Good Earls Don't Lie (4 page)

Iain reached inside the coat pockets, and not only was the ring missing, but also the letter from Lady Wolcroft. Damn it all, that was the proof he needed. And the smug expression on the lad’s face only irritated him.

Continuing this line of questioning would lead him nowhere. It was unlikely the boy would tell him anything. Iain decided to try a different tactic. He gripped the boy in the saddle and turned Darcy back toward Penford. The servants there might know who he was and what to do with him. Iain could also summon the boy’s father if need be.

As they rode onward, the lad remarked, “Are you kidnapping me?” The hopeful tone made it sound as if he was eager
to be abducted.

He decided not to answer the question, since it was clear that the boy was unafraid of anything. Threats would do no good whatsoever, and until Iain found out what the boy valued, he would get none of his possessions returned. He continued riding toward Penford and asked, “Why did you and your companion steal my belongings?”

“I didn’t steal anything. The horse followed me, so I decided to take him to Penford. It’s probably where he came from.”

Iain didn’t believe that for a moment. “And what about my clothing? You just happened to find it and take it from me?”

“I
did
find it. It was on the ground near the stream where I found the horse.”

The boy’s story was filled with holes. Someone had knocked him from his horse and robbed him. And he just “happened” to find Iain’s horse and coat? No, not a word of his story was true.

“You’re lying, lad.”

The boy lowered his shoulders and gave a dramatic sigh. Rolling his eyes, he said, “You’re right, of course. I dragged you from your horse, and then I stole it and your clothing to trade for food for my family.”

“At least your second story is more believable. Aside from needing food.” Iain turned the boy’s palm over. This was a lad who had hardly worked a day in his life. His fingernails were neatly pared and no dirt was beneath them. Not to mention his speech held the air of nobility. “You’ve never gone hungry in your life.”

“And how would
you
know?”

The boy’s taunt awakened the dark memories without warning. Iain had seen far more hunger than he’d ever dreamed of—and those nightmares would be with him always. Too many of his friends had weakened and died. Though Ashton had not suffered as much as other areas, the lack of food had devastated the tenants. Iain would never forget the cries of the children, or the wailing of their mothers when an infant succumbed to starvation.

“Because I have seen people die from hunger. And you’re nowhere close to that.”

The boy seemed to sense the shift in his mood and said nothing. He also stopped struggling on the horse.

“What is your name?” Iain asked. “And you’d best be telling me the truth because Lady Penford’s servants will know who you are, won’t they?”

The boy hesitated, but admitted, “My name is Beau.” The lad didn’t offer anything further, but Iain was convinced that he was a nobleman’s son. Everything from the boy’s speech, to his disdain for authority, spoke of breeding.

In the countryside, everyone knew everyone. If he caused a stir or demanded justice, they likely would defend their own, for
he
was the outsider here. But the lad appeared to have little respect for consequences, and it was likely that he had played tricks of this nature before.

It took only moments to reach the estate, where he found the coachman waiting for him. The man’s face was purple with fury, and other servants had gathered around.

“What the devil is going on?” the coachman demanded. “First ye go off with one of our—” He paused a moment and inspected the gelding. His expression transformed and some of his anger faded. “This isn’t one of our horses.”

“No. He’s
my
horse, Darcy,” Iain said. “And I’ll be taking him back to the stables now.” He dismounted and pulled Beau off the horse, still gripping him by the arm. “This lad stole him from me, along with my clothes.”

With that, he stripped the boy of the coat. The fabric was torn near the hem, and it was filthy. He glared at Beau, folding the coat under his arm. “He and his friend thought it would be a lark to steal.” An idea sparked suddenly, one that perfectly fit the boy’s crime. “And since he stole my horse, I believe he’ll be spending the afternoon mucking out your stables as punishment.”

The coachman looked uneasy about the prospect. “Well, I don’t rightly know. Is this true, Master Beauregard?”

The boy lifted his chin. “I didn’t steal anything. I found them.”

“I’m certain your parents would be wanting to know of your mischief,” Iain remarked. “You and your friend.”

“As I’ve said before, my father isn’t here.” His tone held a note of triumph, as if no one could hold him accountable.

“Sir Lester should return within a day or two,” the coachman remarked.

Iain realized he’d been right about the boy’s family. Beau was either the son of a knight or a baronet.

Yet at the mention of his father, the boy grew defensive. “He wouldn’t believe any of you. And if I find out anyone has told him, every last one of you will be dismissed.” He stiffened and shot a glare at all of them, fixing his final stare upon Iain.

“I cannot be dismissed,” Iain said to the coachman. “Can I?”

The older man’s mouth twitched. It was clear that he found the boy’s threat irritating. “Nay, you cannot.” Especially since Iain was not employed by the household.

Before the coachman could say anything further, Iain said, “Then there is no problem with him spending the afternoon shoveling horse droppings, as punishment, is there? I will take it upon myself to see that he does a fine job of it.” Without waiting for a reply, he guided the boy back toward the stables. He caught a glimpse of amusement from the servants, and not one of them voiced their protest. Like as not, this was a rare chance for the boy to face consequences.

As he glanced behind him one last time, he saw a face pressed up to a window of the house. It was Lady Rose, watching them. Iain sent her a smile and bowed slightly, before he escorted the boy into the stables.

It was nearly sunset when Rose finally got up the nerve to visit the stables. Calvert wasn’t at all happy about it, but he had no choice in the matter. “It’s too dark to be riding, Lady Rose. I can take you in the morning, if you like.”

But she wasn’t here to ride. She had waited for Mr. Donovan to leave the stables, fully expecting him to be on his way. Yet hours had passed, and no one seemed surprised that he was still here. It was as if he’d bewitched the servants into believing his tale.

