Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (2 page)

Sarah looked around, expecting to see the squire’s boys, or Tom Scar, who did odd jobs in the neighborhood and could always be seen walking this way at end of day.

But there was no one there. Just the grass and bracken and never-ending wind, which tugged impatiently at her skirts and tossed her hair back in her eyes.

Could it be her mysterious benefactor again? For the last few days she had suspected that she had a guest on the estate. She had been missing eggs and once found evidence of a rabbit dinner. Probably a soldier, discharged after ten bloody years of war and left with no job or home. He wasn’t the first. He certainly wouldn’t be the last.

At least he had attempted to repay the estate’s meager bounty. Sarah had come out each morning to find some small task done for her. The breach in a dry stone wall mended. Chicken feed spread, old tack repaired, a lost scythe not only found but sharpened. And now, Willoughby.

Another aggrieved snort recalled her attention. Willoughby was looking at her with mournful eyes. Well, Sarah thought he was. It was difficult to see past those ears. She walked over to let him loose and was butted for her troubles.

Whoever had tied him had known what they were about. It took ten minutes of being goosed by an anxious pig to get the knot loose. Wrapping the rope around one fist, Sarah reached into her apron pocket for the piece of coarse blanket she had plucked from the barn. Fluttering it in front of the pig’s nose, she tugged at the rope. Willoughby gave a happy little squeal and nudged her so hard she almost toppled over. She chuckled. It never failed. She pulled him into motion, and he followed, docile as a pet pug.

It had been Sarah’s greatest stroke of genius. Willoughby might not be able to see all that well, but a pig’s sense of smell was acute. So Sarah collected items belonging to Willoughby’s current
amour
to nudge him along. Her only objection was the fact that her pig couldn’t tell the difference between her and the squire’s mare.

“Come along, young man,” she coaxed, striding back through the spinney with him in tow. “You truly must cease this wandering. Your wife and babies are waiting for you. Besides, I have four very pretty sows coming next week to make your acquaintance, and you needs must be here. It is iniquitous, I know, but I need that money to tide us over the winter.”

If Willoughby finally did manage to tumble off that cliff, she would have no money at all to make it through. She would have no pig to sire new babies, and no stud fees. So the first thing she must do when she returned was fix the pen. Then she still had lost sheep and a diverted stream to attend to before finishing her evening chores.

As she did every autumn, when the farmyard was perennially muddy and her skin chapped, Sarah wished she were somewhere else. It wasn’t as bad in spring or summer, because then she had growing things, new babies to raise, the comfort of wildflowers and warm skies. Every spring she imagined things could be better. Every autumn she admitted the truth. She was caught here at Fairbourne, and here she would stay. She had nowhere else to go.

She wouldn’t think of that, though. It served no purpose, except to eat away at her heart. Tucking the bit of blanket on the fence where Willoughby could smell it, she tied him up with a scratch of the ears and an admonition to behave. Then, rewrapping her muffler against the chill, she went about her work, ending with a visit to the henhouse.

It was when she slipped her hand beneath Edna the hen that she knew for certain who had tied up Willoughby. Edna was her best layer, and yet the box was nearly empty. Sarah checked Martha and Mary and came up with similar results. Someone had taken their eggs. And it hadn’t been a fox, or at least one of her birds would have been a pile of bloody feathers.

Well, Sarah thought, collecting what was left. Her visitor had earned his meal. She wished she had seen him, though. She could have at least rewarded him with a few scones for rescuing Willoughby from sure disaster.

On second thought, she considered with her first real smile of the day, maybe not scones. They would be Peg’s scones, and Peg’s scones could be used for artillery practice. No one should be rewarded that way.

Sarah might have thought no more of the matter if the men hadn’t ridden up. She was just shoving the chicken coop door closed when she heard horses approaching over the rise from the Pinhay Road. She sighed. Now what?

Giving up the idea that she would eat anytime soon, she gave the coop a final kick and strode off toward the approaching riders. She was just passing the old dairy when she caught movement out the corner of her eye. A shadow, nothing more, by the back wall. But a big shadow. One that seemed to be sitting on the ground, with long legs and shoulders the size of a Yule log.

