“There’s nothing to settle,” she began.
He’d already turned and headed back to the wall. To her astonishment, he started to scale the barrier again, a display of male athleticism that she told herself was not responsible for her racing pulse. Reaching the top, he vaulted over the iron spikes, pausing to look back.
“Adieu, ladies,” he called.
Did the blasted man just wink at her? Before she could aim a squinty glare in his direction, he disappeared down the other side.
“Why didn’t ’e just ask if ’e could leave through the manor?” Fancy asked in perplexed tones.
“Because he’s an arrogant bastard who enjoys showing off, that’s why,” Bea muttered.
6
Usually when Bea visited her tenants, she spent time taking in the fertile farms and robust livestock. She took great pride in her flourishing estate and the accomplishments of her farmers. As she rode past the farms today, however, she was lost in her thoughts.
Does Murray know that I’m the masked lady? Has he given up and returned to London?
She hadn’t seen him since yesterday, yet his absence felt like the calm before the storm. Her intuition and what she’d read about him indicated that he was not a man who would give up easily—if at all. Beneath his easy charm lay predatory instincts. He reminded her of the lion she’d once seen at the Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park. Tawny and sleek, the beast had been taking a lazy stroll, seemingly unaware of the rabbits released into its cage.
The next instant, it had pounced on its supper.
She did not plan on becoming fodder for any man. No matter how attractive, charming, or skilled in bed he was. Yet her position was precarious, and she’d slept poorly, plagued by the possibilities. If he figured out that she’d been his lover at the masquerade, what would he do with the information?
Would he hold it over her? Use it like a bargaining chip? Would he threaten to ruin her reputation if she didn’t sell him her land?
Her hands knotted on the reins. What’s done is done. You can’t take back that night.
The dashed thing of it was, even with the looming threat…she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Her first experience of lovemaking had been magical, and she wouldn’t let anyone—not even her lover—take that away from her. And what could Murray do to her, really? As she’d told Fancy when they’d discussed the matter, in the eyes of Society, she was already ruined because of her scar. Who cared if her damaged reputation suffered a few more dings? Certainly not her.
I’m not going to fret over the unknown, she resolved. I shall simply cross the bridge with Murray if and when I get there.
She dismounted at the Ellerby residence, one of the two dozen cottages on her property. When she’d first purchased the estate, the abodes had been in shambles due to the previous landlord, who cared more for profit than the comfort of his tenants. One of Bea’s first projects had been to modernize the bungalows, replacing the thatched roofs and antiquated heating systems. She’d had new wells dug so that fresh water was minutes rather than miles away. New windows, floorboards, and fresh coats of paint had completed the renovations.
The tenants did their part, keeping the properties in shipshape. Tying up her horse, Bea took her basket and walked up the path to the Ellerbys’ cottage, admiring the trimmed rosebushes and the sparkle of the spotless windows. She knocked on the cheerful yellow door, which promptly swung open.
Bea lowered her gaze to meet the farmwife’s twinkling blue eyes.
Standing a shade over three feet tall, Ellen Ellerby had once earned her living as a curiosity in a travelling circus. Then she’d met her husband Jim, and the two had started a new life on Bea’s estate…literally. Balanced on Mrs. Ellerby’s hip was her babe Janey, and the shouts of her four-year-old son, Johnny, could be heard from within the house.
“’Ello, Miss Brown.” The good lady ushered her inside. The cottage was neat as a pin, a curtain separating the main room from the sleeping quarters. “I was ’oping you’d arrive soon. I’ve got me oatcakes ready to throw on the backstone.”
“You needn’t have gone to the trouble, Mrs. Ellerby. How's Janey today?”
“She’s a cranky li’l mite.” Sandy-colored strands slipped from Mrs. Ellerby’s cap as she shook her head. “She’s teethin’ and noisier than ’er older brother...”
At that instant, Johnny ran toward Bea, shouting, “Miss Brown, you’re ’ere!”
“…if that can be believed,” his mama finished dryly.
“Hello, Johnny.” Bea smiled at the adorable boy, enjoying his unaffected welcome. Because she’d known Johnny all his young life, he was used to her scar and thought nothing of it.
