Emily Hendrickson (2 page)

It was but a little matter to take the mail to the next town, then hire a post chaise to travel west to another sizable town, where they spent the night in a large and comfortable inn. She made as little fuss as possible, not wishing to be a memorable guest.

Thus she continued from city to city, alternating with the mail and the post chaise, far preferring the luxury of the post chaise to the dubious charm of the mail coach and those who traveled within.

“I be getting dizzy what with changing coaches and all,” Pansy complained several days later after they had paid off the chaise and entered a small but clean-looking village inn.

Juliet had miscalculated. There was not only a distinct lack of accommodation to be had, but she doubted if the mail would stop here. Yet the hour was late, and she refused to travel by night, fearing a highwayman and the loss of her carefully guarded money. Even Pansy wasn’t sure where all of it was hidden. Juliet had prudently divided it into a number of concealed places—her trunk, the sole of her left half boot, her reticule, and her large fur muff. Still, she preferred to keep the sum for her own needs, not hand it to some ruffian along with her pearls.

She sank into reflective thought while she consumed a cup of tea in the neat little parlor she shared with another couple, the inn not given to private parlors. The conversation of the other couple reached her ears.

“La,” said the woman, “what a pity he never comes within hide nor hair of the house his dear grandmama gave him. “‘Tis a terrible shame; such a waste of a good house it is,” the woman exclaimed.

“Viscount Hawkswood doubtless has so many properties he can’t remember this little place,” her partner grumbled.

“Little!” the woman cried to Juliet’s fascination. “I scarcely think it to be a
little
house, my dear sir. There must be at the very least eight bedrooms, plus a handsome suite for his use— and his wife if he has one, which I doubt.”

“He could be wed for all we know—not that it is any of our business, may I remind you,” her spouse testily responded.

“Well, I still say it is a dreadful shame that such a pretty house is closed up.”

“You just want a viscountess in the neighborhood,” the husband claimed with a wry twist of a smile.

“Now, Mr. Ogleby, the things you say!” she cried in affronted dignity.

At this point Juliet had a lightning inspiration. She rose from her little table and crossed to where the couple had sat in argument while consuming their coffee and rolls.

The gentleman rose from his place as she paused before them, looking at her with undisguised curiosity.

“I do beg your pardon,” she said softly with her pretty manners and best smile firmly in place. “I could not but help overhear what you said about the house belonging to Viscount Hawkswood. It is nearby? I am on my way there, and I must confess that I am completely at a loss as to where it might be.” She bowed her head and contrived to look very humble as she added, “I dismissed the driver of my post chaise when he could not find the place.”

“And now you need to reach the house before dark,” the woman who was doubtless Mrs. Ogleby exclaimed. “And you are...?”

“I am Lady Hawkswood. My husband has remained in London while I sought the tranquility of the country. I do not care for the smells and noise of the city, you see,” Juliet added shyly. She darted a glance at Mr. Ogleby to see if he swallowed her tale, and it seemed he did.

He exchanged a look with his wife, then said, “‘Tis not an easy house to locate unless you know the area. I daresay your driver was a stranger to these parts. Please allow my wife and me to escort you to your home.”

“Oh, indeed, yes. You must be worn to a Hinder, having traveled all the way from London!” Mrs. Ogleby cried, sympathy clear in her voice. She rose from her table, obviously pleased to make the acquaintance of the very woman she had so desired to see. She would be the first to have met the pretty Lady Hawkswood and would be able to lord it over Mrs. Tackley, who claimed to have known the old viscountess before she moved away.

Within less time than Juliet would have believed possible, she was ushered into a very neat landau with Pansy settled alongside the coachman. The luggage was to be brought later by the landlord’s son, who looked smitten when he clapped eyes on Juliet. One shy smile from her and the trunk was stowed on his wagon with all speed.

“Now my dear, we will have you at Hawkswood Manor in no time at all,” Mrs. Ogleby gushed.

Juliet merely smiled and permitted the older lady to natter on regarding the sights to be seen in this area as well as the many little assemblies and church-related functions that Juliet would doubtless want to join.

