The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1) (17 page)

Lucy set off for Mr. Shepherd’s house as soon as she’d eaten some toast. The skies were a dull gray and the air a bit nippy, so she tugged her shawl tighter around her chest. Thankfully, the earl had already awakened was out plowing the remainder of her garden. In an effort to avoid him, Lucy crept out the front door and stayed out of sight, following the slightly overgrown path through the wilderness that separated Tanglewood from Knotting Tree, where Mr. Shepherd had resided for most of his adult life. Having lost his wife not long after they were married, he had moved to Askern to start anew and had become a bit of a recluse over the years. The Beresfords had befriended him and introduced him into local society, but although he attended a dinner party or soirée now and again, mostly he preferred the comforts of home, surrounded by his massive library containing every book imaginable.

Lucy had always enjoyed visiting Mr. Shepherd—he was incredibly knowledgeable on every subject—and she and her mother made an effort to stop by Knotting Tree most Wednesdays and Saturdays. Since she had been otherwise engaged last Wednesday and wasn’t quite ready to face Lord Drayson just yet, Lucy opted to visit Mr. Shepherd instead. It was Saturday, after all, and he would be expecting her.

She lifted her lavender skirts a bit higher to step over a fallen log that blocked the path and continued another hundred yards before breaking through the copse of trees to see Knotting Tree. It was a large and majestic house—one that Mr. Shepherd had said was far too cavernous for his tastes. But the moment he’d laid eyes on the expansive library, he couldn’t see himself anywhere else. “Books feed my soul,” he’d always said. “Without them, I’d be nothing but a shell.”

Lucy had always found it sad he thought that. If only he could realize that people could feed one’s soul too, he might not be as lonely. For he was lonely. His eyes lit up every time she and her mother came around and always dimmed when the time came for them to leave.

She held up her skirts once more to walk up the front steps, then raised the knocker and gave it a few quick raps. A moment or so later, the door opened, revealing Mr. Shepherd’s rather stodgy butler.

“Hello, Geoffries,” said Lucy with a bright smile. “How are you this morning?”

What was left of his dark hair stayed in exactly the same place when he bowed, as though it had been glued to his head. “I am well, Miss Beresford, thank you.”

Sometimes Lucy wondered if Geoffries ever felt unwell. He was never anything but “well” and it sometimes annoyed Lucy that the man didn’t seem to have any other moods, or perhaps he thought servants weren’t allowed to have moods.

“I’m here to see Mr. Shepherd. Is he at home?” It was a silly question, for they both knew he was. Mr. Shepherd awoke with the sun and spent every morning ensconced in his library surrounded by the things he loved most in the world.

“Yes, Miss. He is expecting you. If you will follow me, I shall show you into the library.”

“Thank you, Geoffries.” Their footsteps echoed through the large foyer, and Lucy couldn’t help but wonder if anyone could feel at home in such a house.

Geoffries opened one of the meticulously carved wooden doors leading into the library and announced, “Miss Beresford is here to see you, Mr. Shepherd.”

Mr. Shepherd immediately set down the book he was reading and stood, removing his glasses. Though the man spent most of his days seated in his favorite winged chair or at his desk, his body still looked healthy and robust. He must pace a lot, Lucy decided. That, or he had a secret, adventurous life that she knew nothing about. Anything was a possibility with Mr. Shepherd. He was nearly a decade older than Lucy’s mother, yet he still had a head full of thick, graying hair.

“Lucy, it is wonderful to see you today.” He moved forward and clasped her fingers in his. “With your mother gone, I wasn’t sure if I should expect a visit from you or not.”

“I apologize for not coming on Wednesday.”

He waved aside her words. “Never apologize for having a full and busy life. I am happy you are here now, and that is all that matters.” He gestured to a nearby settee. “Have a seat, my dear, and tell me how you have fared in your mother’s absence.”

Lucy sank down and gave Mr. Shepherd a glowing smile. “I have decided to plant my very own vegetable garden, if you can believe it.”

Mr. Shepherd took a seat next to her and lifted her hand, inspecting her fingernails and the small amount of dirt he found beneath them. “Fingernails never lie,” he said.

Lucy laughed. “I did try to remove all the dirt, but it collects in the smallest of cracks and refuses to budge. I shall have to try harder before Mother returns or she will take it upon herself to scrub them raw. I am her greatest trial, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Shepherd pointed a finger at her. “Her greatest joy too, make no mistake about that.”

