by Allison Lane
As for tonight, he headed for the drawing room early, heart booming hollowly in his chest. If he was embroiled in conversation with the colonel when the others came down, no one else would feel obligated to speak with him.
Kissing Miss Harper had been a huge mistake, unleashing too much love and passion. How long before he could resume control? If only he could court her…
But he couldn’t. Breeding was all important to the upper classes, and he didn’t have it.
Stop this obsessive brooding.
Not until he turned onto the main staircase did he realize that the hammering in his ears came not from his heart, but from an actual hammer. Hortense crouched midway down the flight, driving a nail into a baluster. The next stroke slipped—
“Drat!” She grabbed one hand with the other.
“Are you all right?” He hurried to her side.
“Of course.” But her voice held pain.
“What have you done to yourself?”
“Missed the nail.” She shrugged. “It is nothing.”
“Why were you trying to drive a nail anyway? You have footmen.”
“They have other duties. I don’t want Catherine to fall if this loose railing lets go.”
“You could have asked me. Take advantage of my presence instead of doing everything yourself.” Rage at Chester again built in his chest. No lady should have to engage in carpentry.
“Asked you what?” demanded Lady Catherine, appearing at the top of the stairs.
“If someone had mentioned the loose banister, I could have repaired it in a trice. Instead, Miss Hortense tried to fix it herself and smashed her hand.” He held up her bleeding thumb.
“How many times must I remind you of your breeding,” snapped Lady Catherine. “Ladies do not assume servants’ duties. Clean that at once, then leave the repairs to a footmen.”
“If I did that, the house would tumble down around your ears!” Hortense glared at Lady Catherine. “It’s all very well to put on airs when you’ve someone to pamper you, but we don’t.”
“Arrogant hoyden…” Lady Catherine sputtered incoherently.
John glared. “I respectfully disagree, my lady. It is neither arrogant nor hoydenish to address problems that no one else has time to handle, particularly when one knows how.” He turned to Hortense. “However, it is arrogant to do so when other options exist. Use the tools at hand, Miss Hortense. I will finish this, and I expect to hear about any other problems that threaten your safety.” Turning his back on a furious Lady Catherine, he examined Hortense’s thumb. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you should see after it without further ado.”
“Hortense!” gasped Miss Esther, joining them on the stairs. “What have you done?”
“Nothing.” She shoved her hand behind her, but not before Esther had seen it.
“Blood!” Esther swayed. “You’ve killed yourself.”
“Of course not. Hand her your salts,” she ordered Lady Catherine. “She’ll swoon else.”
John sprinted up the stairs, catching Esther as she crumpled. Lady Catherine fumbled in a pocket, finally producing a vinaigrette to wave under Esther’s nose. John’s eyes watered from the fumes.
“What happened now?” demanded Miss Harper, finding the staircase blocked.
“She saw the cut on my hand,” said Hortense.
“Not again.” She, too, pulled Hortense’s hand closer. “Come to the still room. We’ll bind that up.”
“I’ll finish here,” repeated John. He carried Esther downstairs and set her on a chair.
“Do that,” said Lady Catherine. “I don’t know what the world is coming to when ladies think they should engage in repairs.” She glared at Hortense, who shrugged and took herself off.
John moved the nail to a more efficacious position and pounded it in with three strokes. He’d not noted the loose banister, but then he rarely touched the banisters when he used the stairs. It was something else to check on the morrow.
Reginald appeared as he was testing the other balusters. “Can’t you work when decent folk are elsewhere?” he demanded petulantly. “One would think so renowned a tradesman would be more aware of propriety.”
John said nothing, though he would love to plant a fist in that sneering face. He hated parasites. Reginald would never lift a finger to help Hortense. He did absolutely nothing that John could see, ignoring even gentlemanly pastimes like riding. Apart from writing, his only activity seemed to be annoying Miss Harper.
“Out of my way,” growled Reginald, prodding him with a toe instead of walking around him. “And don’t claim injuries. I can see yours are grossly exaggerated.”
