Knight For A Lady (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 3) Page 5

  “I did, sir, and you may rest assured Miss Westacott has nothing to fear from me.”

  Which was as much as to say that her shrinking fears of his being even slightly attracted to her were groundless. Why the realisation should cause a drop in spirits Edith could not fathom. She ought to be glad. Then her attention was drawn to what Lord Hetherington was saying.

  “I have been remiss, Mr Westacott, but I hope you will forgive the lapse for I had no notion my estates encompassed this village. Nor that the vicarage is in my gift.”

  Her uncle beamed through his spectacles. “That explains it, my lord. I did wonder at the time. But indeed, indeed, you owe me no apologies. The boot, my lord, is on the other leg and I must certainly have called upon you had I not been preoccupied with my poor Ede here.”

  She caught Lord Hetherington’s glance as he looked across.

  “Our two arrivals coincided then?”

  Her uncle took the question. “No, indeed, sir. We none of us in the village heard of your coming until I met with Mr Eddows three weeks ago, by which time I had my niece on my hands. The poor girl was in a dreadful way, and I confess my attention was concentrated upon her needs.”

  “As it well ought to have been, sir. I am happy to know you did not spare me a thought under the circumstances.”

  Edith could endure no more discussion of her illness. “Pray why did you creep into the place in secrecy, my lord? Did you arrive in the dead of night and bury yourself in your castle?”

  Her uncle tutted. “Ede, my dear, what in the world are you saying?”

  She set her teeth, trying for patience. “Oh, Lord Hetherington will not take it amiss. I am sure he is growing used to my sallies.”

  “I am indeed.” A minatory glance was cast her way. “I shall, however, refrain from taking you up, Miss Westacott, until a later occasion.”

  Her lips twitched. “And you a soldier, sir? Am I to call you coward?”

  “Ede!”

  Lord Hetherington ignored the intervention, his eyes acknowledging a hit. “By no means. But a good soldier knows when to retreat.” She laughed as he turned to her uncle. “Don’t look so dismayed, sir. Your niece’s banter is refreshing. May we retire to another room?”

  Her uncle became flustered. “Yes, yes, indeed. My study, sir, if you will. But it’s most odd in you. Gracious me, yes, most odd.”

  He ushered his guest towards the door, where his lordship turned his head.

  “Au revoir, Miss Westacott. I look forward to our next bout.”

  “Gracious me, my lord! Most odd.”

  The conspiratorial look Lord Hetherington threw at her as he left proved too much for her gravity, and she was glad the door shut behind the two gentlemen as she gave way to laughter.

  It did not last. Too soon the trouble in her mind and heart returned to plague her. She recalled Lord Hetherington’s saying he found her refreshing. Or her banter at least. She might say the same of him, since he provided her with a diversion from the darkness of her thoughts.

  Her uncle was right, for he was an odd creature. Oh, not in sparring with her, for she must take the blame for provoking him in that. But from what she’d learned of him, he was more frustrated than honoured to have been raised to his new estate. Was it the loss of his military career? He was clearly a man more than capable of taking on a difficult challenge. A sense of responsibility evidently kept him from repudiating the inheritance. She must suppose it was possible to do that, to let it go to the next in line. This he had not done, taking up what he felt to be a burden and making the best of it.

  Though he was not doing that, was he? Like herself, he was chock-full of disappointment, resenting his situation and hating the necessity to endure. How odd. Was that why he was drawn to her, as she was to him?

  No, stop that at once, Edith Westacott! She might allow herself the indulgence of bandying words — exercising her wit at his expense, as he’d put it — but that was, must be, the sum of it.

  Instead, let her turn her mind to the future. She should begin her scheme of scanning the newspaper advertisements. It ought not to tax her ingenuity to do so without Uncle Lionel’s realising what she was at. It was bound to take time to find a suitable post. Better she started now than wait until her Nemesis caught up with her.

  It would be too late then to escape.

