Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (14 page)

She gathered her wits, searching his face for clues. “You don’t strike me as a Puritan.”

“I suppose I don’t,” he said, with a laugh. “And I’m not. But I don’t much care for the excesses of today either. The government has restricted sale of gin, yet poor people still drink too much.”

She put the plate down with a
clink.
“So it’s allowable for the higher orders to drown their troubles in spirits, but not for the common man?”

“Are you a radical? If a simple man drinks every day, likely his children will starve. If a nobleman does it, his dependents may not suffer unless he games at the same time.”

She couldn’t resist. “What you’re saying, of course, is that noblemen are useless.”

His lips twitched at what he clearly thought was a private joke. “Only some of them, dear lady.”

“And what of the nobleman who employs you? Is he an idle drunkard who knows not what he owns?”

More humor. “Assuredly not.”

“Yet you were found drunk.”

“I told you I don’t drink to excess.”

“Will he dismiss you, then?”

He put down his cup and looked around. “Where do you keep the rack and thumbscrews? This is clearly an inquisition.”

Rosamunde wondered why she had turned teasing into attack. “I’m sorry. But you did appear to be drunk. It puzzles me.”

He gave a rueful grimace. “It puzzles me, too, for it isn’t in my nature. I have this vague memory of being in a tavern, but that doesn’t mean I was there to drink deep. It’s a place to meet others, or to eat a simple meal.”

“And there are no taverns within miles of where I found you.”

“Then we have a mystery to add to the many.” He shrugged. “I doubt it’s important.”

“Even though someone moved you, drunk, from there to the cold, wet moors?”

“Perhaps I rode. I had a horse. A dun gelding hired in Thirsk. Has such a horse turned up around here?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“He might have returned to more familiar parts.”

“But why would you have been coming up here?”

“Where is here?”

She almost told the truth. “G—Gillsett.” Of course, she had to stammer!

“Don’t lie,” he said without heat. “You want to keep your identity secret. I accept that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. She was miserable. She’d always regarded truth as precious, as part of the deepest, warmest bonds.
You don’t even want such a bond with this man
, her stern part said.

Yes, I do
, whispered folly.

“Where will you want to go tomorrow?” she asked, reminding folly that tomorrow this would be over.

“To Thirsk. I have an appointment to keep there. I likely will be out of a job if I let matters run wild much longer.”

“You do suffer from a harsh master, then.”

“Harsh? An understatement! I only pray he never hear of my misadventure.”

“He would turn you off?”

“He’d turn me inside out. Clearly, I was stupid somewhere.”

He was probably speaking of his brother, the daunting and vengeful marquess. “He won’t find out from me, at least.” Rosamunde rose, knowing she must leave, but miserable over it. Or rather, miserable over this talk of him leaving.

Tomorrow.

Forever.

It seemed wrong that this could end so absolutely, so soon.

“Is our time up?” he asked, as if responding to her secret thoughts. She let herself believe that he minded, too, just a little.

“Not quite. I have a book that might interest you.”

Brand watched her leave, irritated at himself over the wistful note he’d heard in his own voice. She was a married woman, and he wasn’t going to carry her like a hump on his back when he left.

His interest in her sprang from boredom. Nothing more.

He turned his mind to the thought of his brother’s reaction if he ever learned of all this. Bey would be scathing if he heard that a brother of his had let himself be drugged.

That had to be the explanation, however. Probably some form of opium. Plain drink couldn’t have had the effect he’d suffered. So, he thought, leaning back and nibbling another biscuit, who had drugged him? And why? If only he could remember whom he’d been drinking with.

The money in his pockets had gone, but it had been a small amount, not worth a plot. Anyway, thieves wouldn’t take the trouble to carry him so far from the place of attack.

And why, plague take it, had his mysterious lady been talking to George Cotter?

She returned with a large, leatherbound volume, clutched rather like a shield. “I don’t know if this will be of interest. It’s agricultural.”

“My bread and butter, dear lady.”

“Oh. I suppose so.” She walked over and thrust it at him. “It’s new, so you may not have read it.”

