Minx (2 page)

"Of course they don't!" Mrs. Simpson replied quickly. "Everyone looks up to you."

"I know that," Henry replied, rolling her silver-gray eyes. "They look up to me as if I were a man, and for that I'm grateful. But men don't want to marry other men, you know."

"Perhaps if you'd wear a dress...”

Henry looked down at her well-worn breeches. "I do wear a dress. When appropriate."

"I can't imagine when that is," Mrs. Simpson snorted, "since I've never seen you in one. Not even at church."

"How fortunate for me that the vicar is a most open-minded gentleman."

Simpy leveled a shrewd gaze at the younger woman.

"How fortunate for you that the vicar is overfond of the French brandy you send over once a month."

Henry pretended not to hear. "I wore a dress to Carlyle's funeral, if you recall. And to the county ball last year. And whenever we receive guests. I have at least five in my closet, thank you very much. Oh, and I also wear them to town."

"You do not."

"Well, perhaps not to our little village, but I do whenever I go to any other town. But anyone would agree that they are most impractical when I'm out and about overseeing the estate." Not to mention, Henry thought wryly, that they all looked dreadful on her.

"Well, you'd better get one on when Mr. Dunford arrives."

"I'm not completely daft, Simpy." Henry chucked the apple core across the kitchen into a bucket of scraps. It fell squarely in, and she let out a whoop of pride. "Haven't missed that bucket in months."

Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "If only someone would teach you how to be a girl."

"Viola tried," Henry replied cheekily, "and she might have succeeded if she'd lived longer. But the truth is, I like myself just fine." Most of the time, at least, she thought. Every now and then she'd see a fine lady in a gorgeous gown that fit her to perfection. Such women didn't have feet, Henry decided. They had rollers—virtually gliding along. And wherever they went, a dozen besotted men followed. Henry would wistfully stare at this entourage, imagining them mooning after her. Then she laughed. That particular dream wasn't likely to come true, and besides, she liked her life just fine, didn't she?

"Henry?" Mrs. Simpson said, leaning forward. "Henry, I was talking to you."

"Hmmm?" Henry blinked herself out of her reverie. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just thinking about what to do about the cows," she lied. "I'm not sure we've got enough room for all of them."

"You should be thinking about what to do when Mr. Dunford arrives. He did send word that it would be this afternoon, didn't he?"

"Yes, blast him."

"Henry!" Mrs. Simpson said reprovingly.

Henry shook her head and signed. "If ever there was a time for cursing, it's now, Simpy. What if he wants to take an interest in Stannage Park? Or worse—what if he wants to take charge?"

"If he does, it will be his right. He does own it, you know."

"I know, I know. More's the pity."

Mrs. Simpson shaped the dough into a loaf and then set it aside to rise. Wiping off her hands, she said, "Maybe he'll sell it. If he sold it to a local, you wouldn't have anything to worry about. Everyone knows there's nobody better to manage Stannage Park than you."

Henry hopped down from her perch on the counter, planted her hands on her hips, and began to pace across the kitchen. "He can't sell. It's entailed. If it weren't, I daresay Carlyle would have left it to me."

"Oh. Well, then you're just going to have to do your best to get along with Mr. Dunford."

"That's Lord Stannage now," Henry groaned. "Lord Stannage—owner of my home and decider of my future."

"Just what does that mean?"

"It means that he's my guardian."

"What?" Mrs. Simpson dropped her rolling pin.

"I'm his ward."

"But...but that's impossible. You don't even know the man."

Henry shrugged. "It's the way of the world, Simpy. Women haven't brains, you know. We need guardians to guide us."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me."

"I don't tell you everything, you know."

"Just about," Mrs. Simpson snorted.

Henry smiled sheepishly. It was true that she and the housekeeper were much closer than one would expect. She absentmindedly twirled her fingers around a lock of her long, brown hair, one of her few concessions to vanity. It would have been more sensible to cut it short, but it was thick and soft, and Henry just couldn't bear to part with it. Besides, it was her habit to wind it around her fingers while she was thinking hard about a problem, as she was doing now.

"Wait a minute!" she exclaimed.

"What?"

"He can't sell the place, but that doesn't mean he has to live here."

Mrs. Simpson narrowed her eyes. "I'm not certain I understand your meaning, Henry."

"We just have to make sure that he absolutely, positively doesn't want to live here. Chances are, it won't be difficult. He's probably one of those soft London sorts. But it certainly couldn't hurt to make him slightly, er, uncomfortable."

"What on earth are you thinking of, Henrietta Barrett? Putting rocks in the poor man's mattress?"

"Nothing so crude, I assure you," Henry scoffed. "We shall show him every kindness. We shall be politeness personified, but we shall endeavor to point out that he is not suited for country life. He could learn to love the role of absentee landlord. Especially if I send him quarterly profits."

"I thought you poured the profits back into the estate."

"I do, but I'll just have to split them in half. I'll send half to the new Lord Stannage and reinvest half here. I won't like doing it, but it will be better than having him in residence."

Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "Just what exactly are you planning to do to him?"

Henry twirled her finger in her hair. "I'm not certain. I'll have to give it some thought."

Mrs. Simpson looked over at a clock. "You'd better think fast, because he'll be here within the hour."

Henry walked over to the door. "I'd better wash."

"If you don't want to meet him smelling like the great outdoors," Mrs. Simpson retorted. "And not the part with flowers and honey, if you know what I mean."

Henry shot her a cheeky grin. "Will you have someone fill a bath for me?" At the housekeeper's nod, she dashed up the back stairs. Mrs. Simpson was right: she smelled rather unsavory. But then, what could one expect after a morning overseeing the construction of a new pigpen? It had been messy work, but Henry had been glad to do it—or rather, she admitted to herself, to supervise it. Getting knee-deep in muck was not exactly her cup of tea.

