A Clandestine Courtship (3 page)

She shrugged. Let Mrs. Bridwell condemn her. Riding alone was a minor offense.

Rounding a corner, she nearly colliding with a frowning gentleman who was riding the other way.

John Underwood!

Panicked, she jerked her horse from the path. Acorn sideswiped a holly bush and recoiled, nearly unseating her. Fighting both the horse and her pounding heart, she doused her fear with a cold bucket of reality.

John was dead. He had been dead for six months. It was James’s forbidding expression that had momentarily confused her.

“Welcome home, my lord.” Somehow she kept her voice calm through the boil of new emotions.

 * * * *

James escaped the house, seeking the sanctuary of the woods where he could think. Memories were clouding his judgment, making it impossible to tell whether the frigid atmosphere arose from his own fears or from staff antipathy. He had to decide quickly, for the answer would determine what changes were necessary.

His usual approach was not working. As with his other estates, he had arrived without warning. John’s servants ranged from good to bad to venal. Appearing unexpectedly prevented them from assuming a false facade, letting him better judge their competence and attitudes. It also kept anyone from hiding evidence of malfeasance, allowing him to quickly separate the wheat from the chaff.

But not at Ridgeway. By the time he’d reached the Court, he had been in no condition to judge anything. Memories, voices, pain, and disillusionment had swirled through his head. Guilt had overwhelmed his senses, making him short-tempered. So it was hardly surprising that the servants had appeared sullen. Even the clearer head of morning improved nothing. They seemed to hate him deeply, passionately, and irrevocably, but that made no sense. He knew none of them.

John had turned off the entire staff after gaining the title – hardly surprising, for many of the old servants had carried tales of his childhood misdeeds to the earl. The new staff had been smaller – another way to increase John’s revenues – and poorly paid. He doubted any of them had seen service before Ridgeway. Yet none of that explained their hostility.

He hated repeating John’s actions by turning everyone off, but he must have servants he could trust and who would perform their duties with at least a modicum of competence. These had been doing a very bad job, starting with the housekeeper.

The manor was filthy. Cleaning had been sporadic at best, and a cursory glance through the accounts showed wholesale pilfering. The butler’s accounts were also short. The lower servants were surly, and the sight of the stables nearly made him weep. They had once been the glory of the estate. Now he cringed at consigning his cattle to such deplorable conditions.

Yet he was hesitant about making changes. More was going on than service or lack of it. The servants’ faces also reflected fear. Already they were whispering about ghosts, so prudence demanded he move slowly. Was the poor performance aimed at John, and the hatred at John’s likeness?

His own ghosts tormented him, driving his friends’ chatter into the background. He had expected the pain and guilt that still haunted him ten years after his last meeting with John. But he had not expected to feel his father’s presence so clearly.

The eighth earl had been capricious – kind and supportive one day, furiously vindictive the next. He had also been weak and lazy, paying little heed to justice or honor. When someone complained about a twin’s behavior, he had found it easier to punish the nearest son than to figure out which one was at fault. So James had paid for many a prank he had not played. John had been a master at staying out of sight.

But he wasn’t ready to deal with the past. His immediate problem was the staff, which required a clear mind. According to his valet, many of the servants suspected him of either killing John or arranging for his death. Some also blamed him for his father’s death.

That was what had sent him on this lone ride. He had never connected their last argument with the fit that had killed him. The idea added a new layer of guilt to his usual burden. Could it be true?

He had rarely protested those unjust charges, having learned that argument merely increased his punishment. But that final accusation had been too base. He had sworn on his honor as a gentleman that it was false. He had even named the people who could prove he had been in Ridgefield at the time. Clearly, the culprit was John.

But his father had not believed him. The earl had favored John ever since the boy had nearly succumbed to a fever at age three. John’s convulsions had terrified everyone in the household and had left the earl loath to punish him for years afterward lest he bring on a new attack. The earl’s fondest dream had been that his heir would be worthy of the title. Since he did not want that dream shattered, James made an easy scapegoat who could keep his illusions intact.