  Chapter Five

  Apart from a brief greeting on the intervening Sunday when Niall felt it incumbent upon him to attend the Reverend Westacott’s morning service, he did not encounter Miss Westacott for some days. Matters at the Court had become pressing and he had no attention to spare for doing the pretty, excusing himself from an invitation to dine again at the Manor.

  He had risen from the chair before the desk in the library, which he had made his headquarters, and was regarding his man of business with his temper on a tight rein.

  “You told me, Scoones, that probate was in train and it needed only my signature.”

  The lawyer, a spare creature with a perpetual sniff, became apologetic. “True, my lord, but these things take their own time.”

  “I have no time, Scoones.” He crossed back to the desk and picked up the polite letter he’d received two days ago, holding it up. “My bankers inform me I am in danger of outrunning the constable. My personal bankers, Scoones.”

  Another sniff preceded the fellow’s response. “It is unfortunate your lordship has been obliged to draw upon personal funds, but —”

  “Unfortunate? Sir, I no longer have a salary and the profits from the sale of my commission have dwindled to next to nothing.”

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “Your lordship’s bankers are aware, however, of your lordship’s having taken possession of the estate.”

  His anger mounting, Niall glared at the fellow. “I’m not concerned with my bankers. Do you expect the local tradesmen to survive on air? And Eddows was unable to pay the servants at the last quarter. That, sir, is unacceptable.”

  The inevitable sniff made him want to throttle the man.

  “Once probate is granted, my lord —”

  “Don’t quote me that platitude again, Scoones. I’m familiar with the dilatory tactics of lawyers and I tell you now I won’t stand for it.”

  “The matter is out of my hands, my lord. I have done my part.”

  “Then put pressure to bear on the hands who have it, sir. Good God, if we’d waited on this sort of red tape in India, we’d have been overrun by the Marathas!” Niall heard a muffled laugh from his agent, silent in the background where he stood by one of the tall bookcases, and glanced at him. “How badly are we dipped, did you say, Eddows? Tell him, if you please.”

  The sum named caused the lawyer to wince and sniff again. “A trifle, my lord, once you have access to the Hetherington funds.”

  “I dare say, but I don’t care to be behindhand with the world. Nor, I may add, does Eddows. He’s done wonders, holding the place together, even I can see that. But it will not do, Scoones.”

  The man bowed slightly. “I will do what I may to hurry things along, my lord.”

  “See you do, or I’ll find a man who will.”

  The threat caused a red stain to rise into the lawyer’s cheeks and his features tightened. “Was there anything else, my lord?”

  Niall drew in his horns with difficulty, again looking to Eddows. “Where did we put that pile of papers I need Scoones to check through?”

  “In the second drawer, my lord,” said his agent, coming to the desk and withdrawing a bulging file from the specified drawer. He offered it to Niall, who waved it towards the lawyer.

  “Take these with you, if you please, but don’t waste time on them. Probate is our first concern.”

  The lawyer took the file with another sniff. “My clerks may manage these, my lord. I will likely have to journey to the capital if I am to expedite matters.”

  “Then do so and chalk it up to me.”

  Scoones bowed himself out, Eddows in attendance, and Niall was
glad to see the back of him.

  He’d been appalled to discover the state of the finances and had written to Scoones as soon as Eddows put him in the picture. When he’d met the lawyer at his office in Warwick, Scoones had told him probate would not be delayed since the necessary papers had been put in train once they’d found the heir. The Law’s notions of delay and his were evidently vastly divergent.

  Niall sighed in defeat, turning to look at the view beyond the window, which ought to gladden the heart of any landowner. Set in a valley of woodlands, the vista encompassed well-kept lawns dotted by copses of trees, a distant waterway and cultivated fields. He must be the most ungrateful dog alive.

  Eddows came back into the room before he could pursue this thought.

  “It occurs to me, my lord, that you might with advantage employ a secretary.”

  Niall swung on the man. “And pay him in bread and cheese? For God’s sake, man, let’s not introduce any new expense!”

  The agent’s lips quirked. “I did not mean quite immediately, my lord.”

