A Winter's Knight: A Regency Romance (2 page)

“Anyone would have done the same.” His tone was distant.

“But it was not anyone who happened by. It was you. Thank you,” Phoebe said firmly, determined to make him realize how grateful she was for his intervention.

Tony did not reply immediately. It seemed absurd to say “You’re welcome.” He had spent seven years watching out for the lives of others. Soldiers, brothers, friends. His own life had been saved a dozen times over by those very same men. Words were simply not spoken.

But the woman clearly expected some response. “It seems I came by at the right time,” he finally concluded, though Tony did not particularly believe in fate.

“I’m not sure how I might return your kindness, Captain Sterling,” Phoebe began, but he cut her off.

“I am not kind,” he said shortly.

“You could have left me where you found me.”

Tony was offended. “Are you joking? Who would be so heartless as to do that?”

“An unkind man,” she countered, tightening her arms around him as the horse sidestepped a long patch of ice.

He felt himself react to her unconscious movement, but strove to ignore it. “A tidy argument, Miss Hartridge. Is your father a barrister, by chance?”

“A vicar. Which is not to say that we don’t argue, on occasion.” She paused to yawn, in a rather unladylike way. “Excuse me! I am warming up now. I think it’s making me sleepy.”

“Your father should call for a doctor, when you get home,” Tony said, concerned. “Did you say you had hit your head?”

“Mmmm, yes. But I’m fine.” Phoebe laid her cheek against his coat again. “Do you live in London? I have only been there once.”

“For the present,” Tony said, thinking he should keep her awake. “I am on leave, and don’t know when, or if, I’ll return to duty.”

“You were in the army?”

“The navy. But I was wounded at Trafalgar.”

“Did you lose friends?” Phoebe’s voice was quiet, but no longer sleepy. She had heard all about that battle. Everyone had.

Tony swallowed, remembering that day. “Several.”

“I am sorry,” she said, tightening her arms around him again, this time in sympathy. “And yet I am selfishly glad you are here.”

At that precise moment, he was glad too, almost convincing himself that he could fit in to this world. That the lovely young woman might smile upon him as a man, and not merely as a rescuer. Then the scar on his face burned, and he came back to reality.

Moments later, the first houses of the village appeared. Phoebe pointed, directing Tony down a narrow lane to a small but gracious home nestled away from the main road, deeper in the woods. As the horse clip-clopped down the frozen lane, two shapes appeared in the lit windows.

“That will be Father and Mrs Brown. I was expected hours ago,” Phoebe noted, even as one of the figures bustled out of the door.

“Phoebe! Dasher came back here alone. We were so worried! What—?” Mrs Brown, the housekeeper, stopped short on seeing Tony. A complete stranger to her, he was made more mysterious still by the mark on his face. He drew his mount to a halt before the door, pondering only for a second how much to say. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “Miss Hartridge found herself in need of a ride. I was happy to oblige.”

Phoebe nodded. “This is Captain Sterling, Nan. We met on the road, and he offered to take me home after Dasher bolted.” By an unspoken agreement, neither mentioned the two ruffians. It would only have made Mrs Brown hysterical, and there was no lasting damage. Phoebe scrambled down from the horse.

“Well, Captain, that was most kind of you,” Mrs Brown said, her eyes taking in everything about the man with a single glance. Judging him favorably, the older woman asked, “Will you come in to warm up, sir? We have just put out tea.”

The prospect was both attractive and repellent. Though Tony would have welcomed the chance to get to know Phoebe, he didn’t think he could face the inevitable questions that would arise. The war, his leg. The inevitable looks of pity and veiled disgust. No, it was best to leave this behind.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I am engaged elsewhere.” He looked at Phoebe again. “I am glad to have been of service to you, Miss Hartridge.”

“Oh! Are you sure you will not stay?” Phoebe asked. Now that she was on the ground, she was forced to tilt her head up to see his face. Leaning down, Tony caught a glimpse of her neck and the creamy skin below, unknowingly revealed by the woman as her cape fell backward. He swallowed. “Quite sure, Miss Hartridge.”

“Will you call me Phoebe? I know we will probably never meet again, but I should like you to think of me.”

