine was born. Surely her aunt did not intend to put such a loyal man out simply because Knight had caught her fancy? Fontaine knew she did intend it, however, and she could not simply stand silent.
“What…what a wonderful notion, Aunt,” she ventured. “Big William can serve as my own from now on. I’m old enough for my own coachman, am I not?”
Lady Wetherton inhaled deeply as she studied her niece. Finally, she said, “Yes, Fontaine, dearest. I believe that you are. Goodness knows it’s time for you to learn how to better distinguish between your place and the place of those who serve us.” Fontaine swallowed her anger, for Big William’s sake. “And William is old enough to know his place,” Lady Wetherton added, somewhat glaring at Marta for a moment.
Returning her attention to Knight, she said, “It is settled then. You shall be my new coachman, Mr….Mr.…”
“Knight, milady,” Knight offered. “My name is Knight.”
“Knight, is it?” Lady Wetherton repeated. “My coachman, Knight. I like that,” she said. “Well then, welcome to Pratina Manor, Knight. I hope you don’t mind travel, for we only hail he
re for the winter. Spring, summer, and most of autumn we spend in the country at The Graces in Shetlands. The Graces is our country manor, and we actually prefer it to town,” Lady Wetherton explained.
“I prefer the country as well, milady,” Knight assured her.
Fontaine felt as if the contents of her stomach might very well empty at her aunt’s feet, and she knew she must escape. “I suppose, since you’ve nicely arranged things, Aunt…that I may be about my business,” she said.
Lady Wetherton breathed a laugh, a scoffing sigh. “What business could you possibly have to be about, my dear?” she asked. “Still,” she continued, her eyes appraising Knight once more, “Why don’t you toddle along and inform William of his lovely new position as your coachman. I’ll show Knight the carriage house and the rest of Pratina.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Fontaine mumbled.
Knight was angry. Infuriated at the way the woman belittled the kind girl, his rescuer. Yet an idea had shaped in his mind, and he must be patient, calm, and agreeable if he were to eventually succeed in helping the young miss.
Still, when Fontaine’s tear-filled eyes met with his one last time, he wondered if he could indeed endure the elder woman in the hope of somehow helping the younger.
The tour of Pratina Manor, the explanation of his duties in the company of Lady Wetherton, was almost more than Knight could stomach. With each new door opened, the lady found cause to stumble, forcing him to catch her arm. Her conniving smile as she studied him from brow to boot, again and again, caused him to want to take her throat in hand and, in the very least, growl at her. For two hours she occupied his company, and by the time she had handed him over to Minerva, the housekeeper, in order that she might show him to his quarters, he thought his patience would be unable to endure her one moment longer.
The Rogue Knight Page 3
