The Two Lords of Wealdhant Manor (6 page)

Jasper stopped short and stared at him. It seemed at first that it might have been a compliment, or even a
flirtation
, but the lift to Mr. Clarke’s eyebrow might more likely have been challenge or mockery, and the timing of it seemed to suggest that it was Jasper’s rustication which caused him to object to the railway.

Jasper lifted his shoulders and set his feet, trying to mind himself to strip all traces of local jargon from his speech. “Really? I find yours to be sharp and without warmth or character.”

The lifted eyebrow dropped, and Mr. Clarke’s jaw tightened, discarding all trappings of amiability. “I was endeavouring to be civil, Mr. Waltham, but I see that there isn’t a civil bone in your body. If you cannot be decent, than I see no point in wasting any further time in your company. Wealdhant is
not
yours, my lord Jasper, and it never was, despite whatever phantasies you may have indulged. If you will not accept my authority and you will not cooperate peaceably with me in the management of the estate, then I think it is best if we simply stay out of each other’s way, don’t you?”

The icy wind around them gave a fitful gust and nearly stole away Jasper’s hat. He clamped down a hand upon it and glowered at Mr. Clarke. “That is perfectly acceptable to me. I would be much better suited if not obligated to look upon your face.”

“Then that’s agreed,” Mr. Clarke snapped. “I will stick to the house, and you may stick to the grounds, at least until I hire a proper gardener to replace you.”

Furious, Jasper puffed his chest and took a step closer, feeling again the urge to throttle Mr. Clarke. “I assure you, Mr. Clarke, I’ll have you off my land before then.”

Mr. Clarke likewise drew himself up to his full height, using it so that he could look down his nose at Jasper.

“You ox-headed bastard,” Mr. Clarke's voice rose. "This isn't your land!”

“Well, it certainly isn’t yours, you dandified rakeshame!”

Breathing quickly with rage, Mr. Clarke glared ferociously until he suddenly broke away, scowling off at the bare winter gorse of the moors. “Enough. We cannot be civil, so we shall not speak. I’ll have one of my servants send to you if I have need of any communication.”

Mr. Clarke’s brow furrowed, and he turned back toward the house.

Jasper likewise turned away, ashamed of himself for not being more level-headed and mature. Any hope of working in collaboration with Mr. Clarke had just been dashed, and may further have dashed his own claim upon the grounds and environs of Wealdhant.

His daydream of Mr. Clarke breathless and aroused in his lap while he sat behind the grand desk in the study floated again through his thoughts and he thrust it forcefully from his mind.

Brooding over the affronts he had suffered, Jasper set his feet toward home and stormed off across the vast and lonely moors.

A
lgernon returned
to the manor with no particular impetus.

He let himself in through the grand front door of the manor without ringing for Mr. Cullen or any of the other servants. Somewhere to the left he could hear voices in discussion and the sound of hammering.

The missing step had been repaired. The wood of it was fresh and pale, standing out against the dark, worn wood of the stairway. It held firmly as he stepped upon it, without the creaking noises that chorused from the rest of the stairs.

Somewhere ahead of him, a door slammed down a hallway.

Algernon paused at the top of the steps, brow furrowed. He didn’t know his new servants well, but slamming doors seemed like unusual behaviour.

Keeping his own footsteps quiet, he crept along the corridor toward the source of the sound, but he could only guess that it had come from either the short hallway of five doors or the longer hallway beyond that with seven.

The prospect of his new home felt all at once vastly intimidating. Wealdhant was a maze, and most of it was in miserable condition. Doors upon doors opened upon dusty, useless rooms, and it didn’t seem to him that Wealdhant had ever been grand or elegant. Even when it was inhabited and maintained, it could never have been anything but a gloomy, hulking edifice upon the moors. Algernon felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He grabbed the knob of the next door and turned it.

It opened into a den of sorts, perhaps a smoking room or lounge, as dusty and forgotten as the rest of the house. In the centre of the room was a tiger-skin rug, laid out so that its glassy eyes and permanent snarl faced toward the door.

