Книга - From Waif To Gentleman’s Wife

From Waif To Gentleman's Wife
Julia Justiss


THE GOVERNESS’S GALLANT PROTECTOR When a destitute governess faints on Sir Edward Greaves’ threshold, chivalry demands that he offer her temporary shelter. However, the desire Ned feels when he catches her in his arms isn’t at all gentlemanly…With her large, troubled eyes and slender frame, Joanna Merrill calls to something deep inside this guarded man. For one who has purposely shunned the conniving beauties of London society, just how much is Ned risking by having this intriguing woman under his roof?












Praise for

Julia Justiss


A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL MATCH ‘Justiss captures the true essence of the Regency period … The characters come to life with all the proper mannerisms and dialogue as they waltz around each other in a “most unconventional” courtship.’ —RTBook Reviews

ROGUE’S LADY ‘With characters you care about, clever banter, a roguish hero and a captivating heroine, Justiss has written a charming and sensual love story.’ —RT Book Reviews

THE UNTAMED HEIRESS ‘Justiss rivals Georgette Heyer in the beloved The Grand Sophy (1972) by creating a riveting young woman of character and good humour… The horrific nature of Helena’s childhood adds complexity and depth to this historical romance, and unexpected plot twists and layers also increase the reader’s enjoyment.’ —Booklist

THE COURTESAN ‘With its intelligent, compelling characters, this is a very well-written, emotional and intensely charged read.’ —RT Book Reviews

MY LADY’S HONOUR ‘Julia Justiss has a knack for conveying emotional intensity and longing.’ —All About Romance

MY LADY’S PLEASURE ‘Another entertaining, uniquely plotted Regency-era novel … top-notch writing and a perfect ending make this one easy to recommend.’ —RT Book Reviews

MY LADY’S TRUST ‘With this exceptional Regency-era romance, Justiss adds another fine feather to her writing cap.’ —Publishers Weekly


Pushing past the butler, Joanna stumbled over the threshold, her chilled body drawing her like a moth to the flames dancing on the hearth. In her dazed and exhausted mind, images swirled before her eyes: the rainswept road. Her stiff cold fingers. Her empty purse.

She felt as if she were swaying in a high wind. The disapproval on the face of the tall man by the hearth was the last thing she saw before the images dissolved and she slipped into blackness.

Consternation tempering his irritation, Ned hastened to catch the girl before her head hit the wooden floor. As he gathered her up, glancing about him to determine where to deposit his soggy burden, he realised his first impression had been wrong.

Before she’d fainted he’d noted little more than large dark eyes, a determined little chin and the fact that she was dripping all over the carpet. But, though her body was short and slender, this was no girl he held in his arms, but a woman.

His sleepy body roused abruptly to full attention.




About the Author


JULIA JUSTISS wrote her first plot ideas for a Nancy Drew novel in the back of her third-grade notebook, and has been writing ever since. After such journalistic adventures as publishing poetry and editing an American Embassy newsletter she returned to her first love: writing fiction. Her Regency historical novels have been winners or finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart™, RT Book Reviews magazine’s Best First Historical, Golden Quill, National Readers’ Choice and Daphne Du Maurier contests. She lives with her husband, three children and two dogs in rural east Texas, where she also teaches high school French. For current news and contests, please visit her website at www.juliajustiss.com

Novels by the same author:

THE WEDDING GAMBLE

THE PROPER WIFE

MY LADY’S TRUST

MY LADY’S PLEASURE

MY LADY’S HONOUR

A SCANDALOUS PROPOSAL

SEDUCTIVE STRANGER

THE COURTESAN

THE THREE GIFTS

(part of A Regency Lords & Ladies Christmas anthology) THE UNTAMED HEIRESS ROGUE’S LADY CHRISTMAS WEDDING WISH (part of Regency Candlelit Christmas anthology) THE SMUGGLER AND THE SOCIETY BRIDE (part of Silk & Scandal mini-series) A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL MATCH WICKED WAGER


From Waif To



Gentleman’s



Wife



Julia Justiss




















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my children who, like Elizabeth’s David, bring me joy




Chapter One


South-west England—spring 1817

Making sure little Susan, who suffered from nightmares, had finally settled into a deep sleep, Joanna Merrill gave the child’s silky hair a gentle pat and slipped from her charge’s side.

‘Thank’ee, ma’am, and I be sorry to have intruded on your evening,’ the nursemaid Hannah whispered, still rocking Susan’s younger sister in the schoolroom just beyond the little girl’s bed. ‘But I was fair at my wit’s end, what with this one wailing and Miss Susan all afret. Ye’ve got the touch that soothes that little mite. Better get downstairs now, afor you miss your tea.’

Having escaped another interminable dinner under the lecherous eye of Lord Masters, her employer’s husband, Joanna had no intention of pouring tea for the family, despite her mistress’s instruction that she return to do so after calming Miss Susan.

‘No, Hannah, I’m feeling weary. I believe I will just return to my room and read.’

‘Very well, miss. Goodnight to you … and be careful.’

Joanna had no need of the nursemaid’s cryptic warning. Avoiding Lord Master’s unwanted advances was becoming so great a challenge that, much as she enjoyed the peace of the countryside and her active young charges, Joanna knew she would soon be forced to seek another position, thereby confronting head-on the concern that had prevented her from giving notice within a week of her employers’ arrival in the country—the suspicion that Lord Masters, loath to allow the current object of his wandering eye to escape, would somehow prevent his wife from giving her the necessary references.

How things had changed in the fortnight since her long-absent employers’ return from London, she thought with a sigh as she tiptoed across the schoolroom. When a friend of her late husband’s family had recommended her for this governess’s position almost a year ago, she’d thought it the answer to her prayers, devastated as she’d been after losing first her babe and then her darling Thomas. Having neither strength nor funds to seek out Papa, still a chaplain with the East India Company, and unwilling to throw herself on her elder brother Greville’s charity, or abase herself by begging assistance from Thomas’s family, who had made clear their disapproval of his marrying the daughter of a untitled country gentleman, she’d been happy to trade the noise and dirt of London for the rural beauty of this remote corner of south-west Hampshire.

Instructing two small girls, at once sweet and demanding, filled her days with an endless activity that left her little time to brood. She’d found a measure of tranquillity that dulled the pain of having to surrender her dreams of building a family and a future with Thomas. A fragile peace that had been shattered within a few days of the arrival of Lady Masters, whom she’d met once the day of her interview, and Lord Masters, whom Joanna had never seen, back at his ancestral estate.

As she paused on the threshold, peering cautiously into the corridor, she recalled with a bitter smile how charming she’d thought Lord Masters at their first meeting. Appearing not at all high in the instep, he’d paused to chat with the new employee, enquiring about her family and even claiming friendship with her distant and high-born relation, the Marquess of Englemere, who employed her brother Greville to manage one of his small properties. After she informed Lord Masters how remote was her kinship to this cousin she’d never met and confessed how removed she’d always lived from London society, she expected the Viscount would soon abandon his politeness to a mere governess.

Instead, he’d continued to seek her out, paying her flattering attention as he chatted about literature, art, music and the theatre under the guise of discussing what he considered important for his daughters’ education. Lulled into complacency, she’d noticed nothing untoward until the fourth evening after his arrival … when he’d cornered her alone in the library after dinner.

Still loath to step into the shadowy corridor, she lingered a moment longer, a shudder rippling through her as she recalled that infamous night. Something about his lordship’s gaze, which had seemed to hover with unseemly interest on her bosom, had made her immediately uneasy. The quantity of wine he’d drunk at dinner glazing his eyes, he’d tried to persuade her to remain in the library and talk to him. She’d kept the big desk between them as he entreated her, then walked quickly away, holding the book she’d chosen before her chest like a shield.

Heart thumping like a drum beating the advance, she’d almost managed to escape before, closing the distance between them, he’d reached out and run his fingers over her bottom. The sound of his laughter when she knocked his hand away and scurried out, slamming the door behind her, had chilled her to the core.

Locked inside her room, heart still thrumming in alarm, she’d considered complaining at once to Lady Masters. But what would she do if her employer didn’t believe her?

Lord Masters was a Viscount and her employer’s husband. She was a soldier’s widow, her father an insignificant clergyman currently out of England, the brother she’d not seen in years employed on an estate far away. Who would support her if Lord Masters denied her charges, as he was almost certain to do?

Vowing to remain ever vigilant while she considered the wisest course of action, since that evening she’d kept her chamber door locked and her eyes watchful.

As she would tonight.

Taking a deep breath, she exited the schoolroom and walked swiftly through dimly lit space towards her room. She’d almost reached that sanctuary when a figure materialised from the shadows further down the hall and strode towards her.

‘Lord Masters,’ she said coolly, despite the dismay that sent her pulse racing. ‘I have the headache a little. Kindly let Lady Masters know I will not take tea this evening.’

‘Ah, then I must eschew tea as well … and tend you. Have you a fever?’

She sidestepped his attempt to lay a hand on her forehead. ‘Just a headache, my lord, which solitude and quiet will soon cure. I’m sure your wife, waiting for you below, is most impatient for your return.’

‘She’s had hers; she can wait,’ he said carelessly, his gaze roving her figure with such blatant relish that she felt besmirched. ‘Whereas you, little fox. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Years since that soldier-boy husband of yours sent you back to England? You must be eager … panting for it.’

As he spoke, Joanna had backed away from him towards her chamber until the fingertips she’d extended behind her touched the door latch. Advancing as she retreated, Lord Masters now put both hands on either side of the door frame, corralling her against the door’s solid mahogany panel as he breathed alcoholic fumes into her face.

If she darted into her room, could she close the door quickly enough to prevent him from following? Lock it before he could use his greater strength to force it back open?

She might be smaller and weaker, but she’d not give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing how much he frightened her. Summoning her best governess voice, she said repressively, ‘Lord Masters, I find your … attentions most distasteful. Pray recall that you were born a gentleman and abandon them at once.’

Instead, the Viscount chuckled. ‘What a prim little pet you are! Have I ruffled your sleek russet fur? By heaven, you make me mad to soothe you … to tear off that drab dress and feel the silk of your skin under my fingers.’

Alarm extinguishing any further desire to reason with him, Joanna ducked under his outstretched arm and tried to dash away. Laughing in earnest now, he caught her easily, then pinned her against the door and assaulted her with a kiss, his tongue probing her firmly closed lips.

Furious as well as afraid, despite the limited space between them, Joanna struck at him with as much power as she could muster and bit his tongue.

With a yelp of pain, he slammed her into the door, trapping her arms behind her. Covering her mouth with one hand before she could cry out, he wrapped his other arm around her, binding her to him with a punishing grip that left her wriggling to free herself as ineffectually as a worm on a hook.

‘Like it rough, do you?’ he panted, his beetle-black eyes glistening with excitement. ‘Well, I can accommodate! By God, I’ll have you now, you little vixen.’

Clutching her against him, he kicked open her chamber door. While she continued to struggle, desperately seeking to injure or delay him, he dragged her across the room, threw her backwards on to the bed and climbed atop her, holding her in place with the bulk of his body. With one hand he started dragging up her skirts.

Barely able to breath from the weight on her chest, spurred by panic when she felt his hardness pressed against her, Joanna managed to free one arm. Striking out blindly, she pummelled Lord Master’s head and bit at the hand covering her mouth.

Despite her efforts, he’d slid his fingers up to her thighs when a shrill female voice cried, ‘Mrs Merrill! What are you doing?’

After a startled instant of immobility, her attacker lurched away from her. Gasping for breath after the removal of his smothering weight, Joanna scrambled to a sitting position on the bed.

Her expression tight and affronted, Lady Masters said, ‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’

‘Now, Lizzie, don’t go off into a pelter,’ Lord Masters said, his tone cajoling. ‘That auburn-haired witch has been throwing herself at me ever since we arrived. There’s only so much temptation a man can withstand.’

