Only a Kiss (7 page)

Heaven help him, he thought during the following days, but he was in sore danger of becoming that country gentleman himself. He could be in London, he thought the afternoon following the first wave of visits—there were others—enjoying himself even if the Season had not yet begun and town was thin of company. He could be at Tattersall’s or Jackson’s boxing saloon or calling upon his tailor or his boot maker or be in his bed sleeping off the effects of last night’s carousing with friends—or enjoying the favors of a new mistress. Instead, he was looking about Ratchett’s dusty office and suggesting that with his superior skills the head steward—at that point Ratchett was the
only
steward, but that was a minor point—ought to be able to spend all his time in the office, engaged in the invaluable task of keeping the books in order, while a younger, less skilled and experienced man, an underling, in fact, undertook the mundane day-to-day task of running the farms and suggesting ideas for change and improvement. A second steward, that was, who could benefit from the advice and guidance of the head man. A subordinate, of course. A sort of disciple, in fact.

Ratchett squinted at Percy’s left ear and muttered something about making inquiries in the neighborhood, though he did not know what a new man could do that was not already being done. But Percy had already written to Higgins, his man of business in London, directing him to find an experienced steward, a man who would be willing to be known officially as the understeward, though in reality he would be no such thing, and who would also be willing to incarcerate himself in the depths of nowhere for a somewhat better-than-average salary. The sooner such a paragon was found, Percy had added, the better he would be pleased. Soonest would be even better than sooner.

He had written the letter last night while his bedchamber was being cleaned up. He had discovered upon retiring that the fire was out and that a whole chimneyful of soot had descended into the room with a slightly charred, very dead bird. Crutchley, who had arrived in answer to his summons only moments after a distraught Mrs. Attlee, had given it as his opinion that the front rooms, especially
this
front room, were more likely to have such things happen than the back rooms, given that they got the brunt of any wind that happened to be blowing. Yet again he had advised Percy to move into the best guest chamber at the back. Yet again Percy, for no reason that was apparent to himself, had chosen to be stubborn. The earl’s apartments
would
be made habitable for the earl, and he was the earl. At least his bed, when he had finally climbed into it, was dry, as was the wallpaper, slightly water stained, beneath the window.

Percy had discovered during the morning that almost none of his land had been cultivated for a number of years and would not be this year either if plans to the contrary were not made soon. Ratchett and the old earl had apparently not held with crops, which required too many workers to seed them, then to tend them, and then to harvest them, and which were too much at the mercy of the weather at all three stages. There were sheep galore, however, and some of the new lambs had already put in an appearance, no one having warned them that it was still winter and they might be well advised to remain inside their mothers where it was warm and out of the wind for a little longer.

Most of the income of the estate came, in fact, from wool. But the sheep were reproducing at far too exuberant a rate for them all to remain comfortably on the land until old age took them off. Someone needed to
manage
the flock just as someone needed to manage the land. Percy was not a manager, nor did he have the slightest ambition to become one. The very idea! But he did recognize need when he saw it, as well as poor management or pretty much no management at all.

The farmyard, just beyond the confines of the park to the north, was looking considerably down-at-the-heels. It sported a few milk cows and would soon sport some calves too—Percy did not ask where the bull was that had made the latter possible. There were a few goats, which appeared to have no particular function, and so many chickens that it was hard not to trip over them at every turn as they pecked about the yard. It was also quite impossible not to step in their droppings. A duck pond had some ducks to complement it. There were a few sheep pens for the lambing and, presumably, to house the flock during shearing season and in particularly bad weather. The pens looked as if they would be perfectly happy to give up the ghost any day now.

The hay in the sagging barn looked somewhat gray, as though it might have been there as long as the barn itself. The mice within it probably lived in comfort and died at a ripe old age.

The farm laborers seemed to be mostly gnarled old men, their sons presumably having departed long ago for pastures that were literally greener. The stable hands and gardeners within the confines of the park showed somewhat more youth and vigor, though they did appear to include more than their fair share of the lame and decrepit, further evidence of Lady Lavinia’s tender sensibilities.

Percy hoped a new steward would be found sooner than soon and that he would gallop out here without stopping for food or rest along the way. He hoped the man would not take one look when he arrived and turn tail and flee.