Algernon went to kneel by the head, brushing away dust from the once-magnificent animal. It was a Bengal, native to the same wilds of India which had given Algernon his swarthy skin and dark eyes.

He thought of the stories his mother had told him of India: about the ancient civilisation, the rich and fertile land, and jungles filled with ferocious tigers and sparkling gemstones. All of them now preyed upon by the greed of the British, who killed the heart and took the skin of India.

“If this doesn’t work out,” Algernon whispered to the tiger as he stroked the fur of its head, clearing away specks of dust, “and they try to hie me to prison, perhaps I’ll slip away and board a ship to sail to India. I’d like—at least once in my life—to see the shores of India.”

The tiger made no response.

Feeling foolish, Algernon got to his feet and brushed the dust from his hands.

A tarnished silver-backed mirror ornamented the near wall of the room. As his gaze crossed it, Algy saw a swathe of white in the mirror that ducked suddenly to the right and out of his vision.

He spun. Heart pounding, he scanned the room for what it was that he had seen. It had seemed gauzy, like a lace curtain, but the drapes in the room were heavy, rotting velvet and there were no sheets cast over furnishings or anything else that could have flapped and alarmed him.

Looking back at the mirror, he frowned at it. The silver backing of it was tarnished and flaking, and a crack traveled across one corner of the antique glass. Algernon supposed that he could have seen a reflected flash of light as he turned his head, but no matter how he moved or angled his head to test the theory, he couldn’t duplicate the phenomenon.

Spooked, Algernon retreated to the hallway. It was still as dark and oppressive as ever, but it at least seemed more straightforward than the dust-covered, lurking shapes of the room he had left.

He had a wayward rush of longing for Jasper’s company. Straightforward, solid Jasper would certainly chase away any whimsy and fear just by the force of his strong presence. Even if it had been he who had initially put the idea in Algernon’s head that the place was haunted.

Wandering through the hallways for a few minutes, he leaned back against a random doorway and sighed with self-pitying melancholy. His plan to charm and befriend Jasper had gone terribly awry, and in a fit of pique he had declared their acquaintance at a certain and nonnegotiable end.

He wanted to stay. He wanted this to work, he wanted to have a life of his own, a fortune, a house, and the friendship—or more—of the brusquely charming Jasper Waltham.

More likely with his luck that he’d end up in that debtor’s prison after all. Or, if he managed better fortune, on board a ship to sail around the world. He resolved to inquire with Mr. Cullen about how one went about turning pirate and successfully surviving such employment, but then immediately after resolved
not
to mention it to Mr. Cullen in order to avoid the inevitable frown of disapproval.

Nails scratched against the other side of the door just beside his head.

Algernon jumped away from the door, spinning about, and heard a moment later another door slam from the far side of the door he’d just leaned against.

Goaded at once to action, Algernon yanked the door open and stormed through into the dust-covered ladies sitting room within. There was only one other door in the room. He went through it to a darker, narrow little hallway on the other side. A gloomy stairwell descended from one end of the hall.

“Where are you?” Algernon called, temper pricked by the audacity of any theoretical ghosts who thought they could spook him. “Show yourself!”

A whirl of air brushed past his ear. It sounded like the rattling of dead leaves, though there were no trees in the immediate vicinity of the house. There were no words in the whispering of the air, though Algernon felt an illogical conviction that there were meant to have been.

“I’m Tabitha’s heir,” he told the empty hallway. “I’m all that’s left of the Allesbury line. Wealdhant is mine.”

Cold fingertips brushed across his throat.

Algernon grabbed the open door that he’d just come through and slammed it behind himself in a fit of pique. He, too, could slam doors.

Silence followed.

“Who are you?” Algernon asked the silence. “Are you Ruth?”

The draught huffed icily at his ear, and then it was gone.

This time, the hallway felt truly empty and silent.

“The devil with you,” Algernon muttered, and returned back the way he’d come.

“
J
asper
. Jasper!”

Startled from a reverie, Jasper lifted his eyes from the fire to where his sister Ginevra was trying to get his attention. The book he had been reading lay open and forgotten in his lap, and Ginevra had that irritable, compressed-lip expression which suggested that she had called his name repeatedly before he had noticed.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I only said that it had stopped snowing.” She sighed, and dropped her embroidery into her lap. “What is it that has you so distracted? The new lord of Wealdhant, again?”

