Gayle Buck (11 page)

Mary said nothing. In the split second as the passing gentleman had been framed in their coach window, she had recognized him.

Lord St. John, Viscount Weemswood. There could be no two gentlemen with the same harsh profile, nor the same aura of leashed power.

She had been unable to forget the brief time that she had spent in Lord St. John’s company, though they had exchanged scarcely three sentences. She had cause to be grateful for his lordship’s swift comprehension and quick action, of course. But it had been his bored eyes and cold features that had disturbingly haunted her dreams. Once her father had been made comfortable, Lord St. John had retreated so thoroughly behind that arrogant mask that she had been momentarily taken aback. It had seemed impossible that the fathomless depths of his eyes had ever held a spark of compassion.

She had told her father very little about that chance meeting, other than the names of the gentlemen who had come to her aid. Captain Hargrove she could have spoken about with ease. He had been all amiability and had exerted himself to divert her thoughts, for which she had been very grateful.

There was no reason not to have conveyed to her father every word of that odd interlude, but she had not done so because it had included Lord St. John’s presence. His lordship had not attempted to engage her in conversation; on the contrary, he had made it plain without giving true offense that he was uninterested in casual interchange. It would not have been wonderful if she had altogether forgotten that he was in the room, but such had not been the case. She had been acutely aware of his tall, still figure leaning against the mantel. She had known when his considering gaze had rested upon her; she had been sorry to say good-bye to him.

At the time that her father had inquired about the gentlemen who had shown such true Christian mercy, she had been strangely reluctant to confide what was only intuition, however strongly it had stirred in her.

Before the mask had slipped into place, she thought she had glimpsed the viscount’s soul. He was a man tortured and vulnerable. She could not begin to comprehend what had reduced such a man to that depth of pain.

She wondered at herself. She was a strange daughter indeed not to confide the whole right then to her father. She did not think that her silence was due to a desire to protect Lord St. John from her father’s complaint, for Mr. Pepperidge would more than likely never actually lodge it. In any event, a noble gentleman such as Lord St. John was not one to be worried overmuch by the bad opinion of a merchant.

Mary knew herself too well to be deceived by anything that her mind might fabricate. She reflected upon the matter, paying only superficial attention to the cribbage board. She began to frown, not liking what she found to be lying lodged in her heart.

It seemed that Lord St. John had made a quite lasting and deep impression upon her.

‘The round goes to me, my dear. Those last few moves lacked your usual precise logic.”

Mary looked over at her father. She felt an unusual sense of forlornness that had nothing whatsoever to do with losing the match of cribbage. “Am I such a logical creature, Papa?”

Mr. Pepperidge chuckled as he put away the cribbage board. “I dare say there is not another female with so few fanciful flights as yourself, Mary. Aye, you’ve got your head firmly attached to your shoulders and better than several young men of my acquaintance, too. I need never be anxious that you shall have call to do anything in the least foolish.”

Mary smiled faintly at her father. She understood now why she had remained silent about Lord St. John and her speculation concerning him, for to have confided in her father would have completely deflated his good opinion of her.

She had quite foolishly tumbled head over heels in love with a gentlemen completely beyond her reach.

It was a flight of fancy of positively epic proportions.

Caught up in the struggle with his own private demons, Lord St. John did not realize where he was headed until he had actually turned in at the gate to his family seat. It seemed somehow symbolic that he should flee to the place where he had been given birth and had learned his earliest lessons in disillusionment.

He was not amused by the workings of his unconscious mind.

However, since he was already in sight of the front door, he thought he might as well put his unplanned visit to good use. He stopped his team at the steps and snubbed the reins. Before he had leapt down to the graveled drive, the front door opened.

One of his retainers came hurrying down the steps. “My lord! This is an unexpected pleasure, indeed.”

“Is it? You astonish me, Jessup,” Lord St. John said, pulling off his driving gloves as he went up the steps and strode inside, his man hurrying behind him. “Have my horses attended to. I shan’t be here above an hour or two, so tell the boy not to founder them.”

