Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (30 page)

“God’s servants must be rocks. There is no place for half measures. We of the New Commonwealth will turn England into Jerusalem, one acre at a time. When I am master here—”

She snatched her hand free. “When?”

“Aunt, Aunt! One day, all men must come to dust, earthly possessions forgotten. Thus, one day this will be mine, and likely soon. Your devotion is admirable, especially to an old man who must disgust you—”

“How dare you!”

“Come, come. Speak the truth. You do your duty admirably and that is to your credit, but had you not ruined your looks by your folly, you would never have married here.”

She flinched from the bitter truth. “I
love
Digby, and he doesn’t disgust me in the slightest. You, however, do! For all your talk of God and sin, for all your study of the Bible, you have forgotten Christ’s preaching about charity and humility!”

With that she swept out, but as she hurried down to the kitchen to check on the meal—and to tell Polly to twitch her bodice down a few inches—she knew she should have kept her temper. The only way to deal with Edward was to put up with him and get him on his way as soon as possible.

She couldn’t help shivering slightly at the thought of his reaction when she revealed that she was with child. Thank heavens Digby would be by her side.

Tasting the soup, Rosamunde couldn’t help thinking about the gathering at Arradale. Diana’s feasts were always splendid. She did hope Digby would keep to his moderate eating and drinking, though she knew it would be hard for him.

She wondered what he would make of Lord Rothgar. She’d enjoy his impressions. What would he make of Brand—

No! She would
not
think of him.

Brand relaxed at the long, gleaming table, sipping fine brandy. He was slightly stuffed, for the food had been truly excellent, but not unpleasantly so. The ladies had recently left to take tea in the drawing room, and snuff and pipes had come out. Though clay pipes were not uncommon, he
wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so many in use in such grand surroundings after a sumptuous meal. He was charmed.

The company was pleasant, too. Brand accepted an invitation from Sir Malcolm Bursett to inspect his sheep, and one from Lord Fencott to visit his stud. But then the enthusiastic young viscount towed him around the table to a high-colored, older man. “Since you’re interested in the plow horse, my lord, you must meet Sir Digby Overton. He has a neat little breeding program….”

Sir Digby, puffing on a pipe, was a typical countryman—grizzled hair, bushy eyebrows, and ruddy skin. His build was British bulldog, wide of chest, strong of jaw, but heavily overlaid by fat. He was drinking deeply and cherry red with that and good humor. Brand suspected that he was just the sort to keel over one day with a fatal seizure, but from his merry smile, he would have lived life to the full in the meantime.

“Lord Brand,” the man said, “I hear you’re a true land man, despite your rank.”

“Thank you, Sir Digby. As for rank,” he said, taking a place vacated for him, “I’m a younger son, and forced to be useful.”

“Wish they were all so forced,” the man said bluntly. “There’s a good many wastrels and rogues come from that stable.”

“Doubtless why my brother put us all to work. I understand you have an interesting stud.”

“Ah, that.” He topped up his glass and offered the decanter to Brand. Brand took some to be sociable.

“It’s my wife’s little hobby,” the baronet said, “but folk around here will persist in seeing it as my work. Don’t think it’s quite the thing for a woman to be involved in breeding, you see. Well, except for babies of course.” He coughed and drank half his glass straight down, clearly embarrassed. Brand hid a smile. Men like Sir Digby would talk about mares and ewes without a blink, but choke to speak of their wives in a familiar way.

“We live quietly, you see, my lord,” the man hurried on, “so it keeps my wife amused. A grand lass, my Rosie. She likes to keep busy.”

Brand envisioned a woman rather like the bluff Misses Gillsett and was charmed. “I understand she was unfortunately too unwell to attend this gathering.”

“Just a bit under the weather, my lord.” He dropped his voice. “Womanly thing, you know.”

Brand was slightly surprised. He’d assumed Lady Overton to be past the age of “womanly things.” Perhaps there were others besides the
obvious. “I was hoping to have a chance to visit your stud, but I would not wish to put Lady Overton to any inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience? Never that, my lord. She’s not been in the way of welcoming strangers—”

“Well, then—”

“But that’s changed these days. I know she’d dearly love to talk about her horses to an interested party. I have to admit,” he said in an embarrassed voice, “that I can’t see the beauty in those huge beasts. Useful, of course, but not a pretty sight. But don’t let that on to her.”

