Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (34 page)

“Lord, Bey, how do you always know everything?”

“If I knew everything, my life would be a great deal easier. Find out what caused Lady Overton to react that way.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Brand,” said his brother with obvious forbearance, “you say you want to know nothing more about your lady, yet she is sitting in your mind like a canker. This is dangerous.”

Brand closed his eyes for a moment, knowing he should tell his brother about the dower house. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what Bey might do. “Did you find out anything from the countess during the ball?”

“If she enjoys dalliance, she does not indulge at public functions.”

“You tested her?”

“I did my best, within polite boundaries, to invite myself to her bed.”

“’Struth. Would you have gone?”

“Noblesse oblige. She’s quite skilled at that game, but seemed remarkably untempted. I guessed as much. Unless my instincts are seriously dulled, she is a virgin, though not a naive one.”

“So, not my lady. I didn’t think so. Perhaps she knows, but short of torture, there is no way to make her give up the knowledge.”

“I doubtless have the thumbscrews in my baggage somewhere….”

Brand laughed, but his mind was swirling over other things. “The inn I remember last,” he said, “the place where I was probably drugged, was near Northallerton. And I’ve just realized why the name Barlow sounds familiar. Is the estate called Rawston Glebe?”

“Yes.”

“It lies next to one I was looking over for us. I was asking questions about Rawston Glebe, since neighbors are often as important as the estate itself. Probably asking questions about the New Commonwealth. So if they murdered Mr. Crayke …”

“Especially if they knew who you were. Did they?”

Brand shrugged. “I travel incognito, but I don’t make a performance of hiding my name.”

“And I have no doubt word had already traveled north that the King is fretted about the New Commonwealth and had appointed me his investigator. Your sufferings could well be laid at my door.”

“At the Cotterites’ door, you mean. By gad, but I’ll be glad if you bring them down. And I thought George Cotter not a bad sort of man.” He glanced over. “Here comes Sir Digby and his nephew. I must go.”

Rothgar put his hand briefly on Brand’s arm. “Take care.”

“You think they might attack again? I’m not after them.”

“But they don’t know that. Be careful what you eat and drink.”

“I’ve learned that lesson.”

Brand walked over to the waiting coach, mocking himself for the joyous warmth that stirred inside. If he’d been drugged by the New Commonwealth, then at least his lady hadn’t abducted him for her pleasure. She really had rescued him.

Some of it had been honest, after all.

Most of it, in fact. She’d claimed all along to simply be taking payment for her help.

Edward Overton was already in the coach, all gray disapproval, but Sir Digby was just climbing in. He settled with a blown-out breath. “Odd’s death, I think I truly will reform my ways. My head’s pounding and all I could put in my stomach this morning was a bit of toast. I enjoy a good breakfast.”

Brand had intended to ride, but that would leave poor Sir Digby alone with the chilly-looking Cotterite. He ordered his horse tied to the coach, and climbed in, taking the backward seat without protest. He wondered briefly whether Sir Digby could have been fed something noxious last night, but accepted that it was simply overindulgence.

“Moderation does have its blessings,” he said to support Sir Digby’s good intentions.

“Are we to understand,” asked Edward Overton, “that a Malloren lives moderately?”

“Yes, Mr. Overton. No one has ever accused me of excess.”

“A virgin, are you?”

“Hey, nevvy!” Sir Digby intervened. “That’s no way to talk!”

“No,” said Brand, almost amused, “I’m not a virgin. Do you truly think
any
sex excessive?”

“Outside procreation within marriage, yes.”

“Then I assume you are a virgin.”

A little color flared in the pale face. “I was a sinner once….”

“Oh, shut up, Edward,” said Sir Digby with a groan. “My head’s pounding and you’re being damned impolite to Lord Brand. Come to that, you should be sitting with your back to the horses, humble servant that you are.”

Edward Overton pursed his lips and turned to watch the passing scenery. Brand shared a slight smile with Sir Digby. He did like the older man.

Though the rough road twisted up the dale, it took less than an hour to reach the small village by the river, and the gray stone house that
dominated it. The coach turned between the open gates that broke a high stone wall.

“Very defensible,” Brand remarked.

“Aye. Well, the place is three hundred years old,” Sir Digby said, “and there’s been times when good walls were welcome.”

