Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) (14 page)

H
e’d been sent on his way. Oh, she’d been polite about it, almost embarrassed to deny him. Gareth thought if he put in more effort, he might have made her change her mind. But he knew the value of patience. He was a man who wanted to breed and train horses, wasn’t he? Gentle them to accept the saddle. While he’d never confuse horses with women, there was a similarity. No creature should be spooked or forced before it was ready, and clearly, Annie was not ready.

And why should she be? She’d been his fiancée only a day. He laughed at the absurdity of it all as he made his way down to the village in a driving cold rain. Even the weather couldn’t discourage him. The year ahead looked a great deal brighter than it had yesterday when he woke up, his head pounding in objection. There was something to be said for the clarity he felt now, although he was damned cold. Some punch at the Silver Pony would do quite nicely, if he could persuade Mrs. Chapman to warm a bowl for him.

It was getting on to lunchtime, and Gareth’s stomach rumbled. Annie had given him a list of provisions, and actual coin to purchase them. He’d felt a little shame taking her money, but he’d better get over that. He’d pay her back the best way he knew how—with tender loving, and not-so-tender loving, if that’s what she wanted. He’d make sure she wouldn’t be sorry that she married him, even if he could not give her the life she was used to.

Traffic on the village street was nonexistent. The residents of Llanwyr were smart and snug behind their curtains, although Gareth noted some lacy movement as he made his way to the inn. He checked on Penny, who was, to his relief, fit, and ducked into the building to get something to eat. The usual silence greeted him as he entered the taproom, and he felt his usual prickle of irritation. Only Mrs. Chapman hailed him, and he swept off his wet hat and sat in the corner, waiting for his punch and a plate of mutton stew.

Next year, he’d have horses and some sheep and lamb on his own table. He’d find a way to make the holding prosperous again, help his tenants—if he still had some—improve their houses. The possibilities that Annie brought to him were just beginning to sink in, not the least of which was having someone to talk to at the Hall aside from taciturn Martin. He’d been isolated there long enough, even if it had been more or less self-imposed. Gareth knew he could have done more to brush aside the gossip, but hadn’t really cared. He’d felt as if his life was finished even months before Bronwen died.

He’d been weak. There was no other way to look at it. For a man who’d spent half his life fighting and doing his duty, he’d just been too damned exhausted after the accident to make an effort. When Cecily had reminded him from her deathbed that he still had use of two legs and had a full life in front of him, he’d snarled and locked himself away.

The old woman had been right. His broken leg had mended and he felt only the merest twinge when he got tired or the weather was damp, which of course was the regular state of affairs. But the twinge had become a part of him—he hadn’t drunk to dull
that
particular pain. He was managing with one hand, albeit awkwardly. There was the matter of his poverty, but that was about to change. His celibacy? Time would tell.

The stew was good, and he was hungry. Both he and Annie would have to study the cookery book before they could afford to hire servants if they weren’t to starve to death. If people from Llanwyr couldn’t be found to work at the Hall, he’d resort to
The London List
again. He’d been damned lucky placing that first ad, hadn’t he?

He grinned and raised his glass to Mrs. Chapman, who hurried over to his corner.

“I hear you’re about to be married, Major. It is all the talk of Llanwyr.”

“I expect so. I’ve been the object of speculation for months. This makes for a different tale, doesn’t it?”

“Does your Mrs. Mont know what she’s in for here? She seems awfully young to be a housekeeper, much less a wife to a man with your reputation.”

Leave it to Mrs. Chapman’s shrewd gaze to see right through Annie’s disguise, and her honest tongue not to sugarcoat Gareth’s situation. “I believe so. I’ve told her everything.
Everything,
” Gareth repeated. “She’s not afraid. My Annie has in mind to redeem me.”

“Then I won’t refill your glass of punch.”

Gareth opened his mouth to protest, but maybe Mrs. Chapman was right. He was warm enough now, his belly full, a pleasant wash of peace over him despite the nervous silence of the other diners. “You are right, as always. A happy new year to you, Mrs. C. I’ll go spring Penny from your stable once I’ve completed my errands.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. Mrs. Chapman snatched them up—he supposed he owed her quite a bit on account, but he would be able to settle his debts soon, and so he told her. She raised a gray eyebrow but asked no questions, for which he was grateful. The last thing he needed was gossip about his future bride’s wealth. Llanwyr would learn of it soon enough.