All she knew was that he’d returned with the horse. It seemed that it had been a misunderstanding of some kind, and somehow Sir Lester’s son, Beauregard, had been involved.

“I want to know why Mr. Donovan is still here,” she said. Calvert shrugged. Her footman had never been much for conversation, and at the moment, it frustrated her to no end. “Well?”

“He’s supervising whilst the boy mucks out the stables, so I’ve heard.”

“Why on earth would they be doing that? I thought he’d left hours ago.”

The footman seemed at a loss for words. When he couldn’t gather up an explanation, Rose waved her hand in dismissal. “Just take me to the stables, and I’ll find out for myself.”

The footman grumbled about her orders, but he reluctantly obeyed. He carried her through the gardens, and as he walked, Rose tried to think of what to say to Mr. Donovan. She should ask him to leave again, but curiosity was overruling her common sense. Well, that, and the fact that the man was the most handsome servant she’d ever seen.

When they reached the stables at last, the door was ajar. The strong odor of horse manure assaulted her nostrils, and she found Donovan standing beside Beauregard. The young boy wore a furious expression, and he was covered in filth. Perspiration had dampened his shirt, and he shoveled another pile of manure while the Irishman watched.

“Nearly finished, lad. You’ve paid the price for your folly, I’d say. If you’re wanting to tell me where my ring is, you can stop.”

Beau didn’t respond to the comment, but instead continued shoveling. It was the first time she’d ever seen him engaged in any kind of labor. His face was thunderous, but he had filled a wheelbarrow with droppings. The coachman, Nelson, was busy trimming one of the horse’s hooves near the far end of the stable.

Mr. Donovan turned when he heard them enter. “Lady Rose, it’s glad I am to see you once again. Although I’m not so very presentable at the moment.” He sent her a rueful grin. She noticed, then, that he was wearing a different coat. It was still dirty and a bit worn, but it
did
have more of the look of a nobleman than the rags he’d worn earlier.

“Why is Beauregard working in the stables?” she asked. And why was the Irishman overseeing the boy’s efforts? It wasn’t his place to do so if he had been ordered to leave the estate.

“This young lad robbed me of my horse and belongings when I arrived here,” Mr. Donovan explained. “He agreed to muck out the stables as punishment for his mischief. And in the morning, he will bring back everything that belongs to me. That is, unless he wishes to clean the stables again.”

Rose doubted if Beauregard had “agreed” to anything. But strangely, he
had
completed the task. She studied his face, but the boy refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he shoveled another heap of dung, ignoring both of them.

“Where is your father, Beauregard?” she asked the boy.

At that, he turned, and shot her a glare. “He was supposed to return three days ago.”

Mr. Donovan caught her gaze, and Rose understood his silent nod. She had the feeling that he had also promised not to tell Sir Lester of his son’s misdeeds. For a moment, his green eyes lingered upon hers, and she could almost sense his thoughts:
The boy needs his father.

They all knew it. Beauregard constantly caused trouble, due to his father’s lengthy absences. Most of the folk were thankful when he returned to school after the holidays. Which made her wonder why Beau was here, instead of at Eton. She didn’t voice her suspicions, but instead remarked, “Won’t your family be looking for you, Beau?”

“There’s naught to be worried about,” Mr. Donovan said. “I sent word to his household that he was paying a call upon you and your sisters and would be back at nightfall.”

Beauregard shot him a sullen look, and rested his shovel against the stall. “My father
will
be angry at you for this when he returns. I told you, I wasn’t the one who stole from you.” He grumbled beneath his breath, muttering something about a horse that had followed him.

Mr. Donovan ignored the threat and added, “You missed a spot in the corner, lad. Finish it, and then we’ll bring you home. After you’ve washed up, that is.”

“We?” Rose asked.

“Aye,
a chara.
You can accompany us when I take the lad home again. Then we’ll talk, and you can ask me all the questions you’re wanting to.” He strode over to the end of the stables and brought out Molly, one of the older mares. “Bring Calvert as a chaperone, if you’d like.”

“That would be
Mister
Calvert to you,” the footman corrected with a glare. Iain only ignored the man.

But the coachman stepped away from the horse he was tending and intervened. “Lady Rose needn’t go anywhere,” Nelson argued. “Especially with the likes of you.”

At the sight of the mare, Lady Rose hesitated. “I don’t know. I haven’t been riding in some time, and—” Her words broke away. From the look on her footman’s face, she could tell that he had no desire to go anywhere. Nelson also seemed unwilling to condone it.

But then, it was her decision, was it not?

“It’s not so very far, is it, lad?” Though Mr. Donovan directed the words to Beauregard, he never took his gaze from hers. His green eyes held interest, and she felt a prickle of awareness toward the man. His shirt was damp with perspiration, and it outlined rigid muscles. She wondered exactly how strong he was, and a blush stole over her face. Even Lord Burkham had never looked at her in such a way . . . as if he were trying to know her intimately. The thought unnerved her.

“It’s about three miles,” Rose heard herself answer. Her brain argued that she had no business escorting Beauregard home—not with this man. He was an Irish stranger whose flirtatious demeanor was entirely improper.

And yet, she’d felt so trapped in the past few weeks, any outing was a welcome opportunity—even if it was only for a chance to leave the estate. She was so weary of being inside, unable to move or go anywhere without the curmudgeonly Calvert.

“Three miles isn’t a long journey at all. And it is a fine evening, to be sure.” Mr. Donovan reached for one of the saddles and began readying Molly.

Nelson started to protest, but Lady Rose lifted a hand and shook her head at the coachman. It was not his place to deny her the right to ride.

Once Mr. Donovan had cinched the saddle, he beckoned to her. “Bring Lady Rose here,” he told the footman, “and you can return to the house if you’ve no wish to go with her.”