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She hadn’t done more than check the stables for vagrants in the past two months, so she wasn’t surprised to find it dark as they approached. Her lantern’s light glinted off the half-moon windows that topped the arches in the stone. More weeds poked up among the gravel of the yard.
The big wooden door blocking the entrance protested as she tried to pull it open. With a grimace of impatience, he took the tarnished brass handle from her grip and tugged. The door moved out of the way with an unearthly screech that made Dolly yelp in protest.
“A little oil will fix that right up,” she assured him as he pushed past her into the stables. The scent of decaying hay and dried manure tickled her nose, and she sneezed. Oh, what must he think of them!
Even as Gwen raised her lantern, Dolly trotted down the wide breezeway between the rows of stalls. It had been an elegant stable once, the boxes lacquered black and the curving screen separating the tops of the stalls a pristine white. Now everything looked a dingy gray. When had she allowed things to get away from her?
Something whinnied in the darkness beyond the light. Sir Trevor let out a breath of obvious relief and stalked toward the sound. Gwen followed him, then pulled up with a gasp.
In truth, she’d wondered why he had been quite so worked up about a horse. She knew they could cost a pretty penny, but, in her experience, they were great hawking beasts like as not to step on your foot as to pull your coach.
The animal standing in the middle stall, however, wasn’t a horse any more than a diamond was a rock. This animal had a jet-black coat that gleamed like satin and warm, liquid brown eyes that demanded loyalty. Every line of muscle and tendon said power.
“Dolly, no!” Gwen ordered as the mastiff approached the rope that closed off the stall. But the magnificent horse merely lowered its head and blew a breath at the dog. Dolly’s tail wagged so happily her whole rump wiggled.
Sir Trevor strode up to his horse and stroked the long muzzle. “Good lad, easy now. Everything all right here?”
She wouldn’t have been surprised if the horse had answered him. The beast tossed his head with a jingle, and she realized he still wore his bridle.
“Never even removed the saddle,” Sir Trevor said, and his tone indicated he felt the lapse worthy of eternal punishment. “Still, I suppose I should just be thankful he didn’t make off with you.”
“I’m very sorry,” Gwen felt compelled to say. “I can’t imagine who met you out here.”
“Neither can I,” he replied, gently nudging Dolly aside with his knee so he could release the rope. “But I assure you I had better not see him again.”
Please, Lord, let it be someone besides Father!
“Certainly not,” she agreed, moving forward to latch her free hand on Dolly’s collar and pull the mastiff out of the way. The dog came reluctantly, clearly wanting to sniff about this fascinating creature they’d found in the stables. “Is your horse all right?”
He’d stepped into the stall and was running his hands over the animal as if to make sure, his movements gentle, soothing. Why had she thought he was meant for battle? She could imagine those hands playing a sonata or painting a masterpiece just as passionately.
“He seems to be unharmed,” he murmured, and she could feel his relief.
Gwen ventured closer, peering through the spindles of the upper screen on the box. The golden light from her lantern warmed horse and master alike, glowing in their dark hair. “What’s his name?”
“Icarus.” The word brought a smile to his lips, and Gwen felt her lips turning up in response. He patted the horse on its glossy flank. “He likes to fly higher than he should.”
She wondered if the same could be said of his master. “He’s beautiful.”
“That he is. A descendant from the Byerley Turk.” He dropped his hand and turned. His face was solemn, troubled, and she stood a little taller to hear his concerns.
“Tell me the truth, Miss Allbridge. Can this estate provide anyone a living?”
She hoped so; she prayed so. Everything she’d ever dreamed of depended on it. “Certainly!” she told him, putting every ounce of faith into the word. “It was the finest estate in the upper valley before the colonel took ill. All it needs is a little attention.”
Trevor glanced around the stable. Stalls just like the one in which he stood stretched away on either side. The place would hold a dozen horses and several carriages when full, with room for coachman and grooms in the quarters upstairs. Now the darkness surrounded them like smoke, and she thought she could hear the scurrying of tiny feet not far away.
“I suspect,” he said with a sigh, “that it also needs an influx of cash.”
She dimpled at him. “Well, that goes without saying.”
He closed his eyes a moment. Was he praying? Did it truly look so awful to him that he had to reach to God for help? She wanted to touch him, stroke away the worried lines from his eyes and mouth. But that was not her place. All she could offer was encouragement.
“It will look brighter in the morning,” she murmured. “I promise.”
