Amberley Chronicles Boxset I: The Impostor Debutante My Last Marchioness the Sister Quest (Amberley Chronicles Boxsets Book 1) (41 page)

Chapter 10

Back at the inn, Jonathan had drafted a simple contract. Selbington would consult his solicitor and his sisters, and schedule a meeting for all five principals to sign within the next two days.

“If you change your mind, or any of your sisters does not want to sell, that is still possible until the signatures are witnessed.”

Selbington frowned. “Do you mean,
you
might still change your mind?”

“No, of course not! I am an experienced businessman. When I make an offer, it stands. But you are only one of four owners. Though I’m not an expert, I believe those pictures may be more valuable than you think. If that gives your sisters pause, then I will not hold it against you.”

“Dusty old canvases are no good to my family.” Selbington folded the draft contract and put it into his pocket. “Do you want the keys now?”

“Selbington, when you sell something valuable, you do
not
yield possession until the payment has been received. How do you even know that I have the wherewithal to pay for your estate?”

“I am a fairly good judge of character,” Selbington said mildly. “But you have not yet seen the whole grounds, the dower house, the saw mill and the hog farm. Here, at least take the key to the outer gate, and view them at your leisure. The head gardener, Swinton, and his family are the only people staying inside for the present; they have a small house behind the stables. The boy who held the gig was young Josh Swinton, so they will know you are there as their prospective master.”

“Thank you. That makes sense.” Jonathan took the heavy key, which Selbington detached with some difficulty from a ring holding more than a dozen others of various sizes. Once he took possession, he’d call a blacksmith to change the lot.

“I will send over the books of the saw mill and hog farm, so you can study them when you find time.”

“Those footsteps in the dust indicated that someone has been indoors without your knowledge,” Jonathan reminded the young man. “If you have some reliable man you could station to guard the house until the sale is completed, I would willingly pay for the cost.” It would be too vexatious if some local thief made off with that Van Dyck in the few days till he got his own hands on it.

“We can pay for a guard ourselves – it should only be for a few days, after all.”

“Very well, then. I look forward to dinner with your family, and to making the acquaintance of your co-owners.”

Selbington left with a spring in his step, clearly elated at having sold the estate so quickly, and for more than the asking price. Jonathan wondered who had advised him. Even without the art and books, he felt confident that he could resell for twenty-five thousand, though it might take a while to find a buyer so far from town.

But he already knew he would not sell his new estate. Though he was not planning to accumulate land like Lord Pell or Lord Amberley, owning several estates as well as the London town house would only add to his consequence. Lobbock Manor would do very well for one of his younger children when the time came. It was of similar size as his friend James Ellsworthy’s Sussex estate.

How many hogs would he own before the week was out?

And why did he feel so energetic, all of a sudden, without the slightest desire to leave this tiny town – or large village, - until he had explored its possibilities, in every sense? He should be searching for his sister instead of day-dreaming about a red-headed woman. Sophia was a pretty name and suited her perfectly… except that the name meant “wisdom”, and that was the last thing such a woman inspired in a man.

He should be concentrating on business. Now that he was buying the estate, he had to decide how best to manage it from faraway London. Choosing a competent local manager without knowing a soul beyond Paul Selbington might not be easy. The pictures’ transport also was no trivial matter, they would have to be expertly packed and protected against the weather, as well as theft. He might send some of the books along, though it seemed a pity to break up that library.

And he still had not seen the hog farm, the saw mill, and that dower house.

***

Once Patch had left, Cherry ate one of the mince pies, and presently went outdoors into the back garden of the old house. Originally a combination of small orchard and flower garden, judging by some of the surviving vegetation, it was overgrown and uneven under her feet. The most abundant plants were hip-high stinging nettles that she did her best to circumnavigate. 

It had occurred to Cherry that many people in the country left keys conveniently hidden close by the lock. With a stick, she carefully explored the immediate surroundings of the door in the back wall. As she had hoped, after several minutes’ search she found a key in a small hollowed-out space behind a loose brick of the wall.