  “Thank God for that! What, if anything, can we do to ease matters until these Godforsaken lawyers manage to settle?” He flung into the chair at his desk, dropping his hands on to the leather blotter and clasping them together.

  Eddows took the chair opposite, absently drumming his fingers on the desk, his eyes resting upon the ornate inkstand in the Chinese pattern with its inset crystal bottles and pot of ready quills. At length he looked up.

  “Are your funds exhausted, my lord?”

  “It’s not quite as dire as I allowed Scoones to think, but I doubt I can keep us afloat for many weeks.”

  “Would you consider asking Lord Tazewell for a loan, my lord?”

  Startled, Niall eyed him. He’d never allowed himself to fall into debt in his life, beyond a few guineas from a friend once or twice when he had no loose change in his pockets. And he’d paid that back without delay. The thought of incurring the sort of indebtedness this estate would involve was anathema.

  “No, Eddows, I would not.”

  The agent sucked in a breath. “His lordship is a very wealthy young man, my lord. It would not incommode him.”

  “That may be so, but it makes it no better. We are in enough debt as it is.”

  “Nothing the estate cannot stand, my lord, once —”

  “Probate is granted. Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  Eddows was silent for a space but Niall doubted the fellow had any more idea than he how funds might be raised should probate be too long delayed.

  “There is one way, my lord.”

  “Indeed?” The agent’s speculative gaze intrigued him. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense? You’re not going to suggest I turn highwayman or some such thing?”

  Eddows laughed. “It has been known, my lord, but I should doubt of your principles permitting you to engage in criminal activity.”

  “You may well doubt it. Come, out with it, man.”

  “If the worst comes to the worst, my lord, you could offer to sell the village back to Lord Tazewell.”

  “Good God!”

  Niall stared at the man, turning the matter over in his mind. An ingenious notion, which would likely solve all his problems at a stroke. And he had no interest in the village.

  An image leapt into his mind. Damnation, yes he had! A very strong interest. If he sold the village, Edith Westacott would no longer be his responsibility. He spoke on the thought. “No. It’s genius, Eddows, but no.” He saw the agent’s puzzlement and amended his response. “Unless I am driven against the ropes.”

  “I meant it as an extreme measure, my lord. We must hope it will not be necessary.”

  Niall heard him only vaguely, his attention caught on his own extraordinary feeling of ownership towards Edith Westacott.

  Chapter Six

  With returning strength, Edith’s restlessness plagued her the more, much to her chagrin and dismay. She’d possessed her soul in what patience she could, allowing her uncle and Mrs Tuffin’s cosseting regime of rest and food to rule her days.

  Although she viewed the diet of extra eggs, milk, pancakes and pastries which supplemented the main meals throughout the day with a jaundiced eye, Edith was forced to acknowledge the benefit. Her skin began to look fresher, gaining a trifle of colour and her flesh was no longer as wasted.

  She occupied herself with scanning the newspapers and making a secret note in her pocket book of the details of those advertisements for positions for which she might with advantage apply. Edith told herself that until she was well enough, there was little point in actually making an application, refusing to give room to the fear that lurked beneath.

  With her uncle’s permission, she took a turn in the back garden each day, unwilling to worry him by going further afield until she could be certain she would not collapse. But she eyed with longing the woods in one direction and the road that led to the Hetherington grounds in the other, which she knew from her childhood to be both extensive and picturesque. The latter would afford the opportunity she craved to lose herself in the privacy of her own thoughts without encountering the ladies from the Manor. That she might instead encounter the new owner of those estates, Edith refused to consider. Lord Hetherington was clearly far too busy to have leisure to wander his own grounds. Nor to go visiting it seemed. Not that she wished to see him. The amusement of bantering with him might have afforded her a little relief from the darkness in which she dwelled. But what she’d really hoped for was an opportunity to ask his permission to roam in his lands.