Percy had worn his oldest clothes as he tramped about, though the fact was he did not possess anything that was much older than a year. Watkins would not have stood for it. The same applied to his riding boots, which were quite undeserving of the punishment they suffered in the farmyard. He did not carry a staff, but he did have a faithful dog at heel, that embarrassment of a skinny mutt with the grandiose name of Hector. The great Trojan hero Hector had shot the mighty and seemingly immortal Achilles in the heel and killed him. At least Hector the dog did not try to bite
his
heel. It had attached itself to him, Percy believed, only because the other dogs at the house, including that massive and lethargic bulldog and the sausage dog, shunned it and would not share their feeding bowls with it or allow it uncontested access to its own—and because the cats, especially the growling Prudence, intimidated it. Hector was, in fact, a sniveling coward and did nothing to enhance Percy’s manly image as he strode about his neglected land.

It was enough to make any self-respecting gentleman farmer weep. Not that he
wanted
to be a gentleman farmer, at least not a gentleman farmer who behaved like one. Heaven forbid.

The following morning, after an uneventful night in his bedchamber, Percy walked purposefully across the lawn toward the dower house and found exactly what he had suspected he would find, namely a roofless edifice barren of any workers at all or any other discernible sign of life. He returned to the hall and changed his clothes. By the time Watkins had finished with him, he would have turned startled heads even on Bond Street—
especially
on Bond Street, in fact.

“My ebony cane, Watkins,” he said. “We did bring the ebony, I suppose?”

“We did, m’lord.” Watkins produced it.

“And my jeweled quizzing glass.”

“The
jeweled
one, m’lord?”

Percy fixed him with a look, and the jeweled glass was produced without further comment.

“And a lace-edged handkerchief,” Percy said. “And my ruby snuff box, I believe. Yes, the ruby snuffbox.”

Watkins was too well bred to comment on these ostentatious additions to a morning outfit, but the wooden expression with which he always demonstrated disapproval became almost fossilized.

“Be so good as to look through the window to see if my traveling carriage is at the door,” Percy instructed him.

It was. And a grandiose piece of workmanship it was too. He had inherited it from his father and seldom used it. He had brought it here only because Watkins would have been stoically disappointed if he had been forced to travel in a lesser specimen of coach.

Percy had ascertained upon his return to the house that Lady Barclay had taken the gig into Porthdare, as she had said at breakfast she intended to do. There was apparently an elderly lady with a sore hip who needed visiting. Women really could be angels on occasion, though it took a stretch of the imagination to consider his third cousin-in-law once removed and angels in the same thought.

Sometime later, having discovered the name and place of business of the roofer from his butler, Percy stepped unhurriedly down from his carriage outside the man’s shop, which was situated in Meirion, a village six miles up the river valley. He looked languidly about him, ignoring the smattering of gawkers who had stopped to watch the show—or, that is, him.

He nodded to his coachman, who had been surprised earlier by the instruction to wear his livery.

“His lordship, the Earl of Hardford,” the coachman now announced with clear enjoyment after flinging open the door of the shop.

His lordship stepped inside, shook out his handkerchief, flicked open the lid of his snuffbox with the edge of one thumb, paused, changed his mind—he did not enjoy taking snuff anyway—and snapped it shut again, put it away, and raised his quizzing glass to his eye.

“It has occurred to me to wonder why it is,” he said with a sigh as he regarded three saucer-eyed men through his glass, “that the dower house at Hardford Hall lost its roof in December and is still without a roof in February. I have wondered too why there are occasionally two men to be seen on the rafters, one hammering nails while the other watches. And yet, no sign of progress. It has been brought to my attention that it is altogether possible I may discover the answers here. Indeed, I must insist upon doing so.”

Less than fifteen minutes later his carriage was moving back along the village street, watched by far more than a smattering of spectators lined up on either side as though he were a parade. All the roofer’s workers had apparently been indisposed or busy with other jobs, but all had miraculously recovered their health or completed those jobs that very morning and had been about to proceed to the dower house at Hardford Hall when his lordship arrived and delayed them. The sly suggestion, though, that the presence of all those workers on one job would raise the price of the repairs had met with his lordship’s quizzing glass again, sparkling with blinding splendor in a shaft of light from the doorway, and the price had been instantly lowered below the original quote to an amount Percy guessed was only slightly inflated.

