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Now their work was evident, for every wood surface gleamed, from the parquet floor to the banister on the elegant stair. Even the ancient wall tapestry of knights attacking a stag had been cleaned, the colors once more proud.
But never as proud as the lady standing sternly on the stair.
“Why am I not informed of your goings out?” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott demanded, face nearly as pink as her fashionable wool gown.
Samantha stifled a desire to stick out her tongue at the elderly woman who had known her most of her life. For one thing, the gesture was unkind—she knew how Mrs. Dallsten Walcott tended to cling to people and things as a way to stave off her fears of loneliness and poverty. For another, Samantha had entirely outgrown such childish displays, most days.
“It was only a ride,” she said, pausing below her chaperone and feeling a bit more like a schoolgirl every moment. “I didn’t think you’d wish to join me.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott put her formidable nose in the air and sniffed. “Certainly not. I never felt the need to pelt across the grounds willy-nilly like some hoyden.”
Like me, Samantha thought, but the appellation of hoyden merely made her smile. Truth be told, she liked the fact she felt free to race across the grounds. Lord Kendrick hadn’t minded either. He’d seemed genuinely concerned about her fall, of course, but he’d never scolded her for jumping hedges, even if the act was a challenging feat from a sidesaddle.
“If you have need of me, I’d be delighted to help,” she told Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, “as soon as I’ve changed.” She spread her skirts to emphasize the state of her disarray and a chunk of dried mud obligingly fell to the floor with a plop.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott took a step back as if she feared the dirt would attack her. “I merely wish to congratulate you on your strategy and offer my guidance in achieving it.” She eyed Samantha’s riding habit. “You appear to need some assistance.”
Samantha dropped her skirts. “Strategy?”
“To marry young Lord Wentworth.” She wagged a finger at Samantha. “You may have the others fooled into thinking you’ll give away the manor, but I know better.”
Why would none of them leave her alone on the matter? It wasn’t their portions of the Everard legacy at risk if she failed to meet the last stipulation of her father’s will and marry before her upcoming birthday.
Her oldest cousin, Jerome, would keep the estate her father had left him, which had only grown more prosperous under his management. Her cousin Richard would keep his ship and the two he’d purchased with his inheritance. Cousin Vaughn had no doubt already spent the money her father had left him on the estate he’d been given when he’d been elevated to marquess. She was the only one who stood to lose—her childhood home and the bulk of the fortune. But better that than to risk her future or her very life.
Samantha pushed past her chaperone and started up the stairs.
“I am not marrying Jamie,” she flung over her shoulder. “And I don’t need anyone’s help.”
She said it loudly and with great conviction, but she might have been whistling down the wind for all the good it did. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott swept up beside her, keeping pace as Samantha stomped down the long corridor for her bedchamber, shedding more mud with each step.
“Certainly you need help,” the elderly lady scolded. “He’s a mere youth, true, but even young men can be clever about evading matrimony. And you only have a fortnight.”
Samantha paused beside the painting of Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s father, who had a similarly unforgiving look in his eyes. “Madam, I refuse to have this conversation with you.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott folded in on herself, and her lower lip began to tremble. “Very well. I know you have no use for me even though I was your mother’s dearest friend and only confidante when your father abandoned her here for his other life in London. You needn’t heed my advice, although I’m certain I’ve only ever had your best interests at heart.” She slipped a lace-edged handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and dabbed at her eyes.
Other women would have begged her pardon, rushed to assure her of her place in their affections. Samantha had known her too long. She put her hands on her hips.
“Crocodile tears will not move me, madam. I know where your loyalty lies—with this house and the name of Dallsten.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott raised her head, and as Samantha had suspected, no tears glistened on her soft cheeks. “And if that were true, would you blame me?” She flapped her handkerchief across the air. “How can you even consider giving all this away!”
The guilt threatened to overwhelm her. She was an Everard, and this was her home just as much as it was Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s. She’d learned to read and ride here, lost a father and found a family. How could she let this house be sold to another?
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
The guilt abated. She had to remember that Dallsten Manor was only a house. Its presence or loss only affected her and a few others. They would mourn, and it would be over. Marrying in desperation or out of any other emotion had the potential to hurt so many more people, and more than one generation. She knew that now.
She laid her hand on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s shoulder and was surprised how frail it had become. “I’m sorry. I know how much you love this house and how you’ve enjoyed living in it the past eight years while I’ve been gone. But I’m not marrying before my twenty-fifth birthday. Very likely, I’m not marrying at all.”