He looked at the title. “
Planned Breeding Programs
—
A Gentleman’s Guide
. Interesting.” Opening the book, he added, “So new, the pages are uncut. I will need a knife.”

She left and returned in a moment with a razor-sharp, long-bladed one designed for just this purpose. He could very easily have slit her throat with it. He didn’t point that out, but it reassured him. She couldn’t be up to serious mischief and be so naive.

He wasn’t even certain Cotter was a wrong ’un, but her conversation with the man bothered him. Thus far, he hadn’t been more than idly curious about his gentle jailer, but now he needed to know more.

“Is this book a gift for someone?” he asked, slitting pages.

“For myself.”

That did surprise him. “You breed stock?”

A movement, a slight rearrangement of spine and shoulders, told him she was uncomfortable with the question. Not surprising. It was hardly a conventional occupation of ladies. “It is an interest of mine, yes.”

“Sheep? Cattle?”

“Sheep and horses.”

“Racehorses?” Intriguing.

“No. Draft horses.”

Astonishing. He loved being astonished. “I have a soft spot for the mighty beasts.”

She sank into a chair, perhaps without realizing it. “I think they’re beautiful. I laugh at racehorses with their spindly legs and nervy temperament.”

“Common spirits? I don’t think you have a nervy temperament.”

“Are you saying I’m like a cart horse, sir?”

He laughed. “Only in their most admirable qualities. I know, for example, that your legs are not at all spindly.”

She pushed down her skirt, as if anxious that she might be showing her legs. She was a conundrum, his captor. He wished he could linger here a month to discover all her secrets. To keep her longer, and to test her a little, he asked about the most famous authority on animal breeding. “What do you think of Bakewell?”

“Very little, which seems to be his purpose, for he keeps his business and his methods to himself. I gather he’s doing good work with horses, but that his improved sheep are too fatty for meat.”

“Perhaps we’ll find use for mutton fat. Do you breed for meat?”

“Not primarily.”

“The new factories and mines mean there’s strong demand for it.”

“I know, but it doesn’t interest me.”

“Wool, then.”

She nodded firmly. “I’m trying to improve softness without sacrificing the sturdiness of the beasts. I’ve imported stock from Ireland, but the quality of the wool seems more dependent on the living conditions of the animals than on the breeding.”

“Good food, coarse wool. But there’s plenty of need for coarser wool, and the staple’s longer.”

“There’s also need for the fine. England is a great wool-producing nation, but we import vast quantities of the finer types. Don’t you think we should produce wool for fine shawls as well as worsteds and blankets?”

“Definitely.”

She had leaned forward in her enthusiasm, but now she stiffened. “You’re laughing at me!”

He raised a hand. “No. I’m delighted by your excitement. What about the horses? Are you using continental stock?”

“Lord—” She noticeably broke off. “Another breeder here has a Friesian stallion. I’m breeding to that with native draft stock, but I’m thinking of bringing in a stallion of my own. We need more strong horses, especially up here. Oxen are useless.”

Did she run her own estate? What of her elderly husband? Perhaps he was feeble, so she’d taken over, and was proving to be an admirably managing female.

“Are you thinking to enclose any of the property?”

Again, she nodded, in that definite way quite contrary to her flustered behavior about more intimate matters. “I think the tenants will agree. The days of strip fields and open grazing are over. Are your employer’s estates enclosed?”

“Some. He has a great many estates. As you say, it’s usually the best way. How can anyone cope with a landholding broken into little pieces scattered over a large area?”

“And with all the animals grazing together. How can anyone run a breeding program … ?”

They fell into lively conversation until a chiming clock somewhere in the house caught her attention. It was sometime later that she shot to her feet as if someone had stuck a pin in her behind. “I can’t sit here talking all day! What will people think?” She even put her hand to her mask, as if fearing it might have melted away.

As perhaps, in a sense, it had. Enjoying her company, he’d felt as if he’d seen through the cloth to the features underneath. That he really knew her.

He rose, wanting to ask her to stay, but speaking from his nobler side. “Knowing people, they’ll think the worst.”