Lady Master’s look turned contemptuous. ‘In some cases, ‘tis very little indeed.’

‘Temptation!’ Joanna croaked furiously, finally able to find her voice. ‘I gave you no encouragement whatsoever! Indeed, I did everything in my power to discourage your unwelcome advances.’

‘Discourage, hah!’ Masters responded. ‘Just look at her, my love. That flaming hair coming loose and her gown awry, cheeks flushed and bosom heaving—why, the hot-blooded wench even bit me!’ He gestured with his bloody hand to his equally bloody lip.

Lady Masters closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Now that the danger had passed, Joanna felt a surge of pity for Lady Masters. How awful to be tied for life to a lecher who embarrassed one by trying to debauch one’s governess under one’s very nose! She’d bet her tiny sum of savings this wasn’t the first time, either.

Opening her eyes a moment later, Lady Masters said quietly, ‘My lord, you will let me handle this, please?’

‘If you wish, my love.’ Giving a smile to his wife—and throwing Joanna the surly glance of a spoiled child denied the treat he’d been anticipating—Lord Masters ambled out.

‘Lady Masters, I assure you—’

‘Please, Mrs Merrill, do not try to explain. Under these circumstances, I can hardly continue to allow a woman of your … appetites to supervise my children. I must demand that you leave this house at once.’

The charge was so unexpected—and so blatantly untrue—that for a moment, Joanna could only stare at her employer in astonishment. Her sympathy for the woman evaporating, she said, ‘But, Lady Masters, surely you can’t blame—’

‘Mrs Merrill, I’ve already said I shall not entertain any excuses. I will be charitable enough to have a groom bring round a gig to convey you to the village in half an hour, but do not test my indulgence by remaining under my roof a minute longer.’

‘Now?’ Joanna asked incredulously. “Tis already full dark! And what of my salary for this quarter?’

‘The lateness of the hour is your own concern. As for your salary—’ Lady Masters looked her up and down ‘—I expect you’ll soon find a way to earn whatever you need.’

And so, an incoherent blur of time later, her mind still reeling in shock and fury, Joanna found herself deposited at the public house in the village by a surly groom who dropped her without a word, whipped his horse back to a trot and disappeared into the darkness on the long journey back to the manor.

Unwilling to wake the sleeping inhabitants of the inn, unsure yet what story the woman the villagers knew to be governess at the Masters estate could or should tell them about her unexpected appearance, Joanna slipped into the barn. Only the soft wickers of several equine inhabitants greeted her as she found a thick pile of straw and sank down on to it.

Struggling to resist the fear and despair threatening to overcome her, she considered her few possessions—a hurriedly packed bandbox of underthings, shoes and gowns along with the clothes and cloak she wore—and her hoard of coins, which was pitifully small.

Without references or any current prospects of further employment, how would she survive without succumbing to the fate the monstrously unfair Lady Masters had predicted?

After a moment of blind panic, a reassuring thought calmed her. She’d go to her brother, Greville Anders.

He’d left the army after Waterloo, she’d learned in the last message she’d had from him, a bitter diatribe against the aristocratic patronage system that had denied him the promotion he felt should have been his after that great battle. Always an indifferent correspondent, he’d sent her nothing since. For all she knew, he might have a wife and a hopeful family at the snug estate he now managed for their more illustrious cousin. He’d not journeyed to London to console her after she had sent word of Thomas’s death and, not wanting at that time to inconvenience him, she’d taken the employment offered by Lady Masters without further thought.

But, married or single, Greville was the only close family she possessed still in England. Surely he would take her in until she figured out what to do next.

Encouraged by that thought, she settled back into the soft hay with a sigh. Tomorrow she would expend her small savings to purchase coach fare to Blenhem Hill.

‘So, Ned, what do you think I should do?’

The next afternoon, Sir Edward Austin Greaves raised his gaze from swirling the brandy the sun was illumining to burnished bronze and looked thoughtfully at his friend Nicholas Stanhope, Marquess of Englemere, who sat across from him in Englemere’s library. ‘What is happening at the property now?’

After sipping from his own glass, Nicky shook his head. ‘I can’t be certain, not without inspecting the place personally. Frankly, if it were not for the unrest in the countryside and the general distress occurring even at some of my own holdings, I’d be inclined to think Martin exaggerated. After he retired as my agent, I gave over the management of Blenhem Hill to a distant cousin who approached me about employment after Waterloo. Thought it was the least I could do for one of our brave men, and as he’d served in Wellington’s commissary corps, I assumed he would be capable. Not so, according to Martin, who despite his advanced years still has a sharp mind and a keen eye.’

‘How bad did Martin say conditions are?’ Ned asked, a ready sympathy rising in him. Except for a few very rich landowners or those with properties as well tended as his, the drop in prices at the end of the war had wreaked havoc with the agrarian economy.

Nicky grimaced. ‘Wretched enough that Martin urged me to immediately discharge my cousin and his agent, another veteran with whom he’d served. Which I did, leaving me now at a standstill. Blenhem Hill is a damnably long distance from any of my other properties. Though I hate to leave Sarah and our son to make an extended journey, I’d already been intending to visit to view operations at the small stocking mill I had constructed—something Hal recommended.’

‘A local manufactory that would offer supplementary income for tenant families to offset the drop in crop prices?’ Ned asked. When Nicky nodded, Ned continued, ‘I talked with several estate owners who are doing that. An excellent notion.’

‘So Hal thought, now that better looms have been designed. You know Hal—’ Nicky grinned as he mentioned their mutual friend Hal Waterman, a big bluff man with a passion for investment and a fascination with inventions ‘—always enamoured of the latest gadget. At any rate, I’d planned just a quick stay at Blenhem Hill, but if the distress is as general as Martin reported, I owe it to the tenants to give the place a thorough inspection. And since my expertise is in finance rather than agriculture, I wanted your recommendations on how best to proceed.’

Ned was mulling over his answer when a knock sounded at the door, followed by the entry of a graceful, golden-haired lady. Warmth and brightness entered with her, Ned thought, like sun on the fields after a spring rain. ‘Ned, Nicky, I’m sorry to interrupt, but—’ His eyes lighting, Nicky jumped up and strode over to kiss his wife’s cheek. ‘Seeing you is always a pleasure, sweeting. Isn’t it, Ned?’

‘Always,’ Ned affirmed, the glow her presence kindled in his own heart tainted by an envy he could not quite subdue. He’d been drawn to Sarah Wellingford the moment they’d met. Had his good friend Nicky not already established a claim on her, he’d have pursued her himself.

‘Thank you, kind sirs,’ she replied with a twinkle, making them both an exaggerated curtsy. ‘Nicky, Aubrey won’t settle for his nap until you kiss him goodnight. Ned, can you spare him for a few moments?’

‘Of course.’ Turning to Nicky, Ned said, ‘Go see your son. I’ll wait here, making inroads on your brandy and contemplating solutions.’

‘The demands of fatherhood,’ Nicky said with a sigh Ned didn’t believe for a moment, knowing Nicky adored his little boy as much as he loved his wife. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’ His wife on his arm, Englemere walked out.

Ned watched them leave together, trying to suppress another swell of envy.

Barred from courting the one woman he’d ever cared for, a countrywoman who might love and esteem a simple gentleman farmer like himself, would Ned ever find another lady Sarah’s equal? Bitterness stirred in his gut. After his recent disillusionment over Amanda, he’d be much less likely to believe it if he ever again encountered one who appeared to be as worthy of his loyalty and affection as his friend’s wife.

Unwillingly his mind caught on the image of the vivacious, charming Amanda. He thought he’d found the lady he’d been seeking when her father, Lord Bronning, a fellow agricultural enthusiast he’d met years ago at the annual meeting at Holkham, had invited him to visit his estate after last autumn’s meeting. Ned had been immediately taken with the bright gold hair, mischievous blue eyes and sparkling wit of Bronning’s country-born, country-bred daughter. Nor had she discouraged him, he recalled, his lip curling.

Oh, no, she’d immediately come forwards to monopolise his attention. Insisting to her papa that she be his guide on walks and drives around her father’s property, she’d impressed him with her knowledge of the estate and entertained him with her needle-sharp commentary.

His scowl deepened. She’d also fired him to a simmering passion long denied, with the subtle brushes of her fingers against his body, her deliberate, stroking touches to his hands and arms and shoulders, her jutting bosom and moistened lips. Lonely after having lost the company of his two best friends, one happily wed to a girl Ned cherished and the other, Hal Waterman, occupied with his investments in the north, he’d let lust and neediness persuade him what he felt for Amanda was love. And offered for her hand.

Thank a kind Providence he’d first made a formal application to Lord Bronning! To his own chagrin and that gentleman’s embarrassment, her father confessed apologetically that his Amanda, terrible flirt that she was, had vowed to him she would marry none but a wealthy gentleman of high title who, since she’d had enough of rural living, resided for as much of the year as possible in London. Pretty as his little scamp was, Lord Bronning added with fatherly pride, he had no doubt she would accomplish that goal when his sister introduced her in town next Season.

Grateful to at least have been spared the humiliation of having the lady refuse him to his face, Ned had swiftly hied himself home. And vowed in his turn that, being neither as rich as Hal nor as high-born as Nicky, he would be cautious indeed before ever again casting his bruised heart into the matrimonial ring.

Dismissing with irritation that painful episode, he forced his thoughts back to Nicky’s problem. Though Ned wasn’t accounted truly wealthy, his assets tied up as they were in land rather than coin, he did well enough, and managing land was a passion that had never disappointed him. From the first time he’d met like-minded individuals at Coke of Norfolk’s Holkham Hall meeting, he’d devoted all his time and energy to implementing the ideas discussed there and persuading his tenants to adopt the latest and most efficient agricultural techniques.

But even advanced agricultural practices weren’t always enough to stave off disaster in these hard times, he mused, frowning. The cost of the enclosures essential to modernise agriculture had fallen most heavily on those least able to bear them, the poor farmers who held little beyond their plots of ground in the old commons and wastes. With the drastic fall in the price of wheat and corn, even a well-managed small property could fall into difficulties. The fate of those on a poorly managed one could be grim indeed.

Nicky was right; it was the duty of the local landowner to help his tenants prosper and see that those forced to sell their small plots found employment at a reasonable wage. He was right about the difficulty of the endeavour, too. Rectifying the effects of a long period of mismanagement under current conditions would pose a difficult challenge even for one of Ned’s experience and expertise.

By heaven, right now he could use a challenge, something to distract him from the lingering bitterness over Amanda and keep the loneliness at bay.

The idea flashed into mind just as Nicky walked back in.

‘You’d had time to mull over the situation,’ Nicky said, pouring himself another fingerful of brandy. ‘What advice do you offer?’

‘Sell Blenhem Hill,’ Ned replied. ‘It’s too far away for you to oversee properly, forcing you to depend on an estate agent of uncertain expertise, and it’s reputed to be in poor condition anyway.’

‘Sell it?’ Nicky echoed. ‘Now? With land and crop prices falling like a duck full of shot, who would be fool enough to purchase a failing agricultural property in the restive Midlands?’

Ned smiled. ‘I would.’




Chapter Two


If one means to try a new crop, best to start broadcasting the seed, Ned had always thought. Which was why he found himself ten days later jolting along in Nicky’s crested travelling carriage down the rutted lane to Blenhem Hill.

Trusting the legal niceties of the sale to the expertise of their respective solicitors, Ned had proposed to Nicholas that he take over the management of the property immediately. His friend agreed, and, upon learning that Ned, who had already completed preparations for spring planting on his several holdings in Kent, meant to go to Blenhem directly from London, Englemere insisted he borrow his travelling carriage so as to make the journey in greater comfort.