This time Samantha was fairly sure the water welling in her chaperone’s blue eyes was real. “But we’ll lose the house, all the furnishings, the paintings, the sculpture,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said, sucking in a breath as if the idea was too much to bear.
“All but the dower house,” Samantha agreed, the words like acid on her tongue. “You have the use of that in your lifetime, along with any family mementos you care to claim.” She leaned closer. “We both know how many of those the dower house can hold.”
A slow smile lit her chaperone’s face as she blinked back her tears. Samantha knew she was also thinking about the time, eight years ago, when Mrs. Dallsten Walcott had managed to cart most of the house’s valuables down to the dower house for “safekeeping.” Only Jerome’s diplomacy and Samantha’s offer to let the lady live in the main house again had made the woman feel comfortable in returning the items to their former places.
“Clever girl,” she told Samantha now. “I’ve always said so. I’ll need your help.”
Samantha straightened. “You’ll have it. Whatever you like, we’ll move it down to the dower house immediately, just as was agreed in the original deed from my father. I imagine you know exactly where to find all the important pieces.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott nodded as she tucked her handkerchief away. “I have the list in my head. I shall put it to paper, and we can start checking things off this very day. But you will need to forego our efforts tomorrow for tea.”
Hand on the latch to the door of her room, Samantha eyed her. “Tea? I don’t recall an appointment over tea.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott waved a hand. “The invitation came while you were out. Lord Wentworth has invited you to tea tomorrow at Kendrick Hall.” She beamed as if this was a tremendous honor.
Samantha raised her brows. “Reading my mail now, are you?”
Her chaperone drew herself up. “And how else am I to keep watch over you, young lady? There’s a reason Adele allowed you to come north alone ahead of the others.”
There was indeed, and it had little to do with the fact that Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was available to play chaperone for propriety’s sake. Adele was hoping the time alone at Dallsten Manor would make Samantha change her mind about marrying.
“I didn’t come ahead to play at tea,” she said. “We have work to do if we’re to have everything ready for the summer party in a fortnight.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott waved her hand again as if the effort amounted to nothing. “That is well in hand, thanks to all your work in the intervening months. You have done quite well in that regard, so you have no reason to avoid tea tomorrow. I have already accepted for you.”
Heat licked up her. It seemed no matter how old she was, her life was not her own. Well, perhaps it was time to make it her own.
“Since you accepted, you can explain why I don’t show up,” Samantha informed her chaperone, pushing open the door and marching into her room.
She thought the lady would wait to continue the argument until after Samantha had changed, but Mrs. Dallsten Walcott followed her into the bedchamber, ignoring the maid who came hurrying from the dressing room.
“But he’s the heir to an earldom,” her chaperone protested. “Surely you can see the benefits of such a match!”
The benefits were evident—the combination of their lands to provide a larger estate for both houses, the fulfillment of her father’s will. She could live among her beloved fells, surrounded by friends and family.
But she would have cheated Jamie out of finding a bride who could truly love him. Surely her way was better! Help me be strong, heavenly Father!
She pasted on a smile as she raised her arms to allow her maid to help her out of her soiled habit. “I’m sure Lord Wentworth will make a wonderful husband, for the right young lady. I am not that lady.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott went so far as to stamp her foot, and the maid cringed.
“Oh, how can you be so stubborn?” her chaperone cried. “Adele let this chance slip through her fingers. She was engaged to the former heir to Kendrick Hall, and she let him get away. Do not make the same mistake!”
Samantha had nearly been engaged to the former heir as well, something she could never forget. Lord Gregory Wentworth had been years older and a sophisticated gentleman who’d had years to master London Society. She’d been fascinated from the moment he had been introduced to her. He’d seemed so attentive, so sure of himself and her.
But she’d later learned that his pursuit of her had been dictated by his mentor, a villain intent on treason who had already hurt her family. The former Lord Wentworth’s role in his powerful mentor’s evil plan had been to keep her cousin Vaughn so busy worrying about Lord Wentworth’s courtship of Samantha that Vaughn forgot his quest to find the villain who had murdered her father, his beloved uncle.
