Thunder and Roses (43 page)

“Would you like a cup of tea, or maybe something stronger?”

“No need.” Lord Michael got to his feet again and began pacing restlessly around the spacious office. “Has Lord Aberdare caused you any trouble?”

“A bit,” Madoc said, startled. “How did you know that?”

“I saw him in London and he gave me a lecture on mine safety,” Kenyon said dryly. “We disagreed—with some violence.”

Madoc snorted. “The earl doesn’t seem to realize that mining has always been a dangerous business.”

“Exactly what I told him.” His lordship turned, his expression harsh. “Has he trespassed on my property?”

“Once. I ordered him to leave and put guards on to watch the mine at night. He hasn’t been back.”

“Excellent. If Aberdare comes here again, I expect you to take all necessary measures to keep him out.”

A faint idea glimmering, Madoc said, “To be honest, even though he was making a nuisance of himself, I had some misgivings about denying the earl entrance because he’s a friend of yours.”

“Was. That is no longer the case,” Lord Michael said in a voice as chilling as the winter wind. “Aberdare has done enough damage. I will not allow him to disrupt my business as well. Inform me immediately if he tries to make trouble again.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll send the ledgers tomorrow morning.”

With a curt nod of his head, Lord Michael left the office, closing the door behind him.

Madoc sank into his chair, then took a flask of whiskey from a desk drawer and poured himself a generous measure with shaking hands. Lord Michael Kenyon had always been disconcertingly shrewd, but now he was downright menacing. Why couldn’t the bastard have gotten himself killed on the peninsula?

Madoc congratulated himself on having the good sense to keep the false ledgers up to date.

He’d go over them tonight to make sure, but there shouldn’t be anything to alert his bloody lordship. After all, the mine was making a decent profit. Not as much as it should, but there was nothing in the account books to reveal the amount of money Madoc had skimmed off.

Nonetheless, Lord Michael’s return was a disaster. When he first bought the mine and had been enthusiastically involved, the man had had a nasty habit of turning up where least expected, and he had been regrettably observant. He might notice a discrepancy between the amount of money allegedly spent on timbers and the actual condition of the mine tunnels. He might also stumble across signs of Madoc’s profitable little side venture. That would have to be halted for the time being.

As the whiskey steadied his hands, he leaned back in his chair with a scowl. The son of a Swansea shopkeeper, he’d worked hard for everything he had. For four years he’d managed the mine with as much care as if it were his own, and he’d be damned if he would meekly take orders from an
overbred
aristocrat.

Unfortunately that
overbred
aristocrat did own the company. Madoc would have to play the obedient servant for the time being. With luck, Kenyon would soon become bored and leave the valley, and things would return to normal. But if he didn’t …

Madoc didn’t bother to complete the thought, but as he refilled his whiskey glass, he began considering what he might do to improve his position. His first idea had the virtue of simplicity, though only a middling chance of success. If it failed, he would try a more complicated scheme that would require him to enlist other men. That was always a risk; however, if it became necessary, he knew where to find ruffians who would do whatever he ordered and hold their tongues afterward.

As he finished his whiskey, an unpleasant smile spread across his face. Though his first reaction to Lord Michael’s return had been anger, the more he thought, the more clearly he saw that this was the chance to get what he deserved. He was cleverer than Aberdare or Michael Kenyon, and he had worked harder. Because those two were weak fools, the time had come for George Madoc to make himself the most powerful man in the valley.

Seeing the very small
Olwen
Lloyd in pursuit of a nervous penguin, Clare put a restraining hand on the child’s arm. “Don’t frighten the poor fellow,
Olwen
. Think how upsetting it must be to have so many strangers visiting him and his friends.”

Actually, the penguins were bearing up to the invasion very well. When the bird in question saw that the child wasn’t following, it stopped waddling away and began pecking unconcernedly in the grass.
Olwen
bent over and picked up a white feather that had fallen out, then eyed the penguin with calculation. “I won’t hurt him, Miss Morgan,” she promised.

Noticing that
Olwen
was already clutching a fistful of black and white feathers, Clare asked, “Are you taking those home to show your little brother?”

The child said solemnly, “If I get enough feathers, maybe I can make my own penguin.”

Clare smiled. “Perhaps a penguin doll, but only a mama and papa penguin can make a real penguin baby.”

Olwen
sniffed. “We’ll see.”

As she went off to collect more feathers, Clare laughed, then surveyed the crowd of energetic children with satisfaction. The penguin picnic was a great success.

The day after her class meeting, she had talked to Marged about taking the children to see the creatures. Her friend had pointed out that it was almost May Day, and what better way to celebrate spring than with a picnic?

Organizing the outing had not been difficult, which was fortunate since they only had two days in which to do it. Three Aberdare wagons had been filled with straw and driven to the school. There they had taken on loads of giggling children, along with several mothers whose job it was to prevent overexcited youngsters from tumbling off. Then the wagons had lumbered back to Aberdare, across the estate, and up the track to the penguin pond.

Even the notoriously unreliable weather had cooperated and the day was sunny and warm. Not that rain would have caused a postponement; the Welsh are a hardy race, even the children. Still, blue skies and mild breezes were preferable.