Despite the daunting description of what probably awaited him at Blenhem Hill, with the coach now so near its destination, a rising excitement buoyed Ned’s spirits. He might be hopeless at the capricious game of love, but one constant he knew to his bones—the feel of richly scented loam between his fingers, waiting for one of skill and patience to nourish it, tend it, woo from it a bounty of tasseled corn or waving wheat.

Land in good heart was honest, rewarding one’s care with a harvest that varied only according to the vagaries of the weather. Soil did not look upon you sweetly one day, offering up a fine stand of wheat or beans or corn, and the next, turn to weeds and bramble. Even poor ground, thin and rocky or soggy with clay, could be improved through the use of well-tested techniques. Yes, a man knew where he stood with his land. It was never fickle like a woman’s smile or changeable like a lady’s whim.

He also relished the opportunity to work with the tenants, both at Blenhem and in the surrounding neighbourhood. Farmers, especially in lean times, were often loath to change practices that had been handed down for generations. Coaxing them to try different methods that Ned knew would yield healthier soil and better harvests, thereby increasing their income and security, would bring him a satisfaction far greater than a mere increase to the rent rolls and a chest full of coins in his estate office.

At that moment, the vehicle bounced into another pothole and came down hard, almost throwing him off his seat. Catching himself with a grimace, Ned reflected that perhaps travelling by horseback, as he’d initially intended, would have been more comfortable than the barouche after all, despite the soaking rain in which they’d set out from London.

He was about to signal the coachman to halt and call for his horse, being led behind the coach by his groom, when the explosion of a pistol discharged at close range blasted his ears.

Before the reverberations stopped ringing, Ned plastered himself against the squabs, seeking the thin protection of the coach wall as he peered out of the window. ‘John! Harrison!’ he called to the coachman and his valet, riding on the box beside the driver. ‘Are you all right?’

Scanning the surrounding forest through the small coach window to try to determine from whence had come the shot, as he awaited a reply, Ned scrabbled for his own pistol, left negligently in a corner of the coach after their stop at the last inn. But who could have imagined they would encounter highwaymen here, on this isolated lane far from any town?

‘Winged Mr Harrison,’ the coachman called back.

Before Ned could enquire any further, a small party of masked men led by a rider on horseback emerged from the thick woods to the left.

‘Nay, don’t reach for yer blunderbuss,’ their mounted leader cautioned John Coachman. ‘If’n we’d wished to kill ye, ye’d be dead. Our quarrel’s not with you, but with that fine gent cowering inside.’

Raising his pistol, the man fired, blasting a hole through the centre of the crested door. The ball whizzed past Ned’s knees and buried itself into the opposite door panel. ‘That’s for the vote and General Ludd. Death to mill owners and tyrants!’

‘Aye, hurrah for General Ludd and death to tyrants!’ his companions cheered, waving their arms in the air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw one of the band raise his pistol and sight it. Not sure whether the man meant to target him or the unarmed servants sitting exposed on the box, Ned quickly levelled his own weapon and fired.

The gunman cried out and grabbed his shoulder, dropping his pistol, which discharged as it hit the ground, sending a stray ball whining into the cluster of men. While the leader’s horse reared in panic, the group scattered.

Controlling his mount, the leader rode over to his injured follower, steadying him before he could fall. Looking back over his shoulder at Ned, he snarled, ‘You’ll pay for this!’

‘Not if you swing for it first,’ Ned retorted as the leader signalled another of the group to pull along the injured man, then trotted after his followers back into the thick greenery from which they’d emerged.

While the sounds of their passage through the woods receded, Ned tossed down his empty pistol and jumped out of the coach. ‘Harrison, how badly are you hurt?’

He looked up to see the valet clutching his left wrist, grimacing as the coachman inspected it. ‘Grazed only, Sir Edward,’ he replied through gritted teeth.

‘Lost a bit of blood, but the ball didn’t penetrate the bone,’ the coachman announced. ‘Bless me, Sir Edward, I be powerful sorry! Caught me napping, me old musket too far away even to grab afore they halted us. What’s the world coming to, when honest folk can’t travel a country road without being set upon? ‘Tis a blessing they left you yer purse without murdering us all!’

‘They weren’t after my purse,’ Ned replied, leaning into the coach to retrieve a flask of brandy and hand it up to Harrison. ‘Drink,’ he instructed the valet, who had gone white about the lips and looked definitely unsteady. ‘It will ease the burn and help settle your head.’

The groom, who’d succeeded in quieting Ned’s frightened horse, ran up. ‘Sure enough they would’a robbed us, Sir Edward, if’n you hadn’t scared them off.’

Ned shook his head. ‘There were five of them, by my count, and probably they had more weapons. They must know I would have handed over whatever they asked for to prevent further bloodshed. Besides, they were cheering for “General Ludd”.’

‘General Ludd?’ Harrison repeated. ‘You mean … they were Luddites? I thought all that nonsense ceased after the arrests and hangings in 1814.’

‘There’s been a revival of frame-breaking attacks since Waterloo. We’re not so far from Nottingham, which has always been in the thick of it,’ Ned replied, frowning.

‘Thugs and vermin is what I call ‘em,’ the coachman pronounced. ‘Should be hung or transported, the lot of ‘em. As I expect they will be, once you report this to the nearest magistrate!’

‘Whoever they were, I believe they’ve got safely away,’ Ned said. ‘Richard—’ he turned to the groom ‘—help Harrison to that fallen log.’ He gestured towards the wood’s edge. ‘You and John walk the horses while he recovers himself before we must jostle him the rest of the way to Blenhem Hill.’

After a token protest that he was all right, the valet let himself be assisted to the ground, where he walked on wobbly legs to sit on the mossy tree trunk. Leaving the man sipping at the brandy flask, Ned paced the road, pondering what to do next.

Though he’d heard of the unrest and Nicky had specifically mentioned it, Ned had never truly expected to encounter any difficulties. Indignation over the unprovoked attack and the injury to his valet prompted him to proceed directly, as John Coachman advised, to the local magistrate. But was that the wisest course of action?

His agreement with Nicky was so recent that no one at Blenhem Hill or the surrounding area knew he’d acquired the property. He was neither expected, nor would anyone recognise him when he arrived. Indeed, even Nicky’s former manager didn’t know about him, for he carried Nicky’s note of introduction to Mr Martin in his pocket.

During their discussions he had focused on the agricultural problems at Blenhem. With the shock of the attack to prompt his memory, he now recalled that Nicky also owned a controlling interest in one of the local cotton mills.

Had the Englemere crest been recognised when they stopped at the inn in Kirkwell? It seemed rather a stretch of coincidence to presume the attack on a carriage belonging to the nobleman known to own both the cotton mill at Dutchfield and the estate at Blenhem Hill, occurring on the seldom-travelled road leading to that property, could be just the random act of local hooligans. Especially given the slogans being shouted by the perpetrators.

Last summer, a renewed series of Luddite uprisings had swept through East Anglia. The mob had smashed frames in a mill at Loughborough and though this time none of the proprietors had been killed, Ned vividly recalled that two owners had been murdered in a previous wave of violence.

Even if the attack hadn’t targeted Nicky personally, the fact that such a move had been made against a crested coach indicated that, at a minimum, a strong sense of disaffection prevailed in the area. If the people around Blenhem Hill were suffering and desperate, as Martin had indicated, the attackers might well be local men. Having Ned ride in demanding justice of the magistrate and threatening transportation to the perpetrators—perhaps sons and husbands, brothers and sweethearts of his own tenants—would hardly gain him the confidence and co-operation he needed to restore prosperity to Blenhem.

Or discover the true purpose behind the attack.

A course of action occurred to him, expeditious if unprecedented. Mr Martin and the staff at Blenhem Hill were not expecting Sir Edward Austin Greaves; however, they would be anticipating the arrival of a new estate agent.

Though an agent might be the younger son of gentry, as a working man rather than an owner there was less of a difference in station between him and the tenants on his estate. Such a man would be more likely to inspire trust and elicit candid opinions about Blenhem—and any agitation in the neighbourhood—than an unknown new owner of aristocratic birth. No matter how sympathetic or friendly a face Ned presented to them, simple ‘Mr Greaves’ would probably be able to learn a good deal more about these people and their circumstances than the more elevated ‘Sir Edward’.

He would do it, he decided. An estate agent having little need for a valet, he’d send Harrison home to Kent to recover and John Coachman and the groom back to Nicky with a report of what had happened.

The decision made, an ironic amusement tempered his anger and frustration. This ‘challenge’ was turning out to be even more interesting than he’d anticipated.

An hour later, the carriage turned down the gravelled drive leading to the front door of Blenhem Hill. Or at least, what had once been a gravelled drive, now mostly given over to the weeds that flourished between the wagon tracks.

Mr Martin had not underestimated the dire condition of the property. Indeed, there was so much wrong that Ned hardly knew where to begin. With every neglected field and tumbledown dwelling they had passed, Ned’s ire had increased.

No wonder the local citizenry were restive! If he were a tenant on one of those farms, he’d be ready to don a mask and shoot someone himself. Nicky shouldn’t have simply fired his previous manager, Ned concluded, struggling to control his outrage, he should have had him flogged on the village green.

His angry gaze swept over the manor house as they approached, then checked in surprise. Unlike the vistas he’d just passed—bracken-filled fields and dilapidated cottages roofed in mouldering thatch, many of which seemed in imminent danger of collapsing altogether—this dwelling seemed to be in good repair.

The coach pulled up with a squeal of brakes and a jingle of harness. Ned hopped out—but no one emerged from the manor to greet the new arrivals. Not until he had raised his fisted hand to knock at the broad hickory-planked door did it swing open.

An older man he presumed to be the butler stood upon the threshold. After glancing at the carriage, its crest visible on the undamaged door nearest them, the man bowed. ‘How may I help you, my lord?’

With a warning glance to his servants, who had only reluctantly agreed to the plan their employer had outlined to them before resuming their travels, Ned extended his hand. ‘Myles, isn’t it? Lord Englemere sent me. I’m Ned Greaves, the new estate manager.’

An hour later as he walked through the deepening dusk from the manor to the stables to confer with Harrison and John Coachman, Ned noted the first benefit that had derived from his altered status. Sir Edward must have summoned the men to the estate office, perhaps causing speculation and risking the possibility that they might be overheard by eavesdropping servants. Mr Greaves could simply go to their quarters. There was a curious and rather liberating freedom in ambling across the stableyard almost unnoticed, he reflected.

Not a flicker of surprise had crossed Myles’s face when Ned had informed the butler he needed to consult with Lord Englemere’s grooms and coachman on the repair of his vehicle, the damage to which and the wounding of Harrison he’d fobbed off as an accident with the coachman’s pistol that had occurred on the road.

Of course, the butler’s demeanour had been wooden since his arrival. It was impossible to discern whether this senior member of the household sympathised with or detested the man who had previously held the position Ned had assumed, whether he welcomed or resented the arrival of a replacement.

In the same polite but impersonal tone with which he’d answered the door, Myles had asked Ned if he wished his baggage to be stowed in the largest guest chamber, where the previous agent had been installed. Upon Ned’s assent, he directed a footman to fetch Ned’s things, informed him of the hours when the household normally breakfasted and dined, and bowed himself out.

Myles was a sapling he’d have to water carefully and diligently cultivate if he was going to find out what he needed about the previous direction of the estate, Ned mused.

He found John Coachman, Richard and Harrison in the loft above the tack room where they’d been given accommodations for the night. The two horsemen were chatting while Harrison, an affronted expression on his face, picked a piece of straw from his coat with his good hand.

‘How does the arm?’ Ned asked, pitching his voice low.

‘Richard fetched water so I’ve washed and dressed it,’ John Coachman replied. ‘Long as he don’t take fever, he should heal quick.’

Ned gave his valet a sympathetic glance. ‘I dare say you’re not sure what is more painful, eh, Harrison? The wrist or being compelled to pose as a groom.’

‘Are you sure you want to continue with this … scheme?’ Harrison replied, pausing, Ned suspected, to swallow an adjective like ‘caper-witted’.

