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Authors: His Captive Lady

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BOOK: Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02]

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She might even be able to sleep . . .

Oh God, if only she hadn’t fallen asleep that night. She could have, would have been able to stop him. But she’d slept and, sleeping, had lost everything.

She’d barely slept since. She was so tired.

She forced herself to sit up straighter. “We’re nearly home and then I’ll have money again, and with money anything is possible, isn’t it, Freckles?”

A tail thumped and the dog sat up and licked Nell’s nose.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Nell gave Freckles a hug. What would she have done without Freckles? She’d been such a comfort and a staunch friend.

Freckles brightened at the attention and snuffed interestedly at the man’s gloves. She gave Nell such a hopeful look that Nell felt like laughing. “No,” she said. “These gloves are not for you.”

A pair of mournful brown eyes darted from the glove to Nell and back, demonstrating Unutterable Longing, alternating with Wistful Reproach.

This time Nell did laugh aloud. “Yes, I’m sure they smell very interesting but gloves are
not
for dogs. And look, there is the steeple of St. John’s. In another twenty minutes we’ll be home.”

T
o Nell’s surprise, the main gates of her home were closed. As far as she could remember they’d never been closed before. A chain had been passed through the bars and a padlock fastened it tight.

Puzzled, she walked along the fence line to where she knew there was a gap where the stones had fallen down. Freckles bounded through and Nell followed.

She walked down the drive. The rain had stopped, but she could see nobody around. It didn’t feel right.

The closer she got to the house, the stronger the feeling grew. She mounted the front steps and pulled on the doorbell. She heard it jangling away inside but nobody hurried to answer.

She would go in the back way. The kitchen door, at least, was never locked.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

The voice startled her and she swung around. The question had come from a man she’d never seen before. He was a small man of about thirty, neatly, almost finickily dressed in black trousers and a coat with a nipped-in waist and heavily padded shoulders. His thinning hair was brushed forward in an unfortunate attempt at the Brutus style and he carried a briefcase.

“Who are you?” she responded. He looked like a lawyer.

“I am Mr. Pedlington.” He looked her up and down as if she were an insect, then sniffed. “There is no work to be had here.”

Nell supposed she did look rather bedraggled. She’d walked so far and then there was the rain, and all that mud.

“I’m not after work,” she told him pleasantly. “I live here. I’m Nell Freymore.”

His eyes popped. “Freymore?” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean—Not the late—”

“Yes, I’m his daughter.”

Pedlington looked uncomfortable. “I represent the firm of Fraser and Shaw.” He paused, as if she should recognize the name.

She didn’t. She waited for him to explain.

He cleared his throat. “Has nobody told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Oh dear.” He ran his finger around his tight cravat.

His manner was making her nervous. “What is it I’m supposed to know?”

“Er, the house. The property.”

“Yes?”

“This house—” He gestured.

“I know which house. It’s my home, after all.”

He swallowed. “It’s not. Not anymore. My firm has been commissioned to sell it.”

“Sell it? You can’t sell it—it’s mine.” He didn’t seem to take it in, so she added. “It belongs to me.”

“No. I’m afraid . . . your father—” Pedlington hesitated. “He lost it in a card game.”

“He couldn’t have,” Nell said. She saw the lawyer was about to explain and added, “I mean I know he loses things in card games—he’s always done it. He’s lost just about everything he’s ever owned. But he cannot lose this house because it doesn’t belong to him. He signed it over to me years ago . . .” Her voice trailed off. Pedlington was shaking his head.

“It was all perfectly legal,” he explained. “I’ve seen the documents myself. The deed of both house and land is in the possession of our client. Solely.”

Nell stared at him for a long moment, then her knees gave way. She plonked down on the top step, her thoughts in turmoil. “You mean this house has gone, too?” Papa had lost her home, along with everything else? He’d sworn the deeds were in her name.

Lies, always lies.

“Yes.”

“Then where am I to go?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat and said with a mix of sympathy and officiousness, “But you cannot stay here. You must leave.”