The Earl of Hardford had signaled his coachman, who had opened a fat leather purse and paid the roofer half the amount in advance. The other half would be paid upon the satisfactory completion of the job by Lady Barclay, his lordship’s cousin—there was no point in confusing the issue by talking about thirds and removes and in-laws. Her ladyship was to be informed that the price had been dropped in compensation for the unconscionable delay.

Sometimes, Percy reflected during the seemingly interminable journey home, being a titled aristocrat could be a distinct advantage to a man. Not that he would have been incapable of making mincemeat out of that particular tradesman even as plain Percival Hayes.

I
mogen was feeling almost cheerful as they sat down to an early dinner later that same day. They were to attend a musical evening at the Kramers’ house afterward, and it was a welcome prospect, since she was still unable to spend the evening alone in her own home with a book, something she was longing to do again. The anticipation of an evening spent with neighbors was not what had lifted her spirits, however.

“A very welcome sight awaited me when I walked over to the dower house this afternoon, expecting it to be deserted as usual,” she told the other three gathered about the table. “Mr. Tidmouth, the roofer, was there in person, supervising the work of no fewer than
six
workers, who were all busy up on the rafters.”

“Six?” Aunt Lavinia said, her soup spoon pausing halfway to her mouth. “They should be finished in no time at all, then.”

“
If
they come again tomorrow,” Cousin Adelaide added.

“Oh, but I believe they will,” Imogen assured her. “Mr. Tidmouth was most apologetic for all the delays. He told me that he has been unwell since Christmas and that his second-in-command has been sending out the men to other, less important jobs without his knowledge. He will see to it personally that every one of his men comes to Hardford every day until the work is finished. He even assured me that having now seen the house for himself, he realizes that he overestimated the cost of the repairs and will lower the new, reduced estimate even further as an apology for the long delay.”

“Never trust a man who apologizes to a lady,” Cousin Adelaide said, “or a businessman who reduces his price.”

“I am very happy for you, Imogen,” Aunt Lavinia said, “though the repair to the roof will mean your removal back to the dower house, I suppose. I shall miss you.”

“But I will be close by,” Imogen said, “and will call on you almost every day, as I always have.”

She would be
so
happy to be back home with just herself for company except when she chose to go out. She would be
very
happy to be away from the disturbing presence of the earl.

He had not contributed to the conversation about her roof. He had concentrated instead upon his food and his wine and merely regarded her somewhat sleepily once in a while from below half-lowered eyelids. It was a new expression, an annoying affectation.

“I daresay,” she said, addressing him directly, “it was the letter I wrote yesterday that brought Mr. Tidmouth here today with his apology and his men. The
polite
letter. Good manners are often more effective than bluster. If I had gone all the way to Meirion merely to fume at him, as you advised yesterday, Cousin Percy, I would probably have been kept waiting another week or so as punishment.”

“Quite so, Cousin Imogen,” he said agreeably, raising his glass to her. “My hat is off to you.”

But as she cut into her roast beef, she suddenly felt a horrid, ghastly suspicion.
Never trust a man who apologizes to a lady, or a businessman who reduces his price.
She looked up sharply at the earl, but his attention was upon his own roast beef, and suspicion gave way to irritation over the fact that he looked simply splendid in his dark blue evening coat with paler blue satin waistcoat and snowy white cravat and a neckcloth so intricately arranged that poor Alden Alton, if he was at the Kramers’ house tonight, would surely die of envy and despair.

What was the
real
explanation, though, for the sudden appearance of so many workers, all diligently occupied, this afternoon? And for the oily apologies Mr. Tidmouth had uttered? And for the strangely drastic drop in price? Had she been very naive to be delighted by it all?

She had no chance to confront her suspicions or the man who had aroused them. They all rode to the village together in the earl’s opulent traveling carriage. He must, Imogen concluded, have other sources of income than just Hardford. Perhaps the younger branch of the Hayes family had been somewhat more ambitious than the elder. Imogen sat with her back to the horses, as did the earl, so that the older ladies might have the more desirable forward-facing ones. But the carriage, she discovered, though luxurious, was no wider than the more humble one that sat idle in the carriage house. She could feel his body heat along one side, a fact that would have been comforting on this chill February evening if the heat had not carried with it the faint odor of an expensive, musky cologne and a powerful aura of masculinity. That latter fact annoyed her intensely. She could not remember ever being suffocated by any other man’s masculinity, though she had known many virile, attractive men.

