A Scandalous Lady (15 page)

“When was the last time you went to the village?” she asked. Her tone was strained, but the angry courage she had unleashed upon him seemed to have deserted her.

He clenched his jaw. “Six weeks ago.”

“Then surely you must have seen the inhuman condition in which those people live.”

“I saw.” The first time he'd been to the village, he'd been just as shocked, just as appalled as Faith. He'd gone to speak with several business owners regarding rent owed. Since the village had been built on Westborough lands, each business owner was a tenant in his own right, and as such was beholden to pay a small rent, which hadn't been done since the onset of his father's illness and his move to London.

Nothing could have prepared Troyce for the sight that met his eyes. The place looked as if it had been pillaged by revolutionaries. He'd traveled halfway around the world, seen everything from royal palaces to newly birthed settlements and yet, in all his journeys, he'd not seen such neglect and destitution.

And on his own lands no less.

But the villagers had made it brutally clear that they wanted nothing to do with the Baron of Westborough, old or new. “What do you expect me to do, Faith?”

“You could help them!”

He spun around and slapped his hands on the desk, upsetting a bottle of ink. “Don't you think I haven't tried? They loathe me. They want nothing from me and would just as soon burn me at the stake as welcome my help.” Collecting his emotions before they got out of control, he straightened his spine and shuffled stacks of papers away from the spreading pool of ink. “Short of running them out and burning the place to the ground, there is nothing I can do for them.”

“You could bring them here. Put them to work and let them earn a decent living. God knows there's plenty of work to go around. At least they'll be fed and clothed while their homes and businesses are being rebuilt.”

“And who, do you propose, will finance all this
rebuilding
?”

“You, of course! It's your village! You're the bloody baron, it's your responsibility!”

“There is no money, damn you!”

Silence dropped upon the room like a concrete slab. Troyce slammed the open ledgers shut, then gave his frustration free rein and swept his arm across the surface. Papers, ink bottles, quills, books—all flew off the desk and slammed into the bookshelf built into the adjacent wall. Troyce raked his hand through his hair, then drew his palm down his mouth. He couldn't believe he'd blurted out such a personal and private matter to a mere serving girl.

“What?” Faith sat down. Hard. At any other time, her open-mouthed shock might have been comical. “You're . . . poor?”

He winced. “As a church mouse.”

“But—the house in London—”

“Is no longer mine. I sold it along with everything else of value. There is nothing left.”

“Why? How?”

The unabashed disappointment sent a pinch of apprehension careening through him. “How does anyone become poor? Excess spending, pitiful harvests, poor management. My father did not always make sound business decisions, Faith. He allowed himself to be manipulated until his assets were overextended beyond salvation. And we—myself, my staff, and my tenants—are all paying the price.”

“What of Lady Brayton? Could she not help?”

“Devon is completely dependent on her husband's charity. Other than granting her a small allowance that barely covers her personal necessities, Ross remains in full charge of their treasury.”

Troyce didn't know why he was sharing such personal information with a woman he'd met less than a month ago, and whom he wasn't even sure he could trust. Not even Miles and Devon, whom he'd known his whole life, were aware of how deeply dire the situation had become. Yet talking to Faith seemed to relieve some of the burden he'd been shouldering alone since returning to England and seeing the horrible mess he'd inherited.

“Surely there must be something you can do.”

“There was.”

He saw the events of the last few weeks clicking into place in the pointed silence that followed.

“Feagin,” she finally said.

“Yes, Feagin. He was to invest in the galleon. Once sold, it would bring in more than enough money to save our sorry hides.” And he'd surrendered that opportunity.

For her.

“I can help you.”

The declaration, earnest and bold and so very . . .
Faith
-like, caught him off guard. That she would even offer touched him to the core. He laughed but it held no humor. “Unless you've a fortune at your disposal, I do not see how you can help.”

“I don't have money, but I know money.”

He could only imagine her experience, and he'd not support the estate with ill-gotten gains. “I appreciate the sentiment, Faith, but—”

“I
can
help you! There are ways to extend and to increase. It's true that it's too late in the season for a wheat crop, but we can still begin tilling the ground for spring, sow garden seeds, herd sheep, repair cottages.”

“And you know how to do all these tasks?” What a London pickpocket might know of planting wheat or herding sheep, he couldn't imagine. Then again, he wouldn't have imagined she'd know anything about ships either.

“No, but I'm sure that you and your tenants do, and what we don't know we can learn. The people just need a little kick in the bum to get them going.”

“We? Since when did this become a partnership, Faith? As you so crudely reminded me, those are my people out there—why do you care what happens to them?”

“Because I've been where they are, in places where there is no hope, no purpose, and no pride. And by God it sickens me to see that which I detest in myself.”

“You have pride!”