“Of course, my lord.” The manservant nodded to an underling to carry the message to the stables, then turned back to the viscount in time to receive his lordship’s whip and gloves and curly brimmed beaver. “Will you be wanting a glass of brandy, my lord? Accompanied by a small collation, perhaps? Mrs. Jessup would be pleased to see to it.”

Lord St. John paused to actually read the man’s expression. He was startled by the real desire to please that was in his retainer’s eyes. He said slowly, “My compliments to Mrs. Jessup and a cold collation would be welcome. I shall be in my study. Pray send Mr. Todd to me straightaway.”

“Aye, my lord.” The retainer hurried off, bearing the viscount’s belongings.

Lord St. John shook off the unaccountable balm that the man’s greeting had proven to his spirits and stepped into his study. He sat down behind the massive desk and opened a large drawer where the estate accounting records were kept. He took out the unwieldy books and proceeded to study the entries. He was soon absorbed in the task.

Several minutes later a knock sounded on the door. At his word to enter, Jessup ushered in a short plump woman who was carrying a tray. Mrs. Jessup bustled over to the occasional table, saying, “Now then, my lord, it isn’t what you’re used to, I know. But I fancy my meat pies and the apple tart will be pleasing enough. Jessup, you’ll be getting his lordship his brandy now.” As she spoke, she had swiftly laid out the contents of the tray and serving utensils. She dropped a curtsey, her round face beaming, and left the room. Jessup had obediently performed his duty as well and, assured that his lordship wished for nothing else, he also exited.

Lord St. John frowned at the closed door. He did not have long to reflect on the unexpected warmth of this homecoming, however, before the door opened once more and the burly figure of his bailiff entered.

“M’lord, ye wished to speak wi’ me?”

Lord St. John waved the man to the chair beside the desk. “I have been going over the records, Mr. Todd. I would like your report as well.”

Mr. Todd settled into the chair and placed his cap on his knee. “Right glad I am to give it, m’lord. Ye’ll no doubt be pleased.” He launched into a thorough and succinct description of all the estate business, including the status of the tenants and the rents. He ended by giving it as his opinion that his lordship’s policy of putting monies back into the estate was at last beginning to win against the sad air of disrepair that had hung over the estate for too many years.

Mr. Todd held up a thick cautioning finger. “Now make no mistake, m’lord. There’s still work to be done; but wi’ a bit more effort this place will do ye proud.”

Lord St. John thanked and dismissed the bailiff. Mr. Todd nodded and made known where he might be found if his lordship wished to speak to him again before his lordship’s departure. Lord St. John thought over all that he had heard while he did justice to the meat pies and apple tart. When he had had his fill, he crossed the study, opened the door, and called for his retainer.

Jessup appeared so quickly that Lord St. John realized the man had been hovering nearby for just such a summons. With the hint of a smile at his lips, Lord St. John said, “My compliments to Mrs. Jessup for a satisfying meal. I shall not be leaving as quickly as I anticipated, Jessup. I have decided that I wish to ride about the grounds with Mr. Todd, so that I will in all probability be staying for dinner. Please inform Mrs. Jessup of my change in plans.”

“Aye, my lord.” Jessup fairly beamed approval.

Lord St. John went down to the stables. As he walked past empty stall after empty stall he recalled that as a boy the stables had always been a scene of activity. Even in his father’s direst days there had been hunters and jumpers and hacks and brood mares. Now the once-scrubbed stone walls had an air of desolation and the roof sagged in places.

An unexpected melancholy tugged at him. He had spent the brightest moments of his lonely, unhappy childhood in the stables. He thrust away the unbidden memories.

As expected, he found his own horses at the end. The boy whose responsibility it was to care for the few animals left in the stables was tongue-tied at the unexpected appearance of the master, but at the sharp admonition given him by the elderly stable groom, he saddled up a rawboned hack that had seen better years.

Mounting the gelding, Lord St. John set off over the estate. He found Mr. Todd at the far end of a fine meadow, directing the final stages in the repair of a stone wall.