It was almost impossible to turn it in the rusty old lock, and she had to use so much force that she feared the iron key would break. Had she had any oil in the house, she would have fetched and applied it, but the old-fashioned pantry stood empty. The key left its imprint deep in her hand, when she finally succeeded.

Cherry pulled the creaky door towards her, expending considerable force once again, as the grass and weeds underneath were rubbing against the door’s bottom. It stuck before it had fully opened, but she was slim enough to squeeze through the gap.

The grounds before her had also been neglected, though not as long and badly as her temporary home. She could see the ivy-covered walls of Lobbock Manor in the distance, through loosely planted oaks and beeches.

At least she now could walk outdoors without fear of detection. She should have found the key and opened this convenient gate days ago. Then she would not have had to walk around Bellington in her widow’s weeds, and risk attracting the attention of Buckley’s minions.

Walking parallel to the wall, she came across a patch of wild strawberries, and bent over to pick a few. How sweet they tasted, here in the spring sunshine! There also were bushes of blackberries and raspberries against the wall, but at this early season only two raspberries were more or less ripe. She relished the mixture of sweet and tart on her tongue. Within days, more fruit would ripen, and she could come here undetected whenever she liked. The estate was empty and waiting for a buyer. It might have to wait for years.

Why had Durwent – if that was the man’s real name – claimed he was here to purchase it? Probably a mere pretext for what he really intended. Cherry had a fine ear for truth and lies, and his claim that he had come to buy the estate had not rung true.

If he was here as Buckley’s confederate, he clearly had not recognized her, or he would not have been asking about the Trellisham sisters, or the Spaldings. It seemed strange that Buckley, or his man, would be interested in anyone beside herself. What would they do if they identified and caught her? Buckley was not the kind of man who tolerated defiance, especially from a woman he considered to be in his power through her late husband’s debts. If she fell into his hands, Buckley’s revenge would be terrible. Yet how would they get her to London, against her will? What would happen when she arrived there?

Cherry shivered, despite the sunshine.

Chapter 11

She was bending yet again, to pick a tiny red strawberry, when a voice startled her.

“Mrs. Jones?”

Cherry straightened and stared in consternation at Mr. Durwent watching her from between two oak trees. How had she not heard him coming? This was her worst nightmare, to be cornered by one of Buckley’s men in an isolated place with no chance of outside help.

But since he might not recognize her, she must not show her fear.

“What are you doing here? You are trespassing.” Her voice was stern. “This estate belongs to Sir Jasper’s heirs.”

“I told you that I was interested in buying it,” Durwent replied, slowly approaching, and looking at her with a slight frown. “I am here with the owners’ full permission.” He produced a heavy key from his pocket and held it up for proof. “Are you not yourself trespassing, Ma’am?”

Cherry huffed out her breath in annoyance. Trespassing? Well, yes, if you wanted to be technical about it. “I am also here with the owners’ permission. I have known the Selbingtons since my childhood.”

Durwent regarded her with a frown, as though weighing the likelihood of her speaking the truth. “In that case, you might be very helpful in showing me the rest of these grounds.”

Was that distrust in his voice? Had he asked Paul about Mrs. Jones? If so, of course her old friend would disclaim any knowledge of her alias.

“It would not be seemly.”

“Nonsense. We are outdoors, why should it be unseemly? And you are a married woman, not some sheltered debutante.”

“True,” she admitted. “But I don’t know you, Sir. We introduced ourselves in a somewhat makeshift fashion.”

He smiled. Why did a man she distrusted have such an open, attractive smile? “Ask me whatever you like. My life is an open book.”

“Are you here on behalf of Buckley?” She kept her eyes on his, alert to the slightest reaction. 

“Buckley? Who is that?” His look of innocent surprise was so genuine that she began to doubt her conclusions. Could his presence really be a mere coincidence?

“You really don’t know?” If only it were so!

“Upon my honour, I am not here on behalf of any other man than myself. I never heard of this Buckley. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, unwilling to expound her private troubles to this near-stranger, but more than half convinced that he was not in Buckley’s service after all. His denial rang true.

“In that case, I am willing to show you the estate, what I remember from my visits in years gone by. You will see that I am quite familiar with the grounds.”

