Barbara Metzger (2 page)

Rockford rode through half the night, having to put up at a second-rate inn instead of the suite reserved for him at the best hostelry along his route. The horse he was given was inferior too, which darkened his mood even further. So did the storm clouds that doused him with cold, bone-chilling rain. Hell and damnation, his own father would not have gone to half this effort or inconvenience.

Rockford might not have interviewed the tutor, but he had selected William’s first pony himself, which was more than the previous earl had ever done. And while Rockford was not personally overseeing the boy’s riding lessons, he did visit Rock Hill occasionally, for William’s birthday when his secretary, Clifton, reminded him. One of the spring months, he thought now, although he had been in Austria last spring, and Brighton for the summer. Well, he had seen the child a few times before that. What more could anyone expect from a widower with diplomatic commitments, one who knew nothing of the nursery set?

The first time he had seen William was at his christening, following on the heels of William’s mother’s funeral. The babe had regurgitated sour milk all down Rockford’s shirtfront. The second time, at his first birthday, the tot’s nappy had leaked onto the earl’s knee. On his second birthday, William had cleverly unfastened his own diaper, with even more disastrous results for Lord Rockford’s linens. By the third anniversary of William’s birth, the earl had grown wary, keeping his distance until the little chap proved his maturity. At Eleanor’s urging, he had gone so far as to let William bring him a cup of tea. With the inevitable results for his wardrobe. He had not seen the boy since, Rockford realized.

By George, Eleanor must always have been daft, although Rockford had never recognized her condition. He pulled his beaver hat lower on his head in an effort to keep the rain from dripping down his collar, and swore at the weather, the rough-gaited horse, and the condition of the roads. He damned women in general and both his sister and William’s mother in particular, for leaving the lad all alone. He cursed the butler for alarming him, and the bailiff for robbing him, and the regent for using him as bait. Mostly he railed against fate for making him responsible for a child he might not have fathered. There definitely ought to be a rule about that.

*

Rock Hill was just that: a heap of rocks on top of a hill. The house was a magnificent mélange of architecture, dating from the first stone fortress and added onto by successive titleholders. The huge gray dwelling with gray slate roofs overlooked acres of parkland and formal gardens, with geometric patterns of fields and farms laid out in the distance. All of it, as far as the eye could see and beyond, belonged to the Rockford earldom. Not just to Robert Rothmore, the current earl, but to his heirs and ancestors. Rockford felt the weight of those past and future generations on his damp shoulders as he rode up the long hill toward the vast ancient edifice that was his heritage, if not his home.

The place was nearly a palace, fit for state visits. Now it more often hosted gawking sightseers on public days. Still, the lawns were manicured, the shrubbery pruned to perfection. The scores of windows shone, even in the rain, and the brass fittings gleamed. Everything was proper, elegant, bespeaking great wealth, endless pride, and centuries of privilege, to say nothing of royal favor.

It was a dwelling well suited to Robert, Baron Roth and Rottingham, Viscount Rothmore, Earl of Rockford, etcetera, etcetera.

It was where he had been born, and where he would lie buried when he died.

It was where his heirs should be raised.

It was a blasted dungeon.

He rode around back, thinking to deliver the hired horse to the stables, then enter the house itself through the service doors rather than trail mud across the marbled front hall or the priceless Aubusson rugs that lined the corridors, unless Eleanor and her bailiff had carried off the carpets too.

An unfamiliar groom came to take his reins. “And you be?” the man asked insolently. “And what’s your business?”

Rockford could not blame the fellow, since he must look no-account, dripping dirt and riding a poor specimen of a horse, without going to the front door.

“Rockford,” was all he said. “I live here.”

The man gulped, removed his cap, bobbed his head, and started to lead the tired animal away in a hurry.

Rockford stopped him with a question. “Where is Jake?”

Jake had been stable master for decades, putting Rockford on his first pony. The earl had been counting on the old horseman to do the same for William, or at least welcome him home.

“Gone to drive Mr. Claymore and Mrs. Cabot to the village to fetch supplies, m’lord,” the groom replied, “and hire more help than what we keep on most times.”