Hortense returned, her thumb bandaged. “Don’t be ridiculous, Reginald. How dare you insult him when you refuse to fix anything yourself.”
“Insult! It’s his job.”
“Hardly. He is an architect, not a footman. Stop annoying him. Your airs make you look ridiculous. Join the colonel in the drawing room before I lose my temper entirely.”
Reginald sputtered, but went.
“Forgive us,” said Hortense. “We should not let this unsettling period corrupt our manners.”
“There is nothing to forgive. But let me handle this sort of thing while I’m here.”
She smiled. “You’re a good lad, Lascar. After dinner, perhaps you can look at Catherine’s wardrobe. The door is loose.”
Chapter Eight
I didn’t know Richard had a brother until today, though I cannot blame Richard for hiding it. If even half of his claims are true, Chester is Evil beyond imagining. Such Dishonor must sicken even the Stalwart. Yet Richard never lies, so I must believe.
Duchess of Westfield, Sept 1784
John escaped from the church into full sunshine. Sunlight made the village picturesque, glinting from the blue shutters and window boxes of the inn, reflecting rainbows of color from the church windows, turning the village green into an inviting lawn.
But he found no pleasure in the sight. His folly in kissing Miss Harper weighed heavily on his soul. She’d avoided him ever since, her distrust obvious. The way Reginald positioned himself between them made it worse. Even if he’d seen nothing, Reginald’s instincts were on the alert.
The service might have settled his turmoil if he’d been properly repentant, but his only regret was that he’d frightened Miss Harper. Well, not his only regret. The incident had intensified his love, turning it into a living, breathing entity that gave him no peace. Now that he’d tasted her, he wanted more. Needed more. Should they find themselves alone, he was bound to err again. He lacked the strength to resist.
So he must avoid her.
Yet he could not let her remain in fear. Unless she relaxed, Reginald was sure to note her sudden antagonism. Suspicion would draw censure onto her head. And John’s, of course, though he no longer cared. No one could scold him more harshly than he did.
He must ease her mind. He’d planned to invite her into his carriage for the ten-minute ride back to Westcourt, sit on the rear-facing seat, knot his hands in his lap, and apologize, assuring her that she need not fear a repetition. Now that he’d completed his survey, he would concentrate on devising solutions. For that he could remain in the library where he would be out of her way.
But Miss Harper had foiled his intentions quite neatly. First, she’d avoided the family by sitting in the back of the church. Then she’d slipped away during the benediction. When John tried to follow, the vicar cornered him.
“I cannot believe that Lord Chester left without even paying me a call,” the man complained.
“He will return shortly.” John tried to turn away, but the hand on his elbow tightened.
“I must speak with him.” The vicar frowned. “It is vital that he press the trustees harder. Look at that roof!” He gestured toward the ceiling. “One more violent storm will finish it.”
“I will tell him.”
“We share his fury that Parliament refuses him his title, but he must accept th
at he is far from helpless. As steward he can authorize necessary repairs. If the trustees object, the courts can appoint new ones. They have a duty to preserve the estate. How—”
“I will pass on your message, but—”
The vicar ignored his interruption, clearly reveling in a new audience. “—anyone can justify letting it decay into rubble is beyond me. It is time to put an end to this madness. The ninth duke has been dead these thirty years. The tenth must be recognized.”
“Without proof, he cannot be. You know the rules as well as I. One title has been in abeyance for three hundred years because no one knows when or where the last lord died.”
“Yes, yes, but that is different. The lord was adult when he disappeared and could easily have fathered an heir. That is not the case here. Had the ninth duke reached adulthood, he would have stepped forward – no duke can ignore duty. He could not have legally wed before his majority, so there can be no heir. But those London gabblesnapes would love to deny Lord Chester his rights.”
“Why?”
“Jealousy. He is a finer man than any of them. Which is why I must speak to him. Only he can help, for the trustees don’t care. Not once in my fifteen years in this parish has any of them visited Westcourt. But I cannot sit by while a fine building collapses from neglect.”