Indeed, none of Bea’s tenants looked twice at her mutilated cheek, and her estate was the one place where she didn’t bother to wear a veil. In truth, the farmers’ reception of her was warmer than that of her own family after the accident. Memories flooded her: her papa’s frustration, the countless quacks he’d consulted and “cures” he’d pressed upon her. Her mama’s weeping despair. And her brother—Benedict hadn’t been able to look at her without being consumed by rage…
Out of habit, she shut the images out.
Here, in the new life she’d built for herself, she had a different kind of family. One not of blood but of truer kinship. Bea and her tenants had the shared pain of being outcasts, their bonds deepened by the gift they could give one another.
Acceptance.
The thing Murray—and others who’d tried to buy her land—didn’t understand was that Camden Manor was more than an estate: it was a safe place to land. One that had saved Bea in her darkest hour and now offered refuge to others as well.
One that she would not sell, for any sum.
“Did you bring me somefin’, Miss Brown?”
Johnny’s eager question returned Bea to the moment.
“Lord Almighty, where are your manners?” his mama exclaimed. “You don’t ask a guest for presents!”
“It’s quite all right.” Bea gave Johnny a conspiratorial smile. “As it happens, I do have something for you in my basket. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes,” Johnny said instantly.
“Yes, what?” Mrs. Ellerby prompted.
Johnny’s brow wrinkled. “Yes…I want to see what she brung me?”
“Yes, miss.” His mama’s gaze aimed heavenward. “Lord above, ’ave all my teachings fallen on deaf ears?”
Since this was a common refrain, Bea hid a grin and brought her basket over to the trestle table that served multiple purposes. One end had been set for tea, while the end closest to the stove had a bowl of batter for Mrs. Ellerby’s oatcakes. Finding an empty place, Bea set down her hamper and took out a package of sweets.
Johnny immediately made a grab for it.
“Now what did your mama teach you to say?” she asked.
The boy flashed an angelic smile. “Thank you, Miss Brown.”
“You’re welcome.” She handed him the treats, and he took off with a joyous whoop, declaring that he was going to go show his friends.
“Mind you share those sweets,” Mrs. Ellerby shouted after him. Bouncing her babe against her hip, she turned to Bea. “You spoil ’im, miss.”
“I’ve brought a few other things as well.” Bea unpacked the spices and tea that had come in her monthly shipment from London.
“You’re too generous,” her hostess protested.
“It’s nothing, really. May I hold Janey?”
Mrs. Ellerby transferred the babe into Bea’s waiting arms, and Bea laughed when Janey immediately made a grab for her bonnet strings. Settling into one of the chairs, she untied the plum-colored ribbons, dangling them for the babe, who wrapped her tiny fist around one with a happy coo.
“Pay mind, miss, or she'll ruin your fine hat,” Mrs. Ellerby warned.
Ever efficient, the farmwife had already set to work on the oatcakes. Her adoring husband had built the kitchen to suit her smaller size, w
ith lower surfaces that she could easily reach. She ladled the batter onto a heated griddle, forming perfect circles.
“’Tis just a ribbon. Poor little angel,” Bea murmured to the babe. “You need it more than I do, don’t you, with your sore gums? Growing teeth is hard work.”
In apparent agreement, Janey stuffed a ribbon into her mouth. Bea cuddled her closer, struck by her usual longing. She would never hold her own child in her arms.
“Speaking o’ work, my Jim says the hay ’as cured nicely and will be ready for collecting on the morrow.” Mrs. Ellerby flipped the cakes with an expert flick of her wrist. “The farmers and lads ’ired from the village will be out in the fields at dawn.”
“Excellent,” Bea approved. “I’ve made arrangements for the refreshments during the harvest. And everything is set for the ball as well.”
To celebrate the closing of the harvest, Bea held a party for her tenants at the manor every year.
“I can’t wait to kick up my ’eels.” Mrs. Ellerby brought over a plate of steaming cakes, her eyes sparkling. “No one leads like my Jim.”
Bea smiled for the Ellerbys were accomplished dancers. “These cakes look delectable.”
“They’re best when hot. Set Janey down, miss, and fix yourself up an oatcake.”
