Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (12 page)

Without waiting for a response, she left the shop in a furious jangle of bells. She was shocked to find herself shaking. Not for years had anything slid beneath her guard; she had learnt to ignore that sort of jibe. For herself at least…only not since Sarah’s death had she seen another child on the receiving end.

She pushed the memory away. Sarah was at peace in that little churchyard outside Bristol, a white rose dreaming over her. It
was
better that way. Or so she always told herself.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw his lordship riding into the village from the direction of Amberley. Rage bubbled up, scalding…all the things she wanted to say searing on the tip of her tongue. Just as they had boiled up at the Duke after Sarah’s death. She had said it all then. She must not this time. She was not sixteen, and it was none of her business. Slamming the lid down on the roiling cauldron, she turned resolutely and forced herself to walk in the opposite direction. Fast. She ought to return to Amberley, but if she passed him, if he stopped and spoke—God only knew what she might say. All the years of self-discipline had incinerated in moments. She wasn’t sure enough of her control to risk an encounter with him now.

And why on earth should she be surprised at this? It happened all the time. Why this sense of disappointment? Would she have
expected him to rear his illegitimate daughter with his younger siblings? Hardly!

A mocking catcall pulled her out of her abstraction. Fifty yards ahead a small group of village boys milled around a low stone wall. Pressing close, they shoved and jostled, apparently engrossed in something beside the wall. A puppy with a brick tied to its tail? A kitten? Something small and helpless they could torment? Christy’s already swift stride lengthened.

‘Givin’ yerself airs, eh?’ came a jeering voice. ‘Yer just a little bastard, my dad ses, an’ yer mam’s nowt but a rich man’s fancy piece!’

‘Leavin’s, yeh mean, Bob,’ came another voice. ‘Everyone knows he don’t come next or nigh her no more. ’Ere! Gimme that!’

‘No! They’re me mam’s!’

Christy broke into a dead run.

Unhesitatingly her hand fell on the shoulder of the largest boy, a tall, well-grown lad of perhaps thirteen, twisting him towards her. Caught off-balance, he staggered and bumped against another boy.

‘Stop it!’ she ordered. Her rage scorched. Nan cowered against the wall, her curls dishevelled, dress dusty and a trickle of blood showing on one leg. The little parcel of pins lay in the dirt.

The boys turned and eyed Christy in patent wariness. The big boy she had grabbed, shuffled and wrenched his shoulder loose, saying defiantly, ‘We’re not doin’ no harm.’ Ignoring that, she pushed him aside as she went to Nan, picked up the package and handed it to her. Then she turned to face the boys again, her hand on Nan’s shoulder.

The big boy looked around at his mates, as if for reassurance and swaggered slightly. ‘Just a bit of a game,’ he went on, ‘ain’t it, Nan?’ The others snickered in agreement.

The little girl, her cheeks tear-streaked, hesitated.

‘Ain’t it, Nan?’ he repeated through gritted teeth.

‘Yes,’ whispered the child, pressing against Christy’s skirts and reaching for her hand.

Disgust sour in her mouth, Christy stared hard at the boy, brows raised until his gaze dropped and his mates began edging away.

‘Just a bit o’ fun!’ he insisted.

‘Odd sort of fun,’ came a deep voice, ‘that leaves a little girl bleeding and in tears, wouldn’t you say, boys?’

Christy spun around with the boys at the familiar voice.

Braybrook stood there, his horse’s reins looped over his arm, his face hard, the mouth set in an implacable line.

He glanced at Christy. ‘Thank you, Miss Daventry, for your intervention. I regret its necessity, and so will these lads once I have spoken with their parents.’ His voice did not lift above its usual level, but the boys exchanged nervous glances.

‘Just so,’ he said quietly. ‘You will, each and every one of you, apologise to both Miss Daventry and Nan.’

Under that cold blaze the boys shuffled past, muttering apologies.

When the last of them had gone, Braybrook seemed to relax slightly. Very slightly. When he turned to face them, tension remained in the hard lines about his mouth.

Yet his voice was gentle as he bent down to Nan. ‘May I see that scrape?’

Despite her rage, Christy found his diffidence oddly touching. As though
he
were unsure of his rights. Still clutching Christy’s hand, Nan nodded wordlessly, and with gentle hands Braybrook lifted her skirts to expose a skinned, bruised knee.

‘Fell over running,’ whispered Nan. ‘Banged my knee.’

Braybrook said nothing, but Christy saw a muscle flicker beside his jaw. Without a word, he produced a handkerchief, and dabbed carefully at the graze.

