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‘I’ll give him one thing at least—he’s punctual,’ Isabel remarked as she headed for the door leading to the passageway. ‘Let’s hope he’s also fair-minded.’
The housekeeper’s silent judgement had been uncannily accurate. Isabel didn’t wish Clara to be dismissed from her post, simply because of yesterday’s unfortunate occurrence, if she could possibly do anything about it. Although she would have been the first to admit that her cousin was not very worldly, and could never be described as a blue-stocking, she was far from stupid, and was at the very least quite capable of teaching little Alice all the necessary female accomplishments.
After pausing only briefly before the passageway mirror, Isabel opened the front door, very well pleased with her appearance. Yet there was nothing, not even so much as a faint widening of blue eyes, to suggest that the Viscount noticed anything different about her from the day before. Had she been in the least conceited she might easily have taken umbrage at such a blatant display of indifference towards her as a woman. The truth of the matter was, though, she was more interested in whether she could persuade him to overlook yesterday’s débâcle and retain her cousin’s services as governess.
She invited him to step into the parlour, and could see at a glance that this at least met with his approval, even before he said, ‘I’ve always considered this a most charming room, Miss Mortimer. I was a frequent visitor when my good friend Charles Bathurst resided here with his parents. You are to be congratulated. There is a wonderful homely quality about it still. One senses it at once. Would that the Manor could feel so welcoming!’
‘It is mostly thanks to my cousin’s efforts that the room is now so pleasing, my lord,’ she returned promptly, thereby not wasting any opportunity to point out Clara’s accomplishments, while at the same time wondering what had been at the root of his remark about the Manor. Surely he was happy to be back in the ancestral home? Or was the realisation of what had taken place there just too harrowing to forget?
‘Do sit down, my lord,’ she invited, realising suddenly she was staring at him rather intently. What was worse, she was receiving close scrutiny in return! ‘May I offer you some refreshment? I have a rather good Madeira here I’m sure you’d enjoy.’
‘Only if you join me, Miss Mortimer,’ he returned in that deeply rich velvety voice that was both oddly reassuring and faintly disturbing at one and the same time.
She had already decided that his years away hadn’t been altogether kind to him. He was still the same fine figure of a man she well remembered, perhaps a little more so now that sinewy muscle had replaced any slight excess of flesh he might have been guilty of carrying in his youth. Nevertheless, of those handsome, youthful looks there was precious little sign now. His features had grown markedly more severe. The hawk-like nose, the thin-lipped mouth and the square line of his jaw might not have seemed quite so harshly defined had they been tempered by doe-like orbs of a softer hue. Furthermore, the thin line that now ran from the corner of his left eye down to his top lip gave his mouth a slightly contemptuous curl. Yet, for all that, Isabel didn’t consider him unattractive. In fact, the opposite was true. There was about him a sardonic quality that she found strangely alluring.
Although she refrained from imbibing in strong liquor as a rule, at least so early in the day, she decided in this instance that it might be wise to humour him, and so settled herself in the chair directly opposite before sampling the contents of her own glass.
‘My lord, I am glad to have this opportunity to speak with you in private,’ she announced, at last giving voice to the well-rehearsed speech she had been mentally practising since early morning. ‘It offers me the opportunity to ask your forgiveness for my behaviour yesterday. I cannot apologise enough for the way I quite outrageously embroiled you in that fiasco. The truth of the matter is, though, sir, I was at a loss to know just how to proceed.’
Once again she thought she could detect the faint twitching of a muscle at the corner of his mouth, before he sampled the contents of his glass and then gave his assessment by a nod of approval. ‘On the contrary, Miss Mortimer, you appeared to be in full control of the situation. I’m reliably informed you are no novice where the use of firearms is concerned.’
‘Oh, pray don’t remind me, sir!’ she begged, her suddenly heightened colour proof of the mortification she still felt over her behaviour. ‘I should never have threatened them in such an outrageous fashion had I known how to proceed. But the fact is, sir, I didn’t know whether Mrs Pentecost could legally remove my cousin from this house, as Clara does not attain her majority until the middle of May. And I simply couldn’t allow that to happen! Poor Clara has looked to me, quite five years her senior, to protect her since her arrival here.’