“He isn’t the lord of Wealdhant, he’s an imposter.”

Ginevra rolled her eyes. “Of course, I know, you are the rightful Lord of the Manor, and we the ladies. Have you told him so? Take that tattered old handkerchief and say to him, ‘Sir, we have an old family legend which claims that we are the descendants of the old Earl, and look, here is a handkerchief with Ruth’s name on it.’ Certain proof, to be sure.”

“If we are descendants of the old Earl,” Jasper said, getting up and tossing his book onto the little side table. “Then we are illegitimate by-blows, and nothing more.”

Their cozy home in the four-room groundskeeper’s cottage had felt stifling ever since he had seen inside the vast and mysterious Wealdhant Manor and met the handsome and infuriating Mr. Clarke. He paced to the fireplace and leaned against the mantelpiece.

“You used to love the old story.” Ginevra said, seemingly resolved to prick at his temper. “Back when you were young and half-wild and actually a spot of fun.”

Clenching his jaw, Jasper ignored her.

“If it has stopped snowing,” Ginevra said, “you might go for a walk.”

Phoebe suddenly leaned her head in from the kitchen. “Oh, please go for a walk, Jasper!”

“What is this nonsense about a walk? The snow is still a foot deep, what shall I? Trudge through it an hour or more to Wilston?”

“If it will get you out of our hair,” Ginevra said, making a show of working attentively at her embroidery. “You have been broody and irritable all week, Jasper, and you’re driving us to distraction.”

“Go see Lord Clarke!” Phoebe called.

Jasper stormed into the kitchen. “He isn’t
Lord
Clarke, he’s simply Mr. Clarke, and he has banned me from Wealdhant.”

Elbows deep in flour, Phoebe levelled a stern gaze at him. “Go anyway.”

Jasper scowled.

Phoebe flicked her fingers at him, sending a puff of flour at his face. “I banish thee, ill-tempered spirit. Go.”

Jasper pressed his hand to the bridge of his nose and drew upon his reserves of patience. “Very well. If my own family casts me out!”

“Oh, thank heaven,” said Ginevra. “Are you going?”

“Don’t forget your hat!” Phoebe said.

Fuming, Jasper fetched his coat and boots, striving to ignore both of his sisters and their celebration over his departure.

“Hat!” Phoebe called again.

Jasper came back, snatched up his hat, and stormed out of the house.

It was a mile to Wilston, an intimidating journey in the snow, but only a quarter of that to the Manor. Jasper set his steps at an angle parallel to the Manor, intending to inspect the old gate and see what might be done about it. The grounds of the estate were vast, too much work for one man, and Jasper had other duties in the village, but Mr. Clarke had commented regarding the old gate, and Jasper was too proud of his work to let anyone think that it was inadequately done.

He was most of the way to the gate when he espied a crew of workers passing through it ahead of him. They were determined, despite the snow, and driving a wheelbarrow.

Jasper’s temper was goaded at once, wanting to know their business and intent. He changed his course to intercept them, stomping irritably through the heavy, wet drifts of snow.

It was clear they saw him, some of them pausing briefly to point, but they continued on their way. Jasper could see that they weren’t locals. He didn’t know any of them, and that worried him.

Once he was only a few dozen feet from the drive, he hailed them. “Here, now! What’s your business?”

They stopped and regarded him. None of them seemed particularly inclined to believe in the authority of a solitary scowling man storming across the moors in the snow.

“We’re here to do the renovations on the Manor,” one of them said. He had a West Country accent and a stubborn jut to his jaw. “Who are you, then?”

Jasper had never much needed titles before now. The locals all knew him and his authority: he saw to the necessities of law and management in the village, and kept the gardens and orchard of Wealdhant Manor. “I see to the grounds.”

The leader of them huffed. “Well, we’re here to see to the house.”

They resumed their course toward the house, satisfied of Jasper’s unimportance.

Offended by this brusque dismissal, Jasper stared after them in fury for nearly a minute before he stormed after them.