“If you promise to think of me as Tony,” he agreed.

Phoebe smiled brightly at that, and he found himself smiling back, against his better judgment. “I really must go now. Take care, Phoebe. Ma’am.” He nodded to Mrs Brown and wheeled his horse around. He took the horse rather swiftly down the drive, determined not to look back. If he had, he would have seen two figures, one stout and one very slender, looking back at him.

* * * *

His head still full of the encounter with Miss Hartridge, Tony headed back to the inn in the center of the little village of Chipping Norton, where he had taken rooms for the past few days. He was to meet his solicitor over supper, and he felt it was a poor trade for Phoebe’s smile. He dismounted with some difficulty, silently cursing his lack of coordination. It had been months since his injury, and he was still learning how to maneuver with one leg missing. He longed for the day when his false leg would be ready. Unfortunately, many men were in need, and the list was long.

A stable lad ran up to Tony and offered a hand. “Evening, sir. Mr Spottiswood’s here to see you. If you’ll hold a moment, I’ll fetch your crutches.” Without waiting for Tony’s reply, the boy ran up to the archway before the inn’s stables, then back again with the hated crutches. Grumpily, Tony took them, and began to hobble his way toward the entrance to the common room.

The tapping of the wooden crutches must have given him away, for Spottiswood stood just inside. “Good evening, Captain Sterling.” The solicitor was an older gentleman who had given many years of service to that area of the county, and had learned discretion along the way. He had a table secured near the fireplace, and he guided Tony to it without appearing to shepherd the younger man.

Tony was grateful for the consideration. The pitying looks from people were by far the worst part of his injuries.

“Have you been out riding, Captain? I hope you have seen how beautiful the surroundings can be here, even in the dead of winter.”

“Beautiful, indeed,” Tony nodded, smiling to himself. “I could not wish for better.”

Mr Spottiswood sat down, urging Tony to do so as well. In less time than Tony would have credited, Spottiswood explained the details of Tony’s inheritance, and even his dry tone could not disguise the fairytale-like story that emerged.

“Are you quite sure that I am the closest living relative? I’m not sure I even met this gentleman—Mr Gingevere. To find that he was my great uncle is unbelievable.”

“Your grandmother’s brother. I assure you it is all in order. I searched the family records very carefully. You are the rightful inheritor.”

“And the amount of the inheritance,” Tony went on, the doubt coming clearly now, “seems far too high.”

“You have never been a landowner, Captain Sterling. Banstoke Hall, and the land it sits on, is a jewel. Prime land for farming.” He saw Tony’s expression and hurried on. “Not that you’ll have to farm it! Gingevere never lifted a spade. He hired workers. But farming can be profitable, not to mention the rent from the tenants.”

“Tenants? He had tenants?”

“
You
have tenants, Captain. And a very good income from the rent. I may say, Captain, that if the property is managed well, you’ll be comfortable for the rest of your days. When you see it, you’ll understand.”

The next morning, Spottiswood met Tony outside the inn to show him the mysterious Banstoke Hall. The two men left the inn riding in a closed coach, shielded from the weather, which had turned blustery. Spottiswood spoke little, but always to the point, and the few miles passed quickly. They soon turned down a narrow road. A few minutes later, the hall itself came into view, a rambling, ramshackle castle of a place bearing the architectural stamps of a dozen eras.

Spottiswood alighted from the coach first, and waited for Tony to follow with the awkward crutches. The older man had a quiet dignity about him, perhaps gained through many years of dealing with legal problems of all sorts. Though he showed an awareness of Tony’s injury, he never appeared to be annoyed by the delay it caused, or showed any pity.

He said, “I have, on behalf of the estate, hired a few men to begin repairs and restore the hall to its former state. I am afraid that in your great uncle’s last years, the building was somewhat neglected.”

The two men stepped into the hall, and Tony was struck by the emptiness of the place. It was not just that most of the furniture had been removed, or that no one was living there. It was a sense of loneliness, a sadness that clung to the dark corners and the dusty halls.

Spottiswood seemed to know that Tony’s first impression was not a good one, and he tried to point out the hall’s better features as they proceeded. But Tony only saw the strange, dark wood paneling, and the odd joining of one room to another when previous generations had built additions. The windows were covered in dust and grime, making the winter light even more feeble, barely penetrating the rooms.