‘I’ve some water,’ said Christy, finding her voice. She let go of Nan’s hand and opened her satchel, bringing out the water bottle.

‘Thank you.’ Braybrook took the bottle and uncorked it, pouring a little water onto the handkerchief and using it to wash away the streaked blood and dirt.

‘There,’ he said at last. ‘That’s better. All clean now.’ He straightened up, his expression unreadable.

Some of Christy’s anger, momentarily deflected by his gentleness with the child, returned.

‘All injury avenged,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ll walk Nan home, my lord.’ He might have come to the child’s assistance, but she doubted that he would care to be seen walking through the village with her.

He looked down at her, frowning. Then, ‘Yes. You do that. I have a couple of other things I must attend to.’

All of Christy’s fury re-ignited.

It took every ounce of her self-control to say only, ‘Of course you do, my lord. Good day to you.’

She held out her hand to Nan. ‘Come along, sweetheart. I’ll see you safely home. Do you think your mama will make me a cup of tea?’

Julian left the forge half an hour later, reasonably certain that not one of the boys would be able to sit down to his dinner. Whatever their parents might think of Jane Roberts, or suspect about her daughter’s paternity, they had no doubts at all about the unwisdom of offending the lord of Amberley, who happened to own well over half the village.

Simple enough as far as it went. Which was not nearly far enough. His visit to Jane would not be simple at all.

Jane Roberts opened the door and flushed when she saw him. ‘Good day, my lord.’

He tensed at the barely veiled hostility, but said politely, ‘Good morning, Jane. How do you go on?’

Dark eyes wary, she said, ‘Well enough. Is there something you want, my lord?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Merely to say that I have spoken with all the boys and their parents and I doubt that there will be any more of this morning’s trouble. I take it Miss Daventry explained when she brought Nan home?’

Jane’s defensive air eased slightly. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Tell me, Jane—has anything like this happened before?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘Only to be expected, wasn’t it?’

‘The hell it is!’ he retorted. ‘When you told me to stop
visiting, I warned you about this sort of thing! Don’t you think I’d have dealt with it, if I’d known?’

‘Very obliging of you, I’m sure.’

‘Obliging be damned!’ he snapped. ‘For God’s sake, Jane! Would it not be better if you moved? Started somewhere else, where people won’t take one look at Nan, and—’

‘Call her a whore’s daughter?’ finished Jane. ‘Why should I be driven from my home?’

‘I’m not trying to drive you out,’ he said wearily. Every time they spoke this came up. ‘I want only what’s best for both of you.’

Her face hard, she said, ‘Twould make little difference. A “widow” with a child and a mysterious source of money, moving where no one knows her? Have me pegged in no time, they would. Might as well put out a sign sayin’ “whore”.’

‘I’m sorry, Jane,’ he said quietly. ‘I wish for your sake it were otherwise, but—’

‘Ten years!’ she burst out. ‘Ten years of marriage an’ no child!’ She bit her lip. ‘D’you wonder I thought myself barren?’ Savagely she said, ‘An’ even then it might not have mattered, if…if—’

‘If she weren’t the living image of her father,’ finished Julian. ‘May I see her?’

Jane hesitated, then shrugged. ‘If you like. Nan! Nan!’

Flying steps sounded in the passage behind her and the small face appeared, peering around Jane’s skirts.

He smiled down at her, feeling as always, absurdly guilty. ‘Good morning again, Nan,’ he said gently. ‘Are you feeling better now?’

The child nodded solemnly, but remained silent. Julian had heard the whispers, that she was slow, a dullard—the bright clear gaze belied it.

He persevered. ‘I’ve spoken to Bob Pratchett and his friends. If it happens again, your mama will send a message to me. Yes?’

Again the nod.

‘That’s a very pretty ribbon,’ he said. The deep pink set off the glossy dark curls. ‘Is it a new one?’ He had no idea whether it was or not, but it looked pretty, and she’d not been wearing it earlier.

‘Yes.’ The merest whisper. He had to bend to catch what she was saying. ‘Miss Daventry helped me choose it. Mr Wilkins thought I’d dirty his things.’

‘Did he?’ Julian kept the anger from his voice with an effort. That was another call he’d have to make. Damn it all to hell and beyond! The person least to blame in this hellish muddle was Nan.

He straightened. ‘I’ll speak to Wilkins,’ he said, more to Jane than to Nan.

She shrugged. ‘You might also mention that I don’t appreciate being charged extra in his shop.’

Anger tightened sharply. ‘I’ll do that.’ He looked at her hard. ‘In future, Jane, keep me informed. I don’t shirk my responsibilities, but if you don’t tell me, I can’t help much.’