He knew that he’d agreed to stay away from the house after their last meeting and to refrain from interaction with Mr. Clarke, but his resolve to peaceably accept the situation was now dissolved. Repairs were one thing, but
renovations
were entirely another.

Entering the house only a few steps behind the workmen, Jasper at once turned his glare upon the butler, who regarded him in return with unruffled calm.

“Excellent, gentlemen,” said the butler. “If you’ll just come with me. Mr. Waltham, you may find Mr. Clarke in the study.”

Jasper briefly considered making some objection to the butler’s brisk dismissal, but swiftly decided that his priority was indeed to speak to Mr. Clarke. He let himself into the study.

Mr. Clarke jumped to his feet at the sight of him. “Mr. Waltham! What brings you here?”

A
lgernon’s
first week in his new home had been simultaneously busy and lonely. He felt haunted by house and land, kept sleepless by doors slamming in the night and the melancholy howling of the wind on the moors.

The sight of Jasper brought immediate pleasure and gratitude, followed by frustration and the illogical idea that Jasper had somehow cursed him.

“What are you about with those workmen and their renovations?” Jasper demanded.

“Renovating!” Algernon marched around his desk to face his visitor. Jasper’s scowls were as ill-tempered as ever, and Algernon immediately felt inclined to goad that temper.

“What sort of renovating?” Jasper asked.

“A variety of little things to bring Wealdhant into the nineteenth century,” Algernon said, lifting his chin with pride. “Most impressive among which will be indoor plumbing.”

“Indoor plumbing!”

“To be sure. It’s quite civilised. Within a few decades I imagine every cottage in England will be fitted with an indoor water closet. In fact, once I’m settled as Lord of Wilston, perhaps I’ll see to just that throughout the village.”

“You aren’t the—!” Jasper bit off his objection but continued scowling at him.

Algernon threw up his hands in exasperation. He was tired and annoyed, and it was clear that he and Jasper were in no way capable of staying out of each other’s business. “For the love of God, man, what do you expect? Wealdhant isn’t yours. It wasn’t anybody’s for a hundred years. You must have known that this day would come, and here it is. I am here to stay, and you will have to deal with that.”

“I was prepared to deal with the crown reclaiming it,” Jasper said. “I have no intention of dealing with your trumped-up claim of being a descendent. Tabitha had no children.”

“How would you know?” Algernon demanded. “What proof have you that I am not the heir?”

“Can you really delude yourself that you are?”

“What,” Algernon curled his lip, “on account of my colour?”

To his credit, Jasper seemed genuinely taken aback by the accusation. He flushed and retreated a step. “Certainly not. To be sure, you are not the only person of gypsy descent—”

“I am not of gypsy descent! My mother was a Bharatiya of India.”

“On account that you have no more proof than an ancestress within a hundred miles named Tabitha,” Jasper finished instead.

Fisting his hands at his sides, Algernon glowered at him. His heart was racing, cheeks heated with frustration at Jasper’s stubbornness and the maddening, persistent awareness that if they weren’t on different sides Algernon would be passionately enamoured of him. “So we cannot be civil, and we cannot avoid each other. What do you propose we do, my Lord Jasper?”

Jasper bristled at the nickname, which compelled Algernon to fight a smirk.

“I propose that you leave, Mr. Clarke,” Jasper said, stepping into Algernon’s immediate space.

“I won’t,” Algernon said, tilting his head to the side and licking his lips as he watched his opponent. “Try again.”

Jasper’s gaze flicked down to watch Algernon’s tongue trace across his lips. His cheeks coloured, and then he renewed his glare as heatedly as ever.

“Stay, then, but not as Lord of Wealdhant.”

“It is mine now,” Algernon said. “And I will not surrender it willingly.”

Jasper snarled, which caused Algernon’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise.

“You’re a scoundrel and a villain,” Jasper said.

“And you’re a
groundskeeper
,” Algernon replied.

A flicker of pain lit in Jasper’s eyes, and then he turned away, shoulders hunched in defensive fury.