He opened his eyes and regarded her. Perhaps it was a trick of the lantern light, but his jade eyes seemed to have warmed. She felt warm just gazing into them. The vast stable was suddenly too small, too intimate. She swallowed and turned for the door. “I’ll just show you to the George now, shall I?”
She took a deep breath to steady herself and glanced back in time to see him swing himself easily into the saddle. “If it’s in your village, I’ll find it. Have your father send down my shaving kit. And tell him I expect a full report tomorrow morning in the library at ten.”
With a cluck of encouragement, the magnificent Sir Trevor and his equally magnificent horse disappeared into the night.
An influx of cash. Trevor shook his head as Icarus picked his way down the graveled drive. Gwen Allbridge smiled as if finding money was an easy matter. He supposed it would be for many a gentleman. But she couldn’t know that he was a gentleman in title only.
It had ever been this way. He had been born outside of wedlock, to a mother who was considered no lady. Yet his mother, his father, the accountants who arranged for him to attend the best schools, to wear the finest clothes, expected him to act the gentleman. Nay, they demanded it of him.
Gentlemen did not sully their hands with work; gentlemen lived off the income from their estates or their shrewd investments in the ’Change. But when you were born to neither estate nor investment, when the money was provided merely to educate, clothe and feed you while you were a lad, how were you supposed to get on?
He’d found a way, but few respected it. If the determined Miss Allbridge knew how he’d earned his meager income and his baronetcy, he had little doubt she would be far less eager to welcome him to her village.
But she wasn’t the only one so eager, he quickly learned. He located the George easily enough: a two-story, whitewashed building with black shutters and the picture of the king swinging merrily from the sign over the red front door. The inn was located in the heart of the little village, surrounded by tile-roofed cottages and two glass-fronted shops, all dark for the night.
The tall, long-nosed innkeeper was all politeness as he made sure Icarus was rubbed down and stabled. He easily agreed to have Trevor take a room for the night on the upper floor. That is, until he read Trevor’s entry in the great register book lying open on a high table near the entry.
“Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam of Blackcliff?” He squinted down at the words in black ink on the wide-lined book, then jerked up his head on his long neck like a stork checking for foxes. “Mrs. Billings—do you hear that? We are housing the new master of Blackcliff!”
Only three men lounged in the public room behind Trevor, but he could hear them muttering, the scrape of a chair as someone rose as if to get a better look at him. The pudgy innkeeper’s wife waddled from the steaming kitchen, wiping her hands on her wrinkled apron. Her brown eyes were bright as sugared raisins. “The master himself? Oh, an honor, sir, to be sure!”
In short order, he’d been installed in what he was assured was the best room in the house, jacket taken to be cleaned and pressed, pan warming the huge bed while a dinner of spiced mutton, soft pudding and buttered squash warmed his insides. Now that was more like it, that was what he’d hoped to find at Blackcliff—diffidence, competence, respect.
The morning was even better, with a breakfast of eggs and country ham, sharp cheddar, grilled tomatoes fresh from the vine and applesauce loaded with cinnamon, all with a week-old London Times to keep him company.
And there was the announcement: “Trevor Fitzwilliam, elevated to the rank of baronet. It appears that nepotism is still alive and well in our fair empire.” He crushed the paper with his fist.
So he wasn’t the only one to see his father’s hand in all this. Could the duke have found a more out-of-the-way place to send the son he refused to acknowledge publicly? There wasn’t an estate in Devon or Lincolnshire he could have purchased? No, Trevor must be sent about as far north as possible, into the Evendale Valley to the west of Carlisle, well into the peaks and lakes of Cumberland.
But, as always, Trevor had acted as a gentleman. He’d come to look at his estate, assess its ability to provide him an income. He would see that all assets of his land were producing, make sure his tenants were cared for and capable.
But nothing said he had to stay.
He had asked that Icarus be ready for him by half past nine, but he hadn’t expected the crowd waiting for him when he exited the George. Nearly two dozen men, women and children crowded expectantly in the coaching yard behind the inn. They wore rough cottons and dark wools, patched and frayed but generally clean. Their faces were pinched, their eyes wide. He couldn’t think what they wanted from him, but the moment he stepped out, a cheer went up.
Trevor raised his brows.
Then Gwen Allbridge shouldered her way to the front. Today she looked every inch the lady, her coppery curls barely visible inside a white satin-lined straw bonnet, her slender body wrapped in a dark green coat with a ruffled collar and lace at the cuffs, tied under her bosom with a rose-colored ribbon. He felt himself smiling at the sight of her and knew it wasn’t just because she was the most friendly face in the crowd.