Oh, she would be
very
happy when she was back home in her own house.

*   *   *

And it was for this that he had dashed down to Cornwall to escape his boredom, Percy was thinking. Though that was not strictly accurate, was it? He had not expected to escape boredom, but had decided quite consciously to travel deeper into it just to see what happened. Well,
this
was what happened.

He was sitting in his traveling carriage with three ladies, one of whom suffered from tender sensibilities and had filled his house and park with strays; another of whom spoke in a baritone voice and had not uttered a single complimentary word about the male half of the species since his arrival, but had spoken plenty of derogatory ones; and a third of whom was made of marble. And if this journey was not enough to plunge him into the deepest gloom, there was the fact that their destination was the Kramer house, where they were to be entertained by the musical talents of the Kramer ladies and the neighbors at large.

The Misses Kramer, he discovered after their arrival, fancied themselves as pianists and vocalists, and proceeded over the couple of hours following the arrival of all their other invited guests to demonstrate the truth or falsity of that fancy. To be fair, however, they did not monopolize the evening’s entertainment. A few other ladies sang and played the pianoforte. Alton had brought his violin, and his son, looking as though he would rather be cast into the fiery furnace with the lions thrown in for good measure, played along with him on a flute. The Reverend Boodle sang to his wife’s accompaniment in a bass voice that might have set the liquor decanters to rattling if there had been any in the room.

Lady Barclay conversed with Lady Quentin, wife of Sir Matthew Quentin, and with Miss Wenzel before the recital began. When everyone took a seat for the entertainment, it was Wenzel, gentleman farmer, who seated himself beside her, drawing his chair a little closer to hers as he did so. He proceeded to engage her in conversation—or, rather, to deliver a monologue—while ignoring the music. It was ill-mannered of him, to say the least, though he did keep his voice low enough not to disturb those around them who chose to be polite and listen, among which virtuous number Percy included himself. Wenzel did not even pretend to listen. His eyes and his whole attention were fixed upon the lady, who admittedly was looking fetching enough in a blue gown that complemented every curve of her body to perfection—as well as complementing his own waistcoat, Percy had noticed at dinner. Wenzel did not applaud any of the entertainers. The man must not have visited a tailor for the past five years, and he was more than half bald—for which uncharacteristically uncharitable thoughts Percy did not pause to berate himself.

Lady Barclay herself
did
listen to, or at least keep her eyes upon, the performers. And she applauded. Only twice did Percy see her make a brief answering remark to Wenzel, and only one of those times did she turn her head to look at him.

The man irritated Percy. The
really
annoying thing, though, was that he was noticing such things. Wenzel was trying to fix his interest with Lady Barclay, as he had every right to do. He was a single gentleman of roughly her own age, and she was a widow. Good luck to him if he aspired to marry her. He would need luck, though. She was giving him no encouragement. Nor, it was true, was she giving any sign that she felt harassed by his attentions. She was being her usual marble self. Percy had no excuse whatsoever for wanting to express his displeasure.

But why should he feel irritated? Had he become all proprietary just because the woman lived beneath his roof? The very idea threatened to bring him out in a cold sweat.

Mrs. Payne, the admiral’s wife, had a soprano voice with a pronounced vibrato and more than lived up to her name during the Handel aria she had chosen. Percy dutifully clapped when she was finished and agreed with Mrs. Kramer in a slightly raised voice because the latter was deaf that yes, indeed, it had been a fortunate day for the neighborhood when Admiral Payne decided to settle among them upon his retirement.

The grand finale of the entertainment portion of the evening was a Bach piece with some clever finger work performed by Miss Gertrude Kramer, the younger sister. It was clearly the signal to the servants to bring in the refreshments, which were set out along a large sideboard at one side of the room, while tea and coffee trays were placed on a table for the elder Miss Kramer to pour. There was no sign of anything alcoholic making its appearance.

Wenzel leaned closer to Lady Barclay before getting to his feet and making his way over to the sideboard. Percy stood unhurriedly, congratulated two or three of the evening’s performers who were within his orbit, including a stammering, blushing Alden Alton, strolled across the room away from the sideboard, and took the empty seat beside his third cousin-in-law once removed.

