Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (44 page)

      
“Bertie, how good to see you before we leave,” she said as he turned, smiling up at her.

      
“I was surprised to learn from my cousin that you're retiring to the country so early.” His watery pale eyes held a question.

      
Beth smiled, trying to reassure him, as they strolled out the front entry toward the waiting coach. “Yes, 'twill be restful to be away from the gossipmongers. I shall paint and rusticate until the arrival of Lynden's heir.”

      
“That sounds a good plan. I intend to spend an early holiday this year. Should be at Wharton by December. 'Tis a modest place, not far from Lynden. We shall practically be neighbors.” He hesitated, then added uncertainly, “I...er, that is, Annabella and Constance will be spending Christmas with me. It would be good to have the family together for the occasion—that is, if you wish,” he ended on an uncertain note.

      
Although Beth would have preferred old Fatima's company to Annabella's, she nevertheless replied, “Of course I would welcome Annabella and Constance...if you think my sister-in-law will wish to associate with me after the scandal. I would love to play with Constance again.”

      
Bertie's eyebrows rose and he puffed out his portly chest. “I will see to it that she agrees. After all, we're all the Jamisons left alive. No sense in letting such nonsense keep family apart. I will see that she introduces you to the neighbors around the Hall.”

      
Walking up to the coach, Derrick said, ”I would appreciate it if you'd look in on Beth after your arrival, Coz. I shall not be able to get away from London until Christmas.”

      
Bertie's brow crinkled in confusion as he looked at the black stallion Spralding was tying to the rear of the coach. “I understood that you were staying with Beth at Lynden Hall.”

      
“I am accompanying her, but I'll have to return as soon as she's settled,” was all Derrick volunteered. Let his cousin draw what conclusions he wished.

      
“In that case, perhaps I will move up my schedule and leave London sooner,” he said with forced joviality. “Can't have you rattling about all alone in the countryside with naught but a few old chawbacons for company.”

* * * *

      
The Count d'Artois frowned, lowering himself into a Rococo chair. Once comfortably seated, he looked up into his young cousin's insolent face, and the frown grew deeper. The stupid young pup was going to ruin everything for them if he did not put a period to it. “My wife has given me to understand that you sent Burleigh's daughter a most expensive trinket Friday last. A sapphire pendant, was it not?”

      
Bourdin nodded brusquely. “The lady was suitably impressed. These silly English misses are as enthralled by baubles as their counterparts in France. I shall offer for her within the month.”

      
“And you will be refused,” the count said flatly. “We live in England on sufferance of its peers. They may admire our bloodlines, but they do not admire blatant fortune hunters. When Burleigh catches wind that you're spending beyond your means just to impress the chit, the parsimonious old goat will never agree to the match.”

      
A feral smile spread across Bourdin's wide mouth but did not reach his cold gray eyes. ”I am not living beyond my means,” he asserted.

      
D'Artois snorted indelicately. “Pah. Do not try my credulity by saying you have won at the gaming tables. I know better.”

      
Bourdin shrugged and strolled over to the window of the Duke of Kent's small but elegant town house, which he graciously allowed the elderly emigres to occupy while he was out of the city. “Let us just say I have been offered a substantial reward for performing a task.”

      
“What sort of task?” the count asked suspiciously.

      
“One of a professional nature.”

      
A prickle of unease ran up the old man's spine. “Your only profession was killing for that Corsican horse thief!”

      
Bourdin only shrugged and smiled again. ”I am very good at it, cousin. You would do well to remember that.”

* * * *

      
This is the prison where I shall spend my exile
. Lynden Hall was everything Beth had expected...and dreaded. An immense limestone monolith, it sprawled across a ridge overlooking a small river that flowed out to Solway Firth on the English side of the borderlands. The earliest portion, a medieval castle, had been constructed in the fourteenth century. Over the years, additions had been made. The building's two vast wings gave it the appearance of a huge griffin ready to pounce upon its prey.

      
Beth felt weary to the bone, a fact that she did not wish her husband to note. In spite of her assurances that she was strong and healthy, he had worried about the child ever since they'd started out two weeks earlier, arranging for frequent stops during the day. The nights were spent in uncomfortable inns with dreadful food. To ensure that she received enough rest, he had abstained from making love to her on the trip. Although she tried to deny it, his aloofness increased her feeling that her husband valued her less for herself than for the child in her womb.

      
Lynden Hall's grounds, which would have appeared bleak in late October anyway, were made even more dreary because of neglect. Hedges jutted out unevenly and withered grapevine twined throughout the shrubbery. She noted several dead trees that stood like skeletal sentinels as their coach approached the main drive.

      
Beth could see how the poor appearance of his childhood home affected Derrick. “Your solicitor warned you the estate manager had not been very diligent.”

      
“If Leighton had ever bothered to leave the gaming hells long enough to check up on it, he could have dealt with Farley as I did.” Derrick had fired the overseer after one interview in London. He'd engaged another man who came highly recommended. “Mr. Harris has been here for several days,” he continued. “I informed him that putting the household to rights was his first assignment. At least your quarters and some of the downstairs sitting rooms should be cleaned. I'll leave the rest to you.” He paused, looking at her bleak expression. “That is, if you feel up to the task of hiring more servants and overseeing the refurbishing.”

      
She had noted that he said “your quarters.” It was obvious that he did not intend to stay long. This would be her home...for as long as she could bear to live in such isolation. When they had first arrived in London, she had envisioned retiring to paint in the picturesque countryside. The utter isolation of this bleak open river valley and the cold gray pile of stone facing her were not the stuff of her dreams.