So no one was around to greet the prodigal son, not even the butler or the housekeeper.

The groom must have noted Rockford’s frown, for he added, “We was expecting you tomorrow, else they would of been here. That’s what the messenger said, leastways.”

The slightly accusatory tone of the man’s comment grated on Rockford’s already fraying temper. “I do hope my arrival is not an inconvenience to my staff.”

The groom shrugged. “You just might not find the place up to your standards, is all. Dinner ’specially. Bound to be potluck, with no time for fixing fancy dishes like you’re used to in London. It’s plain country fare here, most days.”

Rockford could not imagine Claymore and Mrs. Cabot maintaining the Hill in anything less than pristine condition, nor its kitchens providing worse meals than he’d had on the road. The stables, from what he could see, were as neat and orderly as always, smelling of fresh straw and well-groomed horses, although there were few enough of them in the nearby stalls. He nodded. “And your name is…?”

“Fred, m’lord,” the groom answered, looking nervously toward the rear of the stables, as if wishing he could leave. “Fred Nivens. I were hired by Mr. Arkenstall, what left. But that don’t mean I had any part in his thieving, like some hereabouts be hinting.”

Still, he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, and shifting his eyes from the horse to the earl to the back of the stables. Rockford would reserve judgment until he spoke to Jake and checked the ledgers for himself. Meantime, he walked with the groom and the hired horse toward the rear, glancing in the empty stalls. He did not notice any pony.

“Tell me, Fred, did my son ride along with Claymore and Mrs. Cabot into the village?”

Fred stopped short. “Master William?”

“Yes, that son.” Rockford’s patience was wearing decidedly thinner.

Fred scratched his head. “Why would you ask that?”

The earl tapped his muddy boots with his riding whip. He was not used to being interrogated by his own servants, and this one was either dense or deceitful. Either way, Fred’s term of employment was growing shorter by the moment. “Because his mount is not here,” Rockford said in slow and even tones that would have had his secretary shaking, “and Jake would never leave the pony out in the cold rain.”

Now Fred looked at Rockford as if the earl were fit for Bedlam. “The nipper’s been over to Mrs. Henning’s for months now.”

Months? His son had been gone for months and no one told him? Then again, perhaps Claymore had written, or Eleanor, but his secretary wouldn’t have bothered him with such puny details as his five-year-old son leaving home for who knew where. Bloody hell, the lad could have joined the navy, for all anyone informed Rockford! And who the devil was Mrs. Henning, anyway?

“Tell me about this woman and why my son is at her house, wherever that might be, instead of here, where he belongs.”

Fred Nivens began to brush down the wet horse, keeping as far away as possible from Rockford and that whip the earl kept rapping against his well-muscled leg. “As to the whys and wherefores,” Fred said, “you’d have to ask Mr. Claymore, I ’spect. But Mrs. Henning, she’s a widow what came here one day and said she was taking the nipper, to pack his clothes. Just like that, I heard tell.”

Just like that? And Eleanor let this stranger take the boy? She must have been so ensorceled by her lover’s blandishments that she could not keep her mind or her eye on what was important, namely Rockford’s son. Damn her and that plaguesome bailiff; may they fall in a Scottish loch and get eaten by…by whatever creature of superstition lived in that benighted place. What if Mrs. Henning was an old witch who turned little boys into frogs, or a slave trader who sold them to chimney sweeps? Or a procuress who—Lud, it did not bear thinking on, so that was all, of course, that Rockford could imagine.

“Who is this female?” he demanded. “I have never heard of her.”

Now Fred smirked. “You would have, if you’d visited more. Everyone knows her, by reputation, at least. She’s Alissa Henning, what used to be Alissa Bourke, whose father was steward over at Fairmont. He got her educated way past her station, what gave her ambitions to better her lot.”

Good grief, the woman sounded no better than she ought to be, and the groom’s snide smile confirmed Rockford’s suspicions. “Fairmont is Sir George Ganyon’s place?” Rockford was already figuring how long it would take him to ride there if he cut across the home farm fields.