“How very right you are, Mr. Shepherd. If I weren’t such a trial to her most days, then she would never fully appreciate my rare, angelic moments, would she?”

He threw back his head and laughed, as though “angelic” was an absurd way to describe her. If Lucy wasn’t so fond of Mr. Shepherd she might have taken offense.

“How you do make me laugh sometimes,” he finally said. “I have always thought you should write a book about your life. It would be the most delightful of comedies.”

A comedy of errors,
Lucy thought, especially if she included this past week’s escapades. With the way she was fumbling her life as of late, it would likely become a tragedy. A comedic tragedy. Were such tales ever written?

“Perhaps one day I shall,” she answered. “But it would be for your eyes only. And Mama’s, I suppose. The rest of the polite world would think me a hoydenish rustic not fit to breathe the same air as they.”

“How silly they would be if they did,” he said gallantly.

“You are always too kind, Mr. Shepherd. Mama and I missed you at the Bidding’s house party a fortnight ago. Why did you not come?”

“A new book about herbs arrived in the post, and I made the mistake of opening it. Once I began reading, I could not put it down.”

Lucy arched an eyebrow. “Admit it, Mr. Shepherd. You did not wish to put the book down because you did not wish to mingle and socialize or come up with yet another way to dissuade the attentions of a certain Mrs. Wallace. She has set her cap at you, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, I’m afraid. She has made her desires quite obvious,” he said with a pained expression. “I’m afraid she sees it as her duty to reform me from a recluse to a socialite.”

“By becoming your wife, no doubt,” said Lucy dryly.

“She hasn’t said as much, but judging by the way she hangs on my arm and laughs at any comment I utter, even when it isn’t remotely humorous, I would say she might be angling for something that I never intend to grant her.”

Lucy watched Mr. Shepherd closely, realizing how dear he’d become to her and her family. “Do you never mean to marry again?” she asked quietly. It had been a question she had wanted to voice many times in the past but had always lacked the courage. Today though, she couldn’t keep it from slipping out. She only hoped he wouldn’t think her impertinent. While some opinions didn’t matter at all to Lucy, his did.

Mr. Shepherd opened his mouth to respond when the door to the library opened and a footman walked in carrying a tea tray and some biscuits. Mr. Shepherd thanked the man, allowed Lucy to pour them both a cup of tea, and sipped it slowly until the footman disappeared and they were alone once more.

Lucy wondered if Mr. Shepherd would use the interruption as an excuse to talk about other things, but he didn’t. He merely said, “If I do marry again, it will be for love. Not for companionship, not for social distinction, and not for money. Only for love.”

“Do you never get lonely?”

He set down his tea and considered the question. “At times, I suppose, for I do look forward to your and Mrs. Beresford’s visits, but my books give me ample companionship. I rarely feel alone in my library.”

“Truly?” Lucy asked, for she couldn’t quite believe it. She, too, enjoyed a good book, but they could not replace human connection. The feelings she had experienced when Lord Drayson had kissed her could never be mimicked in a book, no matter how good the writer. The goose bumps on her arms, the shivers down her back, the warmth that began in her belly and spread through her entire body, warming her in a way fire never could.

“You’re blushing.” Mr. Shepherd smiled over the rim of his teacup. “I would love to see inside that lovely head of yours right now.”

Lucy set down her cup with a bit of a clatter and snatched a biscuit to nibble on. Mr. Shepherd was altogether too perceptive. She looked everywhere but at her host.

“Lucy?” he finally said. “Has something happened?”

“No,” she said a little too vehemently, especially considering she still could not meet his eyes.

He chuckled and set down his cup as well, leaning against the back of the settee with his arms behind his head. “When the cat is away the mice will play, hmm?”

Lucy could feel her cheeks grow even warmer. Yes, Mr. Shepherd was far too perceptive. Did she dare confide in him? Was that the real reason she didn’t want to miss their usual visit today—because she knew he would be a close second to her mother?

Lucy bit down on her lip for a moment before finally dragging her eyes to his. “I wouldn’t exactly call it play.”

“What would you call it then?” he questioned, watching her closely. “When the cat is away, the mice will . . . what, Lucy?”