      
“Can we afford refurbishing all this?” she asked, knowing what the upkeep on her parents' Georgia plantation house cost. This great monstrosity dwarfed Blackthorne Hall. Just keeping the fireplaces burning to ward off the bitter northern winter would be a huge expense.

      
“Lee and Bella did not bankrupt the estate entirely. Wool profits were quite substantial last year. I expect to put business matters to rights in a few months.”

      
“Have you spoken with Mr. Therlow at Uncle Dev's London office?” Her father had suggested that Blackthorne Shipping would be interested in a business arrangement that might be lucrative for Derrick. Her husband had not indicated how he felt about engaging in trade now that he was an earl, but she knew his prickly English pride would probably reject the idea.

      
“My family lands are profitable enough. We will not require any charity, Beth,” he replied stiffly, then realized how harsh that sounded. ”I did not intend to appear ungrateful. You may redecorate the Hall any way you wish, puss.”

      
She softened at the wistfully sweet sound of the old endearment. “I have no idea how to manage a vast household such as this, but I will try.”

      
“You'll have Donita to help you—and Percy for companionship,” he said placatingly. “Perhaps my wardrobe can last out the year with him removed from the vicinity of my closet.”

      
That brought a ghost of a smile to her lips. “The day we left London your valet was shrieking just like Drum.”

      
“You'd have been shrieking too if you picked up a riding boot and found a dog had made water inside it—and that water was now dripping down the front of your trousers.” Derrick saw little amusement in the dog's antics. “The bloody beast gives me ill payment for saving his miserable hide from those
lazzaroni.
”

      
“I am sorry about your boots and the cravats...and the new riding breeches,” she added, knowing full well that the tally of Percy's war on Derrick's belongings was far higher. The spaniel had become her protector and seemed to intuit whenever her husband made her unhappy. Percy retaliated in the only ways he knew how. After a moment's hesitation, she dared to ask, “Derrick...how long will you stay at the Hall?”

      
Before he could reply the coach jerked to a sudden stop and a footman opened the door. Derrick jumped lithely to the ground and reached up to assist her down. This was a replay of their wedding afternoon, only this time the servants assembled in front of the house to welcome the master and his new wife were not jovial Neapolitans but dour Cumbrians, as grim and gray as the rainclouds overhead. Beth felt it an ill omen as she smiled at the household staff.

      
No one smiled back. Derrick presented the chief housekeeper, Mistress Campbell, a tall reed-thin woman with a lantern-jawed narrow face. Her iron-gray hair was knotted so tightly that her facial muscles seemed permanently frozen. She spoke without moving her lips, making a perfunctory curtsy as she murmured, “Welcome to Lynden Hall, yourladyship.''

      
Her eyes reminded Beth of a copperhead snake's just before it struck—cold, dark and pitiless. Repressing a shiver, the new countess moved on to greet the butler, three maids and two footmen, wondering how she would survive once Derrick left her alone here. She was immensely grateful for Donita, who had climbed from the second coach and was supervising the unloading of the trunks in her unique mixture of Italian and English while Percy barked and wagged his tail, following the little maid about.

      
The interior of the Hall was even more forbidding than had been the city house. It, at least, had been filled with Annabella's tasteless clutter and felt lived in. The old manor was practically empty, stripped of rugs, paintings and many of the best pieces of furniture. Several heavy leaded-glass windows stood bare, denuded of draperies. When Derrick questioned what had become of the family's possessions, the housekeeper replied that the previous earl had them taken to London over the years. Derrick concluded that they'd been sold to pay gambling debts and the high cost of living in the city.

      
Dinner that evening was a miserable collation of mushy vegetables and gray stringy mutton boiled until it was fit only for slopping hogs. Beth reconsidered.
No, the hogs at Blackthorne Hall are fed better than this.
By comparison Annabella's dreadful chef at the city house had been a culinary master. After spending weeks arranging household matters in London to her satisfaction, Beth would have to begin an even more daunting task here in the wilderness.

      
Derrick could see how disheartened his wife was by the Hall. He, too, was shocked by the way it had been treated, but it was the home of his childhood and he loved the wild isolated beauty of the Cumbrian countryside. “Tis not Naples, Beth, I know, but you will come to appreciate some things,” he said, taking a sip from his glass of bitter claret. Leighton had ravished the wine cellars.

      
Beth shoved a lump of turnip about on her plate, ignoring his comment as her stomach lurched. “Do you suppose Mistress Campbell thinks to run us off by serving such swill?”

      
“She has been in service to the family all her life. I shall speak to her about the cook if you wish.”

      
“I will handle it myself. Tis best if I begin asserting my role as the countess.”

      
He studied her over the rim of his glass. “You say that as if you are an actress, playing a part that will one day end.”

      
Beth was not sure how to take his remark.
Are you changing your mind about divorce, my love?
“There are times when I feel as if everything since we arrived in England has been but a dream.”

      
“More like a nightmare, I’d warrant,” he murmured beneath his breath, finishing off the last swallow of the claret. It was still bitter.

* * * *

      
They slept in the old earl's suite. It was cold and drafty, since the chimneys had not been cleaned properly in a decade and the fire went out during the night. Beth had burrowed against Derrick in her sleep for comfort as well as warmth. She awakened alone, chilled to the bone without the heat of his body beside her. The skies outside were still dark owing either to the early hour or the weather, she could not tell which.

      
It was both. She learned from Mistress Campbell that his lordship had ridden out with his new estate manager at dawn and was not expected back until the dinner hour. There was no time like the present to begin the daunting task of reorganizing the household. “I would like to speak to you regarding the cook, Mistress Campbell,” she said, eyeing the breakfast sideboard, which was filled with dishes of lumpy oatmeal, vile-smelling herring and a pot of the blackest, most bitter tea she had ever tasted.