His lordship stared across at her in silence for several moments, his cool gaze revealing nothing except, perhaps, a flicker of sympathy. ‘The widow may well be within her rights, ma’am,’ he told her bluntly. ‘But do not be too disheartened,’ he didn’t hesitate to assure, when she appeared slightly downcast. ‘If she had proof of guardianship with her, I believe she would have been back with the authorities. As this quite obviously didn’t occur, I rather fancy there’s nothing official in writing. It may well be that the late Mr Pentecost merely expected his wife to take care of the child from his first union. However, it might be that he did make provision for his daughter in his will. I’ll wager that female was concealing something. And her companion didn’t appear altogether comfortable either!’
‘Ah, so you noticed that too!’ Isabel returned, feeling inordinately pleased that she hadn’t imagined those wary expressions just prior to her unwelcome visitors’ departure. ‘Mrs Pentecost certainly seems determined Clara should marry Mr Sloane.’
‘Well, she could do worse,’ his lordship pointed out, ever the pragmatist. ‘His dress alone would suggest he’s a man of reasonable means. Your cousin would no longer be obliged to earn a living.’
Isabel was appalled at the suggestion, and it clearly showed. ‘My beautiful young cousin married to that portly tailor’s dummy …?’ she returned in disbelief. ‘Why, it’s obscene! Not only is he more than twice her age, and therefore old enough to be her father, he also has a most unpleasant, wet mouth. Besides,’ she continued, ignoring the odd choking sound emanating from the chair opposite her own, ‘Clara and I might not have a great deal in common, but neither of us is avaricious, and would never consider marrying for financial gain.
‘And speaking of my cousin,’ she went on, when all he did was to stare thoughtfully down into his glass. ‘I’m sure you wish to see her and your wards.’ So saying, Isabel rose and went over to the bell-pull.
Soon afterwards Bessie was showing the children, followed by their governess, into the room. Isabel herself made to leave, but his lordship forestalled her by requesting her to remain. She was then able to observe his treatment of his wards.
Clearly he was more at ease with Josh who, after an initial hesitancy, began to ask numerous questions about his late father, a gentleman who had been one of his lordship’s closest friends, and who had died almost three years before during the capture of Badajoz. Alice, of course, couldn’t remember her father in the least, and it rather amused Isabel when his lordship, betraying a faint disquiet when innocent brown eyes stared fixedly up at him, attempted to converse with the little girl.
Yet, as had happened the day before, Isabel could detect nothing in his lordship’s demeanour to suggest he was in the least impressed by Clara’s loveliness. His tone was quite impassive when he questioned her about the various subjects she had been attempting to teach his wards during the time they had been in her care, and although he showed no reluctance in retaining her services, at least where Alice was concerned, he evinced no delight whatsoever when his offer was readily accepted.
‘I do not think there is anything further we need discuss at this time, Miss Pentecost,’ his lordship said, at last rising to his feet. ‘If you would have the children’s belongings packed, my carriage will be here to collect you in the morning, and will return you to the Manor later in the day.’
He then took his leave of his wards and their governess, before surprising Isabel somewhat by requesting she accompany him round to the stable to collect his horse.
‘For the time being it would be best if your cousin remains under your roof.’ The Viscount registered the look of mingled surprise and doubt in her eyes. ‘I know what a censorious world we live in, Miss Mortimer. It wouldn’t be too long before your cousin’s hitherto spotless reputation suffered as a result of residing permanently under my roof. But that hopefully will be avoided by her returning to your protection each evening.’
Easily guessing the reason for the lingering concern she cast up at him, he added, ‘And pray do not trouble yourself over any possible actions of the stepmother’s. I think we can safely rely on the excellent Mr Goodbody’s abilities to delay proceedings until such time as your cousin attains her majority, should it prove that Mrs Pentecost is within her rights to remove her stepdaughter from under your roof. I shall write to him on my return to the Manor, requesting his help in the matter. He hasn’t failed me yet.’
This admission brought something else to the forefront of Isabel’s mind. ‘And the children, sir—are they now safe from any claims to guardianship their uncle might make?’
His lordship’s smile was not pleasant. ‘The last I heard of Danforth, he was making for the Channel in an attempt to flee the authorities. He was proved to be the very worst kind of scoundrel. What might have happened to the children had they been left in his care, I shudder to think. Suffice it to say, he’d be unwise to show his face again in this country for a considerable time.’