There was no such thing as a proper bake shop in a village this small, but he knew which goodwife to visit to complete his purchases. On impulse he bought a small fruitcake that was probably left over from Christmas, but he knew such a dessert would keep indefinitely, laced as it was with so much apple brandy it made his eyes water. He and Annie would have a feast tonight.

He went back to the inn, chilled again, but didn’t bother stopping for more punch. He wasn’t up to an argument from Mrs. Chapman, and in truth, he was anxious to get home to Annie. As he hitched Penny behind Job, Gareth wondered how she’d spent her afternoon. He pictured her still curled up in bed, her glorious hair streaming over alabaster shoulders. If he was lucky, she’d consent to more sensual play.

He’d have to be careful. Go slow. He was in the midst of constructing various scenarios of seduction when he spotted a figure on the road up ahead.

What the devil was Ian Morgan doing on his long rutted lane, scowling up at the sullen sky like a Biblical prophet? The man was bare-headed, and empty-headed if he’d walked all the way up from the village in this weather without protective clothing. Perhaps he thought the Lord would make sure such an important cog in His machine wouldn’t catch a chill.

But Gareth had done much the same the other day, when he didn’t care if he’d be blown to kingdom come. “Whoa, lads. Why are you here, Ian?”

“I came to talk some sense into the girl, but she would have none of it. So after much prayer and reflection, I’ve decided to call the banns, but I warn you, I don’t like it one bit.”

The damned hypocrite. Gareth tried to smile. “You don’t have to like it. I suppose I must thank you anyway.”

“You’d better not harm her. I will be watching—we all will.” He pointed a gloved finger at Gareth as if he wanted a bolt of lightning to burst forth and strike.

“Damn you, Ian. Don’t threaten me,” Gareth said, exasperated. “How many times must I tell you I had nothing to do with Bronwen’s death?
Your lover’s death.
You could just as easily have killed her as anyone, even if you say you have an alibi. I heard she was going to throw
you
over, too. She was planning a move toward the new Lord Lewys, was she not? Then she could move back into the abbey with the girls.”

The dark color on Ian’s face told Gareth he’d hit his mark. Parry Lewys was related in sufficient distance from her late husband so the church’s pesky consanguinity laws would hold no impediment to the marriage. Bronwen was nothing if not ambitious for herself and her daughters. It was a wonder she’d agreed to marry Gareth at all.

But then, she hadn’t known the true state of affairs at Ripton Hall. Neither had Gareth when he’d proposed. He was just so damned happy to be back home. Sleeping in a real bed. Not getting shot at or having to figure out clever ways to quell the natives and keep his troops happy. Even the cold Welsh weather had been a balm to him after sweltering in India for several years. Naïve soul that he’d been, he somehow thought he could erase his misspent years and take up with Bronwen where they’d left off.

“I did not murder her!”

“And neither did I, despite your efforts to make it look as if I did. The planted button was unworthy of you. Did you read about it in some novel?”

“I do not read such filth. The word of our Lord is enough for me.”

Gareth rolled his eyes. “You’ve obviously skipped a few verses, then, coz.”

Ian straightened his shoulders. “I do not claim to be free of sin. I rue the day I ever met Bronwen Allen. She led me into temptation, and I have been paying for it on my knees ever since.”

Gareth laughed. “She was four years old when her parents moved to Llanwyr, Ian, hardly a temptress. More like a nuisance, always running after us.”

“Well, she caught us both, didn’t she?” Ian said bitterly. “She ruined your life when she married Lord Lewys, and then made mine a living Hell.”

Gareth shook his head. “Some might say my disappointment in love was the making of me. I had a good career in the army, an honorable one. It’s only since I’ve come back home that—” He paused. What could he say about his failures? Mostly self-inflicted, although he was not responsible for his father’s gambling and poor investments, nor last summer’s poor weather and the subsequent failure of the crops. His father had mismanaged the farmland for years, and they may have failed in any case. The soil was worn out. But horses and a small flock of sheep would not be quite so fussy.