“Perhaps now. But there was a time when I didn't. I was four years old when my mother died and my father sent me away. I lived in a house for orphans until I was ten. You cannot know what that was like, Baron, to simply go from never wanting for anything to not even knowing where your next meal is coming from.”

His lip twisted in wry grin. “You'd be surprised.”

“Then maybe you would understand. We worked. We slept. We ate when we were lucky. We went through the motions of living, but not a one of us believed we'd ever get out. One day a man caught me pilfering a loaf of bread from a local baker. He promised me that I'd never go hungry, never be cold again. And I was young enough and desperate enough to believe him. He'd given me hope. At that time I had no idea that hope comes with a very a high price.”

He almost asked how high a price she'd paid, but decided that some things were best left unknown.

“Where's your father now, Faith?” he asked instead.

“I don't know. I don't even know if he's alive anymore.”

“Have you ever thought of looking for him?”

“What for?”

“To ask him why. To tell him how you feel.”

She rose from the chair and strode to the window, saying nothing. She seemed so far away, lost in some past he couldn't see, and it was all he could do not to take her in his arms and make her past disappear.

Just when he was sure she wouldn't answer, she said, “I'll admit to giving it a bit of thought over the years. But in the end I decided it wasn't worth the heartache if he rejects me again.”

“But maybe he wouldn't,” Troyce told her softly. “Perhaps your father regrets what he did.”

Her shoulders stiffened, her eyes went shuttered, and he knew that he'd pushed too far. “Then that's his loss, isn't it?” With the grace of a ballerina, she pivoted on her heel and impaled him with a determined stare. “If I can help you, I ask two things in return. The first, a cottage on the outskirts of the village. The one highest on the cliffs.”

He could not believe he was even considering accepting the help of a woman who might very well be plotting to use him to further her own agenda. But Faith had proven herself industrious and clever. She'd taken on more than he'd ever expected without complaint. And if confessing the extent of his woes had accomplished anything, it had made clear that any designs Devon insisted she had on him, on the estate, or on the Westborough “fortune,” were for naught. There was no fortune. Not anymore. Did he have anything to lose? “I know the one. It shall be yours. Your second request?”

“My freedom.”

A crossbeam to the chest could not have taken him more by surprise. “No.”

“If I can put your village to rights, I will have earned it!”

“You will have earned it when you work off your debt to me, and not one day sooner. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly.” And with a completely blank expression, she marched out of the room.

Troyce glared at the door she shut behind her, his chest feeling bruised and hollow. He'd granted her the cottage she wanted, but her freedom? No, absolutely not. It was the only thing he had that bound her to him.

Chapter 11

T
here were times when Faith wished she'd think before she spoke.

She stood at the edge of the village, hands on her hips, and surveyed the daunting task she'd set for herself. She hadn't been able to sleep last night. Her mind twisted and turned over the condition of Westborough, over its liege, over her own commitment and his refusal to grant her freedom. Damn his eyes for denying her that.

On one hand, she was still so angry with the baron that she could spit. On the other, she couldn't forget the despair in his eyes when he'd confessed to being poor as a church mouse. That he wasn't able to help his people obviously ate at him. For a man of his station, of his determination, it must strike a blow to his pride not to be able to provide. And it made even worse the fact that she, in part, was unwittingly responsible for that. He'd had the answer in his grasp and because he'd stood up against Feagin for her, he'd lost the chance.

Well, she could not give him back the money he so desperately needed, but her work on the village might serve to assuage some of the guilt she felt for adding to his troubles.

And in the end, she would have the cottage. Her own home, within her own grasp, where the spring chill didn't settle in the stones and refuse didn't layer the floors—just as she'd wished for so long. Best think of what she'd gained, not what she'd lost. A home of her own wasn't much, but it was a beginning. At least she wasn't in prison, even if it did feel as though she were working off a sentence. Best just do so, pay her debt.

But where did she start? With the barren fields? The collapsing cottages? The hovel of a marketplace?

The people, she finally decided, picking up the pair of buckets she'd brought. The mission she'd set for herself was not one to be undertaken without help and who better to recruit than those who would benefit the most?

“Hallo the town!” she called, reaching the collection of cottages that marked the beginning of the village. “Is anyone about?”

Not a soul stirred. Even the dogs lying alongside the dirt road were too lazy to bark.

“Is anyone here?”

Again, no one made any effort to greet her. Though it was still early, surely people would be up. Then it occurred to her that perhaps they were awake and were simply not receptive to strangers.

Well if that was the way it was to be, then so be it. They'd realize soon enough that she did not pose any threat.

She marched down the hill to the first hut, set her buckets and donned a bibbed apron and pair of leather gloves she'd wheedled out of Chadwick. Then she dropped to her knees and began clearing weeds from the side of the house. If she alone had to attack the village one house a time, then that's what she would do.