Durwent offered his arm, as though they were a gentleman and lady strolling about Hyde Park. After a momentary hesitation she put her hand on it, and pointed in the direction of the vegetable gardens. She might as well see if there were other supplies to which she could help herself. The small strawberries would hardly feed a sparrow.

“There is the folly.” She pointed at a slightly lopsided wooden building with open piecework walls and a shingled roof. “It was already fairly dilapidated years ago. As children we played hide and seek in there.”

“You and the Selbingtons? I suppose you would have been much of an age with the oldest son.

So he did know Paul and his sisters. “Yes.”

“Did you also play with the Trellisham girls? They would have been a few years older than you.”

“It is not polite to make such judgements, Mr. Durwent,” she said primly, secretly flattered at his estimate. “Yes, I played with them sometimes. That was before I fell on hard times.” She sighed dramatically for good measure.

“Tell me about the three sisters, please.” Why would he want to talk to her of other women? Men almost never did that in her experience.

“Why? What interest can you have in them? They are very ordinary, dull people.”

“Not everyone can be as fascinating as you, Mrs. Jones.”

He was eying her fichu, which had slipped a little when she picked the berries, exposing a vertical rim of skin from her bosom to her shoulder. Cherry restrained an impulse to straighten the cloth and raised her chin a little.

“I don’t want any of your flattery, Mr. Durwent. Why this interest in the Trellishams?”

He shrugged carelessly. “A business matter.”

Cherry could not imagine what that might be. Since Buckley had bought up all of Max’s debts to hold over her head, Durwent could hardly be another creditor. Was he working for Buckley after all, and toying with her? Or was this attractive and likable man as harmless as claimed? She would pretend to take him at face value, and see what happened.

“The most handsome sister is Miss Patience Trellisham. You will soon meet her and Mrs. Spalding, the former Prudence Trellisham, if you settle here. They and the Selbingtons in the Vicarage are the only gentry within walking distance of this estate.” She kept her voice indifferent, as though discussing the most remote of acquaintances.

“What of the third sister?”

She only maintained the careless expression with an effort. “Charity Trellisham married ten years ago and moved to London. She came to visit once or twice in recent years.”

“When you were a child, did you get on with them?”

“They were not quarrelsome or vindictive, but I don’t have any particular insight into their characters.”

They emerged from the trees, and she led him leftwards. “This is the vegetable garden.” She scrutinized the pitiful remains with a critical eye. “It looks like the rabbits have feasted on the lettuce and cabbages.”

“But there are some spring beans over here,” Durwent said, surprising her by this botanical knowledge. “And look, here is a patch of carrots.”

“How would a London man recognize a carrot plant without seeing the root?”

“My mother had a vegetable patch much like this, if better kept.” He frowned. “I understood that the gardener was still living here. Why would he let the garden get into such as state?”

“You can ask him yourself,” Cherry suggested. “That is his house over there.” She pointed to a half-brick, half wooden structure leaning against the back wall of the stables. “I will take a turn through the orchard in the meantime. No need for him to see us together and gossip.”

“Very well.” Durwent made no protest as she went to inspect the unripe apples, just forming from the recently fallen blossoms. The trees were in better shape than the vegetable garden, though they had not been properly trimmed this last winter.

Durwent joined her only minutes later, his face a grimace of disgust. “I found the man dead drunk, with an empty bottle of French cognac.”

“He must have helped himself to the Hall’s cellars. With nobody here to keep an eye on things for all these months, it’s little wonder. Paul will have to dismiss him; too bad for his children.”

“It’s the fellow’s own fault. Does this gardener have a wife?”

“I heard she ran away years ago. There were two or three half-grown boys.”

“Maybe the boys can stay on in some capacity. The man must clearly go. It is in circumstances such as this, with temptation within reach and no supervision, that the quality and character of an employee is proved.”

She looked at him sideways. “You speak like a man with experience.”

“All too much. No matter how many eager applicants there may be, it is surprisingly hard to find good people who can be trusted to do the right thing without constant control.”

That was what Max had also said more than once, in almost the same words, in the early days when they still talked about his wine company. More evidence that Durwent was a respectable businessman?

