The Ruin Of A Rogue (11 page)

Chapter 11

M
arcus explored his new possession. He walked every inch of his land and spoke with his tenants, a downtrodden lot who seemed pleased to have a landlord take an interest, but without much hope that he could improve their lot. They were in no position to pay higher rents and provide enough income to undertake the needed improvements to the land. As for the manor house itself, it had the potential for beauty, with fine paneling and handsome plasterwork in every room. He essayed a few repairs, but he needed skilled workers and craftsmen. Everywhere he turned he saw a problem that required money, a great deal more than he had in his ever-dwindling account.

He thought of Anne Brotherton. A tiny portion of her rents would make all the difference to Hinton Manor, yet he dismissed the notion of continuing his wooing. He could just imagine her turning up her nose, failing to see the beauty beneath the neglect and dirt. For dirty it was. True to his word, Travis had rendered Marcus’s own bedchamber spotless. But he refused to wield so much as a duster elsewhere, and the rest of the house was, to put it mildly, disgusting. Marcus had swept a couple of floors but he needed a legion of maids armed with mops and buckets and polish to render the place habitable by any form of life higher than the porcine.

His father’s treasure was ever in his mind. Since a search of Josiah Hooke’s papers revealed nothing, the only recourse was a room-by-room hunt, which he undertook methodically, removing dustsheets from solid old furniture, rifling through drawers and cupboards full of insignificant rubbish. He found broken door handles, candle stubs, scraps of paper, a box of assorted buttons, some tangled embroidery silks: the kinds of items someone might hesitate to throw away in hope they’d be useful someday. As he’d noticed before, someone else had been there, perhaps Jasper, or a hopeful thief who had broken into the empty house looking for valuables. There was little there that was portable or easily sold. His half-acknowledged dream of keeping Hinton dimmed.

At the end of the first week he came in from a morning spent trying to dam a stream that had flooded a field. He was wet and dirty and his muscles ached. Never in his life had he done so much physical work. Every night, after another simple dinner in the kitchen, he fell into bed exhausted. Lady Sandford’s sect, he had learned, did not approve of strong liquor, so the wine cellar was empty and small beer from the larder barrel was all the stimulation available. Even without the soporific aid of wine he slept heartily until woken by the gray dawn, then shrugged into his clothing and set to work. He should go into Salisbury and buy the sturdy wardrobe of a country gentleman: His European garments, purchased to impress on potential pigeons that he was a man of fashion, would not long survive rough treatment.

Another call on his purse. Perhaps it was time to cut his losses and move on. The enormity of his problems as a landowner weighed on his shoulders.

He stripped off his boots and coat, and handed them to Travis. “I’m wet and cold and need a bath,” he said, heading out of his bedchamber for the kitchen, where the bathtub and hot water resided.

“We’re running out of shirts, my lord.” The valet’s tone heralded a complaint.

“There’s a laundry next to the scullery. If you can’t manage with that there must be a washerwoman in the village. As long as she doesn’t have to come to the house I daresay she won’t turn away my custom.”

“A country laundress! I wouldn’t wish to entrust our linens to a yokel.”

“In that case you’ll have to do the washing yourself. Or is that beneath you, like dusting?” Marcus had never been so tempted to throw the man out on his ear.

“I have inspected the facility, my lord. There appears to be a leak in the pipe leading to the copper boiler. And cold water will not do.”

Marcus sighed. He’d planned to spend the afternoon searching the bedrooms. “I’ll have a look at it. Perhaps it’s something simple. No point changing into clean clothes, especially if I don’t have any.”

At the top of the stairs he heard a carriage approach the house. Aside from Oakley, no one had come to the manor since his arrival. He considered his stockinged feet and shrugged. If a member of the neighboring gentry had deigned to call, he would have to take Marcus as he found him.

The door knocker sounded as he descended to the hall. He opened the front door and stared at a familiar female figure waiting at the foot of the shallow steps.

“Lord Lithgow,” said Anne Brotherton. “I’ve come to see your Roman villa.”

The gall of the woman, to come to
his
house in
his
county and make demands! He stared down at her warm traveling dress made from first-quality wool trimmed with fur, at the impeccably clean boots, the shining hair, the arrogant countenance. She reeked of wealth and well-being while his house was falling down about his ears. His first impulse was to send her about her business with the same courtesy she had extended to him. Then he thought.

Well, well, well. A lamb had entered the wolf’s lair, and as the wolf it was his duty to fleece her. Compromising her would be pitifully easy, and not even the strictest guardian would deny the necessity for marriage. But she was on his ground now and she’d play by his rules. She no longer held all the cards, and Marcus knew he could outplay her. A couple more animal metaphors came to mind. The pigeon would be plucked, the shrew would be tamed.

L
ithgow had cut his hair. Anne wasn’t sure she preferred it that way, for a moment, then decided the crop suited him. In the days since she saw him last she’d forgotten how handsome he was. But something was wrong: He wasn’t glad to see her. Far from a beguiling smile, his mouth was set in stony displeasure. She’d expected him to welcome her with honeyed words and false blandishments. He didn’t even invite her inside.

Judging by the dilapidated state of the house and grounds, he hadn’t come into a fortune. On the contrary, possession of a rundown estate made a man more anxious to marry money. Why then, instead of assailing her with his lethal, specious charm, did he look down his shapely nose as though she were something the cat brought in?