There were books in his study about farming and animal husbandry methods. Books his father had obviously never looked at. Nor had he. Add them to Mrs. Smith’s
Compleat Housewife
for future reading.

“Come. The weather’s too foul to stay out here arguing. Do you want to return to the Hall with me? Penny could manage to carry you now, I think.”

“No. I’ve no wish to be lectured by Mrs. Mont again. I don’t know what she sees in you, cousin. But being as she’s been so desperately used, you must seem like a lesser devil.”

Gareth felt a chill settle that had nothing to do with the weather. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve said too much. What she told me was in confidence. You’ll have to ask her yourself.” Ian pushed by the horses and continued down the drive, his dark hair buffeted by the wind. Gareth watched him go, taking one stubborn step after the other.

Ian was an ass, but Annie had trusted him with her secrets, and not Gareth. He didn’t like it.

Tamping back his irritation, he rode the rest of the way up to the stable block. Martin was nowhere to be found, so Gareth dealt with both horses himself, heating water for some warm mash. Penny seemed happy to be home again. The horse had meant the world to Gareth over the years, and he hated to think of a future without him. It wasn’t every animal that could adjust from the pastoral ease of the Wye Valley to the battlefields of the Iberian Peninsula and beyond. Penny had even been with him to India, and had seemed at least as happy to be back home as Gareth had once been.

He might be happy again. He’d work on it. Work on Annie to bring her happiness, too, to shoo away whatever darkness she’d experienced.

He let himself in by way of the kitchen door, the heat of the balky stove a welcome reprieve from outdoors. The room was empty of the true warmth he sought—Annie’s mischievous smile. He imagined her a red-haired hellion as a child, leading her governess on a merry chase. She had spirit still, had overturned his complacency in one short week. Lecturing him. Lecturing Ian. That took grit.

The kind of grit that made her offer to marry a stranger, a crippled drunk at that. But perhaps that was not grit but desperation.

“Annie? Anne?” he called out.

There was no response. Perhaps she was napping. Again the vision of her snuggled in her bed arose. He tapped quietly at her door with one knuckle, then pushed it open. Her bed was made, so neatly he might have bounced a shilling on it. Her trunk was closed, her hairbrush and comb lined up on the battered vanity table. He would have to scour the shut-up upstairs bedrooms and bring her furniture more worthy of her station until he could entice her to share a room with him. He knew there were still some fine pieces that his father had not sold.

Where could she be? She was supposed to be resting, taking the day off. He’d noticed no smoke rising from the chimney that serviced the parlor when he rode up, so it was unlikely that she’d sequestered herself in that room.

“Annie!” he called in a much louder voice. Ian had just been here to speak with her, so surely she was about somewhere.

He checked each of the downstairs rooms, even his disreputable study, and found no evidence that she’d spent time in any of them. No overturned book, no basket of mending, no scent of lilacs. He shouted out again as he climbed the stairs, opening the doors to bedrooms still swathed in Holland covers but beginning to be dust free after a week of Annie’s care. Gareth went to the frosted window of his mother’s room. There was no small redheaded girl tripping her way to fresh air through the slush-covered farmland, Black Mountains brooding in the distance.

He tamped down a sense of sudden panic. Annie must be somewhere within. Ah! She’d been up to the attics yesterday—maybe something had taken her fancy and she’d gone for a second look. He took the steep stairs two at a time, calling her name once more. When he reached the top of the landing, he saw her dainty footprints through the dust leading to his mother’s trunk. Nothing else in the mess of cast-off furniture and household detritus was disturbed.

Damn it. Where was she? She’d just entertained Ian, if spending any time with his shriveled soul could be called entertaining. Gareth returned to the kitchen, finding two stone mugs with tea dregs sitting in the scullery sink. He placed a hand over the kettle, which was still faintly warm. “Annie!” he shouted once more. Had Ian upset her so that she’d gone off somewhere?