“This path leads to the Dower House, and this other one to the hog farm. Some days the wind brings the smell right to the house, but mostly it blows in the other direction.”

“And what of the saw mill?”

“The same path, a little beyond the hog farm. You cannot miss it. But I heard there is not enough water to move the wheel any more, except after heavy rain, since they built the canal over Trepsham way.”

“So the saw mill is useless?” Durwent did not seem overly concerned.

“You will have to see for yourself, but that is what people have been saying. Closing Lobbock Manor and the saw mill within the last year cost many local people their livelihood.” Cherry was surprised how knowledgeable she could still sound, after living in London all this time. Prune’s letters had kept her up to date on local events.

“Is the staff of Lobbock Manor still available for hire, excepting the gardener of course?”

“I expect most are still close by, waiting for just such an occasion. It has only been half a year since Sir Jasper died.”

Durwent nodded thoughtfully. Could he be planning to open the house up again? They were standing on the path towards the hog farm, under a beech, and the sun was throwing speckled patches of light through the foliage onto Durwent’s dark, short hair and sober dark grey raiment. No other person was in sight; the only noise was the chirping of birds.

“You were not among them, by any chance, Mrs. Jones? Maybe as the housekeeper?”

She had momentarily forgotten her disguise and fanciful story. “No, I have never been a servant in my life. Nor would I want to be.” It came out more haughtily than she intended. 

He was looking at her hands. What was he thinking?

“I understand. You are not made for drudgery and hard work.” Why was he looking at her so intently? It made her breath come faster, in quick little spurts, and her heart was speeding up.

“I am going to kiss you,” he said conversationally. “Unless you tell me
no
.”

Her head whirled. She should refuse. Of course she should … it was only four months since she’d buried Max. Durwent might be working for Buckley after all, though she was coming to think it unlikely. He wanted an illicit affair with her, and would not respect her if she let him kiss her. He thought she was married …this was a very bad, a terrible idea …..Where could it lead?

Throughout her confused thoughts she had not made her lips tell him the one word that would have stopped him. He approached slowly, as she watched out of wide-open eyes. She nervously passed the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. That proved to be a mistake, for the next moment his mouth, warm and firm, was pressed upon hers, and all thought went from her head. He kissed so well – passionately, carefully, warmly. His kiss was like a promise of forbidden delights, of an intimacy she had not enjoyed for so long, since before the estrangement from Max. What harm if she gave in, for just a few minutes, and opened her lips the tiniest bit?

He did not accept the implicit permission to go further, and she was half disappointed when he drew back. After nearly a minute of careful breathing he had sufficiently mastered himself to bow and say in a low voice, “I beg your pardon. I don’t know what overcame me. I will do my best not to take advantage of you again.”

Take advantage? Did he think she was some helpless little girl unable to decide for herself if she wanted to be kissed?

“Then I shall have to take advantage of you, Sir.” She placed her hand at his nape, and drew his head downward for another kiss. He came willingly enough, and she was satisfied to feel his pulse racing under her hand on his neck. Durwent was as strongly affected as she herself. He did truly desire her; not that she’d had any doubts. It was her gift, to make men desire her. He was one of the few men she had met who could make her desire him in return.

When they stopped, after more than two minutes, both were out of breath.

“I must leave,” he said after a while, regret heavy in his voice, “I have an early dinner invitation I cannot ignore. When can we meet again?”

“It’s not a good idea,” she objected weakly. “Nothing good can come of this attraction.”

“Those two kisses were the best I have experienced for a long time.” He sighed. “If it is your conscience that misgives you, I understand.”

She hesitated, torn between desire and prudence. But she had never been the prudent sister. “Well, I am very fond of strawberries. I usually come here to pick a few in the early afternoons.”

“Can you make your own way back home?”

“Oh yes.” She was relieved he would not insist on escorting her. He must not guess that she had entered through that door in the wall.

As he left, she looked after him. This could never be more than a pleasant interlude. She should not have kissed Durwent, but she could not bring herself to regret it. It was so long since she had felt a man’s passionate desire, and allowed herself to respond. And why not grasp at a momentary pleasure that harmed nobody, after all?

She slowly retraced her steps to the door in the wall.