John nodded, for the church was in obvious distress. “Why tell me?”
“They dismissed Lord Chester’s latest request, accusing him of exaggeration. Dismissed it out of hand without even sending a man to see for himself. But if you add your voice, they must accept the truth.”
John sighed. “I will tell Lord Chester you wish to see him.” Beyond that, he could promise nothing. His commission did not yet extend beyond Westcourt’s water troubles.
He finally escaped, blinking to adjust his eyes to the sunlight, then headed for his carriage. Progress was slow. The vicar was not alone in his distress. Villagers also charged him with messages.
The inn’s stable was derelict. Westcourt was six months in arrears paying the blacksmith. Two tenants wanted to start a pottery to make up for poor crop yields. A neighbor swore that Westcourt had confiscated sheep that had wandered onto its land. Lord Chester sent all requests to the trustees, but accomplished nothing.
This time John did not look at the park as he approached the house. Listening to the villagers’ complaints had revived his fears. Were the trustees doddering fools as everyone claimed, or was Chester lying? There was no reason to run a wealthy estate into the ground. But if they had truly put all responsibility onto Chester’s shoulders, they’d made it easy for him to loot Westcourt’s coffers.
His mother’s voice again echoed. A man who fails to address his responsibilities in a timely fashion is unworthy of respect and cannot be trusted. John had worked hard to earn the respect of everyone he met, but not everyone could make that claim, and some of the worst cads were gentlemen born.
How much did Chester earn as steward? A selfish man might discard honor to serve his own interests. Once that happened, lying, cheating, and stealing became easy. Especially when everyone agreed that Westfield’s fortune should be his anyway.
Lying to the trustees about how he spent estate funds could easily extend to other lies that would put more money in his hands. But sooner or later those lies would catch up.
One fact was glaringly obvious. No one but Chester had communicated with the trustees in years. Long before Chester had formally taken over as steward, he had established himself as the official liaison between Westcourt dependents and the trustees. No one dared bypass him. That, more than anything, set off alarms.
If the renovations went forward, would the workers be paid? How could John accept a commission that might put undue burdens on laborers?
Westcourt would soon deteriorate beyond rescue. Current maintenance was nonexistent – he discounted Hortense’s efforts to hold rot at bay; she could easier hold back floodwaters. Chester might want the duke’s authority, but he was addressing none of the duke’s responsibilities.
John couldn’t ignore the questions. Aside from his attachment to the house, he felt a growing interest in its occupants and dependents. So he would do what no one else dared and approach the trustees directly. If they refused to investigate, he would ask the court to appoint new ones.
But before he could return to town, he must set Miss Harper’s mind at ease and finish his renovation plans.
She wasn’t there. Ned confirmed that she had not yet returned from services, so he moved his notes and drawings to the library and set to work.
* * * *
Faith followed a circuitous path through the woods after leaving the church. She needed time to clear her head, away from the house. She couldn’t think while sharing a roof with Mr. Lascar.
But she couldn’t think here, either, she realized half an hour later. No matter how hard she tried, she could not regret that impetuous kiss. Nor could she summon shame. It had been the most exciting event of her life. All she could do was avoid him so her base behavior did not hurt him. For now, that meant staying in the kitchen. Cook could use her help.
But all thought fled the moment she reached the door. Cook had collapsed. Again.
“It’s my fault,” sobbed Polly. “I was talking to the gardener, so Cook started lunch without me. She’s not done that in months and was shocked at how weak she’s grown. When I came in, she snapped at me for being late, then clutched her chest, turned gray, and passed out.”
Faith straightened Cook’s arm, inhaling deeply to calm a heart that was flopping about like a landed fish. This spell was worse than the last one. Though Cook’s breath hissed in and out in short pants, no color remained in her usually ruddy cheeks. “The floor is cold. We must move her to bed.” She glanced at Ned. “Fetch Mr. Lascar.” Much as she hated to ask him, no one else could help. Ned was reasonably strong, but he was nearly sixty, and Mrs. Foley weighed at least eighteen stone. None of the family would enter the kitchen. Besides, the colonel had only one hand, and Reginald used his weak chest to avoid even mild labor. He’d groused just that morning that his pottery water jug was too heavy and demanded a porcelain one.