She almost flew to the door. Hand on the knob, however, she paused like a wary bird. “I’m moving elsewhere for the night.”

“Ah.” The disappointment was disturbingly sharp. “I am truly sorry about that.”

Like a bird pecking, she added, “I’m coming back. After dark. I think.”

“Do.” Against his will, he added, “Please …”

But by then she had completed her flight and the lock clicked shut. Had she heard the betraying word? He half hoped not. This was madness, and he knew it.

A marvelous kind of madness, however. A marvelous adventure. He should write it up as a book—
A Gentleman’s Adventures in the Yorkshire Dales
.

What was the ending, though?

No glorious triumph, alas. It ended tomorrow when he settled into his mundane tasks, and she returned to her elderly husband.

He picked up her book and opened it, treasuring the unexpected meeting of minds it represented, and the charming, enticing differences
that went along with it. She shared his beliefs and aims, but was hindered by a softer heart. She wanted to look after every single person who worked on her land, even the feckless. He doubted she was ruthless enough to make notable steps in animal breeding. She wouldn’t cull the weak.

None of that made him like or admire her the less.

And was all this to end at dawn?

It must. She was married. This had only ever been a fleeting visit to a forbidden, secret place. Tomorrow he must leave. Doubtless stacks of work awaited him, and he had an appointment in Thirsk he must not miss.

He’d not pursue his mysterious lady, but he’d have to look into the matter of his abduction. On the surface, it made no sense. He’d been involved in a routine inspection of a property he might want to buy.

In his usual habit for such trips, he’d dressed simply and ridden to the area on a hired horse. He liked to find out the true situation, not the one presented by an anxious seller. He didn’t deceive anyone on these trips, though, and even used his own name. The sort of people he was interested in talking to—innkeepers, farmers’ wives, laborers, craftsmen—wouldn’t recognize the name Malloren. If they mistook it for Mallory, however, he didn’t correct them.

He’d not expected any surprises, for his local agent had looked into the property thoroughly. However, now that he thought of it, as part of his enquiries, he had been asking questions about a neighboring estate. Rawston Glebe had recently been taken over by the New Commonwealth.

As he’d said to his lady, he didn’t totally disagree with the Cotterites. They were good farmers, and they took in farm workers displaced by the changes in England. Apart from the inclusion of families, their strict communal life was almost a revival of the great medieval monasteries of this area—Jervaulx, Rievaulx, Fountains—and no one could deny that the monks had created agricultural prosperity out of harsh lands.

The only thing Brand had against the New Commonwealth was that when they took over an estate, they forced evictions on those unwilling to convert. It wasn’t right for people to be turned off their land, land they’d worked for generations. Moreover, stability and continuity bound together the English countryside. It served no good purpose to disturb things, and the Cotterites were turning the north upside down.

Of course the current tenants were allowed to stay, but only if they followed the sect’s strict teachings. Brand didn’t much care for fashionable decadence, but there was no sin in laughter and play.

His mind slid to his mysterious lady, who seemed a stranger to laughter and play. Could she be a Cotterite? She didn’t wear their uniform, but her dress was more modest than fashionable. If there was some
connection between the New Commonwealth and his abduction, might she have been part of it?

He shook his head, unable to see George Cotter condoning unlawful sex. If Cotter wasn’t at least honest in his beliefs, Brand had lost all judgment of people.

Brand had found the man surprisingly intelligent and undoubtedly sincere. He argued passionately and cogently that land wasted on parks and pleasure gardens should be given to sober, hardworking tenants. That was hard to argue with. In fact, Brand had experienced a similar meeting of minds with Cotter as with his mysterious lady. Cotter, too, was an ardent but clear-sighted believer in agricultural improvement. As with the monasteries, he was using his disciplined followers to bring about change far faster than usual.

Faster than Brand could, having to deal with the countrymen’s stubborn adherence to ways of the past. He was often pushed to his limit by phrases such as: “What were good enough for our fathers should be good enough for us, milord.” And: “That’s not the way we’re used to doing things round here, milord.”