Having reached the yard, Isabel noticed his lordship surprisingly frowning at the lad whom she employed to do odd jobs about the place, as Toby emerged from the stable, leading his lordship’s fine bay.
‘Is there something amiss, my lord?’
‘I seem to recognise this lad.’
A thought occurred to Isabel. ‘Possibly a family resemblance. His brother worked up at the Manor for several years, so I understand. He disappeared around the time of the murders. Is that not so, Toby?’
The boy confirmed it with a nod of his head. ‘Disappeared on that selfsame night, so Ma said. Went out for a tankard of ale, and never came ‘ome again. Not a word been ‘eard of ‘im since, neither.’
After learning this his lordship raised his head and stared across the meadow into the far distance. ‘Yes, I remember, now, my friend Charles Bathurst mentioning something about young Jem disappearing on the night of the murders. I suppose I thought he’d just upped and left and got himself another situation somewhere else. Couldn’t have blamed him in the circumstances.’ His frown deepened. ‘But he would never have gone without a word to a soul.’
‘That ‘ee wouldn’t,’ Toby confirmed. ‘Ma were expecting ‘im back that night. She reckons ‘ee must ‘ave been set on by footpads, or such like. But I don’t reckon that be right. ‘Cepting for that watch you give ‘im all them years back, m’lord, ‘ee couldn’t ‘ave ‘ad more than an odd penny in his pocket.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Toby,’ Isabel agreed. ‘But it is strange, is it not, that no one has seen or heard anything of him since. Don’t you agree, sir?’
His lordship, however, continued to stare silently at some distant spot, his mind locked in the past.
Chapter Three
It was only to be expected that the children’s removal to the Manor would result in a return to normality at the farmhouse. Isabel was obliged to admit that it was much quieter for a start. A little too quiet sometimes, she increasingly began to feel as the days passed.
She couldn’t deny that their departure had resulted in a much lighter workload for both Bessie and herself. They were no longer obliged to slave over a hot range for hours a day in order to satisfy the appetite of a rapidly growing boy, not to mention his healthy younger sister. There was far less laundry to deal with each week as well. Yet, for all that the children had been hard work, Isabel missed not having them about the place.
Of course she looked forward to her cousin’s return to the house each evening. Over supper, Clara would regale them with all the latest gossip from up at the Manor, and keep them abreast of the improvements to the house that were, apparently, daily taking place.
None the less, even her cousin’s continued presence at the farmhouse couldn’t suppress the ever-increasing discontent Isabel was for some obscure reason experiencing.
As February gave way to March, even seeing evidence that spring was not too far away quite failed to lift her spirits. She was reminded of how she had felt during those first weeks after her dear father had passed away. Then, of course, there had been a good reason for the malcontent that had gripped her. What excuse was there now for her feeling totally dissatisfied with her lot? There was none, of course. Yet, try as she might, Isabel simply couldn’t shake off the mood of despondency.
A week of heavy rain did little to improve her spirits. Nor, it had to be said, did waking up one morning to discover her vegetable patch under a considerable amount of water.
Her prized garden had produced sufficient quantities of root and green vegetables to feed the household throughout the previous year, not to mention sufficient soft fruits during the summer months to preserve for leaner times. She doubted very much that this would be the case for the present year, for she very much feared that her attempt to produce early crops had been completely washed away by the deluge.
‘That is it!’ she declared, reaching for her cloak and stout, serviceable boots. ‘I’m not prepared to put up with this any longer! I’m mindful of the fact that his lordship has been most generous to this household already, especially where Clara is concerned. But that doesn’t give him the right to neglect his duties as a landowner. So don’t you dare try to stop me, Bessie!’
The thought never crossed the housekeeper’s mind for an instant. She knew well enough that, when her mistress had reached the limits of her patience, only a forceful airing of views would restore calm, and return her to her normally sensible and controlled state. None the less, Bessie sensed that more lay behind this present show of fiery tension in her young mistress than the washing away of a few vegetable seedlings. All the same, she was at a loss to know quite what it might be.