She flushed. ‘You’ve supported us when you had no obligation. What more could I expect?’

Anger and guilt warring, he said shortly, ‘Let me know next time there’s trouble and you might find out.’

Her mouth twisted. ‘Forget I said that. You’ve been good enough to us.’ She frowned. ‘One thing…that Miss Daventry—you’d best warn her not to call here. Don’t rightly know that she understood how it was. Bringin’ Nan back’s one thing, but she did insist on coming in. Had a cup of tea an’ all. Not that I grudge the tea. Kind, she is. But you warn her not to do it again. I don’t want trouble for her after what she did.’

He snorted. ‘Tell Miss Daventry what she may or may not do? If I survived the encounter, you’d have to scrape me off the walls!’

J
ulian rode through the village, conscious that he was late for his meeting with Sir John Postleton, and that the latest gossip would have circled the village at least twice.

The servant who opened the door bowed, saying, ‘Good morning, my lord. Sir John is expecting you, but my lady requests the favour of a private word first.’

‘Very well, but please inform your master that I am here.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

Lady Postleton received him in the drawing room, her smile a polite fiction. ‘Good morning, Lord Braybrook.’

‘Good morning, Lady Postleton,’ he said warily. Quite apart from Serena’s comments on the subject of his marriage, he knew he figured largely in Lady Postleton’s matrimonial plans for Anne. No doubt this interview was another skirmish in her ongoing campaign to secure the prize. Usually the young lady concerned was draped in a becoming pose around the chronically out-of-tune harp in the corner.

Seeing his eyes flicker to the harp, Lady Postleton said with a satisfied little smile, ‘You are disappointed not to see Anne. I must tell you that she is laid down upon her bed with the headache, so overset was she about this morning’s little contretemps.’

‘Is she?’ Julian waited. She couldn’t have got wind of Nan’s business and what affair was it of Anne’s anyway?

‘Yes.’ Lady Postleton’s smile glittered. ‘And while I hesitate to upset poor Serena, it would be as well if you were to drop a hint in her ear. This Miss Daventry she has taken up is not at all the thing!’

Julian stiffened.

‘I am given to understand that she was quite impertinent to my poor Anne this morning, putting herself forward in a most odious way and actually had the effrontery to insist on being served first in Mr Wilkins’s shop!’ Her mouth primmed. ‘Quite the grand lady! I wish you will tell Serena that she is sadly mistaken in the young person’s character and would be well advised to turn her off immediately.’

It took fifteen minutes of polite evasions to extricate himself from Lady Postleton’s clutches. That he had done so without signing an agreement in his own blood to dismiss Miss Daventry the moment he laid eyes on her, was in the nature of a miracle. Of course, remarking on how much he personally would enjoy welcoming Lady Postleton to Amberley helped enormously.

Julian took his leave, conscious of a burning desire to know exactly what Miss Daventry had said to cause offence. Of course, it was also possible that Miss Daventry had a burning desire to box his ears, he realised, knocking on the door of Sir John’s book room.

‘Come in! Come in!’

The baronet looked up from his ledgers as Julian entered.

‘Hah! Late!’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Julian. ‘An urgent matter I needed to attend to.’

Sir John snorted. ‘Don’t bother sparing my blushes! Heard all about it already. Best to move the Roberts woman on. Don’t know why you haven’t. Not as if she’s anything to you now. Just causes trouble. Pity it’s so obvious, but if you moved her on, there’d be an end of it.’

Julian controlled himself with an effort. ‘That is not my decision to make, sir.’

Sir John looked pained. ‘Ought to be your decision, boy! That’s the point. Your cottage, ain’t it?’

Julian said merely, ‘It is.’

‘Yes, well. There you are. And of course my wife wasn’t best pleased with Miss Daventry’s actions in Wilkins’s shop. Dare say that’s what she wanted to speak to you about. Not Miss Daventry’s fault—how was she to know who the child was?’

Julian froze.
Miss Daventry helped me choose it. Mr Wilkins thought I’d dirty his things.

‘Nan Roberts was in the shop?’

Sir John went slightly red. ‘Er, yes. Dare say the lady wife didn’t like to say. As I said, not Miss Daventry’s fault.
She
wasn’t to know.’

Miss Daventry not know? Did Sir John think she was stupid? Blind? Of course she knew. Or thought she knew…

Sir John pulled a pile of papers to the front of his desk. ‘Fact remains, lad, if you moved them on, these situations wouldn’t arise. Just as easy for you to provide for her elsewhere! And let’s face it…’ he cleared his throat, looking self-conscious ‘…awkward for your bride when you marry. Having it in her face, so to speak. Not,’ he added hurriedly, ‘that it’s any business of mine!’