‘It do go against the grain, not reporting the attack,’ the coachman added. ‘An outrage, it is, good Christian folk being attacked in full daylight! Dastardly ruffians ought to be prosecuted.’

‘What would you have me tell the magistrate?’ Ned said. ‘That our coach was accosted by five masked, armed men who shouted slogans, fired their weapons wildly, winging one of our party before fleeing into the woods? We couldn’t even give a good description of the perpetrators.’

‘Recognise the horse, if’n I seen it again,’ Richard spoke up.

‘Even if we identified the horse, we’d have no proof its owner was involved. It wouldn’t be the first time a mount was “borrowed” from his pasture. No, I shall not report the incident. I’ll let the attackers wonder why there was no report. Let them speculate that they intimidated us, or that the magistrate did not deem the incident of sufficient import to investigate. Such conclusions may make them bolder and more likely to do something for which I can lay charges.’

‘Are you sure you want us to leave?’ Richard asked. ‘We could be three more pairs of eyes watching out, Sir—I mean, Mr Greaves,’ he corrected at Ned’s sharp look.

‘No, ‘tis better that you all go, lest one of you slip up and address me with proper honours. I shall discover much more quickly what is going on here if I can mingle among the farmers more or less unnoticed.’

As the three servants exchanged glances over that dubious notion, Ned added, ‘Come now, who would not more easily confide something to a man near his own station? The sooner I uncover what has transpired here, the sooner other good Christian souls can travel the roads in safety.’

That being unanswerable, Harrison said, ‘As you wish, sir, but if you do not leave here with your linen grey and your coats frayed, I shall be much surprised.’

Ned grinned. ‘You think me too high in the instep to care for myself? I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of tying my own cravats, shaving and dressing respectably. And if the laundry maid’s skills are not adequate, I shall engage another one.’

Sobering, he continued, ‘I appreciate your desire to be of assistance, all of you, but you can serve better elsewhere. Lord Englemere must have his coach returned—and repaired—and should be made aware of what has transpired. Harrison should rest and let that arm heal.’

John Coachman nodded. ‘If’n that’s the way you want the game played out, Sir—Mr Greaves—then I reckon we must do it your way.’

Ned nodded. ‘Very good. I shall count on the loyalty and discretion of you all. Harrison, do you think you will feel up to travelling tomorrow? ‘

‘Aye, sir. Reckon I’ll go to my sister in Kent. She’s been after me for a while to come visit. But how long do you expect to remain in this … interesting situation?’

‘I cannot be sure. I’ll send word when I wish to recall you. In the meantime, I’ve a letter for Lord Englemere. See that he gets it immediately upon your return, and all of you, please say nothing about what happened here to anyone else.’

The three men nodded. ‘Best you watch your back, sir,’ Harrison added.

‘I shall,’ Ned said soberly. ‘On my guard as I am, I don’t intend to be surprised by anything else that happens here.’

The following day, Ned went to meet Mr Martin, introducing himself as the replacement estate agent dispatched by Lord Englemere. Greeting him warmly, the old man immediately offered to give Ned a tour of the estate and introduce him to those of the tenants who’d not been driven off by the dwindling price of harvests and the steadily increasing rents.

Ned’s initial good humour diminished with every mile they drove. Fully half the farms were abandoned, the former tenants having left to seek work at the mills in Manchester, Nottingham and Derby. It pained him more than finding gorse in a fine stand of wheat to see so much land lying fallow.

He was more shocked still when Martin led him to the ‘mill’ Nicky had supposedly set up. The empty, roofless two-storey stone building stood silhouetted against the sky in a small clearing near a well, lacking not only a roof, but also doors, window frames, stairs to reach the second floor—and knitting looms.

Worst of all, though, were the thin frames and gaunt faces of the tenants and the tales they related of the greed and abuse of authority practised by Barksdale, Greville Ander’s supervisor.

Making a note of the names, needs and conditions of each tenant family, Ned thanked the workers for their candour and left with promises of seeds for planting, repairs to their dwellings and new and better farm tools. Though from most he received at least a nod of agreement, more telling than all the tales of mismanagement were the blank looks with which most received his promises, mute testaments of their disbelief and hope less ness.

Unlike at his own estates, where visiting a tenant usually ended with them sharing a mug of home-brewed, though none of Blenhem Hill’s people were openly hostile, only one offered him any hospitality. Elderly Dame Cuthbert begged them to honour her by accepting a mug of cider.

The old woman, Martin told him as they followed her into her tiny cottage, had been raised on Blenhem land, married a Blenhem farmer, and had a grown son who’d recently abandoned the property to seek work in the city.

Though the exterior of the dwelling looked as dilapidated as the other Blenhem cottages, the dirt-floored interior was tidy, the rough wooden table clean and the hearth freshly swept. But Ned noted with a troubled glance the dampness on the back wall where the rotted thatch must have let the rain in. The old woman herself was far too thin and frail, her eyes large in her emaciated face, veins visible beneath the translucent skin of her parchment-wrinkled hands.

After pouring cider into two earthenware mugs, she offered them a bite of cheese to accompany the beverage. Having already realised with a shock that there appeared to be nothing but the one jug of cider and a single round of cheese in her small larder, Ned sent a sharp look to Martin, who politely refused.

Already angered, dismayed and distressed at the condition of Blenhem and its tenants, Ned left the cottage with an ache in his gut. ‘How does she manage with her son gone?’ he asked Martin abruptly as they climbed back into the gig.

‘I help out some, and the Reverend sends her cheese and ale when he can,’ Martin replied. ‘Poor Dame Cuthbert was another reason I was so glad to see Lord Englemere had sent you! Barksdale threatened to evict her after her son left—cast her out of the only home she’s ever known with no place to go. ‘Twas what drove me to write that letter to his lordship and tell him how things stood here. Praise heaven, he sent Anders and his bully boy packing before Barksdale could make good on his threat.’

‘No wonder she offers you half her victuals.’

Martin shrugged. ‘Only tried to do what was right. Biddy Cuthbert’s a kind soul—good to the bone, no matter what life hands her.’

After returning Martin to his cottage, Ned drove back to the manor, his head filled with facts and faces, his mind simmering with projects and potential remedies. While he planned and figured, his heart ached for the misery and hopelessness of the people he’d visited. He’d see the gaunt face of Dame Cuthbert in his dreams tonight, he thought, his soul still haunted by the image of the old woman on the brink of starvation, offering him the last of her cheese.

After the abject poverty he’d witnessed, as he strode into the manor house he was struck anew by the superior condition of that dwelling. The stone exterior and timbered roof had been recently cleaned and repaired. Within, polished floors shone, fresh paint covered the walls, window panes gleamed, and curtains and upholstery were fashioned from new, finely woven cloth. Though by no means grand, the furnishings of the morning room, dining room, salon and guest bedchamber were stylish and of the highest quality.

Greville Anders certainly had not suffered with the rest of the estate at the downturn in agricultural prices.

A recurring refrain in the tales he’d heard today was the cruelty, indifference and avarice of Anders’s assistant, Barksdale. Ned had first thought that perhaps Nicky’s cousin had left to his agent the distasteful wrangling over crop production and rents so Anders might play the magnanimous gentleman when he rode about the estate. However, it appeared that Anders had turned the day-to-day operations of the estate entirely over to his subordinate, for the tenants reported that they had seldom even seen Mr Anders.

Had Nicky’s cousin been aware of the suffering of Blenhem’s people? Or had he been content to take the money Barksdale extracted from them, neither knowing nor caring about their fate as long as his own home was in good repair, his own rooms elegantly furnished, his own belly well filled?

Ideas and emotions still churning in him, Ned consumed rapidly and in silence the meal Myles served him in solitary state in the dining room, burning with impatience to move on to the estate office so he might compare the estate books Nicky had given him with those kept at Blenhem.

As he cleared away the dinner service, Myles said, ‘I expect, after riding about the estate today, you must be fatigued. Shall I bring brandy to the morning room or will you be retiring immediately?’

‘Retiring?’ Ned echoed. ‘Indeed not! I shall probably sit up late. Please have an extra brace of candles sent to the study.’

By the time Ned arrived in that room shortly afterwards, the books he’d brought with him had been neatly aligned on the desk along with the additional candelabra and a flask of spirits.

Myles wasn’t such a bad sort, despite his taciturn ways, Ned concluded as he took his seat.

Several hours of contemplation later, Ned paused to avail himself of the spirits, both angry and perplexed after his perusal of the records. Nicky’s books, filled with figures that must have been copied by his London secretary from reports sent by Anders, were detailed, neat and orderly. But the Blenhem Hill ledgers not only did not match Nicky’s entries, the numbers varied from nearly illegible to incoherent.

Many expenses were listed simply under general categories like ‘manor house’ and ‘home farms’, tallied in columns that were sometimes incorrectly added—or not totalled at all. The monthly summaries were penned in a different hand entirely.

Exasperated, when the butler entered to refresh his brandy flask, Ned said, ‘I know this isn’t your purview, but would you happen to know who made the entries in the estate books? They appear to be in two different hands.’ He pointed to the open ledger.

After studying the page, the butler said, ‘The figures that are hard to read, here—’ he touched the page ‘—were penned by Mr Anders. The smaller, neater ones here—’ he indicated the summaries ‘—were written by Mr Barksdale.’

As Ned had deduced. Grimly satisfied to have this supposition confirmed by someone familiar with both men, he said, ‘Mr Anders did not keep the books solely by himself, then? He allowed Barksdale access?’

‘To them and everything else at Blenhem,’ Myles replied acerbically.

‘Damnable way to handle the property for which he was responsible,’ Ned burst out, finally losing his grip on his temper after all the indignities he’d witnessed that day.

To Ned’s surprise, Myles’s impassive face creased into a slight smile. ‘Indeed, sir. Overall Mr Anders weren’t a bad sort. Gave himself airs, always reminding everyone he was Lord Englemere’s cousin and puffing off about his service with Wellington. Though if he did as little in the army as he did here, ‘tis a wonder he wasn’t cashiered out! About the only time he exerted himself was when he ordered some doxy sent out from town. Otherwise, he left everything to Barksdale.’

Myles’s smile evaporated. ‘That one wasn’t lazy a bit. Kept a hand in the business of everyone and everything. Had a mean streak in him, too.’

Ned struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Myles had just opened up like fertile ground under a sharp plough, offering more words in that one speech than Ned had got out of him in the nearly two days he’d been at Blenhem.

Had Myles been subjecting him to some sort of scrutiny which he had successfully passed?

Hoping that was the case and the butler’s candour meant the beginning of a useful working partnership, Ned said, ‘Thank you for the information, Myles. I shall very much appreciate hearing anything you, the staff, or the tenants can tell me about what has been happening here. I mean to make things right, I promise.’

Myles studied him silently for a moment. ‘I believe you do, Mr Greaves. Let me say then how glad I am that Lord Englemere sent you.’

After refilling the flask, Myles withdrew and Ned went back to his work.

By midnight, his rage had revived. The best he could make out, the harvests on every farm had steadily decreased. Yet rents had been raised, sometimes sharply, at every renewal since Anders took over control of the property. The shoddy state of the accounting in the Blenhem books made it impossible to determine exactly what expenses and income had been. The account sent to Nicky in London must have been a pure fabrication.

In sum, the estate books at Blenhem were completely useless. He would have to begin with the last figures Martin had compiled, then ride the property and consult with each tenant about every detail relating to the farms’ operations before he could make any useful estimates of income and expenses for the current year.

As for the mill, there were no figures whatsoever in any of the ledgers detailing what had happened to the funds Nicky had dispatched for the construction and equipping of that enterprise.

If he could have got his hands on Greville Anders and his henchman at that moment, Ned would have chained them to a plough and sent them out into the darkness to break ground on every bramble-infested field at Blenhem.