“Good morning, Sir Trevor,” she said with a bob of a curtsy that set her pink bow to fluttering. “I hope you don’t mind, but a few of the villagers asked permission to accompany you to the Hall this morning.”
Trevor felt like standing a little taller. He offered them all a polite smile, in keeping with his new role of lord of the manor. “I am the one honored, I assure you.”
An approving murmur ran through the crowd. Gwen stepped aside, and an aisle opened between him and Icarus, who stood, head high, as if deigning to receive the attention bestowed upon him.
Trevor rather felt the same. He strolled down the center, nodding to this person and that, all the while keeping an eye out for the man who’d taken Icarus from him the night before or any of the men he had crossed in London. No one looked the least familiar. In fact, they were thin-faced and weary, as if living this close to the fells sapped their strength.
An older woman in a faded skirt curtsied to him. “Welcome to Blackcliff, sir. If you’ve need of a maid, my Becky’s a hard worker.” The plain-faced young woman next to her stared at him with worshipful eyes.
Gwen laid a hand on the woman’s arm as if in encouragement. “Sir Trevor will be making decisions on staffing soon, I promise. Send Becky up to me tomorrow, Mrs. Dennison, and I’ll find work for her.”
The woman’s blue eyes filled with tears. “Oh, thank you, Miss Allbridge.”
Trevor suddenly felt as if fine threads were being woven around him, tying him to this place. He wanted to shake them off, demand his independence. He had come north to learn what Blackcliff Hall could do for him, not what he could do for it.
Mrs. Dennison licked her lips. “And while you’re making plans for the place, sir, I hope you’ll see fit to reopen the mine.”
Silence fell, stretched. They were all watching him. He wouldn’t have been surprised had they been holding their breaths. But this was one question he felt perfectly comfortable answering.
He smiled at the woman. “If there’s a producing mine on my land, you can be sure I’ll have it opened.”
Another cheer went up. Hats were launched into the air. Couples embraced. Mrs. Dennison was openly crying now.
Gwen Allbridge grabbed his arm and yanked him toward Icarus.
“Now you’ve done it,” she said, dark eyes narrowed. “If I were you, I’d ride hard for the Hall and not look back.”
Chapter Four
Of course, Sir Trevor ignored her advice. In fact, Gwen was beginning to think the baronet was not going to be an easy gentleman to manage.
He kept his head high as his horse stepped away from the inn, the crowd cavorting along behind him as he made his stately way up the winding, tree-shaded lane. He must know the hope he’d given them—their faces glowed and their praises rang to the fells. Walking beside him, she could look up at his face—calm, dignified, with the barest hint of a smile lingering about the curve of his lips. He obviously had no idea that what he’d promised was impossible.
Oh, Lord, please keep them from hating him when he has to tell them the truth!
At least he wasn’t gloating, she thought as they approached the wrought-iron gates of Blackcliff Hall. However much of a challenge he offered her in keeping the estate going, he had to be a better owner than Colonel Umbrey. The colonel had always been capricious—the house too warm one day, too cold the next; salmon his favorite and least favorite meal by turns. He’d only grown more strange as the years had passed. Look at how he’d cast off his faithful valet, discharged her father and holed up in his bedchamber.
But even he had understood that the mine was closed.
The villagers stopped respectfully outside the gates, their rousing cheers following Gwen and Trevor up the curving gravel drive. The trees edging the estate boundary quickly hid them from view. From the direction of the gatehouse came a single, questioning bark: Dolly, protesting being left behind. She hated it when Gwen locked her in the kennel behind the stone gatehouse. Gwen would have liked nothing better than to lean against Dolly’s warm side, particularly as Gwen was a bit sore from the night’s exertions.
But she knew the mastiff had no place in the morning’s activities. This morning was all for Sir Trevor.
As they continued up the drive, other noises faded until the loudest sound was the crunch of Icarus’s hooves against rough gravel. The autumn breeze brushed Gwen’s cheek, set the trees along the drive to rustling. Leaves of bright red and deep russet drifted down across the emerald lawn.
“How long has Blackcliff been sitting?” Sir Trevor asked.