From the kitchen window she followed her irate young employer’s progress up the drove to the meadow. Then she watched her clamber, in a most unladylike fashion, over the boundary fence that divided his lordship’s deer park from her own property, her faithful Beau padding along at her heels. Bessie smiled to herself as she recalled a story she’d heard many years before about an ancient warrior queen, fearless and determined, setting forth to do battle with her enemies. Which was exactly how Miss Isabel looked right now! And there wouldn’t be too many souls brave enough to stand in her way, she mused.
Although Mr Tredwell, the new butler up at the Manor, did not view the rather ill-groomed young woman, demanding to see the aristocratic master of the house at once, in quite the same reverential way as did her own devoted servant, her overall demeanour, quite frankly, did puzzle him. Had he been in town he maybe wouldn’t have thought twice about denying admittance. But this was not London. And unless his adroitness at assessing a person’s station in life had deserted him entirely, this was no country bumpkin either. Nor, he felt sure, was she a female of a certain disreputable calling.
None the less, having been in his lordship’s employ a few short weeks only, Tredwell had no intention of jeopardising his superior position in the household by not fulfilling his role as major-domo. He had a duty to deny admittance to all those who might importune his lordship. And this young woman, he strongly suspected, was more than capable of doing precisely that!
Consequently, he was on the point of demanding to know the caller’s name and business, when a high-pitched squeal from behind captured his attention, and he turned to see his master’s elder ward bounding down the main staircase.
The boy knew well enough that he was only ever supposed to use the back stairs, unless instructed to do otherwise, and Tredwell was on the point of reminding him of this fact, when he was almost thrust rudely aside by Josh in his enthusiasm to reach the caller.
‘Miss Isabel! Miss Isabel!’ he cried joyfully, almost launching himself into her outstretched arms. ‘You’ve come to see us at last! Why has it taken you so long? Have you come to take me fishing?’
Josh’s enthusiastic greeting and subsequent barrage of questions had contrasting effects on the two adults: a look of enlightenment immediately flickered over the high-ranking servant’s long, thin face, for he was very well aware that the children’s surrogate guardian during past months had been none other than a Miss Isabel Mortimer; whereas the lady herself, after a brief glowing smile down at Josh, cast a look of comical dismay above the boy’s head in the general direction of the butler.
‘The truth of the matter is, Josh, I’m here to see his lordship. There’s something I need to discuss with him urgently. But I haven’t forgotten my promise,’ she assured him. ‘I will take you fishing. But we’ll need to seek his lordship’s permission first, and wait for warmer weather, of course.’
Out of consideration for the servants, Isabel first removed her boots, which not surprisingly had become caked with mud after her brisk hike across the sodden park land, before accepting the butler’s invitation to step inside the hall, and leaving her trusty hound to await her return in the shelter of the roomy, stone-built entrance-porch.
‘Why are you not at your lessons, Josh?’ she asked him, thinking it most strange that he should be wandering about the house by himself at this time of day.
‘Oh, I just happened to leave my book in the kitchen,’ he answered, raising wide, innocent eyes, which didn’t fool Isabel for a second. ‘I often do, you know.’
‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she responded, favouring him with a quizzical look. ‘And what prompts these lapses in memory—plum cake or apple tart?’
He chuckled impishly. ‘Plum cake. But it isn’t as good as yours.’
‘Artful little demon!’ she admonished lovingly. ‘You’d best run along then, and have your mid-morning treat, before Miss Pentecost wonders what’s become of you … although I expect she’s a pretty shrewd notion already of why you’re so forgetful.’
This touching exchange was witnessed by more than one person, as Isabel quickly discovered, when the butler requested her to take a seat whilst he discovered whether his lordship was available to see her.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Tredwell. I’m quite at leisure,’ a smooth voice assured him, and Isabel swung round to see the master of the fine Restoration building leaning against a door jamb, his arms folded across his manly chest.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Mortimer,’ he declared, after moving to one side in order that she might precede him into the room. He then looked at her intently, studying her from head to toe, and paying particular attention to the wild and shining windswept locks, the glowing colour in her cheeks and her unshod feet, whilst all the time she took stock of her surroundings, in blissful ignorance of his scrutiny.