Rather than ride in a wagon, Clare was on Rhonda, the gentle Welsh pony. Nicholas was also on horseback. She had been surprised when he volunteered to come on the expedition, but he had said, a twinkle in his eyes, that he wanted to protect the penguins from being loved to death.

Whatever his reasons, he was enjoying himself as much as the youngsters. As Clare watched him, she realized that he had the ability to live in the moment that was characteristic of the very young. Rarely did that trait survive into adulthood. She envied him, for she could not remember ever feeling the kind of uncomplicated pleasure she saw in his face as he fed the ecstatic penguins from a barrel of fish that he had brought.

She had known a different kind of joy, in his arms ….

As he expertly hauled a sodden child from the pond, she turned away, her face burning. Though they were living together like brother and sister, her unruly memory would not let her forget how they had been earlier.

It was better this way, she told herself forcefully. Before her mind could offer rude disagreement, she joined the other women, who were starting to dispense the mutton pies and currant cakes that had been provided by the Aberdare cook. Luckily the food baskets had been well-filled, for the penguins received more than their share of crumbs and cakes.
            

The sky was clouding over, so when everyone had eaten it was time to go home. Nicholas lifted the smallest children onto the wagons, where most of them curled up in the straw and napped like well-fed puppies. When everyone was accounted for, he
signaled
the drivers to start and the wagons rumbled from the clearing.

Nicholas and Clare were the last to leave. Because his black stallion was too high-spirited to be safe around curious children, he was riding a placid chestnut hunter. “That was great fun. We’ll have to do it again.”

She smiled as she started Rhonda after the wagons. “I’m glad you feel that way, because you don’t really have a choice. When the children go home and tell their families about this, social pressure will force you to schedule a fete that the whole village can attend. A Saturday afternoon would be best.”

He laughed. “Very well. How about Midsummer Day? If the whole village is coming, it would probably be best to have the picnic in a lower clearing and restrict the penguin viewing to smaller groups. I don’t want the greedy creatures to decide to give up fish in favor of currant cakes.”

They rode in companionable silence. Ahead, Marged’s voice lifted in a song, and soon the air filled with the fluting voices of those children who were still awake. For Clare, it was one of those perfect moments when the cup of life was full to the brim.

They were a third of the way down the mountain when Nicholas said casually, “Perhaps you haven’t heard, but yesterday Michael Kenyon returned to the valley. They say he’s staying at Bryn Manor and looking into matters at the mine.”

Clare’s head whipped around. “He’s here?”

“So they say.” He
smlled
a little. “Don’t look so horrified, Clarissima. Bryn Manor is the only house Michael owns, and it’s perfectly natural that he live in it.”

“It’s not natural if he’s decided to pursue his quarrel with you here.” Uneasily she scanned the hills around them. “He’s a dangerous man, Nicholas.”

“Yes, but also an intelligent one. He’s hardly likely to murder me when he’s the first person who would be suspected,” Nicholas said reasonably. “My guess is that when he cooled down after our duel, he remembered what I said about the mine and decided to investigate.”

Unconvinced, Clare murmured, “I hope you’re right.”

Ahead of them, there were several seconds of silence as one song ended and another one was chosen. The sky was now thoroughly gray and a rumble of distant thunder sounded. An instant later, thunder cracked again, much closer. Clare’s pony shied and Nicholas’s hunter reared into the air with a squeal.

Nicholas swore furiously as he fought to retain his seat. After wrestling his mount under control, he leaned over and slapped Rhonda on the flank. “Get around that bend ahead,” he barked. “Now!”

The pony bolted, the hunter right behind. Clare almost fell off, but after a few heart-stopping moments, she managed to regain her balance. They flew down the hill until the track curved around an
upthrust
of rocks.

Nicholas called, “You can slow down now. We should be safe here.”

Clare reined in her mount and glanced over at Nicholas. Before she could ask what had prompted their flight, she saw blood flowing down the hunter’s neck. “Merciful heaven, that was a rifle shot, not thunder!” she gasped. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Caesar was creased, but the bullet missed me.” He bent his head and examined the chestnut’s wound. “Only a graze. There will be a scar, but no real harm was done.”

“No harm done?” Clare cried. “You could have been killed!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a poacher accidentally shot someone. We were lucky.” He stroked the chestnut’s sweat-streaked neck, murmuring unintelligible words of comfort.

Clare felt like hitting him for his obtuseness. “Do you seriously think it’s a coincidence that Lord Michael returns to Penreith and a day later someone tries to shoot you?”

Nicholas regarded her calmly. “This is a coincidence, Clare. How would Michael know where to find me today?”

“Everyone in the valley knew about today’s expeditions,” she said with exasperation.

Tacitly conceding the point, Nicholas said, “If Michael wanted to shoot me, he wouldn’t do it where a stray bullet might hit a woman or a
wagonful
of children.” He pressed his handkerchief to the chestnut’s neck to stop the bleeding. As in London, he added, “Nor would he miss.”

Knowing that hysteria would not further her case, Clare said carefully, “Wouldn’t it be safer to assume that the rifleman was Lord Michael? Taking a few precautions could save your life.”