The plan might have worked but for two things. Vaughn hadn’t been jealous; he’d already fallen in love with the villain’s daughter, of all people! And Lord Wentworth had fallen in love as well, with Samantha. The knowledge that he would put her before his mentor’s plans had driven the villain to kill him. Samantha could not help feeling that she should have done something, anything, to save Lord Wentworth. Perhaps, if she’d been more observant, if she hadn’t been ruled by her emotions, if she hadn’t been so fixated on gathering her third proposal, she might have discovered his connection to the treason plot and acted before he’d been killed.
Now she turned her back on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott as the maid pulled off her habit.
“The gravest mistake, madam, would be for me to marry,” she said, gaze on the far pink wall. “And nothing you or anyone else says will change that.”
Though she heard Mrs. Dallsten Walcott stalk from the room, Samantha was fairly sure the argument wasn’t over. But she knew she’d already won. And lost.
* * *
Will reacted with nearly as much determination when he was informed later that day about Jamie’s invitation to have Lady Everard join them for tea. He had returned from his ride sure that he could find a way to uncover the secrets he saw lurking in the lady’s deep brown eyes, if only to protect his family. That effort would require him to meet her again, gain her trust. But he had not expected his son to steal a march on him.
“And what exactly is the purpose of this event?” he asked Jamie as they sat in the library discussing estate business.
Jamie shrugged, lounging with great satisfaction in the leather-upholstered chair. “I told you—I want to reacquaint myself with our neighbors. Tea seemed a good way to start.”
“Will you pour or shall I?” Will quipped.
Jamie colored. “Mrs. Dallsten Walcott will be joining us. She can pour. And I would be delighted for you to attend, Father. Unless you have better things to do.”
Nothing more important than protecting his son from possibly predatory females. And attending would give him a chance to study Lady Everard more closely.
“Of course I’ll attend,” he told Jamie. “This is my home. I’d insult the ladies by not making an appearance.” He slapped his son on the knee. “Count on it. I’ll be there to support you.”
Jamie nodded, but somehow he did not look comforted.
He looked even less happy when he and Will gathered in the withdrawing room the next day to await their guests. Will’s mother had designed the formal room, from the elaborate pattern of the inlaid wood floor to the gilded chevrons on the white paneling of the lower walls and white marble fireplace. The creamy floral wreaths on the red silk wall hangings were mirrored in the sculpted wreaths edging the high ceiling.
Will hadn’t paid the decor all that much attention growing up. Peg had hated the room, particularly the snowy carpet in the center with its red silk fringe. She’d been afraid to walk on it lest she soil it. He had to agree it was rather impractical. He should have removed it years ago, but it reminded him of Peg.
Today Jamie refused to sit on any of the elegant white, curved-back chairs or sofa. He paced from the windows overlooking the fells to the doorway into the corridor, peering out each and pausing only long enough to tug at various articles of clothing. Already his cravat was wilting, his blue patterned waistcoat was rumpled, and his tasseled boots had lost their shine. Will felt for him.
“You’ll be fine,” he offered, stretching out his own tooled leather boots where he sat near the hearth. He hadn’t dressed the part of the earl today, choosing instead a tweed coat and chamois trousers. But the boots had been with him too many years to forego. Far more elaborate than the ones his contemporaries generally favored, they were as soft as butter and as comfortable as old slippers. He’d had them made his first week in Constantinople, and they’d been with him ever since.
When Jamie didn’t respond, Will glanced up. His son was frozen on the carpet, and their guests were at the door.
“Lady Everard and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott,” said their butler, a relict as formal as the room.
Will could understand why his son was gaping. He was hard-pressed not to gape himself. Samantha, Lady Everard, had been a vision in her cerulean ball gown. Now it seemed as if joy had entered the room. Her pale muslin gown was covered in a fitted blue jacket that brought out the gold of her hair. The collar was a frivolous affair with multiple points edged in lace; it was as whimsical as her smile.
He found himself smiling back and forced a more serious look. He’d met women from every part of the Ottoman Empire and places in between, from dusky-skinned princesses to platinum-haired grand duchesses. Why did this woman make them all fade in comparison?
“Samantha.” Jamie rushed forward to take her arm and lead her into the room. “Thank you for coming.”
“Well, it seems I promised,” she said with a sidelong glance at her companion.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, resplendent in royal purple as if she planned to take tea with the Regent, swept up to Will and curtseyed. “Lord Kendrick, how kind of you to invite us to your lovely home.”
Will bowed. “It is only lovely because you grace us with your presence, dear lady.”