The coach drew up between the house and a charming garden. Beyond, screened somewhat by trees, Brand saw stables, but not of a size for a stud.

“Rosie’s stables are outside the walls,” Sir Digby said as the steps were let down and a manservant hovered to assist him to alight. “I wonder where she is? I sent word I was bringing a guest.”

Brand wondered if the lady regretted her ejection of Mr. Overton—though he was sure it was justified. He hoped he wasn’t going to be witness to embarrassing family arguments.

Climbing down after Sir Digby, he breathed in the perfumes of a precious garden. He couldn’t resist wandering closer to the waving banks of blossom. Someone had lavished care on this over many years. It might just be an excellent gardener, but he suspected Lady Overton had played a part. The garden spoke of a very personal kind of love, and conveyed a powerful sense of sanctuary.

When Sir Digby called, he went into the cool house. “I was admiring the garden. It’s as lovely as I’ve ever seen.”

Sir Digby beamed. “My wife’s work, of course. She’s a dab hand with plants. It was just a garden before she came here. Now it’s something more.”

Brand caught a pinched look on Edward Overton’s face. “You don’t approve of gardens?”

“We do not believe in wasting good land and labor on useless plants. Not that we ban flowers altogether,” the man conceded. “There are many that have practical purposes.”

Talking to Edward Overton would never lead anywhere pleasant. Brand was surprised Lady Overton hadn’t ejected him years ago. Sir Digby, swarmed by happy dogs, had marched to the bottom of the dark oak stairs and was yelling, “Rosie! We’ve guests, love!”

A middle-aged woman in apron and cap came bustling out of the back of the house. For a moment Brand thought she was Lady Overton, for she looked the type, but she curtsied and said, “I’m sorry, Sir Digby, but Lady Overton’s not well. Ate something that didn’t agree with her.”

Brand twitched to alertness. Surely the New Commonwealth wouldn’t have need to poison the wife.

“She was well enough last night to venture out of doors,” said Edward Overton frostily.

“Happen what did it, sir,” the housekeeper said. “’Course, she wasn’t feeling quite the thing before or she’d have gone to Arradale, wouldn’t she? Can I serve you something, Sir Digby?”

Sir Digby blew out his breath and turned to Brand. “I’m sorry about this, my lord. I’ll be up and see her in a moment. Perhaps she’ll feel better later. But of course, there’s nothing to stop you checking out the stables. Her stable man can tell you anything you want to know.”

“Then I’d be glad to do that. And I won’t stay, since your lady is unwell.”

“No, no! None of that. It’s a long way from here to anywhere you’d want to be unless you go back to Arradale, and you didn’t seem in the mood for more of that sort of nonsense. You’ll stay here the night, my lord, just as we arranged. Now, do you want any refreshment, or should I send for Hextall?”

Brand declined refreshment and was soon strolling toward the stables with a quite young man who clearly knew his business and thought very well of his mistress. All in all, Brand was content to be on his way to interesting matters and out of the house while the family sorted out its problems.

Wenscote kept country hours, so he was summoned back for a meal in the late afternoon. He’d spent an enjoyable time, but was hungry. Once he’d found his room and washed, he returned to the main floor without any sight of Sir Digby’s wife. It was a shame, because he’d enjoy her opinions. The stud was run on the latest principles by well-chosen servants who thought the world of her.

“She’s sulking,” Sir Digby muttered with a frustrated scowl, drawing him into a paneled parlor. “Says she won’t come down while Edward’s here. Says he hit her. He says she’s making it up. What’s a man to do?”

“Trust his wife?”

“All the time?” Sir Digby asked dubiously. “They’re strange creatures, women.”

“Delightfully so. But if a man marries, he must trust. What sort of life will he live otherwise?”

Sir Digby looked flummoxed. “You’re something of a philosopher, my lord. But unmarried, I would point out.”

Brand gave him that telling point. And anyway, he would have married his mysterious lady, and that clearly would have been folly.

“If only William hadn’t died,” the older man said. “I tell you, my lord, there’s been no peace since!”

“Can the estate not be left elsewhere?”

“Nay, it goes to the children, males first, then females. Then to the collaterals in the same manner. It’s been that way for generations and no trouble before.”

“I see. But even so, you don’t need to see or speak to your nephew. It’s clear he cuts up your peace.”

