Authors: Nicky Penttila
After a quick course through the close shrubbery, Nash decided that wild hair and wet cuffs were perfectly adequate for an early morning breakfast table. But as he strode into the small dining room, he immediately regretted his carelessness.
Miss Wetherby jumped up from her chair, spoon still clutched in her hand. He couldn’t go forward, as that would be rude, but he couldn’t retreat, as that would be ruder still. She saved him in that way women do—with conversation.
“A fine morning for a ride, Mr. Quinn.”
Magically released from his invisible bonds, he surged into the room. It had once been a type of greenhouse, until some ancestor had allowed vines to cover all the windows. It still received plenty of light, but of a greenish cast guaranteed to make even the most hale of visitors look sickly.
It certainly paid no compliment to its current occupant. Her dark-blond hair had gone drab, her rather pretty face waxen. It did inflect the green in her eyes with something, not fire exactly, but the light cast even darker shadows on the bags under her eyes.
“I apologize for my state of undress, Miss Wetherby.”
“I thank you, but there’s no need. I understand habits in country houses are different.”
“I am no slothful part of the landed class, I assure you.” He called for coffee and toast with egg, as she was having, and sat opposite her. This table was a petite version of the giant banqueting monstrosity; it seated only twelve. She had taken a spot on the bench along the side, leaving the ends for the hosts.
“I apologize for implying so.”
Nash sipped his blazingly hot coffee. “Apology accepted. So neither of us has slept.”
She stirred her cocoa, avoiding his gaze. “A lot to think about.”
He could well imagine. Yesterday, she had been a Wetherby, today she was not, some would surely say. Did that change anything? Not in his mind. She had been raised a lady and she behaved like one. A lady without a title. And a bit too high in the instep for him—seven trunks, by god—but fair enough for her station in life.
But what was her level? Was it the station she deserved, though she had not the blunt to pay for it? Or was it the station she had been born to, apparently a tenant’s cottage somewhere in Lancashire?
“Might I ask you a question?” he said. “You needn’t answer.”
She raised her moss-eyed gaze to his, and waited.
“I know you are not well set up, in terms of funds, yet you have nearly as many traveling trunks as Mama.” He trailed off, shrugging.
“Why do I have so many clothes?” He instantly felt an idiot for asking. She was a woman—would she not spend all her pin money on raiment?
She touched the collar of her silk dress, a darker gray than yesterday’s version. “It’s your father’s doing. He allowed me five new outfits a year, and as I stopped growing quite a while ago, they have added up.”
“Fifteen years times five is 75 dresses.” Far more than seven trunks.
“They weren’t all at once, of course. And it was a good idea, when I was growing like a weed. I’d get two in winter and three in summer. There were always girls who didn’t have enough, so when I stopped growing I would take one of them with me to share the bounty. Your father was a generous man.” A small smile stole onto her too-wide lips at the memory.
Nash restrained a scowl. He had no such illusions of the man. But he shouldn’t begrudge her hers.
“I suppose I will sell them,” she said. “But in Manchester, no one will buy my cloth, will they?”
“You believe we will cast you out?”
She said nothing. The shadows along her jaw deepened. She was clenching it tight enough to break teeth.
His hand ached to brush the side of her face, smooth away her worries with a stroke. But he could think of no force to bring on his brother that would lead him to accept this lady as his wife. She wouldn’t be happy with the likes of him, either, no matter that their bodies looked as if they would fit lock and key. Deacon lived on the surface, happy enough. This Miss Wetherby had depths Deacon wouldn’t even know to look for.
But would she marry a merchant, such as him? Another idiotish thought, Nash berated himself. Ladies with creamy skin, handsome manners, and seven traveling trunks would not stoop to bunking in his cozy hovel, especially when they had been promised a castle. All women want to be princesses.
This would-be princess, perfectly turned out at six in the morning, lifted her toast to her mouth. But her hand shook. She put it back on the plate, and spoke the words he had been dreading since he woke this morning.
“Did you read the letters?”
“They were as you say.” A wave of anger sent spikes down his chest and into his belly.
“I’d like to re-read the correspondence entire, if I may. I’m rather interested in myself as a child.”
His throat seized. Nash held the coffee to his lips, trying to fool his gullet into releasing a swallow. “It’s not pretty,” he croaked out. As her face pinched in at the nose, he tried to repair the damage. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean—”
He watched the change come over her features, the smooth skin taut, the wide eyes closing to almond shape, the full lips pressing themselves compact. The lady from the crossroads.
But she wasn’t as skilled at it yet as she should be. He read doubt, despair, and even hope arguing for purchase under that glassy lady’s mask. He didn’t want to see how they were hurting her. He didn’t want to feel that he was to blame. There was no profit in it.
The truth of the letters danced on his tongue. He swallowed it. And tried to meet her gaze.
* * * *
Maddie looked into his eyes and knew he was lying about something. His shoulders hunched, and his long hands didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. But his face was still, and his eyes calm. Clearly, he made a good man of business, able to bluff and throw smoke. He certainly did not have the gift of tongues, though.
“I understand your meaning,” she said into the silence his last bewildering statement had created. The space between his brows puckered. Could he not be as sure of his meaning as all that?
She wished sleep had come last night. Her years of training had not prepared her for the explosion of events yesterday. But today Lord Shaftsbury must say yes. She must be persuasive, no matter that her thoughts were as muddled as the baths at Spa.
Who was she? The daughter of an earl, or of a common laborer? Should she be birthing and training up the next line of great men and fine ladies, or the next shepherds and farmer’s wives? What if the Quinns sent her away, to live with the cottagers, could she even bear it?
Of course she could. Anything, except perhaps returning to Wetherby. There were far too many hurtful memories there.