“If you’re sure she wouldn’t mind … ?”

“Not Rosie. She’d talk about her beloved horses on her deathbed!”

He must have reacted to that, for Sir Digby laughed and topped up Brand’s glass again. “A figure of speech, I assure you, my lord. She’s fit as a fiddle, the Lord be thanked!” Then he sighed and pushed away his own refilled glass. “I can only pray He’ll be as kind to me. Rosie would scold me fiercely to see me drinking so much.”

“Takes care of you well, does she?”

“Aye, bless her heart.” He seemed to stare into the distance, then pulled out a snowy handkerchief, and dabbed at his eyes. “Such a good wife. I pray God send you one as fine, sir.”

“I pray so, too,” said Brand, touched by this devoted couple.

Sir Digby fiercely blew his nose. “Stop by anytime, my lord. Anytime. We live quietly, but you’ll always find a welcome at Wenscote, and my Rosie will be happy as a robin to meet a fellow enthusiast.”

Brand rather wished he could take up the invitation first thing tomorrow. At least it would get him away from all these people. Like a damn melancholy poet, he felt a strong inclination to isolation, perhaps even to attempting a maudlin verse or two.

The gathering was serving Bey’s purpose, however. In his usual way, he was sifting through gossip and chatter for grains of the New Commonwealth, for any hint that the gentry could be secretly involved. He had a remarkable memory, and hardly ever forgot a detail, which had led to his reputation as devilishly omniscient. It was almost true, as his family had frequently found out.

As the men finally rose to walk—or stagger—to the drawing room to join the fairer sex, Bey found chance for a quiet word with his brother. “Discovering anything useful about our saintly friends?”

“Merely stories that reinforce what we know. As preachers, they’re rivaling Wesley in popularity. He’s in the area, too, you know.”

“Is he connected?”

“Not at all, though I suspect he’ll rock English society in his own way. It could do with a good rocking. Wesley’s movement is a different matter entirely from the New Commonwealth. There’s no such fanatical control of the membership, nor a greed for land. The Cotterites stand to inherit an estate in this area.”

“Inherit? In a will?”

“Not with the owner’s consent. The heir is a member of the Cotterites, so when the present owner dies, they have it.”

“The will can’t be changed?”

“There’s a long-standing settlement on the estate. A place called Wenscote.”

“Wenscote?” Brand glanced to where Sir Digby was making his ponderous way up the stairs, clearly affected by drink and perhaps wheezing a bit. “Then the Commonwealth may not have long to wait. That’s the present owner. A genial gentleman, but asking for a seizure. I wouldn’t have thought him the type to raise a Cotterite son.”

“Nephew.” Rothgar studied the older man. “No wonder they all seemed worried.”

“Shame his wife’s past childbearing.”

“Is she? One man suggested there might still be hope.”

“‘Hope springs eternal …’? I gathered that she was close to his age, but perhaps the womanly complaint that keeps her home is of the more obvious variety.”

“Then she is, alas, not with child. And even if it is still barely possible, after many childless years, it is not to be looked for. Feeling around here runs solidly against the New Commonwealth.” As they began to climb the stairs, he added, “Except, perhaps, for our hostess.”

“The countess! A less likely candidate …”

“In a brief exchange, she rather pointedly supported an improvement in morals, sobriety, and industry.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Not, I think, if applied to ourselves. And it was clearly a rapier point directed at me.”

Brand laughed, but he wondered if he should warn the countess about crossing swords with his brother. Blades or wits, he was rarely matched. He shrugged. Bey wouldn’t do the woman serious damage, and if she was up to mischief, she doubtless deserved a lesson.

The next day, Brand found that the countess had arranged a wide choice of pleasurable activities. That was to be expected, but he was disconcerted to be steered firmly by her toward the River Arra where guests were trying for trout.

“You believe angling is my favorite occupation, Lady Arradale?”

She looked up from under a charming flat hat crowned with artificial marigolds. “Is it not? All gentlemen …”

“I could say that all ladies enjoy stitchery.”

Her look was sharp, and indeed, he wasn’t sure why he was debating with her. “I can sew,” she said. “I have been trained in all the feminine arts.”