‘Quite,’ said Julian. ‘Now, sir, I have the figures on the expected cider-apple yields. If you have yours to hand, we can see about this brewery.’

Clearing his throat, Sir John said, ‘Oh, aye. I can take a hint. None of my affair, although—’ He broke off. ‘Very well, then—to business. Not a bad idea, you know, a brewery. A few more jobs. Stop some of ’em going off to the cities and getting into trouble. Bring up a chair, boy!’

An hour later, his head full of plans and figures for new plantings, Julian made ready to leave.

‘Met that fellow Havergal yet?’ asked Sir John.

In the process of ordering his papers, Julian stiffened. ‘Not yet, sir.’

Sir John looked thoughtful. ‘Seems to call out this way quite often. Visits Serena, Lady P. says. Odd sort of chap.’

‘Odd, sir? In what way?’

‘Hmm? Oh, well, as to that he’s pleasant enough. Taken lodgings in Hereford. Came before me on the bench t’other day.’

‘
Havergal
came before you?’

‘Yes—some young rascal picked his pocket, if you please. Bold as brass! Wouldn’t have the boy charged, though. Just hauled him along for a warning. A warning, I ask you! He wanted the boy to attend some charity school. Waste of time, if you ask me! God knows where it will all end.’

‘With one less child transported, or ending on the gallows?’ suggested Julian.

Sir John gave a dubious grunt. ‘He came to see me a day or so later. Told me the boy was at school and off the streets. Interesting chap. Been in India the last twenty-odd years. Just thought I’d ask if you’d met him. Since he calls on Serena.’

Deep in thought, Julian took his leave. Who was this Havergal? A fortune hunter? Surely he wasn’t labouring under the misapprehension that Serena was wealthy in her own right? Like most widows, she lost her jointure if she remarried. He’d have to meet Mr Havergal, and make a few things very clear.

Christy left Jane Roberts’ cottage, cursing her own folly. Once more Christy had stepped out from behind Miss Daventry, this time to deal a set-down to Miss Postleton. And her temper had still had the whip hand when Lord Braybrook appeared.

She walked back through the village, wondering if she had lost her mind. She had not bothered to hide her contempt. Oh, she might not have said anything, but her face, her tone of voice! She was an idiot. With a position that bordered on miraculous, she had jeopardised it by allowing her feelings to show. One thing to defend Nan. It was quite another to betray her scorn and contempt for Miss Postleton and her brother. Let alone her anger with Braybrook.

And she was, she realised, leaving the village behind and turning into the road for Amberley, still angry. Deep within fury and disappointment melded in a cold, bitter lump.

Disappointment? Anger, yes. But disappointment? That implied surprise, that she had expected something else. Yet what was surprising about a wealthy, handsome aristocrat taking his pleasure with a respectable woman, with no care for the consequences she would face if she bore his child? What was surprising about said aristocrat showing little interest in his child and leaving the mother to manage alone in a community that largely shunned both her and her daughter? Why should she have expected anything else of him? Had he not offered to take
her
as his mistress? And with just the same cold indifference to all but his own pleasure?

She was nowhere near finding answers when she reached the stile that gave on to the path leading through the woods to Amberley. About to climb over, she heard hoofbeats from the opposite direction and turned to see who was coming.

Around the bend came Harry on a tall bay. She was about to wave, but he saw her immediately and reined his mount in hard. For a startled moment his expression looked one of shock and fury.

Then he waved and rode up to her, saying with a friendly smile as he halted, ‘It’s not your day off, is it? Are you on your way to the village with an errand?’

Had she imagined the anger? ‘Yes and no. I’m on my way back. Can your horse jump the stile? If you aren’t in a hurry, you could walk me to the end of the path. It would be nice to talk.’

‘Oh, er, no. Better not. Sir John will be expecting me, you know.’ Harry flushed and for a moment Christy thought again that there was a faint hint of annoyance in his face. Then another smile. ‘I’ll call on my day off. And of course there is this party at Amberley next week—I am invited, did you know?’

‘Yes.’ She had helped write the invitations.

‘Not having any trouble with him?’

‘Definitely not.’ Even if she
had
been tempted to succumb to the lure of his lordship’s disgraceful offer, this morning’s revelation had served as a timely warning.

‘Well, that’s good,’ said Harry. He raised his whip in salute.
‘Bye, Christy.’ With that he pushed his horse into a trot and was gone.