Slowly his anger fizzled into fatigue as he downed the last of the spirits. He was snuffing the candles in preparation to retire when he heard raised voices emanating from the front hall, followed by the sounds of scuffling.

He’d risen from his chair to investigate when, after a knock at the door, Myles stepped in, his countenance rigid with disapproval.

‘There is a Young Person to see you, sir. I tried to turn her away, the hour being late and her coming unannounced, but she insists she must speak to you.’

To Ned’s astonishment, the slim, slight figure of a girl pushed past Myles and tumbled into the room.




Chapter Three


The evening was already far advanced when Joanna Merrill climbed stiffly down from the farmer’s cart in which she’d hired a ride after missing the stage-coach run to Hazelwick, the village closest to Blenhem Hill. She’d hoped to arrive there early enough to be able to send word to her brother to come and fetch her before dark, but once again, circumstances had conspired against her.

It had been a disaster of a fortnight. When she had left the Masters estate at Selbourne Abbey, she’d expected to spend no more than a few days on the road, a week at most. Her small stock of coins would stretch for coach fare and perhaps a few modest dinners, as long as she caught every stage on time and spent most of the day travelling.

Instead, during each segment of the journey some accident or disaster had brought her progress to a halt. From a horse pulling up lame on the first stage, to a broken axle on the next, to the wild driving of a drunken Corinthian who’d forced the mail coach off the road into a ditch, she’d ended up each time too late to make her connections and had been forced to spend extra nights on the road.

After splurging on accommodations the first few nights, bespeaking a chamber had become impossible, but even for a dry place under the stable roof she’d been forced to part with a few more precious pence. Her stomach rumbling at the savoury smell of stew emanating from the Hart and Hare, Hazelwick’s inn, while she doled out her last coin to the farmer who’d given her space in the back of his wagon, she tried not to recall how long it had been since she’d eaten.

Though he’d agreed with reluctance to convey her to Hazelwick, that taciturn gentleman had flatly refused to bring her to her final destination. She hoped to wheedle someone at the inn into performing that task, on promise of payment when she arrived at Blenhem Hill.

The prospects of convincing someone to do so had been fair when the trip could be completed in daylight. Now that darkness had fallen, her chances were fast diminishing.

Somehow, she must make it happen. With her purse emptied of its last coin, she could afford neither dinner nor accommodations for the night.

‘Need lodgings, miss?’ The innkeeper of the Hart and Hare walked over to greet her as she entered the taproom. ‘The missus has a right fine stew on …’ As his practised gaze took in her dusty, travel-stained apparel, single bandbox and solitary state, he stopped short and his welcoming smile faded.

No respectable gentlewoman travelled with so little luggage, unaccompanied by a maid or companion to lend her countenance. She felt her cheeks flush with chagrin at what he must be thinking of her character even as he said, ‘The Hart and Hare be an honest house. I don’t let rooms to the likes of—’

‘I don’t require a room,’ she interrupted. ‘I need transport to Blenhem Hill. I have business with the manager there.’

‘I wager you do, missy,’ the innkeeper replied, his tone scornful. ‘Well, I expect if ye’ve coin to pay, Will in the stables might be able to take you, even with night fallen, for I’d as lief not have you standing about the place.’

Though she felt her flush deepen, she tried to infuse her voice with authority. ‘I do not intend to pay in advance. Your man will reimbursed after I am safely conveyed to Blenhem Hill.’

The innkeeper shook his head impatiently. ‘I’m not sending out the boy and my gig without I get payment first. ‘Tis the way we’ve always done it, bad enough business that it is, and I ain’t about to change the arrangement now.’

Joanna worked hard to keep desperation from leaking into her voice. ‘You will be well paid, I assure you. Twice the usual rate.’

She had no idea what the innkeeper normally charged to transport items to Blenhem Hill and could only hope her brother wouldn’t be furious with her for cavalierly doubling the price. But with her strength, her funds and her spirits exhausted, she absolutely must get to Blenhem Hill tonight.

‘Double the rate! Must think pretty highly of yer charms,’ the innkeeper said snidely. ‘But the answer’s still “no”. If you’ve not got the ready, take yourself off before the wife comes in and gives you a jawing. Go on, off with you!’

The man approached, waving his arms in a shooing motion. Affronted by his insinuation that she was a woman of low repute bent on enticing her own brother, Joanna hesitated, torn between standing her ground to argue and the risk of having him drag her bodily out of his establishment.

‘I’ll see her out,’ a feminine voice said.

Joanna jerked her attention from the advancing innkeeper towards a girl who tossed her apron down on the bar.

‘Very well, Mary, but you step right back. There be paying customers to tend,’ the innkeeper said, giving Joanna one last scornful glance.

The barmaid motioned her to the door. Her momentary courage failing, her tired brain unable to reason out what she must do next, Joanna gave in and followed.

‘Not a bad man, but none too bright,’ the girl said as they stepped into the evening chill. ‘Otherwise he would have seen in a blink you’re no doxy. Have business out at Blenhem Hill, do you?’

Heartened by the first kindness she’d encountered in her long travels, Joanna said, ‘Yes. And I very much need to find transport there tonight.’

‘Can’t help you with that, but I can tell you how to get there. See the road that forks by the forge? Follow that straight on and it’ll take you to Blenhem Hill. Not above five miles or so, and there’ll be some moon tonight.’

Five miles. Tired as she was, it might as well be five hundred. But it appeared that if she meant to get to Blenhem Hill tonight, her feet would have to take her there.

‘Thank you, Mary,’ Joanna replied. ‘When I come to town next, I’ll bring you a coin for your kindness.’

The girl shrugged. ‘Hard for a woman travelling alone to keep trouble from finding her. Stay to the road and you can’t miss it, but have a care. If you hear anyone approaching by horseback or cart, you duck into the woods right quick until they go by. Best of luck to you.’

Five miles. She could keep her feet moving for five more miles. Taking a deep breath, Joanna grasped her bandbox and set off.

With the fall of night, the wind picked up, chilling her despite her travelling cloak. So desperately tired she could scarcely think, she plodded along, keeping her eye on the road ahead and concentrating only on placing one numbed foot after the other.

Once, she stumbled into an unseen pothole and fell, losing her grip on the bandbox, which rolled away from her over the side of the road. Almost she was tempted to lay her head down into the mud and give up.

Papa toiled away in the fetid heat of India, she tried to rally herself, ministering to the army and the members of John Company, far from home and all things familiar. Her brother had followed Wellington through the dirt and misery of Waterloo. Her own dear Thomas had braved the baking summers and monsoons of India, proudly serving his nation. All she need do was walk a few more miles along an English lane. Mustering all the will she possessed, she forced herself to stagger upright and collected her bandbox.

She fixed her mind on the image of Greville receiving her warmly, distracting herself from her present misery by painting mental pictures in her head of the estate he managed for Lord Englemere. There’d be a neat sturdy manor house, fields ploughed and newly planted in corn, tenant cottages with thick roofs of fragrant thatch.

Maybe he’d have a wife to welcome her, children, even. She imagined dawdling a chubby toddler on her knee, filling the emptiness in her soul by nurturing a girl like little Susan, instructing her in her letters and numbers and the sewing of samplers. Perhaps, after she had rested and recovered, Greville or his wife would know of a genteel family who might have another position for her.

She must find something else. She’d no more be a burden upon her brother than she would consider contacting her late husband’s family for assistance. Thomas’s father had made it quite clear upon their last painful meeting that the Merrill family wanted nothing further to do with the woman who, he insinuated, had used some potion of the east to bewitch a young man far from home into a most unsuitable match.

Her heart twisted again, remembering the coldness on Lord Merrill’s face, more hurtful still since she could see her dear Thomas’s features echoed in his sire’s countenance. The snug bungalow she’d shared in India with Papa, where she and Thomas had met and fallen in love, had been her last real home. Not since she’d lost their unborn child and Thomas insisted she leave him and the malevolent fevers of India for the healthier clime of England had she felt there was a place she truly belonged.

Ironic that she’d swiftly recovered after the miscarriage, while it was Thomas who had succumbed to a fever. Alone in her London lodgings, she’d patiently awaited his return. He’d been dead for weeks by the time the news reached her.

A surge of grief swept through her, bringing her dangerously close once again to despair.

With Lord Walters having at the last moment cavalierly awarded the living on his estate, promised to Papa when the current incumbent retired, to some distant connection, the joyous reunion she’d looked forward to when Papa and the rest of her family returned from India had never happened. Anticipating their reunion had been her sole comfort as she’d struggled to cope with the enormity of Thomas’s death. The loss of that consolation was yet one more charge she could lay at the feet of a venal, uncaring aristocracy, she thought resentfully.

And as if her spirits were not already low enough, the moon dipped behind a bank of clouds and it began to rain.

She wouldn’t think any more of sad things, she told herself, straining through the gloom to follow the dim road and keep her feet moving while rain dripped off the brim of her bonnet and soaked through her cloak.

She’d think of Greville, his genial smile, his easygoing temperament. He’d always been a charmer, if a bit slow to bestir himself. But having served with Wellington, a notorious taskmaster, would surely have cured him of his lazy ways. The army would be the making of him, Papa always said.

A sudden flow of icy water dripped from an overhanging tree down her neck, shocking her back to the present. It seemed she’d been walking for hours, days, her whole existence. Her feet and fingers beyond numb, she forced herself onwards through sheer will-power, knowing if she missed one step she might lose her balance and fall. This time, she’d not be able to rise again.

She’d begun to fear that this would indeed be her fate when finally, in the distance, she perceived a faint glimmer of light.

Blenhem Hill! She must be approaching Greville’s manor at last.

Now that the moment of reunion had almost arrived, her heart jolted with a gladness tempered by anxiety.

What if Greville were not happy that she’d sought him out uninvited? Certainly she must look a sight, her sopping skirts muddy, her cloak and bonnet soaked through.

Still, regardless of what her brother thought about her unsolicited midnight arrival, surely he would take her in? With a shiver, she made her clumsy-cold feet pick up the pace until, a few moments later, she stood before the front door and knocked, wincing at the pain to her frozen knuckles.

She waited, but when no response was forthcoming, she knocked again. It was late enough that she might have believed everyone within already abed, but for the light still glowing through one of the windows. She’d almost decided to try rapping on that when at last the door swung open.

A man in butler’s attire gazed out at her, the mismatched buttons on his waistcoat suggesting that he had indeed been abed and only hastily re-donned his clothing.

‘Good evening, sir,’ she said. ‘I know it is late, but I should like to see your master, please.’

For a silent moment the man looked her up and down. Then, without a word, he moved to close the door on her.

‘Just a minute!’ she cried. ‘I demand to see the manager!’

‘The manager?’ he said finally. ‘And who would that be?’

Did he think she’d wandered aimlessly across the countryside with no definite destination? ‘Mr Greville Anders, of course,’ she snapped back. ‘Please tell him that Mrs Merrill has arrived and wishes to see him at once. He will receive me, I assure you.’

‘It be Mr Anders you’re wanting?’

‘Yes,’ she replied impatiently. ‘And I warn you, he will be most displeased when I tell him you forced his only sister to stand forever in the doorway before admitting her.’

‘His sister, are you?’ the man asked with a sly look. ‘When did he send for you?’

Though her brain was muddled with cold and fatigue, she thought it was probably best not to admit that she hadn’t been sent for. ‘That’s not your concern,’ she replied. ‘All I require is that you convey me to him at once.’

‘Must have miscalculated the date,’ she heard him mutter before he said in a louder voice, ‘Nothing here for you, miss. Best go back where you come from.’

‘Go b-back?’ she repeated, her voice breaking as alarm jolted through her. Desperately summoning up her best governess tone, she said firmly, ‘At this hour of the night? You must be mad! Why are you keeping me here on the threshold, nattering on in this stupid manner? Just inform Mr Anders I have arrived.’ Ducking around him, she darted into the hall.