A man bearing work tools met them in an upper corridor. “Mr Spottiswood, good day. We’ve seen to that leaky roof in the corner bedchamber. Should be all fixed now.”

“Good, Smith. Meet Captain Sterling, Banstoke Hall’s new master. Captain, this is Riley Smith. I’ve put him in charge of repairs.”

“How do you do?” Tony nodded.

Smith took in his appearance with one glance, but Tony couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. “Good to see the master back in the hall, sir. Been a long time empty, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“I hope I can find a buyer soon, then.”

“You don’t intend to stay?” Spottiswood asked in dismay.

“At this moment, I can’t see the advantage of doing so.” Tony said firmly. To be honest, the hall depressed him.

They finished their tour of the house in relative silence. Spottiswood was obviously thinking hard. Eventually, they emerged from the house and came back to the coach, Tony tired from the effort of the using the crutches. He couldn’t wait to be rid of them.

The solicitor leaned in toward Tony. “Well, you have now seen Banstoke Hall, and the rest of the area. I wish I could persuade you to take up residence. It is yours by right, after all…”

“I can see your point of view, but this inheritance is completely unexpected, and I never imagined living such a life. I am a sailor, sir.”

“You will not call it impertinence on my part, Captain, if I take the liberty to point out that you are not a sailor. Not anymore.” He did not move his gaze to Tony’s right leg, but he didn’t have to. Tony knew what he meant, and he knew that the gentleman was not trying to be cruel.

“You
were
a sailor, you served honorably, and that chapter in your life is over, now. Perhaps this inheritance is meant to show you a new chapter,” the lawyer continued earnestly.

“You have more faith in Providence than I, sir,” Tony said with finality. “The sale of Banstoke Hall will give me the means to travel, as I expect I shall. And with a new owner, the village can look forward to someone who will live in the hall, and be a part of the society here—in a way that an old bachelor sailor could never be.”

“You are hardly old, Captain, and bachelorhood isn’t a permanent condition.”

“It is for me,” Tony said shortly, the memory of Phoebe’s smile surfacing unexpectedly.

Spottiswood looked sadly at the taller man, with his scar and his missing leg. That he was bitter about his injuries was understandable, but the lawyer sensed that something else was holding the young man back from embracing his inheritance and the new life it offered.

The two men rode back to the village in Mr Spottiswood’s coach. The solicitor dropped Tony off in front of the inn. “Please let me know if you decide to find a buyer for the hall. If he has questions about the property, I shall be available to answer them.”

“Thank you for your understanding, Spottiswood.”

“It’s not too late to reconsider, Captain.”

“I won’t advertise my intentions before the New Year.” Tony felt he owed the man that much.

“I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with that. Good day, Captain Sterling, and may I say it was a pleasure to finally meet you.”

His business done for the day, Tony decided to walk up the main street of the village, crutches and all. He found idle time to be particularly irritating, since he had nothing to look forward to in the near future. Spottiswood had been adamant that Tony should keep Banstoke Hall; it was obvious the village would like to see someone living in it after all these years. But Tony had grave doubts about becoming lord of the manor. He was a Royal Navy captain, not a farmer. He had only ever lived in London, a world away. What did he have in common with the people who lived here? He would never be more than a stranger to them. And what was the point of maintaining an estate when he would never have children to pass it on to? Tony shrugged, deliberately casting aside thoughts of his old fiancée, only to have the image instantly replaced by the winsome Phoebe Hartridge.

Tony shook his head. He had to stop that nonsense. Phoebe was a beautiful young woman. She would have no interest in a scarred and broken sailor, no matter how he might feel about her.

As he reached the village church, he heard an angelic voice coming from within the open doors. Moving almost without thought, he turned and headed toward the entrance, drawn in by the sound of the angel’s song.

He halted just inside. At the far end, he could see half a dozen women standing in the choir box. One of them was practicing a solo. A short gentleman directed them from the front, gesturing slowly in time to the music. But Tony’s eyes locked on the singer, the owner of that clear, marvelous voice. It was Phoebe.