Did it look so terrible to him, even in the daylight? True, the stone fountain below the sweep of the drive stood empty and clogged with fallen leaves, but that was easily fixed. “About six months,” Gwen replied. “Colonel Umbrey refused all callers the last three months of his life, and he wouldn’t allow any changes to the estate. But the mine’s been closed for over a year. The surveyors said it was too dangerous to work.”
There—she’d said it. She cast him a quick glance to see how he might be taking it. The smile on his handsome face was even more noticeable.
“Surveyors can be mistaken,” he said.
So could he, but Gwen was suddenly very glad his education was one thing she could leave to her father.
Rob Winslow was waiting in front of the gray stone manor to take Icarus. She’d picked Rob purposely. He was tall, his strapping frame showed well in the brown coat and breeches that had been the livery of the previous master, he knew something about horses being the son of the village blacksmith and he’d play the role for no other pay than her thanks. He touched his brown forelock as Sir Trevor reined in, then quickly took charge of the horse.
Sir Trevor watched him, green eyes narrowed, until he’d disappeared around the house for the stables.
Gwen swallowed, feeling the chill in the air. “He’s not the one who took your horse yesterday, is he?”
“No. That man was much older and considerably thinner. That was my impression, at least. He was wearing a cloak.” Sir Trevor shook himself and started up the stairs. “I thought you said the groom had been discharged.”
“He was,” Gwen said, pacing him to the door. “Rob, that is Mr. Winslow, is merely filling in until you settle on your staff.”
He raised his dark brows over his aristocratic nose. He’d taken out his key, but she reached around him for the door. “No need. My father’s already opened the house. You did ask to meet with him this morning.”
He cast her a look. She could not tell what he was thinking, but she found herself holding her breath as he pushed open the door and strode inside.
Margaret Bentley was waiting to take his coat. She was the one person Gwen had qualms about. Oh, she looked the part of housekeeper with her snowy hair bound in a coronet about her round face and her motherly girth swathed in black bombazine covered by a pristine white apron. But she had no experience as a cook for anyone other than her six children and husband, all of whom had passed on.
“Welcome home, sir,” she said in her gentle voice as she reached up to help Sir Trevor with his multi-caped greatcoat. She had to stand on her tiptoes to pull it off. As she dropped back down, she peered at Gwen around his waist, brows up and mouth pursed in an O of awe.
“This is Mrs. Bentley,” Gwen said. The little woman straightened as Sir Trevor turned to eye her. “She’s acting as housekeeper and cook.”
Mrs. Bentley bobbed a curtsy, puddling Sir Trevor’s coat against the floor as she did so. “A pleasure, sir. Mr. Allbridge is waiting in the library, and I’ve started the teakettle on the boil. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Trevor replied. “And tea would be most welcome.”
Gwen let out her breath.
“Have it right out, dearie,” Mrs. Bentley said with a grin, then she blinked and swallowed. “That is, very good, sir.” She ducked her head and hurried off.
Trevor turned to Gwen. “So I have a groom and a housekeeper. How many more?”
“A maid of all work, and I’m working on a footman,” Gwen replied, feeling rather proud of herself. It hadn’t been easy finding people willing to volunteer with such short notice. “And several other men will be by this afternoon to set the gardens to rights.”
She waited for his praise, his amazement over her skills at managing a house. She was certain she’d be just as humble accepting them.
Instead, his mouth tightened. “You are kind to think of my needs, but in the future, I’d prefer to be consulted before you spend my money.”
Gwen felt as if he’d slapped her. She recoiled, but only for a moment. How dare he assume she’d spend his money without asking!
She squared her shoulders and looked up into his icy green gaze. “I will have you know, sir, that not one of these people asked a penny. Blackcliff Hall is the life of this village, and we’re all so glad to see it occupied again that we were delighted to stay up last night and make it presentable. And if you were any kind of gentleman, you’d appreciate that!”
Trevor raised his brows at her vehemence. Every inch of her straightened spine and high head said righteous indignation. Her chest rose and fell in her green coat, pink ribbon fluttering, as if she were taking deep breaths to try to steady her emotions. She truly thought these people would serve him with no expectation of reward.
He couldn’t believe that. In his experience, everyone had a reason for offering help; everyone expected something in return. Nor could he believe they’d worked all night for no other purpose than to pretty up Blackcliff Hall. They knew nothing about him. Why put themselves out on his behalf?
And despite what she’d said about Blackcliff being vital to the village, he was certain they must have more important things to do. Determined to prove himself right, he strode into the withdrawing room.
And stopped. And stared.