“Will Lord Hawkswood be joining you soon?” Mr. Ogleby inquired.

“No!” Juliet said emphatically, then modified her reply by adding, “I believe my husband finds the country not much to his liking.” She fastened her gaze on her lap and thought she might just get away with the masquerade once she passed this hurdle.

The house was all that Mrs. Ogleby had claimed and more. The housekeeper met them at the door, ready to repel invaders if needs be, but was clearly thrilled to welcome the new mistress of the house. She bustled about, proudly pointing out the better points of the interior until Juliet espied a harp in the corner of the snug drawing room.

“A harp! Of all things delightful. I adore to play a harp,” she said happily. Things were truly looking up. She had a roof over her head, a couple who accepted her in her new role, and a harp to keep her company. “Oh, I am so pleased I decided to come
here!”

The Oglebys were obviously delighted to hear these sentiments and beamed a smile at the new resident of their little village. They left the young viscountess to settle into her new home and drove along the lane, discussing the startling turn of events.

“I think they must be separated!” Mrs. Ogleby declared in ringing accents. “Tell me, Mr. Ogleby, what man in his right mind would allow that pretty little thing to go off to live deep in the country all by herself!”

Her spouse agreed with surprising alacrity, considering his usual deliberate replies. He was not the slightest immune to a pair of long-lashed amber eyes set into a perfect oval face. Not that there was anything amiss with her mouth or nose, mind you. But her eyes were far and away her best feature, and Mr. Ogleby’s elderly heart was captured. Of course, when he’d caught a glimpse of her chestnut curls he’d been fair gone. But her eyes had finished him.

“I cannot wait to tell Caroline Tackley that I have met Lady Hawkswood. She will be positively
green,”
Mrs. Ogleby said with a decided purr to her voice.

* * * *

Pansy found her mistress inspecting the upper floor by herself, having sent the housekeeper to prepare some sort of supper for her.

“And are you to be carted off to Bedlam—my
lady?”
the maid said with a snap.

“Can you think of a better situation than this?” Juliet replied softly. “We have a charming house in which to live. I certainly know what is expected of a viscountess—after all, my mama was one. And just think, Pansy—there is a harp for me to play. I was most sorry to leave my harp behind.”

“There will be trouble,” Pansy predicted.

“But for now we have a supper to come and good beds to rest upon, and I believe I saw a garden to the rear of the house. At least it will be a garden when I am done with it.”

Knowing that besides her music her mistress liked nothing more than pottering about in a garden, Pansy admitted she had lost. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you there’d be trouble when it comes,” Pansy whispered in her parting shot as Juliet began her walk down the stairs to the ground floor.

The housekeeper had introduced herself as Mrs. Bassett and informed Juliet that she had been a maid when Lord Hawkswood’s grandmother had been in residence.

“You see,” Mrs. Bassett explained, “Lady Hawkswood lived here during the hot summers, preferring the cool of Wiltshire to the heat of the city.”

“Is she still living?” Juliet thought to ask.

“Indeed, madam, though she rarely leaves her London home nowadays from what I have heard.”

Juliet thought it might take a bit of time before she would become accustomed to being addressed as madam, or for that matter as my lady or Lady Hawkswood. Yet, had she married the odious Lord Taunton, she’d have been Lady Taunton by now—a more horrific situation she could not imagine.

So she quietly ate her modest supper, then discussed the hiring of servants with Mrs. Bassett.

“A cook and two maids ye’ll be needing at once,” the housekeeper advised.

“I wish to live simply, you understand,” Juliet replied, thinking of life at Winterton Hall. “But I should like to have a gardener, please.”

If the housekeeper hadn’t been won over by Juliet’s modest manners and her sweet smile, the request for someone to take in hand the grounds of the house, which she had overseen these past years, completed the job.

“The garden is sadly neglected. There never seemed to be the necessary funds to do more than scythe the lawn and trim a few trees,” Mrs. Bassett happily explained.