“And I can fish. However, at the moment, I do not care to. If it would not discompose you too much, I would prefer to stroll about your delightful park.”

Now, why did she frown? However, she could hardly object. The fleeting frown was replaced by a charming smile. “I think you will enjoy it. There are some pleasing walks over near the river,” she said, pointing to the left.

Thanking her, he took her direction, but he was intrigued. What, pray, was the countess up to? Some plan to do with his brother? Once out of sight, he altered course and worked his way back in the opposite direction from the one pointed out to him. He didn’t for one moment think Bey would need help, but if the pretty countess was going to play seductive games with his brother, he wouldn’t at all mind coming across them.

However, a short time later, as he stood at the top of a small rise admiring the vista of the house below, he saw the countess ride out accompanied by two grooms. Not intent on seduction, then.

A wonderful piece of horseflesh, he noted, and a magnificent rider. And, by gad, she rode astride. Watching the flash of chestnut horse and crimson habit gallop out of sight, Brand thought for a fleeting moment that it was a shame that neither his brother nor the countess were at all interested in each other.

Rosamunde was in the stud stables when Diana came up behind her, saying, “Rosa!”

Despite an urgency in her cousin’s tone, Rosamunde held up her hand. “Hush.” She didn’t take her eyes off the scene in front of her. She was observing the enclosed covering yard from a small unglazed window, watching as her newest prized possession, a Flemish stallion, called Dirk, approached a mare.

“Odd’s life!” breathed Diana close behind her. “No wonder she wants to get away. He’ll kill her.”

Rosamunde realized Diana had probably never seen this event before. The fact that the stallion was large, and he and the mare were each controlled by two men probably would give it a strange effect.

“Don’t be silly. Sinda’s been flirting with him for hours like the worst whore in York.”

“I’ve never seen a whore in operation, and neither have you. But I see what you mean. She’s virtually shoving her rump at that stallion. Oh!”

That, Rosamunde knew, was because Sinda had just let loose a stream of urine. Not appealing to humans, but apparently as good as a “Come on, sailor!” to a stallion. Dirk snorted, and moved forward to accept the invitation.

Voice hushed, Diana said, “The way she’s holding her tail out of the way is positively wanton. I wonder,” she added thoughtfully, “what the equivalent is with humans.”

“Diana!” Rosamunde didn’t take her eyes off the horses, but she was blushing, and not over horses. “I thought you had all those books.”

“They’re dull reading without … Well, without.” Diana was leaning against Rosamunde’s back to see through the small window, her chin resting on Rosamunde’s shoulder. “That stallion is quite well mannered, isn’t he?”

“Doubtless as well. An unwilling mare can geld a stallion with an angry kick.”

“If only men were as well trained, or women as well equipped. By gemini!”

Dirk mounted, nipping at Sinda’s neck. The mare squealed, but settled to the business as enthusiastically as he did. Rosamunde heard a sort of choked gurgle from her cousin and grinned. She’d felt exactly the same disbelieving embarrassment the first time she’d seen a stallion’s tail pumping merrily in tempo with other parts of him.

The tail stopped, and Dirk’s handlers drew him back, off the mare. Sinda was led away while the stallion stood like a statue, as if expecting everyone to applaud his mighty achievement.

“Males,” muttered Diana, still sounding slightly strangled. Rosamunde turned, and found that her cousin was bright pink. She feared she was, too, for other reasons. That was the first covering since her night with Brand, and it had stirred heated memories, perhaps enhanced by Diana’s body pressed to her back.

She could almost hear him whispering, “More? Please.” Hot and throbbing, she wanted to speak the words. To him.

Diana took her arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course! That went well, didn’t it?” she asked breezily. “That’s a new stallion, so I wanted to be sure he was well behaved. They are so big that I worry, though Hextall points out that any horse is big and dangerous, so it doesn’t matter that much when they’re extra big.”

She was chattering nonsense, and waited for searching questions.

Diana, however, said, “I have something important to talk to you about, Rosa.”

That chilled her heated thoughts. “Trouble?”

“Lord Brand is at Arradale.”

It hit like a blow. “I prayed….”

“Prayers don’t always work.” Diana tugged Rosa out into the open near the paddock. “The real problem is that Sir Digby has invited him here to see the stud.”