Christy stepped down from the stile and set off towards Amberley. Her stride lengthened as her temper mounted again. This time directed at herself, for being foolish enough to think that Lord Braybrook was somehow different. That he was not the man to evade his responsibilities.

A more moderate voice made itself heard.
He did intervene with those boys. And looked after Nan’s scraped knee.

She didn’t want to think about the gentleness with which he had tended the child. Or the odd, blank expression on his face as he knelt in the road. Better to remind herself that he had left her, a stranger, to take the little girl home and explain matters to the mother. That he had preferred to limit his time with his daughter.

He is very protective of Lady Braybrook. And his sisters.

She dismissed that. Many men were protective of their sisters and mothers. Or stepmothers. Unfortunately they failed to make the leap to being protective of someone else’s sister. Or wife.

Especially when the woman in question was lower in the social scale. Apparently it didn’t count in those circumstances. And why that should be a surprise, let alone a disappointment to her, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

Right now, even if she still had a position, keeping it might depend on her ability to cloak her emotions again. Miss Daventry, prim, proper, only-speaking-when-spoken-to Miss Daventry, had to mask Christy’s fury.

Somehow she had to rebuild the façade. This was not a subject that ever needed to be raised with Braybrook. It was none of her business, and nothing she said would make a ha’porth of difference. Her business was to amuse Lady Braybrook, teach the younger children and keep an eye on—She stopped dead as she came around a bend in the path. The path ended at another stile which led into the park. Beyond it deer grazed, the pinky-brown bulk of Amberley rearing up in the distance against the summer sky.

Seated on the bottom step of the stile was Alicia—staring at her in consternation. Christy’s brain whirled. No wonder Harry
had been annoyed! Somehow they had planned this. Yesterday Alicia had walked to the village with Matthew and Emma. Lady Braybrook considered that safe enough. She opened her mouth, and closed it. She had no proof. It could be coincidence. And saying something might put Alicia on her guard.

‘Good morning, Miss Daventry.’ Alicia appeared to have recovered her composure. ‘Have you been to the village for Mama?’

Christy hesitated. ‘Yes. Embroidery silks. Shall we walk back to the house together?’

Alicia’s gaze flickered to the path leading back through the woods. ‘Oh. Er, yes. I…I was just going back.’ She stood up and forced a smile. ‘Did you see anyone interesting? In…in the village, I mean.’ Again she cast a nervous glance back down the path.

‘Your friend, Miss Postleton, was in the shop with her brother. And I ran into Harry.’

‘Oh. How…how nice for you.’ A telling blush crept over Alicia’s face.

Christy decided to say no more. She would have to tell his lordship. And the last thing she desired just now was a private interview with
him
.

Julian arrived back at Amberley, still smarting from the unspoken contempt in Miss Daventry’s gaze. Not unvoiced though. Her icy tones had been eloquent. He dismounted in the stableyard and loosened the girth.

Of course you could tell her the truth.

The truth? Why in Hades should he? It was none of her business!

It might make her think a little better of you.

Since when did he care for the governess’s opinion? Even if she had agreed to be his mistress, her opinion was irrelevant—as long as it remained unexpressed. He removed the saddle and handed it to a waiting lad. ‘Thank you, Billy.’

An interested nicker caught his attention. He glanced around and saw an unfamiliar face with a white blaze looking out over a half-door.

‘Billy!’ he called to the lad taking his saddle to the tack room for cleaning, ‘Whose horse is that?’

Billy looked back over his shoulder. ‘Beg pardon? Oh. That’s Mr Havergal’s Rajah. Called about an hour ago.’

‘Ah.’ Julian strolled over to look at the horse.

The nondescript bay gelding looked back. Average points, nicely put together—there was nothing wrong with the animal precisely—but there was no hint of quality either. An adequate hack, probably with comfortable paces. Several cuts above a job horse, but not an expensive beast. Rajah. An Indian prince. He patted the horse absent-mindedly.
Well, well, well.

It shoved its nose at him hopefully.

At long last he was going to meet the mysterious Mr Havergal.

The drawing-room door was open, voices and laughter drifting through. Curious, he stood in the doorway. Serena, Davy and a man he assumed to be Havergal were sitting round a tea table, the backgammon set in front of them. Davy was frowning at the board.

Havergal was speaking. ‘Look, Davy—this point has only one of my checkers. Land there and you force me on to the bar. Which means I can’t do anything until I get off.’ Average height, his hair grey and his face deeply lined and tanned—a man who had perhaps spent many years in a hot climate?