She batted her lashes at him as she rose and tapped his arm with one finger. “I spoke with the Widow Trent yesterday. She was utterly charmed by your attentions at the party the other night.”
He could not think who she meant. The only woman he remembered meeting was gazing at him from across the room in obvious amusement. “She is kind to think of me,” he replied.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott tittered. “It isn’t kindness that makes a lady remember a handsome gentleman, my lord.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Samantha put in. “Any lady would remember a kindness after a sudden mishap. Such an act is unlooked for and most welcome, like a breeze on a hot day.”
It was not the day but his face that felt hot at that reference to their ride the previous day. No, he couldn’t be blushing! He waved to the chair closest to the tea cart, and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott took it while he made sure to sit the farthest from Lady Everard. He told himself it was his duty to keep an eye on things, but some part of him warned it was self-preservation.
Still, the tableau would have been amusing under other circumstances. Their staff had set up a cart with the dainty silver tea urn his mother had preferred and her favorite rose-covered china cups and saucers. A plate of delicate tea cakes, frosted in a creamy yellow, lay ready for the passing. Normally his son would have been the first to reach for them.
But Jamie was watching Samantha as if she was the tea cake and he was starving. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was studying the pair of them with narrowed eyes that seemed to hold more speculation than censorship. And Samantha was eying Will, mouth turned up at one corner, twinkle in her dark eyes as if she was in complete agreement with him that the situation was ridiculous.
Even as he fought the urge to adjust his cravat or waistcoat, she turned her smile on Jamie.
“Everything looks marvelous. Would you like me to pour?”
“Of course,” Jamie said as if waking from a dream.
She set about pouring the steaming brew into the cups, her movements sure and easy. She’d probably poured tea a hundred times since she’d made her debut in Society, yet the smiles she bestowed on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott and Jamie said they were the most important people she had ever served. Will was on his feet and moving toward her before she even held out his cup.
His fingers brushed hers as he reached for the china, and he heard the sharp intake of her breath. Her gaze met his. He could not seem to look away. As if from a long distance he heard the soft thud of a cup and saucer hitting the carpet.
“Oh, gracious!” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott cried. “Samantha, how could you!”
Samantha turned red and dropped her gaze, now empty hands falling into the lap of her pale gown. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”
“My fault entirely,” Will said, squatting to pick up the unbroken china. The stain of the spilled tea was spreading across the pristine carpet. He couldn’t help grimacing, but the act had more to do with his own behavior than hers.
What was he thinking, mooning about, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick schoolboy? He had thought he’d learned something in the nearly twenty years since he’d fallen in love the first time. At the moment he felt no wiser than his son.
He had to be wiser. He had to protect Jamie. And now it appeared he had to protect himself as well. For if he wasn’t careful, Samantha, Lady Everard, might wedge her way into his heart, and that would be a mistake.
Chapter Five
Samantha sat quietly, trying not to bite her lip, as Mrs. Dallsten Walcott poured another cup of tea for Lord Kendrick and chatted about commonplaces. Why had she dropped that cup? She’d served tea dozens of times, once to His Highness the Duke of York! Her hands had never so much as trembled. But one look in those deep green eyes and she’d lost all sense of place, aware only of the pounding of her heart.
Lord, please, not like this. You know the danger of trusting feelings that come so quickly. Help me!
“It’s nothing,” Jamie whispered beside her. “Please don’t concern yourself. My father says my mother hated that carpet. I don’t know why he kept it.”
She nodded, but she focused her gaze on the ugly brown stain. Likely William Wentworth, Lord Kendrick, kept the carpet for the same reason she kept the iron canopy over her mother’s bed—so he would never forget. She could not allow these fleeting feelings to overpower her resolve.
“Cake?” Lord Kendrick asked, holding out the silver-rimmed plate to her. “They used to be Lord Wentworth’s favorite.”
Lord Wentworth? The image of his brother, cleft chin, blue eyes, superior air, came to mind despite her best efforts. She hadn’t known the schemes that were about to endanger her family then. Certainly she hadn’t suspected Lord Wentworth had been anything but sincere in his courtship. Did Lord Kendrick understand she’d once hoped his brother might offer for her? That he had in fact offered the day before his murder?
She searched Lord Kendrick’s face for judgment, for blame. But he was merely smiling at her, all encouragement, as if trying to allay her concerns after the tea contretemps.