Bea carefully placed the dozing babe into the nearby bassinet. She helped herself to one of the cakes, spreading on a layer of butter and blackberry jam before folding it in half. Cutting a piece, she took a bite. The sweetness of the fruit and richness of the butter melded perfectly with the warm, nutty cake.
“I’ve yet to have an oatcake to match yours, Mrs. Ellerby,” she said sincerely.
Her hostess flushed with pride. “I expect it’s the splash o’ milk I add. Or the pinch o’ nutmeg.”
“The result is delicious.” Bea sampled some more before asking, “How have things been?”
Sociable and well-liked amongst her peers, Mrs. Ellerby was an excellent source of all the goings-on. Bea was listening to and making mental note of the lady’s observations: Mrs. Haller’s possible pregnancy which she’d yet to announce, Mrs. Denton’s row with Mrs. Kenny over some missing chickens. Not surprisingly, the subject of the railway also came up.
Gossip had been swirling for months that a railway would be built through the Midlands…specifically through Camden Manor. Bea’s property had the geographic advantage—or to her mind, disadvantage—of being situated in a valley that not only offered the easiest terrain for laying track but provided the shortest distance between stations. Understandably, Bea’s tenants were worried that their homes and livelihoods could be taken from them, despite her constant reassurances.
“We know you don’t want to sell Camden Manor, miss, but in the village they’re saying the factory owners won’t be satisfied until they get their railway,” Mrs. Ellerby said fretfully. “And you know ’ow powerful those men are.”
Bea did indeed know. The northern part of the county was dominated by thriving pottery manufactories, the wealthy owners wielding significant clout. A railway would make the transport of their goods cheaper and more efficient, and they’d made no secret of their support of Great London Northern Railway’s plan. Indeed, the head of their coalition, a patronizing prat by the name of Thomas McGillivray, had paid Bea a visit; their meeting and subsequent communications had been none too friendly.
Bea wondered if the factory owners knew about Murray’s visit—or if he was in cahoots with them. The idea that he might have an alliance with that noxious bunch tightened her throat. At least the gossip hadn’t yet picked up his presence. Heaven help her should anyone discover that she’d lain with the enemy…
A knock on the door awakened Janey, who let out a squall of displeasure.
“Who’d that be, I wonder?” Mrs. Ellerby frowned, getting to her feet.
“I’ll see to Janey while you find out,” Bea volunteered.
She’d just picked up the fussing babe when she heard smooth, masculine, and damnably familiar tones coming from the doorway. The hairs on her nape tingled, and she turned, Janey in her arms, to see a pink-cheeked Mrs. Ellerby returning…with Wickham Murray.
Even knowing the threat he posed, she couldn’t help but gawk at him.
He’d removed his hat, the rich waves of his hair glinting as he ducked his head to avoid a low-hanging beam. His tobacco-brown frock coat clung to his wide shoulders, his bronze cravat a perfect match for the subtle striping in his waistcoat. His muscular legs were encased in biscuit-colored trousers that tucked into gleaming black boots.
As his heavy-lidded hazel gaze glided over her, she had to resist the urge to turn away her damaged cheek. Her pride would not allow her to shrink away from his judgement, whatever it may be. His eyes didn’t linger on her face, however, moving instead to the babe in her arms.
His mouth softened, the flare of gold in his eyes eliciting a traitorous flutter in her breast.
Dash the man, why did he always have to look as if he’d climbed out of bed? And not the way a normal person would look, with mussed-up hair and sleep lines upon their cheek, perhaps a dried-up trail of spittle or two. No, he radiated a lazy, magnetic sensuality.
Mrs. Ellerby was staring at Murray as if he’d descended from the mythical Olympus. “Miss Brown, you ’ave a visitor…beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t catch your name?”
Alarm shot through Bea, dispelling her daze. If Murray revealed his identity, he would be throwing kindle on the rumors about the railway…
“How shoddy of me. John Smith, at your service, madam.” Murray bowed. “I am an acquaintance of Miss Brown’s looking into acquiring some land in this area. I was hoping she might be persuaded to give me a tour of the neighborhood, to help me make a more informed choice.”