James shivered, then realized that the pounding was not in his head. A horse was approaching. He pulled back to a trot as a lady swept around the corner, nearly colliding with him.

His breath caught.

Mary Layton. More beautiful than ever. He had forgotten how sunlight made her blonde hair sparkle and how those bottomless blue eyes could drown him. She had always been shapely, but maturity had improved her. Not even her unfashionable riding habit could disguise that glorious bosom.

His gut clenched with lust.

He was opening his mouth to greet her when she recoiled in shock. Emotions flitted across her face too fast for him to identify, but she finally settled on icy disdain.

“Welcome home, my lord.”

Years of practice hid his pain. He had never believed that she loved John, but he could find no other explanation for her iciness. No one had ever cared for both brothers, so her former friendship must have been a ploy to hide her liaisons. But his purpose was to mend fences wherever possible.

“So you still live here, Miss Layton.”

“Lady Northrup.”

His brows rose. Why had she accepted the baron? The man was old enough to be her father and the most boring lord in Shropshire – unless John’s attentions had left her with child. Northrup might have wed her to avert scandal. He had never seemed magnanimous, but stranger things had happened.

“Congratulations,” he offered, to stop his useless speculation.

“Thank you,” she said dryly. “I take it you have not kept up with local news.”

“Hardly. Everyone knows why I left. Who would have dared keep me informed?”

“You overestimate the local gossips. Or underestimate them. A dozen theories were proposed to explain your unexpected departure.”

“Such as?”

“One claimed you fled retribution for killing your father – and offered several suggestions for how and why you did so. Another vowed you had lost a fight with John over the future of the estate. A third swore you were avoiding arrest for ravishing Meg Price and poisoning Cotter’s horse. A fourth insisted that you fled your creditors. There were others, and many people believe more than one.”

He could feel the blood drain from his face. “Which do you prefer?”

“The estate story. Father was saddened when John refused to accept the reforms you had been urging. I doubt you gave up the fight easily. And he must have been upset that your father did not cut you out of his will. John would have begrudged you even a pennypiece.” The color returned to her face as she relaxed.

“You might say that. He threw me out.” It was not a scene he wished to remember. Nor did he want to dwell on the ease with which she referred to John. “So tell me the local news. What has happened in the years I was away?”

“Besides John’s murder?”

He nodded.

“We have a new vicar – Mr. Bridwell. He was installed eight years ago, following my father’s death. The blacksmith retired about the same time, moving to Birmingham to live with his daughter. The new smith is not as talented, but he does an adequate job. Old Barnes died six years ago. His son now runs the inn. The men swear his ale is better than anything his father served, thanks to his wife, whose father runs the Golden Sparrow in Bartles Corner.”

“Any improvement must be welcome. Barnes served the worst ale in the shire.”

“So they say. Tate died ten months ago.”

“The miller?”

She nodded. “No one has yet replaced him, for John died before he had a chance to see to it.” She straightened. “I haven’t time to chat just now. If you wish to hear the latest gossip, join us for dinner Friday. Everyone will be there. We are celebrating Justin’s return from India.”

“I have two London friends with me.”

“They will also be welcome. Amelia and Caroline are ready to make their bows and could use some London acquaintances.” She launched into praise for their accomplishments.

But he was hardly listening. Now that she was relaxed, the memories surged. He had been infatuated with her that last summer, though their flirtation had not been serious. At three-and-twenty he had not been ready to settle down. But her laughing face had stayed with him for years, invading his dreams – not surprising, for comely women often did so. Yet he had never been able to explain why his groin tightened every time he thought of her. Ten years later, it still reacted.

He shifted in the saddle.

She had seemed special – young, innocent, caring, and beautiful. They had shared many ideas – according dignity to the lower classes, finding employment for weavers who had lost their livelihoods to the mills, paying men enough so their children would not have to slave in manufactories for pennies, educating the tenants so they could understand and accept the advances in agriculture…

Not all the ideas had been practical, and his time in India had proved that life could have been much worse for the lower classes. But her enthusiasm had been catching. Her aura of integrity would have snared even the most cynical. Caught up in the memory, he could believe it still.