“Right, and Sir George has his eyes on her, they say. Lets her stay on in one of his cottages. Holding out for a ring, she is, I’d wager. Worked the first time, it did, when the doxy trapped some nobleman’s son into marriage by claiming to be in the family way. His family don’t recognize any jumped-up fortune hunter, naturally, so she’s left to give lessons and hold other folks’ children for ransom.”

“She’s holding William for ransom?” Rockford could not believe what he was hearing, or that his trusted retainers had let this abomination happen.

“Near
as makes
no difference. I spend half my time bringing food and fetching books. On the widow’s orders.” He neglected to say that the pretty widow refused to give him the time of day, but he did spit on the ground near the horse’s feet, to show his opinion of the circumstances. “And Jake has to go give riding lessons over by Fairmont, to the young master and the widow’s own brats.”

She stole the pony too?

Chapter Two

Rules, hell. There were actual laws against kidnapping. Rockford had taken part in some of the parliamentary discussions about penalties, urging stricter enforcement. Otherwise no son of wealthy parents would be safe, be he from the nobility or the merchant class.

So much for safe if country bawds could get away with stealing an earl’s son in broad daylight. Rockford threw his whip against the stable door. Not this time. He was the Earl of Rockford, and no one took what was his. Not ever.

“Can you drive?” he asked the groom, whose jaw was hanging slack at Rockford’s reaction.

Fred nodded.

“Good. I cannot fetch the boy and his baggage home on horseback. Hitch up whatever coach is handiest. I shall meet you out front after I change into dry clothing.”

“But, m’lord, your trunks ain’t come yet.”

Rockford was reaching for his saddlebags. “I always carry extra with me.”

“But your valet…”

Rockford raised one dark eyebrow to show Fred Nivens he had gone far beyond the line. One could make only so much allowance for laxer country manners. “I do know how to dress myself, you know.”

“A’course, m’lord,” Fred said, staring at the pistol Rockford was also drawing out of his saddlebag. “Begging your pardon.”

Rockford ran up the back stairwell, passing no one, but hearing some maids giggling behind parlor doors. No fire burned in his bedroom, naturally, with him not due to arrive for another day, but his anger kept him warm enough. He used his soiled shirt to dry his wavy dark hair, his limp neckcloth to wipe at his muddied boots. Despite his words to the overfamiliar groom, he could not easily remove the high-topped footwear without assistance, so was stuck with his uncomfortable, damply clinging buckskins. Nor was he used to tying his own cravat, so Rockford always carried a spotted silk cloth to wrap loosely at his throat. He’d do for a call on a loose-moraled adventuress, once he tucked the pistol in the waistband of his sodden breeches.

Fred was waiting in the carriage drive, that nasty smirk on his face. “I guess Widow Henning’ll be getting her comeuppance, eh, m’lord?”

“You are not paid to guess,” Rockford said as he stepped into the lumbering old coach, realizing that Eleanor must have taken the family carriage. “Just to drive. Get on with it, man.” When he saw that there were no hot bricks to warm his chilled feet, he’d thought of riding up with the groom instead of in the ancient equipage, since the rain had trickled to a mere drizzle. The man’s insolent grin decided him otherwise. He’d have a word with Jake about his underling’s impertinence later, after they had recovered William. There were codes of behavior to be followed, even in the country. Every Rockford employee met the earl’s exacting standards or found himself dismissed—except, of course, for the ones who scampered off with the earl’s belongings, in the earl’s more comfortable carriage, before he noticed their transgressions.

Damn, how could he have left his estate, and his son, so long in the hands of others? Because he was busy, he answered himself, and he relied on his totty-headed sister. More fool he, for thinking a woman could act responsibly, especially a female in heat. Lud, he would have supposed Eleanor past such wanton cravings, with her fortieth birthday quickly approaching. That was a mistake, too, supposing he knew anything about women and their desires. What he did know, and cursed himself for forgetting, was that not a one of them was to be trusted.