Two

Firmin Court, Wiltshire Ten days later

“
T
he house, I must confess, is a little shabby,” Pedlington, the agent, said in an apologetic voice, “but a little refurbishment—”

“It’s extremely shabby; in fact the whole estate reeks of neglect,” Harry Morant said with a pointed glance at ancient velvet curtains hanging in shreds.

Pedlington grimaced. “I fear the late earl was rather negligent in the fulfillment of his duties . . .”

Harry snorted. Duties be hanged. The way he’d heard it, the late earl had neglected everything except the gaming tables. But his neglect would be Harry’s gain.

Pedlington continued, “This property is not part of the overall estate. It came to him through his late wife, so it’s not entailed.”

They walked from dusty room to dusty room, down corridors hung with faded paper dotted with darker patches to show where paintings had once hung and furniture once stood. If this place wasn’t entailed, Harry wondered, why hadn’t the earl sold it? He’d sold everything else he could lay his hands on.

The fourth Earl of Denton had brought a large and prosperous estate to ruin. He’d mortgaged it to the hilt, sold everything that could be sold, and even then it hadn’t been enough to cover his debts. At last, facing debtor’s prison, he’d had a heart attack and died. In the middle of the road, Harry heard.

Then the scavengers had moved in; the bailiffs and those the earl had owed money to, picking over the leftovers of the once-great estate, wringing from it every penny that could be wrung. Pedlington had been appointed by the London firm whose task it was to salvage whatever could be retrieved from the mess.

Harry had heard all about it in Bath. He’d cut his social engagements short, much to his aunt’s annoyance. There was no point anyway. The middle-class fathers of the girls his aunt had collected had made it clear to him that they aspired higher for their daughters.

So Harry had ridden down here to inspect the property. Before the late earl had acquired Firmin Court, the estate had been renowned for its horses.

“I don’t imagine the fifth earl is relishing the task ahead of him,” Harry said. Poor bastard.

Pedlington shook his head. “No, indeed. He’s the late earl’s second cousin—lives in Ireland—and had no idea of how things stood. The poor fellow got quite a shock when he heard the full sum of it. Fainted, I’m told. What use is a title when it comes with an estate that’s mostly entailed and crippled with debt?” He gave Harry a hopeful glance. “At least this property can be sold.”

Harry ignored it. This house had been stripped bare, and not recently. The rooms smelled of disuse and dust, but there was no odor of damp or decay. They passed from room to room, Harry insisting on being shown everything, though the house mattered least to him.

“What the—” the agent muttered. One of the bedchambers was locked. The agent tried key after key with increasing annoyance. “It’s just a bedchamber, sir, of no interest. It is in the same condition as the rest of the house.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And you have no key?”

“No, but I assure you I shall obtain it forthwith,” Pedlington said in a tight voice.

Harry, uninterested in a missing key, strolled back along the hallway. “Is that all you have to show me?”

“Would you have any interest in viewing the kitchen regions? Or the attics and servant’s quarters?” Pedlington’s tone said he did not expect it.

Harry made a dismissive gesture. “I’m not sure if there’s much point. The neglect is appalling, as is the dust.” He added as if in afterthought, “But perhaps the kitchen, though I expect it’ll be hopelessly inadequate. And since I’ve come all this way I might as well look at the outbuildings.”

Pedlington, by now sure his trip had been made in vain, sighed. “Yes, sir. We can reach the outbuildings through the kitchen door.” They retraced their steps, their footsteps echoing on the bare wooden floor. A good, solid floor, Harry noted, with no sign of woodworm.

Harry repressed a faint smile at the agent’s dejection. In the ragged, empty fields that surrounded the house, the grass grew thick and lush. If the stables were as solid as the house, he’d make an offer.

All this place needed was a little money, a lot of hard work, and good management. His legacy from Great-aunt Gert would provide the money; Harry could provide the rest.

The stable doors were ajar. Pedlington frowned. “I’m sure I locked this the last time I was here.”

As they approached, a dog stuck its head out of the door. It growled as they approached.

Pedlington stopped dead and eyed the dog nervously. “Shoo, shoo, dog,” he called, flapping his hands. “Go away.”