“Lassie, what the hell are you doin'?”

Startled, Faith glanced up at the bear of a man standing in the doorway, scratching himself. God knew how many days' worth of beard covered his face, his matted hair hung down to the middle of his back; his clothes looked as if he'd been wearing them since the beginning of time. She spotted the two children she'd seen playing in the mudhole the day before peering at her curiously from behind a rotting cart with one broken wheel.

“Pulling weeds. When I'm through, the ground can be tilled and a garden planted. The vegetables will help sustain you through the winter.”

“Be gone with ye, wench. I like my weeds just where they are.”

She pinched her lips together, gathered her buckets, and moved to the expanse of patchy grass and clay earth at the front of the house. “Then I'll just start to work on your yard. Do you perchance have a rake or pitchfork?”

“Yer the new skirt from the big house, ain't ye?”

She should have expected they would hear of her arrival. “Yes. Faith Jervais.” She stuck out her hand. “And you are?”

“Getting mighty riled.” He made no attempt to return the greeting. “Now I've told ye once to leave. Don't make me tell ye a second time.”

What did he think he would do, beat her? “I'm trying to help you, sir.”

“I don't need your help, and I don't want it.” He narrowed his beady eyes at her and took a threatening step forward. “Now take your buckets and be gone!”

Since the man was three times her size and dangerously cranky, she decided not to push her luck. “All right, as you wish, but don't think I won't be back.”

And she moved on to the next house. This time, she knocked upon the door and introduced herself and her intentions first. The door was immediately slammed in her face.

There was no answer at the fourth cottage, and at the fifth, she received the same reception as from the others from an old crone who shook a gnarled cane in her face. “I don't need your help, either. Now get you're skinny arse off my property!”

“It's my understanding that this property belongs to Lord Westborough.”

“Not anymore.” And again, a door slammed in her face.

Huffing a frustrated breath, Faith crossed the road, irritated at the people's reactions. She would have thought they'd be more grateful that someone from the manor house was offering to help them. Instead, they treated her as if she were trying to peddle them the black plague. What did they think, that she planned to rob them?

She stopped abruptly at the front of one of the nicer-kept cottages and frowned.
Was
that what they thought? How could they have known of her old occupation unless someone had told them?

The baron. He was the only one who truly knew of her past.

And she'd been stupid enough to confirm it.

But why? Why would he try to sabotage what she was trying to accomplish here? It made no sense, when he would be the one to profit from her labor.

Well, if that was his intention, she'd be damned if she'd let it happen. She wanted that cottage, by God. She needed to get out of that castle, away from the accusations of his sister and the disturbing effect the baron himself had on her.

Resolved, she marched up to the front door of the next cottage, rapped her knuckles on the splintered wood. An old man who resemble Chadwick so closely as to be his brother answered, and as before, the instant he saw her, started to shut the door.

Faith slapped her hand against it. “I would not do that, sir,” Faith said, standing her ground. “I am here to help you clean up this hovel, and I will not take no for an answer.”

He scanned the other houses, whose occupants lingered in their doorways watching her with scowls on their faces. “It doesn't seem that anyone is pleased to have your help, lass.”

“But it pleases them to put out buckets to catch the rain because the thatches are falling in? It pleases them to hear their children crying at night because they've no food in their bellies? Well, it doesn't please me. Like it or not, I'm here to work, and I'm not going anywhere until I'm done.”

“What's in it for you?”

“A place I can be proud to call my own.” Directing her voice to the rest of those within hearing range, she said, “A place you can all be proud to call your own! Now you have a choice, either help me or get out of my way. Either way, I will not leave this place until it is set to rights.”

 

He'd vowed to himself that he would not visit the village today, not spy on Faith. He had too many other duties to attend to let himself become distracted by the gel's crazy delusions. He and Chadwick were planning on finishing the repairs on the windmill and rechink the ovens in the bakehouse, both of which would take most of the day.

But in spite of his resolve, he found his duties carrying him farther away from the manor and closer to her. With an ax in the scabbard, he guided his horse through the forests north of the village boundaries. He told himself that Millie would need wood once the bake ovens were completed, and that the best oaks grew near this stream. But when he saw Faith in the distance, he knew he was only lying to himself. The house had felt empty since she'd begun her project, the days twice as long. He'd secretly been hoping for a glimpse of her, just to assure himself that all was right, that she'd come to no harm.

His heart beat faster, his blood flowed hotter. She'd donned a ragged pair of trousers no doubt borrowed from one of the village boys, and an oversize shirt that swallowed her frame. And still, she was so pretty she took his breath away. Using a tined garden tool to rake at the weeds that had overtaken a patch of earth beside the old counselor's office, she attacked the ground with an obsessive zeal, without a soul in sight helping her.