Juliet went to her bed, feeling that her first day at Hawkswood Manor had been a success. It remained to be seen how the neighborhood would accept her. Perhaps her meeting with the Oglebys was fortuitous in more ways than one, for if she knew anything about women at all, it was that Mrs. Ogleby was a prattle-box of the first order. There most likely would be a goodly number of invitations to tea once the gossip had been avidly bandied about.

Juliet was not unaccustomed to village gossip; she’d known such all her life, living in the country as she had. It remained for her to make sure that certain bits of information were spread about in the village.

“I intend to let it be known that I expect to remain here alone and am content with my lot,” she told Pansy as she crawled into the lovely and large bed in the room that belonged to the Viscountess of Hawkswood. “The last thing I want is for my supposed husband to be summoned or informed of my presence!”

“You do ask for trouble, miss.”

“I expect you had best learn to say
my lady,
even when we are alone. I shall become used to my new name in time, I fancy,” Juliet concluded as she snuggled beneath the fine lavender-scented linen sheets. “Consider the alternative, and you will accept that what I have done was for the best.”

Pansy couldn’t argue on that score, for she had no more liking for Marius Winterton than his sister did—even less. And truth to tell, she knew that her mistress would have been most miserable married to a man just like her stepbrother.

Left alone, Juliet pondered the change in her life. Was it terribly wrong of her to pretend to be someone else—a woman who did not exist? Even though she had not been to London, Miss Pritchard had seen to it that she was conversant with the latest fashions and in particular the marriages among the
ton.
Juliet’s memory had never failed her in the past, and she could not recall a marriage for the viscount.

Then she frowned, for she did recall something about him. He was one of the premier gentlemen of London, much mentioned in the gossip columns. If her memory served her right, and it usually did, he flitted from one woman to the next with all the discrimination of a butterfly.

Well, it was a great comfort to know that his lordship would not deign to cross the threshold of this modest country house. Juliet doubted if he ever strayed far from the London scene, and if he did, it would not be to this remote village. Woodbury was too lacking in amusements of the sort to appeal to a man of his undoubted tastes. She shortly fell asleep, assured she was quite safe.

* * * *

“I tell you, Harry, I am quite heartily fed up with the beauteous Camilla. Odd thing is, were she a retiring sort, I believe I could find her tolerable.” Lord Hawkswood stared into the depths of his glass, wishing it were full instead of empty.

“Tolerable, old chap?” Harry Riggs cried softly. “I should wish a wife more than tolerable.”

“A wife? Who said anything about a wife?” his lordship murmured with a chuckle.

“What do you propose to do about her?” Harry inquired.

“Find a bolthole somewhere she can’t find me.”

“That shan’t be an easy task,” Harry offered.

“There must be someplace that dratted woman won’t go,” Hawkswood said, frowning into his glass.

“I wish you well. Someday you will have to marry, you know,” Harry concluded.

“Not now and certainly not to the estimable Camilla,” came the instant reply. “Perhaps my solicitor can think of a place.” With that vague notion, Lord Hawkswood bid his friend good night, concluding this was coming to be the worst Season he had ever known.

Perhaps Harry was right, he should marry. It might not be too bad if he could find some acceptable chit and deposit her in the country. Why, he might not have to change his ways in the least. And on that happy thought he fell into a sound, if ignoble, sleep.

Chapter 2

Juliet stretched, relishing the comfort of her bed, then blinked when—upon opening her eyes—she saw gold damask overhead rather than her own plain white ceiling. She turned her head, absorbing the details of the room she had so hastily perused the day before.

In the clear light of early morning, she could see that the golden hue was repeated throughout the room. The walls were hung with pale gold damask; delicate fruitwood chairs were covered with the same fabric; and only the rug that decorated the floor had white and celadon green as well as the lovely golden hue. It was most assuredly a room to cheer the heart.

Punching up her pillow, she settled back to study the portrait hanging above the fireplace surround. A young, very handsome boy leaned against an enormous dog, one arm draped lovingly about his pet’s neck. The boy smiled out at the artist—and the world—with charm, possessing a grace that few boys had. Certainly Marius had never in his life gazed out with such self-possession and appeal. Juliet wondered who the boy might be and why this beautiful portrait had been left here, neglected and unappreciated.