The heaviness in his loins pulled him out of his reverie.
Fool!
She would not pull the wool over his eyes again. John’s revelations still reverberated in his head. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never shed that hateful voice.

Get out! You may have tricked Father into splitting my inheritance, but that’s the end of it, John had growled the moment the solicitor was gone. His fingers had beat a furious tattoo on his copy of the will. If you don’t leave today, I will throw the Thompsons off their farm. They are worthless peasants, incapable of producing enough to cover their rent. And Cotter deserves a lesson in humility. It is time he learns who really owns that land.

James had blanched, but he’d known protest would only make matters worse. He should have realized that helping the Thompsons and educating Cotter would cause trouble. But he had not expected his father to die.

Yet John’s next words had driven even the tenants from his mind.

Don’t consider taking Mary with you – not that she would agree to go. She is mine.
His mouth had twisted into a smirk as he licked his lips, driving a stake through James’s heart.

You lie!
he had shouted, his temper shattering.

Never. But rest easy, dear brother. I didn’t seduce her. She threw herself at me on her eighteenth birthday. Too bad you are so timid. If you had pushed her a little harder, you could have had the ride of your life. She has tricks you won’t have run into elsewhere. I’ve never had a more eager wench, and that beauty mark on her bottom could stir lust in the coldest shaft.

He had laughed at James’s white face. Laughed and laughed and laughed. It echoed still.

James clenched his teeth. The cruel words had haunted him for months, though he would never believe that Mary had instigated the affair. He knew John too well. The initial contact had either been seduction or force. After that, threats of exposure would have kept her in line. But it would explain why Northrup had married her.

This way lay madness. The past could not be changed. And he could not have known her as well as he thought. Her unwillingness to come to him for help belied the friendship he had thought they’d shared. She should have known he would protect her.

She had fallen silent and was looking at him in puzzlement.

“I will call on your husband tomorrow,” he said to cover his inattention.

“You will find him in the churchyard. He died a year ago.”

“What? He cannot have been more than fifty.”

“Dear Lord.” She backed her horse a pace, her stare making him squirm. “Did you actually believe I had married Frederick’s father?”

“What was I to think when you introduced yourself as Lady Northrup?”

A sigh accompanied a rueful shake of her head. “I forgot you would not know about his death.”

“You married Frederick?”

She nodded.

“Why? He was at least two years your junior.” The question slipped out without thought, and he nearly kicked himself in disgust.

“My reasons are my own, my lord,” she said coldly.

“Forgive me,” he begged, unwilling to endure the shadows in her eyes. “That was intolerably rude. You say he passed away last year?”

“He fell into the quarry.” She shrugged. “Justin is now the baron. I hope you and your friends will join us to welcome him home. Five years in India will have made him a stranger.”

Turning away, she cantered in the direction of Northfield, leaving his mind a swirl of uncertainty. If five years abroad made Justin a stranger, what had a ten-year absence done to him? And why the devil had Mary wed a schoolboy?

But watching her disappear around a corner distracted his thoughts. Her horsemanship had improved immeasurably. As had everything else. The straight back flared into alluring hips that set his blood to boiling. He hadn’t seen anyone that enticing in years.

 * * * *

Mary changed out of her habit without summoning her maid. She needed time to put the morning in perspective.

James.

He had changed considerably since she had last seen him, but she could not decide if that was an improvement.

The greatest difference was his demeanor. In memory, he was always smiling, his enthusiasm contagious, his heart as big as the world. He had been a gentle dreamer dedicated to healing the ills of the world. Despite the height that should have overwhelmed those nearby, he had never intimidated her. It distinguished him from John – whose arrogance and incipient brutality cowed nearly everyone and made people forget that he and James were identical twins.