She resisted the instinct to squirm. He should be embarrassed, answering the door himself, and in a state of undress. She’d never been at close quarters with a figure like Lithgow’s unswathed by the many layers of a gentleman’s clothing. Perhaps it was the extra advantage of height from the doorsteps. Or the uncompromising way he folded his arms that made his shoulders appear broader in the folds of his shirt. Or the way his unbuttoned collar revealed his neck, so different from a woman’s and not usually open to inspection. Tilting her head to find steel in his cat’s eyes, she inwardly quailed and looked down to find that without a coat his breeches revealed the lithe muscularity of his thighs. And she noted that he wasn’t wearing any boots.

She could think of one reason for a man to be half dressed and unshod in the middle of the day. Her cheeks grew warm. The rake!

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “You must have company.”

He knew exactly what she meant and smiled, but not amiably. “I do now. I was just thinking I needed a lady to enliven a dull afternoon. Won’t you step inside?” His lips widened into a wolfish grin.

“I’m not alone.”

“Of course. The charming and ever accommodating Miss Maldon. I believe she likes me.”

Anne backed away half a step, then summoned her courage and the arrogant tones of the heiress. “Lady Windermere is with me. I would hardly call at a gentleman’s house without a chaperone.”

His arms dropped to his sides. “Well, you’d better both come in out of the cold,” he said in his normal voice. He’d been baiting her and she had no idea why.

Glancing back she found Cynthia, halfway out of the carriage, staring at Lithgow with amazement. Then she realized something else. His buckskin breeches, waistcoat, and shirtsleeves were spattered with mud. Little as she knew of seduction, it seemed an unlikely costume. He’d probably been outside and was in the middle of changing his clothes.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she said, chastened. “We’ll be glad to wait while you complete your . . . business.”

“You haven’t interrupted anything.” He opened the door wide and ushered them into the shabbiest hall Anne had ever seen. A thick coat of grime on the windows excluded most of the light, which was probably fortunate. If the rest of the house was in a similar state he feared she’d leave with her clothes as soiled as his.

It was worse. She and Cynthia were ushered into a room in which every surface was gray with dust and festooned with cobwebs.

“Won’t you sit down?”

If the manor had any servants they were remarkably lazy. Anne stiffened her backbone and risked her gown on an old-fashioned chair. She was dying for tea, but doubted it would be forthcoming. The glib charmer, determined to please no matter what discourtesy she threw at him, had vanished. He remained standing, feet apart, solid and dignified despite his informal costume and dirty house. Clearly he had no intention of breaking the silence. She cleared her throat.

“You no doubt wonder why we are here.”

“You told me yourself. You want my villa.”

“Do you have a villa, or rather two?”

“You’re the one who told me about it.”

“I read a report in an old issue of the
Journal of Antiquities
. I suppose there may be more than one Mr. Hooke of Wiltshire.” If so she’d made a fool of herself.

“There may.”

“But is there?”

“I’m new to the county. There could be half a dozen other Hookes for all I know.”

“Have you found such a structure on your land?”

“As it happens I have. Such remains as my uncle uncovered have been largely filled in by the passage of time but I suppose it’s still there under the earth.”

“May I see it?” she asked eagerly. “The report said he found a mosaic pavement. It must be recovered. To lose such a treasure would be a tragedy.”

Instead of offering her carte blanche and every accommodation in exploring the site, he regarded her for a while, giving the matter deep consideration.

“No,” he said, finally. “I’m busy. I can’t waste time on such a trivial matter. Besides, only a fool or a madman would attempt to dig up a field at this time of year.”

“I agree that summer would be better. But I’m eager to get started and I’m not afraid of a little dirt.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded at his breeches before looking away in confusion. It wasn’t a part of the male figure a lady was supposed to stare at. “You wouldn’t have to do anything. I’ll do it myself and direct the outdoor laborers.”

“I don’t have the staff available.”

“I’ll hire some local men,” she said with more confidence than she felt. She had no idea how much it would cost and no desire at all to apply to her man of business for funds for such a purpose.

“Supposing I don’t want my villa to be dug up?”

“But you must! It’s of great historical importance.”

“So you say. All I know is that it’s of great importance to you and none at all to me.”

So much for his vaunted interest in Roman history and art.

“Could I at least visit the site? I’ve only ever read accounts of such remains and it would mean so much to see one.” She hated to beg this despicable man, but to be thwarted was not to be borne, not after she’d dragged Cynthia all this way.

He
pretended
to consider the matter. “No.” He shook his head. “I already told you. I’m too busy.”

She looked to Cynthia for support, but the latter merely shrugged. Anne was on her own, baffled, and at a temporary standstill.

Lithgow ambled over to an ancient oak cabinet and opened a drawer. “Here. You may look at these. I assume they are something my uncle found.”

Anne almost snatched the small wooden box from him. “Do you realize what these are?” She examined the little tiles with trembling fingers. “Parts of a mosaic pavement. We must go and find it. It would be tragic if it were permitted to be further damaged.”

“I doubt the condition will decline further in the next year or two. Once I have attended to more vital matters, like the state of the land and the prosperity of my tenants, I might think about having a look at it.”

“I’ll buy the estate from you!” A rash offer. Lord knew how she would persuade Morrissey and the other trustees to invest in a wretched little property, but she was prepared to try. Just for once it would be nice to gain some personal benefit from her wealth.

“Hinton Manor is not for sale.”

“You mean to remain here?” she asked. She cast her eyes around the dirt, the crumbling plaster, the cold, soot-encrusted fireplace.

“I haven’t decided what I shall do in the long term, but—” He broke off, stroked his chin, looked around the room and up at the ceiling until Anne was ready to burst. “But we could come to an arrangement satisfactory to both.”

“Name it,” she snapped.

“I will allow you to explore the Roman site, without any help from my servants—”

“I accept!”

“On one condition.”

“What?” She hoped she had enough money on hand.