It didn’t even occur to her that it could be anyone but her benefactor. She was about to call to him when the riders crested the hill and she recognized their leader.

“Oh, no,” she muttered, her heart sinking straight to her half-boots. This was not the time to betray the existence of the man who had saved her pig. She closed her mouth and walked straight past.

There were six riders in all, four of them dressed in the motley remnants of their old regiments. Foot soldiers, by the way they rode. Not very good ones, if the company they kept was any indication. Ragged, scruffy, and slouching, they rode with rifles slung over their shoulders and knives in their boots.

Sarah might have dismissed them as unimportant if they had been led by anyone but her husband’s cousin, Martin Clarke. She knew better than to think Martin wished her well. Martin wished her to the devil, just as she wished him.

A thin, middling man with sparse sandy hair and bulging eyes, Martin had the harried, petulant air of an ineffectual law clerk. Sarah knew better. Martin was as ineffectual as the tides.

Just as Sarah knew he would, he trotted past the great front door and toward the outbuildings where he knew he could find her at this time of day. She stood where she was, egg pail in hand, striving for calm. Martin was appearing far too frequently lately.

Damn you, Boswell,
she thought, long since worn past propriety.
How could you have left me to face this alone?

“Martin,” she greeted Boswell’s cousin as he pulled his horse to a skidding halt within feet of her. She felt sorry for the horse, a short-boned bay that bore the scars of Martin’s spurs.

“Sarah,” Martin snapped in a curiously deep voice.

He did not bow or tip his hat. Martin knew exactly what she was due and wasn’t about to let her forget it. Sarah wished she had at least had the chance to tidy her hair before facing off with him. She hated feeling at a disadvantage.

“Lady Clarke,” the sixth man said in his booming, jovial voice.

Sarah’s smile was genuine for the squire, who sat at Martin’s left on an ungainly-looking sorrel mare. “Squire,” she greeted him, walking up to rub the horse’s nose. “You’ve brought our Maizie to call, have you? How are you, my pretty?”

Pretty was not really a word one should use for Maizie. As sturdy as a stone house, she was all of seventeen hands, with a Roman head and a shambling gait. She was also the best hunter in the district, and of a size to carry Squire’s massive girth.

Maizie’s arrival was met by a thud and a long, mournful squeal from the pigpen.

The squire laughed with his whole body. “Still in love, is he?”

Sarah grinned back. “Caught him not an hour ago trying to sneak over for a tryst.”

The squire chuckled. “It’s good someone loves my girl,” he said with an affectionate smack to the horse’s neck. Maizie nuzzled Sarah’s apron and was rewarded with an old fall apple. Willoughby sounded as if he were dying from anguish.

“Thank you for the ale you sent over, Squire,” Sarah said. “It was much enjoyed. Even the dowager had a small tot after coming in from one of her painting afternoons.”

“Excellent,” he said with a big smile. “Excellent. Everyone is well here, I hope? Saw Lady Clarke and Mizz Fitchwater out along the Undercliff with their paints and hammers. They looked to be in rude health.”

Sarah smiled. “They are. I will tell them you asked after them.”

“This isn’t a social call,” Martin interrupted, shifting in his saddle.

Sarah kept her smile, even though just the sight of Martin sent her heart skidding around in dread. “To what do I owe the honor then, gentlemen?”

“Have you seen any strangers around?” the squire asked, leaning forward. “There’s been some theft and vandalism in the area. Stolen chickens and the like.”

“Oh, that,” Sarah said with a wave of her hand. “Of course. He’s taken my eggs.”

Martin almost came off his horse. “Who?”

Shading her eyes with her hand, Sarah smiled up at him. “Who? Don’t you mean what? Unless you name your foxes.”

That obviously wasn’t the answer he’d been looking for. “Fox? Bah! I’m talking about a man. Probably one of those damned thievin’ soldiers wandering the roads preying on good people.”