She stopped suddenly on the stairs, her eyes lighting up. It was not her cup of tea, but it was just the thing for the new Lord Stannage. She could even bring herself to get more actively involved in the project if it meant convincing this Dunford fellow this was what country lords did all the time.

Feeling much enthused, she bounded up the rest of the stairs to her bedroom. It would be several minutes before the tub was filled, so she picked up her hairbrush and walked over to the window to look out. Her hair had been pulled back like a pony's tail, but the wind had whipped it into snarls. She untied the ribbon; it would be easier to wash detangled.

As she pulled the brush through her hair, she stared out over the green fields surrounding the house. The sun was just beginning to set, tinting the sky like a peach. Henry sighed with love. Nothing had the power to move her as these lands did.

Then, as if timed just to spoil her perfect moment, something glinted on the horizon. Oh, God, it wasn't... It was glass, glass from a carriage window. Damn and blast—he was early. "Stupid wretch," she muttered. "Deuced inconsiderate of him." She glanced back over her shoulder. Her bath wasn't ready.

Pressing closer to the window, she peered down at the carriage that was now rolling down the drive. It was quite elegant. Mr. Dunford must have been a man of some means even before inheriting Stannage Park.

Either that or he had wealthy friends willing to loan him a conveyance. Henry stared at the scene quite unabashedly, brushing her hair all the while. Two footmen dashed out to unload the trunks. She smiled proudly. She had this house running like clockwork.

Then the carriage door opened. Without realizing it, she moved even closer to the glass of her window. A booted foot emerged. A rather nice, manly boot, Henry observed, and she knew her boots. Then it became apparent that the boot was attached to a leg that was every bit as manly as its footwear. "Oh, dear," she muttered. He wasn't going to be a weak sissy. Then the owner of the leg hopped out, and she saw him in his entirety.

She dropped her hairbrush.

"Oh, my God," she breathed. He was beautiful. No, not beautiful, she corrected, for that would imply some sort of effeminate quality, and this man certainly had none of that. He was tall, with a firmly muscled body and broad shoulders. His hair was thick and brown, slightly longer than was fashionable. And his face... Henry may have been looking down at him from fourteen feet up, but even she could see that his face was everything a face ought to be. His cheekbones were high, his nose straight and strong, and his mouth finely molded with a slight wry quality to it. She couldn't see what color his eyes were, but she had a sinking feeling they would be filled with shrewd intelligence. And he was much, much younger than she'd expected. She'd been hoping for someone in his fifties. This man couldn't be a day over thirty.

Henry groaned. This was going to be much harder than she'd anticipated. She was going to have to be very crafty indeed to fool this one. With a sigh, she reached down for her hairbrush and walked back to her bath.

As Dunford was quietly inspecting the front of his new home, a movement in an upstairs window caught his eye. The sun was glinting off the glass, but it appeared to be a girl with long, brown hair. Before he could get a better look, however, she'd turned and disappeared into the room. That was odd. No servant would be standing idly by a window at this time of day, especially with her hair unbound. He wondered briefly who she was, then let the thought drift from his mind. He'd have time enough to find out about her; right now he had more important things to attend to.

The entire staff of Stannage Park had assembled in front of the house for his inspection. There were about two dozen altogether—a small number by ton standards, but then Stannage Park was a fairly modest home for a peer of the realm. The butler, a thin man named Yates, was taking great pains to make the process as formal as possible. Dunford tried to humor him by adopting a slightly austere manner; it seemed to be what the servants expected of the new lord of the manor. It was hard to suppress a smile, however, as maid after maid bobbed a curtsy in his honor. He had never expected a title, never expected lands of his own or a household to go with them. His father had been a younger son of a younger son; God only knew how many Dunfords had had to die to put him in line for this inheritance.

After the last maid had bobbed down and up, Dunford returned his attention to the butler. "You run an excellent house, Yates, if this introduction is any indication."

Yates, who had never acquired the stone-faced facade that was a prerequisite among London butlers, flushed with pleasure. "Thank you, my lord. We do try as hard as we can, but it's Henry we have to thank."

Dunford raised a brow. "Henry?"

Yates gulped. He should have called her Miss Barrett. That's what the new Lord Stannage would expect, him being from London and all that. And he was Henry's new guardian, wasn't he? Mrs. Simpson had pulled him aside and whispered that particulartidbit in his ear not ten minutes before. "Umm, Henry is..." His voice trailed off. It was so hard to think of her as anything but Henry. "That is to say..."

But Dunford's attention had already been captured by Mrs. Simpson, who was assuring him that she had been at Stannage Park for over twenty years and knew everything about the estate—well, at least about the house—and if he needed anything...

Dunford blinked as he tried to focus on the housekeeper's words. Dimly, he sensed she was nervous. That was probably why she was rattling on like a... like a something. What, exactly, he didn't know, and what was she saying? A flash of movement in the stables caught his eye, and he allowed his gaze to wander in that direction. He waited a moment. Oh, well, he must have imagined it. He turned back to the housekeeper. She was saying something about Henry. Who was Henry? The question formed on his tongue and would have rolled off his lips if a giant pig hadn't suddenly exploded out through the partially open door of the stables.

"Holy, bloody..." Dunford breathed, unable to complete his curse. He was mesmerized by the sheer ludicrousness of the situation. The creature was hurtling across the lawn moving faster than any pig had a right to. It was an enormous porcine beast—surely that was all one could call it—this was no ordinary swine. Dunford had no doubt it would feed half the ton if taken to a proper butcher.

The pig reached the assembly of servants, and the maids shrieked, running in every possible direction. Stunned by the sudden movement, the pig stopped, raised its snout; and let out a hellish squeal—and then another, and another, and...