She fiddled with the biscuit in her lap until it became a heap of crumbs. When there was nothing left to crumble, she finally blurted, “Contemplate murder, lie, steal—well, I should say borrow—and, er . . . cavort with a servant, though he’s not really a servant, he just believes he is.”

Other than his eyes widening slightly, Mr. Shepherd’s expression remained impassive. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue, and when she did not, he brushed what appeared to be a nonexistent crumb from his breeches before leaning forward and resting both elbows on his knees and fixing his gaze on her. “I couldn’t help but notice that you did not include cheating among your list of sins.”

Lucy blinked in surprise, not knowing what he meant by that. “I have not cheated, sir. At least not in the usual sense of the word.”

“Ah,” he said. “There you have it then. You are not as gone as all that. And you did say you only
contemplated
murder, correct? You didn’t actually do the deed?”

“No, sir,” said Lucy, feeling her spirits lift with his teasing. He wasn’t shocked or appalled and didn’t seem to think less of her. If only her mother would react the same way.

“Well then,” said Mr. Shepherd, rubbing his hands together. “Now that you have summarized all your sins—”

“You mean confessed,” interrupted Lucy.

“No, I mean summarized,” he said. “I am a scholar, not a vicar, and have no use for confessions. Summaries, on the other hand, are a wonderful place to begin.”

“Begin?” she asked.

“Indeed.” He nodded. “You have hooked me like a fish on a line. Now please indulge this lonely old man, for I really must hear the unabridged version of the story.”

Lucy set her crumb-filled plate on the table and clasped her fingers together. “Very well, Mr. Shepherd. I will tell you my story in its entirety on one condition. Once I am finished, you must promise not to call the authorities or send me off to Bedlam.”

His lips twitched as he replied, “You have my word.”

And so Lucy began her tale, introducing Mr. Shepherd to the dreadful man who had appeared on her doorstep only a week ago. She embellished here, exaggerated a bit there, omitted a few less important details—like a passionate kiss—and finally finished with, “So the fact of the matter is, Mr. Shepherd, that we may not be neighbors for much longer. I am fairly certain that Mother and I will need to make other living arrangements much sooner than we would like.”

Lucy couldn’t say when Mr. Shepherd’s amused expression had dwindled into something more akin to shock, but it had. Mr. Shepherd, a man of many words, seemed quite bereft at the moment. When he finally did speak, it was to say, “Good gads, Lucy. You really ought to write a book.”

“Perhaps I should,” she said, feeling a return of her earlier melancholy. A heaviness settled on her shoulders, making her slouch. Everything was going to change. There was no tidily packaged outcome leaving all involved happy and content.

“When is your mother due to return?” asked Mr. Shepherd.

“Friday next,” she said.

He heaved a long, drawn out sigh. “All things considered, I think Lord Drayson needs to find other accommodations as soon as possible. Georgina is not a sufficient chaperone, and if word were to ever get out . . .”

He appeared so serious—more so than Lucy had ever seen him. It frightened her. For if the usually sanguine Mr. Shepherd thought Lucy’s predicament so precarious, then she really had gone too far this time. It hurt that she had so thoroughly botched her first and probably only chance to assert her independence. When would she finally learn to be wise like her mother or Mr. Shepherd? When would she ever really grow up?

“I know,” Lucy managed to say. She felt like she’d regressed back to the day when she had lied about the grasshopper race to her parents and felt their disappointment in her heart. Only this time it was Mr. Shepherd who appeared disappointed. There was nothing worse than losing the respect of someone you cared about.

As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Shepherd gently picked up her hands, giving them a squeeze. “I shall come with you to explain everything to Lord Drayson if you’d like.”

“Please allow me to do it,” Lucy was quick to say. “I’m sure he would not appreciate an audience for such a conversation, and well . . . I should do this on my own.”

“Very well,” he agreed. “But you may tell him he is welcome to stay at Knotting Tree for as long as he wishes. I am here to assist you in any way I possibly can.”

“Thank you.” Lucy stood slowly, wishing she could return to the day she had opened the door to Lord Drayson. This time, she would not yell at him or condemn him or close the door on him. She would accept her fate as a grown woman, send a note to her mother with the distressing news, and thank the earl for what he and his father had done for the Beresfords thus far. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have sped off so recklessly and taken that fateful tumble from his horse.