Ned hurried away. Polly collapsed in tears. The scullery maid held both hands over her mouth as if smothering screams.
As Faith slid a folded towel under Cook’s head, Cook’s breathing changed to a rasping choke.
“Help me turn her,” she ordered Polly. “She’s swallowing her tongue.”
“Will she die?” demanded Polly as they rolled her onto her side.
“I don’t know. This is the worst spell yet.” Cook should have regained consciousness by now. The last spell had passed in a quarter hour but had caused lasting damage. Cook had never worked a full day again. Now she would have to retire. She needed nursing and rest. If Chester refused, Faith must approach the trustees directly.
Rolling helped. Cook’s breathing returned to pants.
Faith held her hand near Cook’s mouth and frowned. Her exhales were robust, so she was getting enough air. Yet she didn’t recover consciousness. It did not bode well.
Ned returned with Mr. Lascar.
“Has anyone sent for the doctor?” Mr. Lascar demanded, kneeling on Cook’s other side.
Faith shook her head. “The doctor is of little use to anyone, and he does not treat servants – they haven’t the wherewithal to pay his fees. After her last spell, the apothecary made up a tonic that eased her troubles.”
“Did she take it today?” He met Faith’s gaze.
“I don’t know. Fetch it,” she told Polly. “If she can swallow, it may help.” While Polly raced away, she turned back to Mr. Lascar. “We must put her to bed, but I’ve no idea how to manage it.”
He glanced around, then nodded. “I do.” He headed for the door. But instead of going out to fetch a gate, he grabbed a low bench and knocked off its legs.
“Wha—”
“I’ll fix it when we’re done.” He pushed the bench top against Cook’s ba
ck, then turned to Ned. “Roll her.”
Faith held Cook’s head so it didn’t bump, but Cook again began choking. “She can’t breathe on her back.”
“Turn her head sideways. We’ll lay her on her side when we reach her room.” He grabbed the towel and tied Cook’s hands together at her waist. “Careful not to tip her. The bench is narrow. Ready?”
Ned grabbed the foot and Mr. Lascar the head.
“I’ll help,” said Faith, taking her place next to Ned.
Mr. Lascar nodded. “On three. One … two … three!” They hoisted the bench.
Faith thought her arms would pull from their sockets, but she gritted her teeth and took as much weight as she could. Sweat already decorated Ned’s forehead. Mr. Lascar showed no sign of strain.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “Tell me where.”
“Out the door and turn right – toward your left,” she amended, for he was walking backwards. They lurched forward in half-steps. Somehow they negotiated two corners and rolled Cook onto the bed.
“If she is wearing a corset, take it off,” Mr. Lascar ordered as Cook’s breathing slowed. “Did you find the tonic?” he asked Polly.
“No, sir. I can’t find the bottle.” Her terrified gaze turned to Faith. “’Tain’t nowhere, miss.”
Faith’s heart nearly stopped. Surely Cook understood that she must take the tonic every day…
Unless she couldn’t afford more.
Cursing, Faith forced calm over her face. “Today’s spell is not your fault, Polly. She must have run out of tonic. Even if you had started lunch, she would have collapsed.”
“Shall I have it refilled?” asked Mr. Lascar.
“If you would.” She hated to ask, but she couldn’t leave Cook.
He was headed for the door, when Cook choked. The harsh sound raised every hair on Faith’s neck.
Then silence.
“Mrs. Foley!” She sprang toward the bed. Polly leaped to the other side.
“She’s d-dead,” stammered Polly.
“She can’t be,” insisted Faith. But there was no sign of breath. And when she pressed her ear against Cook’s back, she heard only silence.