What drove a woman to such mad—and futile—extremes?

He shook his head in bafflement, purely amazed that she who had nothing would give so much of herself. And to the most ungrateful lot of souses he'd had the misfortune to meet.

Let her. She'd learn. She'd tire of her wasted efforts soon enough.

But she didn't.

Each day for the next week she returned to the village again and again. After her morning chores at the manor house were completed, she would make the two-mile hike along the shoreline for the village, toil until near dark, then return to the manor house to assist with supper and sleep.

And each day for the next week, Troyce grew more and more concerned. If anything, she looked worse now than the day he'd brought her to Westborough. Her hands were chapped from harsh soaps, her face drawn, her features thinner, and the shadows under her eyes stark against her tanned skin. Was she even eating? Troyce didn't think so, and he blamed himself. He never should have consented to this scheme. He above all knew how fruitless it was. At the same time, he couldn't find it in his heart to deny her something that was so obviously important to her.

But neither could he allow her to continue working herself into an early grave.

With a sigh of surrender, he returned to the manor. After a quick trip to the boathouse, he once again mounted his horse and wheeled him in the direction they'd just traveled. But instead of guiding his horse toward the outskirts, he headed straight for the bloody village.

Troyce didn't think it was possible, but the place looked even more dismal now than when he'd first set eyes upon it nearly four months earlier. Though signs of Faith's labors were everywhere—rubbish piled neatly on the side of the road, carts overloaded with broken furniture, trails of water leading in and out of buildings from where she'd been hauling buckets—his own failures were more apparent. The barren fields, paupers' huts, the dearth of activity . . .

Wasn't that just the rub? Away for eight years learning to rebuild things, and he couldn't rebuild his own life.

Unable to bear the sight, he looked away and clicked the horse forward. His heart thudded against his ribs as he closed the distance between the outlying farmlands and the village itself. A festering stench rose from the corral, making Troyce wonder when it had last been cleaned. No wonder she thought him such a monster.

The stillness alerted him that his presence had been noted. Troyce braced himself, knowing what would come even before the first stone caught him between the shoulder blades. The second hit him in the back of the head. Soon, he was being pelted from both sides by hand-sized pieces of his own land.

Still, he kept his posture straight and his gaze trained ahead. He was no stranger to the villagers' welcome; he'd endured it several times in his initial efforts to meet with them and discuss how they could work together to save Westborough.

Then, as now, the situation seemed to have surpassed discussion, but he refused to let them run him off his own lands. And so, steeling himself against the pain of rocks nicking his flesh and the shouts of disdain searing his soul, Troyce continued down the center roadway, his thoughts focused on finding Faith.

He never saw the one that dropped him to his knees.

 

Faith was pushing a wheelbarrow overloaded with debris from what had once been the baker's shop when the shouts of the crowd gathering at the end of the village drew her notice.

She glanced up and spotted a rider. She recognized his broad-shouldered frame at once, and her heart gave a traitorous leap at the sight of the baron heading in her direction. What was he doing here?

And what were those things flying in the air around him? Her eyes narrowed as she tried to make them out when suddenly, the baron jerked in the saddle and keeled sideways.

The grips of the wheelbarrow slipped from her hands and the load toppled. “Baron!” Grabbing her skirts in both hands, she tore down the street. The crowd began to converge, and terror surged through her veins like frozen fire.

“Get away from him! Get away!” She shoved herself between foul-smelling bodies until she reached the center of the mass. There her baron lay facedown in the mud and muck. Faith dropped to her knees, heedless of the shouts around her. She rolled him over. Blood seeping from a cut above his eyes made her stomach roll, and a haze of anger blurred her vision. “What the bloody hell 'ave ye done to 'im, ye sorry sons of Satan!”

She ripped a portion of her underskirt and wiped away the mud and blood. “Baron? Can ye hear me? Open yer eyes.”

Thick sooty lashes fluttered, then lifted. Faith wilted, never so relieved to see those silvery gems in her life. “There ye are . . .”

She smiled, and the darkness that had been Troyce's world suddenly brightened. “Faith . . .” He smiled back, a weak effort. With the sun shining behind her, her curls looked like a halo. Her brown eyes shone with a suspicion luster, as if she were fighting tears.

She brushed something soft across his brow. “Are ye all right?”

“Not so highborn now, am I?” he whispered.

“Oh, ye bloody fool.” She laughed. But it was sad laugh, not the kind he'd often hoped to hear coming from her. “What are you doing here?”

I missed you
. The thought slapped him like a fierce wind on the open sea, stealing his breath. Troyce closed his eyes lest she read the emotion in them, and struggled to sit. His world spun like a child's toy. His head pounded with the fierceness of a warrior's drum. He clutched the side of his head as if that would dull the pain and pointed toward his horse. “I brought canvass. For the windows.”