Did he truly not notice how his own men scowled at him? Men who undoubtedly had wandered the roads themselves? Well, Sarah thought, if she had had any intention of acknowledging her surprise visitor, Martin’s words disabused her of the notion. She wouldn’t trust Napoleon himself to her cousin’s care.

“Not unless your soldier has four feet and had a long bushy tail,” she said, genially. “But I doubt he would fit the uniform.”

The squire, still patting his Maizie, let out a great guffaw. “We’ll get your fox for you, Lady Clarke,” he promised. “Not great hunt country here. But we do. We do.”

“Kind of you, Squire. I am certain the girls will be grateful. You know how fatched Mary and Martha can get when their routine is disturbed.”

“Martha . . .” Martin was getting redder by the minute. “Why haven’t I heard about this? You boarding people here? What would Boswell say?”

Sarah tilted her head. “I imagine he’d say that he was glad for the eggs every morning for breakfast, Martin.”

For a second she thought Martin might have a seizure, right there on his gelding. “You’re not going to get away with abusing your privilege much longer, missy,” he snapped. “This land is . . .”

“Boswell’s,” she said flatly. “Not yours until we know he won’t come back.”

“Bah!” Martin huffed. “It’s been almost four months, girl. If he was coming back, he’d be here.”

Sarah stood very still, grief and guilt swamping even the fear. Instinctively her gaze wandered over to what she called Boswell’s arbor, a little sitting area by the cliff with a lovely view of the ocean. Boswell had loved sitting there, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He had planted all the roses and fitted the latticework overhead.

His roses, though, were dying. His entire estate was dying, and Sarah was no longer certain she could save it.

“He will be back, Martin,” she said, throwing as much conviction as she could into her voice. “You’ll see. Men are returning from Belgium all the time. The battle was so terrible it will be months yet before we learn the final toll from Waterloo.”

It was the squire who brought their attention back with a sharp
harrumph.

Sarah blushed. “My apologies, Squire,” she said. “You did not come here to be annoyed by our petty grievances. As for your question, I have seen no one here.”

“We’ve also been told to keep an eye out for a big man,” the squire said. “Red hair. Scottish. Don’t know that it’s the same man that’s raiding the henhouses, but you should keep an eye out anyway.”

Sarah was already shaking her head. After all, she hadn’t seen anything but a shadow. “Wasn’t it a Scot who tried to shoot Wellington? I saw the posters in Lyme Regis. I thought he was dead.”

The squire shrugged. “We’ve been asked to make sure.”

“I’m sure you won’t mind if we search the property,” Martin challenged.

He was already dismounting. Sarah’s heart skidded, and her palms went damp. “Of course not,” she said with a faint wave. “Start with the house. I believe the dowager will be just as delighted to see you as the last time you surprised her.”

Martin was already on the ground and heading toward the house. With Sarah’s words, he stopped cold. Sarah refused to smile, even though the memory of Lady Clarke’s last harangue still amused her.

“Just the outbuildings,” he amended, motioning to the men to follow him.

Sarah was a heartbeat shy of protesting when she heard it. Willoughby. The thudding turned into a great crash and the heartfelt squeals turned into a near-scream of triumph. She turned just in time to jump free as the pig came galloping across the yard, six hundred pounds of unrestrained passion headed straight for Squire’s horse.

Unfortunately, Martin was standing between Willoughby and his true love. And Sarah sincerely doubted that the pig could see the man in his headlong dash to bliss. Sarah called out a warning. Martin stood frozen on the spot, as if staring down the specter of death. Howling with laughter, the squire swung Maizie about.

It was all over in a moment. Squire leapt from Maizie and gave her a good crack on the rump. With a flirtatious toss of the head and a whinny, the mare took off down the lane, Willoughby in hot pursuit. But not before the boar had run right over Martin, leaving him flat in the mud with hoofprints marching straight up his best robin’s egg superfine and white linen. Sarah tried so hard to keep a straight face. The other men weren’t so restrained, slapping legs and laughing at the man who’d brought them as they swung their horses around and charged down the lane after the pig.