“Aye, aye.” Sir Digby stumped over to a brimming punch bowl and scooped large amounts into two glasses, passing one to Brand. What had happened to abstemious living?

“I’m a family man at heart, my lord,” Sir Digby said after a deep drink. “Me and William, we were like father and son. I keep hoping …”

“I doubt Mr. Edward Overton will change.”

“Aye.” He sighed. “I look back now and think how it might have been if I’d married sooner and had children. But there was William such a likely lad, and a woman about the place is a lot of bother….”

“I think we all look back and think of might-have-beens.”

Sir Digby glanced over furtively. Brand hoped he wasn’t about to be confided in.

“Stone,” Sir Digby said.

He was.

“Stone?”

“The stone. Bladder. Gave me terrible grief all my life. Never thought to marry with that till Rosie. Got cut a few years back for her sake, and it’s been a mighty relief to me. But sometimes the operation … Well, you know…. I … er, wanted you to know, my lord, that I wasn’t lazy about my duties.”

“I never entertained the thought.”

“And William married a poor filly,” Sir Digby continued, filling his glass again. “Five miscarriages and two stillborn. Terrible hard on a man, that sort of thing. When she died, I didn’t press him to wed again. I still had hopes that Edward would get over this silliness.” He drained his glass and looked around. “For that matter, where the devil is he? Come on. Sit down, my lord. We’ll start without him. Dinner!” he bellowed, that clearly being notice to serve in this house, for the housekeeper hurried in with a tureen of soup.

Brand took his place, hoping food would end the confidences.

“It’s Wenscote I fret for,” Sir Digby said, tucking his serviette into his stock. “When any of this matters, I’ll be past caring, and Rosie’s provided for. But it’s bitter to think of Wenscote passing into the hands of those carping gray folk.”

Brand took soup from a lushly endowed maid who looked likely to fall out of her bodice at any moment. “They’re good farmers.”

“Aye, so I gather. But a cold sort of Christian. Christ fed the five thousand,” Sir Digby said, breaking his bread and dropping pieces in the soup, “but those lot look at good food as if it’s the devil’s work. He went to a wedding feast, didn’t He, and changed water into wine? But they don’t celebrate their weddings and don’t drink wine. How’s that following the Bible, I ask you?”

Brand attended to the soup, for there was nothing to say.

“And they’ll plow up Rosie’s garden…. Ah, there you are, Edward. You’re late!”

Edward Overton slipped into his chair. “My apologies, Uncle. I was reading my Bible.”

“With blinkers on. Eat your soup, if it isn’t too wicked for you.”

Brand was startled to see Overton actually scrutinize the soup as if judging it, but at least he did take some. As it turned out, that was all he ate, though he took two bowls and a piece of bread, consuming them slowly as the other courses came and went. He drank small beer diluted with water.

Sir Digby’s color deepened, and Brand suspected it was more at the sight of his nephew’s meal than at the effects of his own, though he was eating far too much. Brand was heartily wishing that he hadn’t accepted this invitation.

“So, Uncle,” Overton said, as he dabbed his lips and carefully folded his serviette, “I trust Aunt Rosamunde is repentant.”

“Let be, Edward.”

“‘Suffer not a woman to usurp authority over a man!’” Overton quoted. “You risk your place in heaven, Uncle, if you let a woman rule your house. I will continue to visit here.”

Sir Digby scraped the last trace of pie off his plate. “Aye, well, as for that, perhaps it would be best if you didn’t come around so often for the next little while. It’s not as if you take interest in the management of the estate.”

“It will be managed according the principles of the New Commonwealth.”

Sir Digby glared at him. “There’s no
purpose
to your coming here other than to upset my Rosie.”

“Of course it is not my purpose—”

“But it’s what you do! Give over. I don’t know why you come. We don’t please you. The food don’t please you. The maids offend you. Go do your preaching!”

Edward Overton stood abruptly. “That young woman will be the death of you, Uncle!” Brand was startled by the word “young.” “And she’s clearly no better than she should be.”

Sir Digby pushed to his feet, a deep red by now. “Don’t you dare imply—”

“I
caught
her, I tell you! Sneaking into the house, stinking of sin. And where was she when I visited a few weeks back? Gallivanting in Harrogate, was it not?”