‘Had I not happened to witness that touching little reunion between you and Josh, I might have been forgiven for imagining some personal calamity had befallen you. I shall take leave to inform you, young woman, you look a positive fright! In fact, little better than any ill-groomed labouring wench!’
‘And so would you, if you’d traipsed across the park in this wind,’ she defended abruptly, clearly nettled by the criticism, though she did whip off the red ribbon that had earlier confined her locks at the nape of her neck and retied it as best she could without the aid of a mirror.
Secretly he had thought she looked stunningly attractive with her rich chestnut locks framing the healthy glow in her face. She was so different from so many of those high-born society ladies who made full use of any artificial aid to beauty. Miss Isabel Mortimer might never be considered by some to be a gem of loveliness, a pearl beyond price. But she was certainly out of the common way, he decided, and quite refreshingly natural.
‘Do sit yourself down, Miss Mortimer, and tell me how I may serve you,’ he invited, while pouring out two glasses of wine. ‘Here, drink it,’ he added, when she attempted to refuse the Madeira. ‘It will calm your nerves.’
‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my nerves,’ she assured him, reluctantly accepting the glass. ‘I’m merely damnably annoyed.’
‘About what, may I ask?’ he enquired, not wholly approving the unladylike language, which was strange, considering that he never objected to plain speaking as a rule.
‘For the past six years, my lord, the ditch on the western boundary of your property has repeatedly overflowed on to my land, after any prolonged spells of rain, to the detriment of my vegetable crops. Time and again I approached the last steward, Guy Fensham, to do something about it, but to no avail. Why your family ever employed such a lazy—’ Isabel pulled herself up abruptly, realising suddenly that she was going beyond what was pleasing by voicing opinions on matters that were absolutely none of her concern.
Taking a moment to fortify herself from the contents of her glass, she peered up at him through her lashes. He didn’t seem in the least annoyed by her outburst. But then it was sometimes very difficult to judge what was passing through the mind of this enigmatic aristocrat, she reminded herself. ‘But you do not need me to tell you how he neglected his duties during your time away, sir.’
Without uttering a word, his lordship went over to his desk and proceeded to write a brief note. The silence in the room was punctuated by the scratching of the quill across the sheet of paper, the steady ticking of the mantel-clock and a distant low and eerie howling. Which Isabel did her best to ignore whilst taking further stock of her surroundings.
It really was a very masculine room, with its dark wooden furnishings, and heavy leather-bound tomes lining two of its walls. The claret-coloured curtains at the window matched almost perfectly the shade of the leather upholstery on the heavy chairs. Only the fine painting of the woman and the boy above the fireplace might have been considered by some to be out of keeping with the rest of the room. Yet the more Isabel peered up at the portrait of the striking dark-haired woman, with her arm lovingly placed round the shoulders of a handsome boy, the more she considered it provided a necessary relief to the library’s ambience of rigid masculinity.
As his lordship rejoined her by the hearth, and Isabel watched him reach for the bell-pull, her eyes automatically returned to the portrait above his head. Then stark reality hit her like a physical blow, almost making her gasp.
‘Good Lord! That’s you, sir!’
He raised his eyes briefly to the likeness of himself as a boy. ‘Yes, handsome young rogue, wasn’t I?’
‘Indeed you were,’ she acknowledged. ‘And that woman is your mother, I assume? You certainly favour her in looks … Well,’ she amended, ‘at least you did. I believe, like myself, you lost your mother when you were quite young?’
Just for an instant his eyes betrayed a flicker of sorrow before he tossed the contents of his glass down his throat, and placed the empty vessel on the mantelshelf behind him.
‘Yes, I was fourteen, and away at school when I learned of her death from typhus. She had been visiting one of the families on the estate, and contracted the infection there.’ He released his breath in an audible sigh. ‘The house was never the same after she’d gone. I grew to hate the place.’
Isabel felt saddened to hear him say this. ‘That’s a great pity, sir,’ she responded softly, echoing her thoughts. ‘It’s a fine old house, and this room is both elegant and comfortable.’
‘I had it completely refurbished before my arrival,’ he enlightened her. ‘I knew I should be obliged to spend at least part of each year here, and I had no intention of suffering constant reminders of my late father.’
She had heard rumours, of course, of how much he had loathed his father and half-brother, and now she’d had confirmation of the fact from the man himself.