And stopped on a sigh. Ah, how heavenly it was to get out of the wind and cold!

The butler-person, mouth pursed in disapproval, stomped after her. ‘Haven’t ever laid hands on a woman and don’t expect to start, so I suppose, being a good Christian, I’ll let you dry off and sleep in the kitchen. But you must be gone first thing in the morning.’

Anger filtering into her desperation, Joanna crossed her arms. ‘Have you heard nothing that I’ve said, my good man? I am not going anywhere until I’ve seen the manager. If you force me out, I will simply come back.’

For a moment they stared at each other, nearly nose to nose. Finally the butler nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll fetch you to the manager. Follow me.’

Eagerness and trepidation stirred in her again as he led her on. He halted, she realised, before the door that opened into the room whose lights she’d glimpsed from the road, the lights that had led her to the manor.

Greville’s room! Illumined as if he’d meant to send a beacon of hope and welcome out to her in the darkness.

As the butler opened the door, warmth and the faint scent of wine wafted out. Her stomach growling at the hint of sustenance, her numb fingers and toes luxuriating at the caress of heated air, she scarcely heard the butler announcing her.

At last, she would see Greville and all would be well again. Pushing past the butler, she stumbled over the threshold, her chilled body drawing her like a moth to the flames dancing on the hearth. After the misery of the rain and chill, the temperature of the room made her feel light-headed and giddy, almost as if she might swoon.

Only then did she look up into the face of the tall man who’d risen from his chair behind the desk.

A man who was frowning at her.

A man who was not Greville.

‘Wh-who are you?’ she gasped.

‘Who did you expect?’ he asked, his faintly hostile gaze running with insulting familiarity over her figure.

‘G-Greville,’ she stuttered again. ‘Greville Anders. This is Blenhem Hill manor, is it not? He—he manages that estate for Lord Englemere.’

‘Not any longer,’ the tall man said curtly. ‘Lord Englemere discharged Mr Anders. Almost a month ago.’

For a moment she blinked stupidly at him. ‘Greville … isn’t here?’

‘No.’ His implacable gaze held her motionless, mesmerising her like a python regarding its prey.

Greville. Discharged. Not here. In her dazed and exhausted mind, syllables detached themselves from words and meaning, echoing down into her empty belly, up into her dizzy head. Images swirled before her eyes: the rain-swept road, her stiff cold fingers, her empty purse.

She felt as if she were swaying in a high wind. The disapproval on the face of the tall man by the hearth was the last thing she saw before the images dissolved and she slipped into blackness.




Chapter Four


Consternation tempering his irritation, Ned hastened to catch the girl before her head hit the wooden floor. As he gathered her up, glancing about him to determine where to deposit his soggy burden, he realised his first impression had been wrong.

Before she fainted, he’d noted little more than large dark eyes, a determined little chin and the fact that she was dripping all over the carpet. But though her body was short and slender, this was no girl he held in his arms, but a woman. The firm soft mound of her breasts pressed into him as he cradled her inert form, while a lingering hint of some exotic perfume mingled with the scent of rain and sodden wool.

His sleepy body roused abruptly to full attention.

Muttering a curse at that distraction, Ned turned to Myles, who was motioning him to lay the senseless girl—nay, woman—on the couch. ‘Who the devil is she?’

‘Said she was Mr Anders’s sister,’ Myles said, pouring a glass of brandy while Ned seated himself beside her, rubbing her hands to try to revive her. ‘At first I thought she be another of Anders’s women, but none of ‘em ever arrived this late and soaked through.’

Abandoning his thus-far ineffectual efforts chaffing her hands, Ned delivered a smart slap to her cheek. Her slack body tensed and she gasped, her eyes flying open.

She gazed up at him, her dazed look barely focused, seeming completely unaware of where she was and with whom. Just as Ned noticed the chill emanating from her and realised how icy were the hands he’d tried to chafe, she began to shiver, violent tremors that set her teeth chattering.

‘She must be frozen through,’ he muttered. ‘Myles, hand me that glass, please,’ he asked, nodding towards the brandy before looking back at the woman still reclining in his arms. ‘Miss … Mrs—’ Ned looked to the butler.

‘Mrs Merrill,’ Myles supplied.

‘Do not be alarmed, Mrs Merrill,’ Ned said. ‘You are at Blenhem Hill. I’m Mr Greaves, Lord Englemere’s estate agent. Here, have a sip of this brandy to warm you.’

He coaxed her lips—plump, in a pretty bow of a mouth, he noticed unwillingly—open and poured some brandy in. After choking a bit, she swallowed, her fingers coming up beside his to steady the glass. The tremors eased, then stopped.

He inspected her as she sipped, her hand absurdly small and delicate beside his. That pointed chin was set in a heart-shaped face with a pert nose and large dark eyes of a hue impossible to determine in the shadowy firelight. A soggy bonnet masked her hair, but her travelling cloak had fallen open when he’d set her down, revealing a graceful arc of neck and shoulders above full, rounded breasts. Chilled she certainly was, for even through her gown, he could see the peaked nipples.

His mouth watered to taste them.

He stifled a groan as his body hardened further. A fine cosy armful, if she was indeed Anders’s fancy woman. All sweetness and curves with a subtly intriguing scent, fresh as a new-mown hay meadow, that tickled his nose over the aromas of mud and damp.

Ned could think of a number of ways to warm her more effectively and much more pleasurably than brandy. Unleashed like hounds eager for the hunt, his thoughts tumbled over themselves, conjuring up images of firm white thighs straddling his, those small hands stroking and teasing as she coaxed him within, bare slender legs locked around his waist as she rocked him hilt-deep.

Heat flooded him and sweat broke out on his brow. Damn, he should have lingered in London long enough to visit Mrs McAllen’s Emporium. It had been way too long since he’d bedded a woman.

With a ferocious will, he jerked his lascivious thoughts to a halt and leashed them. She might be a doxy, but ‘twas just as likely she was Anders’s sister. Which meant she was Nicky’s cousin, however distant. Regardless of what her brother had done, Nicky would expect Ned to treat any connection of his like a lady.

At that moment she pushed the glass away.

‘You told Myles you were looking for Mr Anders—your brother?’ Ned said.

She nodded, her eyes finally turning alert.

‘How did you happen to arrive here alone in the middle of the night? Soaked as you are, you must have driven in an open gig. Is there a driver waiting? Can I have Myles fetch your things?’

Opening her lips, she hesitated, looking stricken. ‘I …I don’t have a gig,’ she said after a moment. ‘There’s no driver. I … walked.’

‘You walked from Hazelwick?’ Ned asked incredulously. ‘Alone, in the dark?’

Ignoring that query, she placed a hand on his arm. ‘Did … did I hear you aright? Greville … isn’t here?’

Whoever she was, she must have been desperate to come so far on foot, at night and through the rain. Despite his loathing for what Anders had done, Ned couldn’t help feeling a certain sympathy for her. ‘No. I’m sorry, ma’am.’

She swallowed hard. ‘Do you know his direction?’

Ned looked over at Myles, who shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’

Two fat tears welled up in her eyes before she clapped her hands over them. ‘Merciful Lord,’ she whispered brokenly into her fingers, ‘what am I to do?’

For a moment he watched as she struggled for control. Admiration stirred in his chest as, with a ragged breath, she mastered her emotions and swallowed the tears.

‘Nothing tonight,’ Ned said, infinitely grateful for her courage. He’d rather battle a plague of rabbits in the kitchen garden than deal with a woman in the midst of a weeping jag. ‘Myles, rouse Mrs Winston and see if she can turn up some dry clothes for Mrs Merrill.’ Looking back to the woman, he said, ‘Did you have dinner before you … left Hazelwick?’

‘I … no.’ she admitted.

No wonder she looked fragile enough to shatter, walking all that way on no sustenance. Studying her suddenly down-turned face, Ned would bet that wasn’t the first meal she’d missed on her travels. ‘See if Mrs Winston can heat up some of the stew from dinner,’ he told Myles.

She looked up at him then, eyes huge in her drawn face, her lips pressed firmly together.

Lush, plump lips he’d like to kiss, he realised irritably as she cleared her throat.

‘You’ve been very kind. I don’t know how I can thank you—’

Ned lifted a hand, silencing her while he absolutely forbade himself to think of the many and delectable ways she might show her appreciation. ‘We’ll speak of it in the morning, after you’re warm, dry and rested. Ah, here is Mrs Winston.’ He looked over at the housekeeper. ‘We’ve an unexpected visitor, as you see.’

‘Aye, sir,’ the housekeeper said, giving Mrs Merrill a hard scrutiny before, reluctantly, she curtsied.

Mrs Merrill sat up abruptly and swung her feet back to the floor. Ned felt the loss of her curves against his body with an inward sigh of regret as she rose to return the housekeeper’s curtsy.

Ned stood up as well. ‘Mrs Winston will fit you out with some dry things and see that you’re nourished before you retire. I shall see you at breakfast. Goodnight, Mrs Merrill.’

She offered him a nod from that pointed little chin, then dropped a curtsy graceful enough to please a patroness at Almack’s. If she was a fancy woman, she’d been well trained.

‘Goodnight, Mr Greaves. Mrs Winston, I’m indebted for your kindness.’

Thoughtfully he watched her follow the housekeeper—who must be thinking who knows what to be charged with caring for a half-drowned woman arriving unannounced in the middle of the night. What catastrophe had befallen her that she’d come here alone, on foot, probably penniless? he wondered.

As Anders’s sister, she’d been a lady born, if not a highly ranked one. No gentlewoman of good reputation would travel as she had.

Maybe she was Anders’s doxy, his lustful imagination suggested hopefully.

Perhaps, he returned, though she had that indefinable look of quality about her bearing and carriage.

Since, as he’d told her, there was nothing more to be done tonight, he might as well go to bed. Absently he walked around the room, snuffing out the remaining candles.

Somehow, knowing the delectable Mrs Merrill dozed somewhere under his roof, he didn’t think he was going to get much sleep.

After tossing restlessly, Ned rose the next morning with a feeling of expectation swelling his chest. Considering the mountain of work awaiting him on the dilapidated farms at Blenhem, as he surfaced to consciousness he was wondering why such a sense of excitement exhilarated him when he remembered—Mrs Merrill. This morning he would hear her story and sort out what was to be done with her.

After dressing with care—for he ought to garb himself as a gentleman when there was a lady present—he inspected himself in the glass. Even Harrison couldn’t find fault with his appearance this morning.

Ah, Ned Greaves, what a handsome bloke you are, he thought with a chuckle. Not rich like Hal nor sporting as fancy as title as Nicky, but a fine figure of a man. Maybe fine enough to entice his unexpected guest into his bed if she should prove to be less than a lady.

He hastened to the small salon where Myles brought his breakfast. He’d just taken his first sip of coffee when the door opened and, in a soft rustle of skirts, Mrs Merrill walked in.

He rose, intending to greet her, and the words died on his tongue.

Those great dark eyes under expressive arched brows were green, he realised—the deep green of the velvety moss beside a woodland brook that invited one to sit and listen to its throaty chatter. And her hair! Hidden last night by the bonnet, haloed now by the morning sun, it was an intricate arrangement of auburn braids that glowed bright as a copper penny.

Though the soft green morning gown had a modest neckline, the scrap of ribbon under the high waist nonetheless managed to emphasise her breasts. For a petite lady, the top of whose head would scarcely touch his chin, they were deliciously full.

His hands curled into fists, itching with the desire to cup them.

One by one he catalogued her other charms: graceful curve of neck and shoulders, slender arms, narrow wrists, those delicate small hands.

Warm, dry and dressed, he found her even more alluring than he had by firelight.

‘Good morning, Mr Greaves,’ she said at last, startling him into realising he’d been evaluating her as blatantly as if she were Haymarket ware in a theatre box.

Maybe she is, a little voice murmured in his ear.