Guilt pooled in Algernon’s belly. As maddening as Jasper could be, Algernon was fully aware that his objections were reasonable and just. He’d cared for Wealdhant all his life, as—presumably—had his father before him. Possibly for several generations. Algernon had no idea what had seeded Jasper’s connection to Wealdhant, and suddenly wanted very much to know.

“Why?” Algernon asked earnestly. “Why do you care? Why is this your responsibility, and not anyone else’s?”

“It’s my duty. I look after Wilston and the Manor. Someone has to, and there isn’t anyone else.”

The angry tension in the room had cooled into stillness. Algernon knew that between the two of them, it needed only the slightest spark and it would flare again.

“Like your father before you?” Algernon asked.

Jasper turned to regard him, stance still guarded. “Yes. And his mother before him, and her mother likewise.”

“All the rest of the household left,” Algernon said, sitting down on the edge of his desk. “And only the groundskeepers stayed, is that it? After a hundred years, I suppose, you’ve got squatter’s rights to the land, at the least.”

Jasper’s glare returned. “My family is not
squatting
on this land. Though if such rights will work to get you off the land, you may be damned sure I’ll make use of it.”

“Do you understand what it means that the Coxholt-on-Hugh railway company has an Act of Parliament?” Algernon asked.

Jasper’s eyes narrowed.

Algernon folded his arms. “It means that Parliament has already approved the development, and the landowners are compelled by law to sell the necessary land. Change is inevitable, Mr. Waltham. The railway will have its course, and Wealdhant will have an owner. If not me, then the railway or the crown will perfectly well find some other occupant. You must make your peace with it.”

Jasper turned his glare upon the floor. Algernon felt a moment’s sympathy for the innocent floor.

“It’s a pity,” Algernon said, laughing humourlessly. “I can’t help but think that in different circumstances the two of us should get along famously.”

Jasper’s head snapped up, an entirely new intensity in his eyes.

Blinking in confusion, Algernon’s hands slid down to his sides, curling around the edge of the desk that he was sitting on. He didn’t recognise the expression in Jasper’s eyes as anything he’d seen previously, and had no idea how to interpret it. It looked like some odd combination of resolution, lust, and fury.

“Mr. Waltham,” Algernon said, striving to compose his thoughts in order to regain control of the situation, which had taken a very sudden turn.

Jasper didn’t give him the chance before he crossed to Algernon’s desk and kissed him with all the heat and fury of the quarrels and conflict they’d had thus far.

It felt like a claim and a challenge, and Algernon was absolutely not about to back down from either one. Grabbing a fistful of Jasper’s hair, Algernon held him close and returned the kiss with equal ferocity. It was heated and savage, teeth clacking as they kissed.

Jasper broke the kiss first, studying Algernon’s face with tense nervousness. He looked like a feral animal preparing to bolt.

“Have you done this before?” Algernon asked.

Jasper nodded. “Yes. Have you?”

“Yes.”

Algernon pulled him in for another kiss. Seated as he was on the edge of the desk, Algernon had to tilt his head up for it, which was a new experience. Jasper crowded in close to him and settled his hands tightly on Algernon’s hips.

Parting his lips, Algernon traced his tongue over Jasper’s lips. This kiss was more tentative than their first clash of tongues. Jasper returned the foray by pushing his tongue fully into Algernon’s mouth to claim him. Algernon pushed back, playfully trying to keep him out, and was rewarded with a growl.

The kiss broke again. They gazed at each other, both unsure of where this was going and how it would complicate the ownership of Wealdhant.

Algernon laughed breathlessly. “See? Getting along famously.”

Jasper’s mouth curved in what hinted at—much to Algernon’s surprise—a sliver of a sense of humour.

They drew together magnetically for another kiss. This time, as Algernon’s tongue quested forward, Jasper’s retreated, lips breaking contact and then returning. He repeated this twice more until Algernon bit at Jasper’s lower lip, which made Jasper grumble and then surge forward to kiss him passionately.

A tap on the door made them both release. Jasper took a step back.

Mr. Cullen let himself in without waiting to be summoned, and looked them over with a slight raise in his eyebrow.

Jasper looked rumpled, dark blond hair mussed and cheeks reddened. Algernon licked his lips.