Bea’s first reaction to his discreet alias was relief. Then resentment welled: acquiring some land, indeed…over my dead body. Studying his expression, she couldn’t tell if he’d figured out that they’d been lovers. God, if she’d known who he was, she would never have slept with him…
Liar, a voice whispered in her head. Even now, you don’t regret it.
“Mr. Smith being a friend o’ yours,” Mrs. Ellerby said, beaming, “I invited ’im to join us for a spot o’ tea.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting, but Mrs. Ellerby mentioned oatcakes.” Murray smiled at the farmwife. “It was an offer I could not refuse.”
Mrs. Ellerby giggled like a debutante.
Grudgingly, Bea had to admit that Murray didn’t seem to hold the typical prejudices against people who didn’t fit society’s mold. He was as charming to Mrs. Ellerby as he’d been to Fancy. At the same time, she recalled all the stories in the papers about his prowess: she did not doubt that his ability to appear kind and genuine was part of his arsenal as a negotiator. There was a reason why this man got his way in boardrooms and bedchambers across the land. A reason why he was confident that he could convince her into selling Camden Manor.
Bea’s jaw tightened. He could take himself and his bloody charm off to perdition.
Janey, tired of being ignored, let out a screech. Bea rocked her, making soothing sounds to no avail. Mrs. Ellerby moved to take the infant, but Murray beat her to it.
“Why don’t I have a go?” he asked.
Before Bea could react, he took the wailing babe from her. The instant Janey felt new arms around her, she looked up. Her face, which had been scrunched up in mid-wail, smoothed. She blinked at Murray, letting out a gurgle as he cradled her against his broad chest.
“Janey ne’er quiets so quickly.” Mrs. Ellerby looked as astonished as Bea felt. “You’ve a way with babes. ’Ave you children o’ your own, sir?”
“No, ma’am, but I have three nephews and spend time in the company of my friends’ progeny. Children tend to like me,” Murray said.
The claim might have sounded immodest had Janey not been cooing and fluttering her eyelashes at him. Bea caught Mrs. Ellerby’s eyes, which were wide with a message that anyone could read:
a man who looks like ’im and is good with babes? Land ’im quick before someone else does!
“Are those the oatcakes, ma’am?” Murray peered over at the table with polite interest as Janey yawned, snuggling against him. “They’re quite different from what I grew up with in Scotland.”
“’Ere in Staffordshire, we’re famous for our oatcakes,” Mrs. Ellerby said proudly. “I’ll make you up a fresh batch.”
“You needn’t go to the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all, especially since you’ve got Janey asleep again. Why don’t you give ’er to me, and then you and Miss Brown can ’ave a nice chat in the garden while I finish up in ’ere.”
As much as Bea dreaded being alone with Murray, she knew this was a confrontation that could not be put off. She had to glean his intentions…and make her own position clear.
“The garden is this way,” she said in cool tones. “Follow me, sir.”
7
Mrs. Ellerby’s garden contained thriving vegetable patches and a cluster of fruit trees near the back fence. As Wick followed Miss Brown’s rigid, velvet-clad figure to the little orchard, he was acutely reminded of the masquerade. Two nights ago, she’d possessed the same determined posture as she’d gone to lock the study door before propositioning him.
He doubted that he was to be treated to the same kind of enticing offer now.
Shame, that.
He had no doubt that Miss Beatrice Brown was his mysterious lady butterfly. He’d known it the instant he’d “dropped” into her garden yesterday. She might have worn a mask and wig at the masquerade, but he’d recognize her musical voice, bee-stung lips, and glorious form anywhere. Of course, he couldn’t bring up their rendezvous in the presence of her friend; he was a gentleman, after all, and would never damage her reputation that way.
Seeing her had been a shock…but not because of her scar—the reason, he gathered, that she’d worn such a concealing mask. He wondered about the origin of that thin pink ridge, which started at the top of Beatrice’s right cheekbone and curved down her cheek, like half a heart. That she felt she had to hide her unusual beauty caused an odd tightening in his chest. Initially, the mark had surprised him, the way a smudge of paint on the Mona Lisa’s cheek would be distracting.
The Duke Redemption Page 6