Well, probably she isn’t, he growled back. ‘To you, too, Mrs Merrill,’ he replied. ‘Please help yourself to the dishes on the sideboard. Should you like coffee?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Ned nodded at Myles to pour and waited for her to fill a plate. She sat, taking small delicate bites as if she were savouring each mouthful … while he savoured the play of those tempting lips against her teeth and tongue. Ah, the wickedness he could imagine inciting them to!

Thanks to years of ingrained breeding, he needed but a tiny portion of his brain to carry on a polite conversation. However, her open, apparently honest answers to his slightly disjointed questions about her home, her growing up with her brother, her sojourn in India—that must be the origin of the exotic spicy scent that clung to her—and subsequent marriage slowly began to curb the ravening lust in his brain with the unhappy conviction that she most probably was exactly what she represented herself to be: Greville Anders’s sister, thus Nicky’s cousin, thus beyond the touch of his lecherous imagination.

That still did not explain how she’d ended up dripping on his doorstep at midnight.

Regardless, he’d better stop contemplating naked assignations in the moonlight and start thinking of and reacting to her as a lady, he concluded, squelching a niggle of disappointment.

He waited until they had both finished their meal, asked Myles to pour them each another cup and dismissed him. Now to discover what she’d been about.

‘So, Mrs Merrill, how did you come to arrive at Blenhem Hill last night?’

She gave him a pained smile, a slight flush colouring her fair skin. ‘Humiliating as the details are, after your hospitality to a total stranger, I suppose I owe you the truth.’

‘As you wish.’

She looked away, a troubled expression on her face. He sat silent, reining in his impatient curiosity and waiting for her to continue.

‘My husband was a soldier, as I already told you,’ she began at last. ‘About a year after our marriage in India I—fell ill. Fearing for my health, he insisted that I return to England. Later I learned that he himself had succumbed to a fever. As … as his family never reconciled themselves to our marriage and I had not the funds to voyage back to India and my father, I was pleased to accept a position as a governess. My employers, Lord and Lady Masters, spend most of the year in London or visiting the country estates of their friends, while their daughters reside at Selbourne Abbey in Hampshire.’

Hampshire—gently rolling hills, corn, cattle and sheep, he thought. ‘A lovely county,’ he interjected.

She looked up. ‘It is indeed. I was very happy there. Until … until my employers returned.’

Her flush deepened. ‘There’s no genteel way to express it. Lord Masters pursues every female within reach, whether they encourage his interest or not. I most certainly did not encourage him, but he … he kept after me anyway. Despite my continual vigilance, he managed to corner me in my chamber, where Lady Masters discovered us in a … compromising position. She expelled me from the house that very night.’

Twisting her hands together, her face averted, she continued in a low voice, ‘With little money and no references, I could think of nothing else to do but come here to Greville. Encountering delays at every turn, by the time I reached Blenhem Hill my resources were exhausted. So … I walked from Hazelwick. And now you know the whole.’

Her cheeks still rosy, she lowered her eyes and studied her hands, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him and perhaps see censure in his eyes.

If it was a performance, it was masterful. She appeared every inch a wronged and virtuous lady. Except … except for those plump, bite-me lips and those lush, fondle-me breasts.

Even if her story were true, Ned felt a stir of sympathy for Lord Masters. Here was a tasty morsel to dangle in front of a rake.

Only a bit, however, for he considered a man who preyed upon women, particularly a woman dependent upon him, to be beneath contempt.

Had Lord Masters preyed upon Mrs Merrill? Or was this gentlewoman with the body of a temptress a temptress indeed? Either way, what was he to do about her?

If she had been dismissed for wantonness, he could understand her deciding to throw herself on her brother’s mercy until some more promising pigeon came along. Her shock at discovering Anders was no longer at Blenhem was genuine enough that Ned felt certain her sudden appearance had not been part of some devious scheme devised by the two of them.

If she were in fact Greville Anders’s sister, and it appeared she was, then she was also cousin to Lord Englemere. Though she appeared despairing of her future, Ned knew that Nicky would never turn away a connection of his—and warm-hearted Sarah would probably delight in helping her settle somewhere.

But he couldn’t in good conscience send on to them a woman who might be a doxy.

How could he tell for sure?

At the moment, she was entirely dependent on him. Suddenly a means to test her veracity occurred to him—a scheme that revived his lustful thoughts with a guilty zing of excitement.

With her brother beyond reach and only Ned at hand, if her morals were less than they should be, she would probably, with only a token protest, be amenable to accepting an arrangement that would be profitable for her and pleasurable for them both.

Not that he really intended to make her his mistress, but if he made advances that she accepted, he would know not to burden Nicky with responsibility for her welfare.

In such a case, a plump purse with coach fare to London and enough to live on until she found herself a new protector would be sufficient to fulfil whatever obligations Nicky might owe her.

She still sat, silent and head bowed, as if in deep contemplation. As he gazed at her loveliness, his body protested against the decision not to avail himself of her charms, should she respond to his lures.

Impatiently he dismissed that weakness. Upon occasion he’d taken his ease with ladies of the profession, but he’d never set up a mistress, being neither venal enough to corrupt an innocent, rich enough to tempt the discriminating palate of a courtesan or willing to settle for a woman of broad experience. Though he didn’t insist on planting his seed in virgin soil, neither did he wish to farm for any length of time what had previously been common ground.

Indeed, he’d always hoped—although as yet that desire had not come to fruition—that eventually he might permanently sate all his carnal desires in a wife’s embrace. Though after his most recent foray into the briar-filled field of courtship, he intended to stick to husbandry of the agricultural sort for the foreseeable future!

Even so, he had to shut his ears to the wheedling argument that said if she were of easy virtue, there was no harm in taking her for a quick tumble before he sent her on her way.

Since Mrs Merrill was obviously still lost in thought about her future, he might as well make a move immediately and determine it for them both. Another guilty little thrill zipped through him, settling into a hardness in his loins.

But how did one lead a lady astray? He’d never in his life played the rake and wasn’t sure he could pull off the role. Though fortunately for his purpose, he had no need to feign his desire for her.

When he did advance, would she offer him her lips—or slap his face?




Chapter Five


If she studied her hands long enough, perhaps this whole nightmare would go away. Too exhausted last night to do more than gobble down some soup and fall into the bed to which the distinctly disapproving housekeeper had led her, Joanna had awakened rested and buoyed by a sense of optimism that somehow, things would work out for the best.

Having just related to Mr Greaves the whole tawdry tale of how she’d come to appear on his doorstep, however, brought back to mind just how deplorable her situation was.

Did he even believe her? Arriving as she had, she could hardly blame him if, like the innkeeper in Hazelwick, he thought her a woman of loose morals, her protestations of innocence in the matter of Lord Masters entirely false.

Still, though he’d been understandably annoyed when she stormed into his room last night, dripping mud all over his Turkey carpet, he’d nonetheless treated her as if she were in fact Greville’s sister, entitled to the respect due a gentlewoman.

Except … she had caught him inspecting her, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. Oddly enough, despite her recent experience, knowing he found her attractive had not made her uncomfortable or uneasy. Unlike Lord Master’s slack-jawed ogling, Mr Greaves’s heated yet respectful scrutiny had sent a little tingle of anticipation through her, reminding her as it had of the desire she’d read in Thomas’s expression while they’d been courting.

Mr Greaves was worthy of appreciative glances himself. She’d been too distressed last night to fully notice, but this morning at breakfast she’d been immediately struck by what a tall, broad-shouldered figure of a man he was. Though emanating an aura of power and authority—useful qualities in an estate agent, she presumed—he didn’t seem overbearing or arrogant. His manners were impeccable; he’d waited until she’d taken her seat, her plate filled, before beginning on his own meal, watching to make sure her coffee cup was kept full.

Even Papa had not been that solicitous.

A little smile played at her lips. He was certainly handsomer than Papa! Thick, wavy dark hair, one lock of which insisted on curling over his brow no matter how many times he raked it back with his fingers. Honey-brown eyes that watched her intently as he listened. A noble nose and those finely chiseled lips …

She had a sudden vision of that mouth slanted over hers and a heated bolt of sensation sizzled through her.

Goodness! she thought, shocked and suddenly overwarm. She’d not experienced such a powerful physical response since leaving Thomas in India. Were Mr Greaves privy to her thoughts just now, he’d believe her wanton for sure.

Clutching her fingers more tightly together, she put her mind back to trying to decide what to do next. Oh, that she might throw herself on Mr Greaves’s mercy, lay her problem at his feet and appeal for his help in coming up with a solution to her dilemma!

But, of course, that was impossible. He was merely a kind but chance-met stranger who happened to be inhabiting the house Greville had vacated.

Why had Greville been summarily discharged? she wondered suddenly. The manor house, she’d noticed since rising this morning, was beautifully managed, the servants skilled and respectful, the house itself gleaming with polish and paint, furniture and curtains well made and of fine quality. By Mr Greaves’s own account, he was but recently come to Blenhem Hill, so its excellent condition must be attributed to Greville’s management.

Was Lord Englemere capricious, carelessly discharging her brother on a whim, as thoughtless of the well-being of those beneath him as Lord Masters? It certainly appeared that Greville had been turned off in almost as much unseemly haste as she had been harried out of Selbourne Abbey.

Maybe those upstart colonials in the New World had been right to throw off rule by privilege.

But the character of Lord Englemere wasn’t her most immediate concern. Damping down her indignation on her own and her brother’s behalf, Joanna had turned her mind once again to unearthing a solution to her present dilemma when she glanced up to see Mr Greaves quietly watching her.

Heavens, what an ill-bred savage he must think her! Feeling the flush rise on her face, she said hastily, ‘Excuse me, sir! How impolite of me to sit here wool-gathering. But you mustn’t think I mean to burden you with my problems. Thanks to your kind hospitality, I’m well nourished and rested, and as soon as the remainder of my garments are dry enough to pack, I shall be on my way.’

‘Where do you mean to go?’ And how? the slight rise of his eyebrows said. Since she’d been honest about her current circumstances, he must know she had no money.

‘To London, I suppose. ‘Tis the easiest route by post and, once there, I may be able to discover Greville’s whereabouts from Papa’s solicitor.’ Which would be an excellent plan, if she but possessed the funds to travel there and maintain herself once she arrived.

He nodded. ‘Why not join me in the estate office? Perhaps in the account books your brother may have left some hint of where he meant to go when he left Blenhem.’

Her spirits leapt at that ray of hope. ‘I hadn’t considered that! If you would not mind, I should be very grateful for the opportunity to look through them.’

They rose and he led her to the estate office, pulled a chair up to his desk, and set the ledgers before her.

But as she flipped through page after page of Greville’s nearly illegible scrawl, her sparkle of excitement dimmed. Hanging on to her last hope, she kept at it, inspecting every entry, but when she arrived at the last page of the last book, she knew no more about her brother’s probable whereabouts than she had when they’d entered the room.

She struggled to keep despair from swamping her. Forcing a smile, she said, ‘Well, it was worth trying. Thank you for allowing me to make the attempt. I suppose I should get to that packing now.’

On numb feet, she rose to drag the chair back, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. Preoccupied with combating the fear and dismay clawing its way into her gut, she only dimly heard Mr Greaves offer his assistance before he took the chair’s heavier side and walked with her to set it in position by the window.

What am I to do now? she asked herself over and over, her mind running back and forth like a mouse cornered by a cat … life being the cat that was about to devour this mouse, she thought, swallowing an hysterical giggle.

She could apply for work at the posting inn, though the chances that they would take her on weren’t good. Possessing only the skills of a gentlewoman or a governess, where could she find employment?

Was she doomed to suffer the fate to which Lady Masters had consigned her after all?

Suddenly she realised that, though they’d set the chair down, Mr Greaves remained beside her … very close beside her. As he was nearly a head taller, she had to angle her face up to give him a questioning look—and encountered a heated gaze that scorched her to her stays.