She looked up at him in some surprise and what he would have interpreted as relief if it had not been highly unlikely.

“I hope,” he said, “you enjoyed the musical entertainment, ma’am?”

“I did,” she said. “Everyone means well and tries very hard.”

Which was damning the artistes with faint praise, he thought appreciatively. “Quite so,” he agreed. “And did you also enjoy the conversation?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I would have preferred to concentrate all my attention upon the music.”

“Why did you not instruct him to stuff it, then?” he asked her.

“Perhaps, Lord Hardford,” she said, “because I try at all times to observe good manners.”

“Perhaps you were enjoying the gentleman’s attentions,” he said, “even if you would have preferred to listen to the music first. Shall I give him back his chair when he returns with a plate for you? I take it that is what he has gone to fetch.”

“I believe it is not your concern whose attentions I enjoy or do not enjoy,” she told him. “But, no. Please stay where you are.”

At almost the same moment Wenzel was back, a loaded plate in each hand. He looked pointedly at Percy, his eyebrows raised.

“Ah,” Percy said, “how very good of you, Wenzel.” And he took one of the plates and handed it to Lady Barclay with a smile before taking the other for himself.

Wenzel was left with empty hands and an unfathomable expression on his face.

“But you must go back and fill a plate for yourself,” Percy said kindly, “before all the food is gone. Though there does seem to be an abundance of it. Mrs. Kramer and her daughters have done us proud. I trust you enjoyed the recitals?”

Wenzel looked speakingly at the lady before murmuring something indecipherable, bowing, and moving off.

“Thank you,” Lady Barclay said.

“Oh, it was nothing, ma’am,” Percy assured her. “Procuring you a plate took no effort at all.”

And she laughed.

It was a ghastly shock. It almost knocked him off his chair and onto the floor.

It was a brief laugh that lit up her whole face with amusement, gave an impression of dazzling, vibrant beauty, and was gone without a trace.

And it left him with the shocking realization that he wanted to make love to her.

It was fortunate—
very
fortunate—that conversation had become general and that Sir Matthew Quentin was asking his opinion on what appeared to be a matter of interest to everyone.

“And you, Hardford,” he said, “what is
your
opinion on smuggled brandy?”

Since there was no liquor in sight, Percy assumed it was an academic question. “Undoubtedly it is usually of a superior quality,” he said. “However, the fact that it has been brought into the country illegally makes it a forbidden delight.”

It seemed to him that almost everyone smirked as though he had just uttered something witty, and by doing so had been admitted to membership of a secret club.

“Ah, but are not forbidden fruits always the sweetest?” the dandyish young Mr. Soames asked.

His father frowned at him, two of his sisters tittered, and the Misses Kramer looked shocked. The third Soames sister and one of the Boodle girls put their ringleted heads together over by the pianoforte and giggled behind the fan one of them held open.

“Quite so,” Percy said, nodding genially in the direction of the young man, who would undoubtedly be on the receiving end of his father’s wrath later tonight.

Lady Quentin began a determined discussion of the varying merits of Chinese and Indian tea.

Percy, listening with half an ear, was making connections. Smuggled brandy. Smugglers. Cornwall, specifically the southern
coast
of Cornwall.

“
Is
there any smuggling activity hereabouts?” he asked the ladies on the way home.

“Not much now,” Lady Lavinia said into a silence that lasted a beat too long. “There used to be, I believe, during the wars.”

“But there still is
some
?”

“Oh, it is possible, I suppose,” she said, “though I have not heard of any.”

“And there is nothing even vaguely romantic about it,” Lady Barclay added.

“Romantic?” He turned to face her as far as he was able given the narrow confines of the carriage seat. Not that he could see her clearly even then. It was a dark night and the carriage lamp was throwing its light forward rather than back.

“Smugglers, pirates, highwaymen,” she said. “They are often glamorized as rather dashing heroes.”

“Carrying off the swooning heroine lashed to the mast of the ship or thrown over the back of the horse or tossed over a man’s shoulder and carried by superhuman strength to the top of a sheer cliff?” he said. “You are not a romantic, Cousin Imogen?”