The dog stood in the doorway, curling its lip in a low growl. She was a beautiful animal, a springer spaniel, white, with dappled brown markings.

Harry addressed the dog sternly. “What do you mean, madam, growling at us in that ill-mannered tone? Behave yourself.” The dog, recognizing an authoritative voice, gave him a sheepish look, and the tip of her long, feathered tail wagged a little.

“Just as I thought, you’re all bluff, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Harry squatted down and clicked his finger at the dog. “Come on, introduce yourself.”

Squirming in a coquettish manner, the dog edged closer and sniffed Harry’s fingers. Her tail wagged harder, she licked his fingers, then rolled onto her back.

“That’s better,” Harry said as he scratched her stomach. The dog writhed in bliss. Harry straightened and the dog leapt to her feet, her tail swaying gently as she watched him.

Pedlington looked at the animal with dislike. “That animal is not supposed to be here. There is no dog on the inventory. It’s a stray.”

“Yes, but quite harmless, as you can see. So, let us look at the stables.”

Pedlington didn’t move. The man was too nervous of the dog.

“I can inspect the stables by myself,” Harry told him. “These doors got opened somehow. You go and check the other exterior locks.”

Pedlington eyed the dog, then nodded. “I will then, if you don’t mind, sir. It wouldn’t do if vagrants got in.”

Harry stepped inside. The dog followed him and headed straight for a scarf and what might be gloves lying just inside on the cobbled floor. Harry frowned. The items looked too good to be lying on the cobbles but the dog flopped down, placed her paws on either side of the pile, then lay her muzzle possessively on top of it. She had no intention of moving.

“Very well,” Harry told her. “You guard that stuff and I’ll look at the stables.” Her tail thumped twice, but she didn’t move.

Harry looked around him and exhaled slowly. It was exactly what he’d been looking for; stalls for forty horses at least, and the stable buildings looked as solid as a rock—in better condition than the house, in fact. The cobbled floor was clean and well swept, the air inside smelled of fresh hay and—Harry sniffed—horse.
Fresh
horse.

An oilskin cloak hung from a peg and a hat. Harry frowned. It looked like—a sound caught his attention. What the devil? It was a horse in distress. The sound was followed by a low murmur.

He ran down the central aisle of the stables, checking each stall as he passed. Empty—all but the last. The lower door was shut, but the top part was open. He looked over.

A mare lay on her side on the hay-strewn floor, straining to give birth, her bony flanks wet with sweat. She was in clear distress, rolling from side to side. It was not a good sign. A young woman crouched beside the mare, in perilous proximity to the flailing hooves. Harry couldn’t see her face.

He shrugged off his coat. “How long since she went into labor?”

“Nearly fifteen minutes since her waters broke.” The woman’s voice was grim. She didn’t even turn her head. She poured what looked like oil from a small bottle into her palm.

“That’s too long.” Harry hung his coat on a hook.

“I know.” She corked the bottle and set it aside. “The foal is presented wrongly.”

Harry could see. The mare’s tail had been wrapped in a cloth and her distended entrance was visible. He could see the bubble of the amniotic sac protruding, and within it, the shape of a single tiny hoof.

There should have been two little hooves, followed soon afterward by a nose. “The foal needs to be turned in the womb,” he said, rolling his shirtsleeves up.

She finished slathering her hand and right forearm with oil. “I know. I’m about to try.”

“I’ll help.” Harry unlatched the stable door.

“No! Don’t come in—you’ll upset her!” The woman turned an urgent face toward him.

It was her. The young woman from the cart. He caught only the slightest glimpse of her, a blur of pale skin and worried eyes, but he was certain.

“Stay back! She’s nervous of men.”

Harry ignored her. “Do you
want
to be kicked in the head? You can’t help her when she’s in this state.”

As he stepped into the stall the mare’s head jerked and her eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Her ears flattened, her lip curled and she made an agitated move as if to stand.

The woman swore and tossed Harry a bright glare as if to say, “You see?”

Harry did see, but it wasn’t going to stop him. She needed help and he knew a lot about nervous mares.

BOOK: Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02]

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