She couldn’t help wondering from where the hatred had sprung. It would have been true to say that his father hadn’t been universally liked, and there were plenty round these parts who certainly hadn’t mourned his passing, she reminded herself. But to be disliked so intensely by one’s own child …? It was all so very sad.
She raised her eyes to discover him staring intently down at her. There was a decidedly saturnine smile playing about his mouth, an indication, perhaps, that he had guessed precisely what had been passing through her mind. She felt acutely uncomfortable, and for the first time in his company felt unable to meet that knowing gaze. Fortunately the butler came to her rescue by entering the room a moment later, thereby instantly capturing the Viscount’s attention.
‘Get one of the footmen to take this note over to my new steward without delay, Tredwell,’ his lordship instructed, handing over the folded sheet of paper. ‘I want as many of the estate workers as can reasonably be spared taken off other duties and sent down to the western boundary to clear the ditches down there.’
The butler was on the point of departure, when his lordship forestalled him by demanding to know, ‘What on earth is that confounded noise?’
Isabel acknowledged the butler’s apologetic glance with a smile, before she said, ‘I’m afraid I’m to blame. It’s my dog, Beau. I’d better leave.’
‘Nonsense, child! Sit down, and finish your wine,’ his lordship countered, as she made to rise. ‘Leave the library door ajar, Tredwell, and let the misbegotten creature in. I don’t doubt he’ll locate his mistress’s whereabouts without causing too much mayhem.’
It was a matter of moments only after Isabel had detected the sound of the front door closing that Beau came bounding into the room. After satisfying himself that she had come to no harm, he did something that she had never known him do before. He stood on his long hind legs and placed his front paws high on his lordship’s chest. A lesser man might well have staggered, or at the very least betrayed signs of alarm. His lordship did neither. He merely looked appalled when the hound appeared as though he was about to lick his face by way of an introduction.
‘Oh, no, you don’t, you abominable creature! Get down at once!’
Although the dog surprisingly enough obeyed the command, his immediate compliance didn’t appear to impress the Viscount, who followed the hound’s subsequent exploration of the fine library with a jaundiced eye.
‘What did I hear you call him …? Beau, was it?’ At her nod of assent, he rolled his eyes ceiling-wards. ‘A singularly inappropriate name. A more ill-favoured brute I’ve yet to clap eyes on!’
More amused than anything else by this most unjustified criticism of her beloved hound, Isabel smiled up at him. ‘Ah, but you see, my lord, you do not view him through my eyes.’
He regarded her in silence, his expression, as it so often was, totally unreadable. Then he said, ‘What on earth possessed you to acquire such a breed? You know what it is, I suppose?’
‘Yes, a wolfhound—er—mostly,’ she responded. ‘When a pup he was discovered scavenging for food round the cottages in the village by some urchins, who then considered it would be wonderful sport to tie a large stone about his neck and throw him in the millpond,’ she explained. ‘I happened along at the time, rescued him and took him back with me to the farmhouse. Naturally I made enquiries about the village, and in
Merryfield, too, to see if anyone had lost a wolfhound pup, but no one came forward to claim him. So he’s been with me ever since.’
While she had been speaking Lord Blackwood had seated himself in the chair opposite. Not many moments afterwards Beau had returned to the hearth and had settled himself on the rug before the fire, making use of one of his lordship’s muscular thighs to rest his head.
Isabel watched as his lordship raised one long-fingered hand and began to stroke the hound gently. He appeared perfectly relaxed, and she would have been too, strangely enough, had she not been convinced that striking blue orbs were avidly scrutinising her from behind those half-shuttered lids.
‘Well, I’d better not waste any more of your time, my lord,’ she said hurriedly, suddenly feeling embarrassingly aware that the hem of her skirts and cloak were caked in mud.
Although she had always remained particular in her personal habits, she would have been the first to admit she had never spent an inordinate amount of time before her mirror, simply because being perfectly groomed at all times had never ranked high on her list of priorities. Yet she couldn’t deny that being likened to an ill-groomed country wench had touched a very sore spot indeed. Why suddenly should her appearance matter so much? Moreover, why should this aristocrat’s approbation all at once be so important to her?
‘It was good of you to see me,’ she added, ‘but now I’ll be on my way.’