‘You don’t really need to leave,’ he said softly, his intent gaze never leaving her eyes. ‘You’ve no money for coach fare—and no way to earn any in the village. Why not stay here, write to your father’s solicitor and request him to advance you funds on your father’s account? Or, if you prefer, we might come to … another arrangement.’

Though half an hour previously she had burned at the thought of kissing him, as he towered over her now, desire in his eyes, she felt only a blind panic.

He did believe her a doxy! She raised her hands as if to ward him off—though she knew despairingly that if he was bent on taking her, he could do so, for she’d never be able to fight him off and there was no one here to rescue her.

‘P-please, Mr Greaves,’ she stuttered, hot tears of shame dripping down her cheeks. ‘I’m n-not what you think.’

She must have closed her eyes, bracing herself, but suddenly instead of the warmth of him pressed against her, she felt a chill. She snapped her eyes open, astounded to discover that he’d retreated several steps away her. A flush on his handsome face, he was drawing a handkerchief out of his waistcoat.

Handing it to her, he said, ‘Pray forgive me, Mrs Merrill! I know my behaviour was unconscionable, but I needed to determine if your character was as you presented it or not.’

‘You needed to determine …’ she echoed, relief, disbelief and confusion making her hot, then cold, then dizzy.

He seized her arm—but gently, protectively—and eased her to the sofa. ‘Sit, I beg you!’ he said, urging her down on its edge. ‘Don’t want you swooning on me again. I’ve been considering plans for your future—which do not, I assure you, include having you assume a horizontal position for me or anyone else. However, to implement them I needed to know with absolute assurance that you are in fact the lady of blameless character you’ve just shown yourself to be.’

She blotted her eyes and handed him back his handkerchief. ‘You mean,’ she asked incredulously, ‘you were … testing me?’

His cheeks reddened again. ‘Well … yes,’ he admitted.

She was torn between shrieking with laughter—and slapping him for scaring her so. ‘And here I’d been thinking what an exemplary gentleman you were! You are a brigand, sir! A bully and a brigand!’ she fumed.

‘You are quite justified in abusing me. I assure you, I believe that a man who takes advantage of an unwilling lady is a cur who deserves to be horsewhipped. I don’t have a whip handy, but you may strike me if you like.’ He angled his face towards her.

‘You should be more careful what you offer,’ she said tartly. ‘I grappled with my brother growing up and could plant you a facer that would leave you bruised for a week. Indeed, had I not been so cast down by the dreadful events of the last few days, I should have done so when you made your insulting offer.’

‘Please, don’t remind me!’ he groaned. ‘I deserve that fate and more. Although if I were truly a brigand, I’d not have let you go,’ he added.

His tone was light—but a heated something flared between them that she felt right down to her bones. Only this time, she was not afraid.

She had been right on both accounts, it seemed. He did desire her. But Mr Greaves was no Lord Masters, plundering where he would.

He was truly the gentleman she’d thought him—if a devious one! A man with whom, except for that single moment he’d towered over her, she felt safe, even though she was virtually alone with him in his house, with neither friends nor family to defend her.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ he asked, recalling her.

‘You think I require something to settle my nerves?’

‘I don’t know about you, but I do, and it wouldn’t be polite to drink alone. Though at this moment you probably don’t believe me, I’ve never before tried to debauch a gentlewoman. ‘Twas a deucedly disturbing experience.’

She chuckled, sure his levity was meant to set her at ease. ‘Very well, I’ll take a glass. To be polite, so you may settle your nerves.’

After he poured the wine and took a chair a respectful distance away, she said, ‘What are these plans you mentioned? Though it is indeed kind of you to be concerned, I have no claim upon you. There is no reason whatsoever for you to concern yourself with my predicament.’

‘Perhaps I have no claim on you, but there is another, much more important than me, who does. I was given to understand that your brother is Lord Englemere’s cousin?’

When she nodded, he continued, ‘Which, of course, makes you his cousin as well. I am certain that, once he is apprised of your situation, Lord Englemere will wish to assist you.’

All the indignation she’d previously felt on her brother’s behalf returned in a rush. ‘Indeed? And whatever could have led you to that astounding conclusion? Need I remind you that Lord Englemere recently discharged my brother from a position he no doubt counted on filling for the rest of his days? My brother, who served his country valiantly at Waterloo?’

Once begun, she couldn’t seem to stop. ‘Oh, you don’t know him,’ she rushed on, ‘but I assure you, Greville possesses the most agreeable and obliging of temperaments. I cannot imagine anyone being vexed with him! He was the kindest elder brother a girl could wish for.’

‘And look around you!’ she demanded, her tone strident as she gestured towards the spotless, orderly room. ‘How could any reasonable employer fault Greville’s management of this house? I begin to believe that all gentlemen of high rank are as venal as Lord Masters! In any event, if Lord Englemere had no compunction about summarily discharging my brother, why should he trouble himself about my fate? Nor do I wish him to. I would as soon throw myself on the charity of the man who ruined my brother’s career as I would play the doxy for him.’

Her tirade over, suddenly she realised poor Mr Greaves was just sitting there staring at her, surprise and dismay on his face. Heavens, what had possessed her to run on in such a fashion?

‘I beg you will excuse me,’ she began again quietly, embarrassed by her outburst. ‘Truly, I am not normally so intemperate. Perhaps the events of this last week have disordered my sensibilities more than I’d thought.’

‘Perhaps,’ Mr Greaves said drily. ‘I recommend the wine. ‘Tis a fine vintage.’

Not until she’d obediently swallowed a sip did it occur to her that the personage she’d just roundly abused was Mr Greaves’s employer, the man to whom he owed his position and his loyalty. ‘Excuse me as well for insulting your patron,’ she added hastily. ‘Admittedly I know nothing of the circumstances surrounding Greville’s discharge. Lord Englemere awarded you this post and you may well think highly of him.’

Looking troubled, Mr Greaves opened his lips, closed them, then finally said, ‘I am … sorry for your brother’s circumstances. Though at present my regard for Lord Englemere may seem inexplicable, yes, I do esteem him very highly.’

‘I’m sure you have your reasons. Let’s simply agree to speak no more of him.’

‘Then you absolutely would not consent to my contacting the Marquess on your behalf?’

‘I want nothing to do with him,’ she said flatly.

‘I see.’ Mr Greaves sipped his wine, looking thoughtful. After a moment, he said, ‘Very well, then, we shall have to come up with another plan.’

That reminder of her grim and still unresolved circumstances abruptly drained the high spirits engendered by their verbal sparring. ‘Coming up with a solution is my task,’ she emphasised again, as if to armour herself against the temptation to rely on him. ‘Though I do appreciate your concern.’

He nodded absently, setting down his glass and gazing into the distance, his brow creased in concentration. Determined to enjoy the last few moments of his company before she must pack her things and say goodbye, Joanna pushed the worry from her mind and contented herself with simply sipping her wine and watching the play of thoughts over his handsome face.

Odd, she thought with a little pang, realising how much she was going to miss someone whom this time yesterday she had not even known existed.

Suddenly Mr Greaves straightened. ‘I have it!’ he announced, triumph on his face. ‘You recently worked as a governess, correct?’

‘Yes. Though I’d never been formally employed as one before, I have three younger sisters. My mother having died after the youngest’s birth, I taught them all as they grew up.’

He nodded. ‘Then perhaps I have a situation for you. One of my aims here is to establish a school for the children of the tenants and the village. As enclosures continue, fewer and fewer of them will end up becoming farmers. Even if they remain on the land, knowing how to read, write and do sums will help them with their accounts, while a rudimentary knowledge of science will make them better farmers. If they must or choose to leave to look for work in town, possessing such skills will enable them to more easily find employment.’

She gave him a speculative look. ‘Just how long has establishing a school here been one of your aims?’

“Tis a worthy aspiration,’ he replied, not answering her question.

‘Are you sure?’ she said softly, sudden emotion flooding her. She would bet her few remaining worldly possessions that a school for the village children was an idea he’d come up with but a moment ago. His kindness in proposing to create a respectable position that would allow her to extract herself honourably from her current predicament brought a lump to her throat.

‘I’m sure. I have to confess, I’ve been here but two days and have done nothing as yet towards the establishment of a school. You would be doing me—and the children around Blenhem, of course—a great favour in organising and initiating such an enterprise.’

Would she enjoy running a school of her own? Was she even capable of it? But how much harder could it be than teaching her sisters or the little daughters of Lady Masters?

She’d have children to care about and instruct, to surround her with their chatter and tears and laughter. That wouldn’t fully assuage the anguish of knowing she would never cradle a child of her own … but it would be a useful way to employ her time while she worked out what to do next.

A useful and honourable way.

It wasn’t as if she had someone or something more pressing awaiting her elsewhere.

While she sat, considering, he rushed on, ‘If you aren’t sure yet what you mean to do, you could just get the school started and teach until another mistress is found. The position would allow you to accumulate funds while you attempt to contact your brother or your family in India and consider what you wish to do permanently.’

Despite his assurances, she knew any service she performed for the school and its children didn’t compare to the one he did her in offering respectable employment to the indigent female who’d landed at his doorstep. Whatever else befell her, she would always consider Mr Greaves the kindest, most thoughtful gentleman she’d ever met.

‘Thank you, Mr Greaves.’ She smiled a bit. ‘I accept this offer.’

To her amusement, he flushed again at this reminder of his rakish behaviour. ‘You are most welcome, Mrs Merrill. By the way, you haven’t enquired about the salary.’

She smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not in a very good position to bargain, am I?’

He grinned. ‘Excellent. Then I shall pay you twice what you were getting from Lady Masters.’

‘Twice?’ she echoed, startled. One reason she’d so quickly accepted her former post was because the situation paid considerably more than a governess normally earned—Lady Masters, perhaps, having had difficulty finding a qualified individual who was willing to work on an estate in such a remote part of Hampshire … or tolerate her vile husband. ‘You truly wish to offer that much?’

‘You shall be instructing quite a few more children than you did as a governess.’

That was true, she acknowledged. Then the thought struck her that perhaps, moved by her plight and that of her brother, Mr Greaves had decided to strike back for them by chousing his employer out of a hefty sum to set up his school.

She was smiling at the idea when the humiliating realisation struck her that, employed or not, at the moment she was still homeless and without funds. ‘I’m afraid I shall have to beg an advance on that enormous salary. I must find lodgings and purchase some necessities.’

He waved a hand. ‘No reason for that. You can lodge here. We’ll probably set up the school in one of the old cottages nearest Hazelwick, once workmen have time to repair and furnish it.’

Lodge—under his roof? Unbidden, the image of his lips taking hers invaded her head. She felt a blush mount her cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t be … proper.’

He raised his brows. ‘Not proper? Why? You resided in the same dwelling as your employers in Hampshire. Had Lord Masters conducted himself as a gentleman, no one, yourself included, would have thought there was anything improper about it.’

He was quite right. She wasn’t an unmarried—or even married—lady of quality any longer, but a servant who did not have a reputation to safeguard. Nor would she be joining the household of a single gentleman. Though she suspected Mr Greaves, like herself, was gentry-born, he too had become simply an employee, albeit the most important one at this estate.

Though to her, she thought with a thrill of warmth in her breast, not even a duke could have conducted himself more nobly. She would be both thankful and proud to work for him. She’d just have to keep her lustful imaginings to herself.

But as she was about to agree, one other objection occurred to her. ‘What of Lord Englemere? I doubt he’d be happy about housing the sister of the man he just sent packing.’

Mr Greaves gave her a smile that looked positively conspiratorial, strengthening her conviction that he’d deliberately offered her an outrageous salary as a recompense for Lord Englemere’s dismissal of her brother. ‘You needn’t worry about Lord Englemere. I have the charge of Blenhem Hill now. So—have we a bargain?’ He offered his hand.





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