  A foolish thought. He would not give it, would he? Not because he was ungenerous. He wouldn’t mind in the least, she was sure of that. But he would be bound to disapprove of her wandering alone, even could she convince him she was well enough, and she did not relish having to explain her need of solitude.

  However, Lord Hetherington did not appear, either at the vicarage or at the Manor when she and her uncle at last accepted an invitation to dine there.

  Edith had not been looking forward to the treat. The two ladies, unlike a certain gentleman she refused to think about, had not been remiss in coming to see how she did, arriving unannounced on two occasions and remaining with her for more than an hour each time.

  Really, she might as well have been back at the school in Bath. She felt, in their presence, more like a matron than her five and twenty years. Although Miss Burloyne, she discovered, was a couple of years older than Lady Tazewell, who was not yet nineteen.

  If she hoped for the leaven of Lord Hetherington at the feast — which she would not acknowledge to herself — she was disappointed.

  “I’m so glad you could come at last, dear Miss Westacott,” gushed her hostess. “And we are to be quite informal, you know, for it is only the two of you, so you may rest upon the day-bed in the drawing room after dinner, if you should feel tired.”

  “I hardly think I shall need to, Lady Tazewell. I am a good deal recovered.”

  “Yes, and I am so glad. You are looking so much better, and quite beautiful. Don’t you think so, Tom?”

  Edith’s cheeks warmed as the silly woman’s husband, who had been in conversation with her uncle, turned his head to glance at her. She intervened before he could speak. “I wish you won’t say anything, Lord Tazewell. It is quite ridiculous that you should be urged to compliment me.” With deftness, she turned the subject. “Miss Burloyne, how is your embroidery coming? May I be permitted to see it? Do you think you will finish it in time?”

  She’d heard all about the proposed gift on one of the ladies’ visits, and had no real interest. She’d seen enough poor efforts at stitchery to last a lifetime. But anything was better than Lady Tazewell’s effusions. She meant well, Edith knew, but she had no tact.

  The other young lady looked gratified by the attention. “I’ve made good progress, I think. Would you really like to see it?”

  The short answer was no, but Edith felt a little sorry for the girl. And a trifle guilty at using her.
“Very much, if you are willing to show it to me.”

  “Fetch it after dinner, Delia, when we leave the gentlemen to their wine.”

  “Yes, that will be best, no doubt.”

  But Edith felt chagrined on the girl’s behalf. It was evident she took pride in her work and was eager for praise. Of any kind, perhaps. It might be interesting to try and draw her out, if opportunity offered.

  And then Miss Burloyne, quite unconsciously, alienated Edith’s sympathies.

  “Such a pity Lord Hetherington cannot come tonight. We’ve not seen him for days. Have you, Miss Westacott? I wondered if he had been again to see how you do after your adventure in the woods.”

  “No, indeed.” Edith realised her tone was repressive and added a rider. “I must suppose he is tied up with his estates, since he is new to the title.”

  “Oh, yes, it is too bad,” chimed in Lady Tazewell. “We had quite counted upon him, but to no avail. I shall scold him dreadfully when we meet at last.”

  Edith found herself hoping the girl would, since she had no legitimate reason to do so herself. Ridiculous, Edith Westacott. Stop it at once! But the spectre of his missing presence would not be dismissed. Especially when it was borne in upon Edith that Miss Burloyne considered her a rival for Lord Hetherington’s favours. They were seated side by side at dinner, and Edith might indeed have carried out her plan to draw the girl out had she not shown her interests lay otherwhere.

  “I am surprised Lord Hetherington has not been to see you again, Miss Westacott. He was clearly concerned for your health.”

  Edith partook of a mouthful of artichoke pie to give herself an opportunity to think how to answer such a leading question. “As a matter of fact, ma’am, he came that day to see my uncle because he had discovered the vicarage lay in his gift.”

  “Oh, I see. Still, I am sure he must have wanted to assure himself you were well after his rescue.”

  Edith felt as if she were under interrogation. Did Miss Burloyne wish to ascertain whether she had an interest in Lord Hetherington? Or was it the reverse?