The bailiff appeared somewhat surprised at the viscount’s appearance but he agreed readily enough to join his employer in a closer look at the management of the estate. Leaving his crew with precise directions, he clumsily mounted his own horse and offered to act as his lordship’s guide. “Not that ye need one, my lord, but it was my thought that ye might like details pointed out, so to speak,” he said. The viscount agreed to it, relieving the bailiff of having given possible offense.

Lord St. John spent the afternoon meeting his tenants, putting questions and listening to explanations. When the shadows had lengthened to dusk, he took final leave of Mr. Todd and returned to the manor. He was pleasantly tired and hungry and it came as a welcome surprise to find that Mrs. Jessup had laid a fine table for him. It occurred to him that he had not found such a welcome for many, many years.

Upon Jessup’s inquiry whether he wished a bedroom prepared for his use, Lord St. John required only a brief reflection. He had been sitting in the drawing room with his after-dinner wine, staring at the flames on the grate, his thoughts engaged by very little of consequence. He looked consideringly at Jessup. There was nothing for him in London that night and he discovered that he was reluctant to part from the unexpected respite of peace that he had found that day at Rosethorn.

“How are you at valeting, Jessup?”

At once the man beamed. “I can do as well as any, I suppose, my lord.”

Lord St. John laughed, his somber face lightening to a surprising degree. “My man, Tibbs, would undoubtedly take quick insult at that assertion, Jessup. Have the bed prepared, then. You can help me out of this coat.”

“Aye, my lord.” Jessup went away to spread the glad word that the master would be remaining the night even though his lordship had come away from London without a change of clothes. “I am to valet his lordship.”

“Well, do your best for him, Mr. Jessup. His lordship is proving himself a better master than his father before him,” said Mrs. Jessup.

If there were unhappy ghosts haunting the halls of Rosethorn, none entered the chamber occupied that night by the viscount. Lord St. John slept well and deeply, the rest of the truly exhausted.

When he arose the next morning, he managed the inadequate toilette that was necessitated when there was no clean shirt to put on or freshly ironed cravat. He found that Jessup had brushed off his coat and breeches and cleaned his boots, however, so he was fairly presentable when he went down to breakfast. The table spread for his edification made his brows rise in pleased surprise. Mrs. Jessup had outdone herself in the kitchen. He set to with a good appetite.

Afterwards, replete and somewhat more at peace than when he had come down, he took leave of his retainers and drove back to London.

Chapter 11

Upon reaching his town house, Lord St. John’s improved frame of mind was instantly banished by the intelligence that a small package had been delivered from the Earl of Cowltern.

“Put it in my study,” he said shortly, before going upstairs to change into fresh clothes. A scarce half hour later he returned downstairs, his hair still damp from the bath but otherwise a sartorial picture of the gentlemen of fashion. Lord St. John closed the door to his study and walked over to his desk. He took up the package, weighing it for a second in his hand.

Lord St. John, his face carved in forbidding planes, opened the small package. He was unsurprised to find a bank draft written for a familiar and substantial amount along with several large pound notes. The earl had fulfilled the terms of the bargain he had proposed in the confident expectation that it would buy Viscount Weemswood’s cooperation.

“Rot his arrogance,” said Lord St. John with controlled fury.

He was consigning the entire contents of the package to the flames when Mr. Underwood and Lord Heatherton were shown in.

“Ah, Carey, Nana! Pray join me. I am burning my bridges behind me,” he said sardonically. He gestured at the swiftly charring mess. “My once-prospective father-in-law holds the mistaken opinion that he may buy my honor. I intend to return the ashes of his largesse to him, and be damned to the consequences.”

“Your honor? I thought all was at an end between you and Lady Althea,” said Mr. Underwood, going to the occasional table and helping himself from a decanter of wine.

Lord St. John gave a hoot of unamused laughter. “Not quite, according to his lordship. He wishes me to declare that it was at my behest that the engagement was severed. In short, I am to preserve Lady Althea’s precious brow from the crown of jilt.”

Mr. Underwood shook his head. “I am not altogether surprised. Pride is the earl’s watchword. His lordship is a shark and his wife a cold fish, while his beauteous daughter—”