“Why did you not return home for holidays?”
It was as if he’d read her mind. She shivered inside. “The new master would not have me.”
“This Lord Wetherby? Surely you mistake the matter.”
“He did not invite me, in word nor deed. He never wrote.” He’d made it quite clear that he considered Maddie no family of his. She had thought he blamed her for his brother’s death, though how a three-year-old could be to blame for a carriage accident she couldn’t fathom. But his reason was entirely different. Adopted! Sharing not a drop of blood. And with the gentry, blood was all.
In her imagination, even in those of her dreams that hadn’t been nightmares, Maddie had the arguments that would magically remake Deacon Quinn’s mind into her image of it. He would read the letters, recall himself to his duty, and get Mama launched on the preparations for the wedding. But even in the half-light of early morning, Maddie knew it would take more than that. She would need to be persuasive. Back in Bath, all her arguments had seemed so strong. But here, in this mountain of a castle, they seemed gossamer. If only the previous Lord Shaftsbury had lived just six months more.
And this Quinn, the one opposite her, was the least likely to help her stake her claim, no matter his words of comfort the night before. He’d read the letters, and likely found some loophole, some alley through the words to help his brother escape her clutches. And could she blame him?
They heard the murmurs of men approaching. Mr. Heywood turned into the breakfasting room, while the butler, Emmett, continued down the hall.
“Can’t stay. Just a bite.” But the sturdily proportioned man took three slices of toast and the pot of preserves to himself. He had a fast, neat style of eating, no wasted time and no crumbs, on cravat or beard. Still he touched a napkin to the corner of his lips.
“Early day, Heywood?”
“Late already. Ellspeth’s like the dead to raise in the morning. Says she wants to come home for the week. Told her she’d need to rise at dawn if she wanted my carriage. Now she says she’s nearly ready. Women.” He poured a half-cup of coffee into the cup a maid hastily provided to him. Taking the precaution of blowing over it, he downed it in one draft. He patted Mr. Quinn on the back, a punch, really.
“A shame about the letters.”
The younger man’s mouth pinched, as if he’d drunk a lemon. “Shaftsbury told you?” he finally said.
Maddie’s heart lurched into her throat. She shot a glance at Mr. Quinn. “What is the matter with the letters?”
His gaze shifted away from her, and then away from Mr. Heywood, who was downing another half-cup of coffee. What was he hiding?
“No matter.” Heywood set the cup down with a crack. “You couldn’t have counted on them to save you, Miss Wetherby. We Mancunians shift for ourselves. I have a proposition, for you. I’m needing another bookkeeper, for the venture I’m starting with Nash here. What do you say?”
For a moment, Maddie could say nothing. What about the letters? Was this an alternate offer? Could he possibly be serious? Had she fallen so far as to need to become a working girl? But then, who was she, really? And she would need an income, as well as a place to call home, if these Quinns played her wrong.
“We’ve a dormitory for women, a fine place. Probably like enough to your school days.”
She couldn’t say no to a guaranteed home. But she couldn’t bring herself to say yes, either. Not yet. She took a deep breath, forming an answer.
Mr. Quinn jumped in first. “You’d make a working girl of her?” His fair face reddened, even in the green light of this odd solarium. The color also called out the red tinting hidden in the brown of his wayward hair.
“She won’t get a better offer. Even this is more than she warrants, if one were to go by connections.”
By connections?
Maddie knew he couldn’t mean the viscount. Did he know more about her family—her true family? Would he tell her?
“She warrants far more than that, in my father’s eyes. You dispute him?” Mr. Quinn’s words seemed to push him to his feet.
They looked at her, awaiting an answer. “It is a generous offer, sir.” She ignored Mr. Quinn’s snort. “But allow me time to think upon it. Just a day or two. So much has changed, I’m afraid I need time to sort myself out.”
“Understood.” Mr. Heywood happily punched the younger man on the shoulder, not seeming to notice the glare he received in return. “But a good businesswoman knows when to reel in an opportunity. And when to cut bait.”
“We’ll take care of her.”
“Nothing is sure in this world. But Miss Wetherby, if the Quinns do desert you, don’t return to Wetherby. Come to town, to me, and we’ll sort you out.” He tipped his head to her and grinned at Mr. Quinn. “Magistrates’ meeting on Thursday. I’ll see you there, won’t I?”
“I’ll remember.” Mr. Quinn remained standing, staring at the open doorway. He was as tall as the new earl, but looked stronger, his forearms testing the seams of his simple shirt. She wondered what it would have been like had this man been born first. She wondered if he ever wished it, too. She could not afford to care.
“What happened last night?”
He turned back, his face a careful mask. Maddie’s mind raced. Had her earl lied to her? Was it all one horrible mistake? Could she have been wrong all these years? Had he truly not known who she was? Had he rescinded his offer on his deathbed? Why didn’t Mr. Quinn just say something?
She could not wait him out. “You’ve found something ill.”
He shook his head. He started, stopped, reconsidered, started again. The suspense was strangling her.
Finally, he spoke. “My brother burned the letters.”
She shot to her feet, her head spinning. “The earl? Why? My letters, too? Those were mine.”
“Please, sit. You look about to faint.”
She wanted to hurl herself across the table and strangle him. Instead she sat, hard. She put her palms on the table, hard. The cutlery clattered. “You promised,” she said, her voice dripping venom.
Mr. Quinn froze where he stood. “He did it so quickly. I know it’s no excuse. We did read them; your claim is true.”
“But I have no proof, thanks to you. It’s my word against that of an earl.” She’d lose. She’d lost.
He seemed to recover himself after a long moment, rubbing at his eyes and sinking back onto the bench. “Don’t worry. Whatever happened last night we can still make it good. Make you whole.”
No one could do that.