The Charmer (11 page)

"Perhaps she has," Monk
said. "I've been out riding, so I wouldn't know."

"If Lord Lynden or one of
the servants can vouch for your whereabouts then all is well. One of the maids
perhaps? It was late at night."

The gray eyes turned as cold and
hard as flint. "Lord Lynden will tell you I was with him. We were up late
talking. The servants were all asleep. Ask him."

"No need," Orlando said
cheerfully. "I'm sure he'll say the same thing." Whether it was true
or not didn't matter. Lynden would vouch for Monk, or Monk wouldn't have spoken
with such certainty. "So what is the nature of your business here at Sutton
Hall?"

That got a bigger reaction from
Monk than anything so far. He actually laughed and looked genuinely amused. "
You're
asking me what
my
business here is?"

"There are few servants at
Stoneleigh and none of them are young. Mr. Farley is aged and Lady Lynden is unwed.
I've taken it upon myself to find out what I can about the intruder."

"Think yourself her
champion, do you?" Monk's laughter vanished, replaced with a sneering lift
of his top lip. "I hear she's very beautiful."

Could Orlando hit him before the
other man drew his sword? He would like to thump that smirk off his face.

"Your business
here...?" Orlando prompted.

"Is not your business, Mr.
Holt. It's between Lord Lynden and myself. Now, I suggest you return to your
lovely mistress before she discards you in favor of another...gardener."

Orlando smiled when all he felt
was a simmering anger welling inside. "You sound like a man who's suffered
at the hands of a beautiful woman before. But don't fear on my account,"
he said lightly, "I've never been discarded in favor of another. I think
you'll find it's always the other way around."

He touched the brim of his hat in
farewell and pushed past Monk. Most men would step in front of him at such a
juncture or give a challenging punch to his shoulder, but Monk did not. Orlando
may have only spoken to him briefly, but he already knew Monk was not so petty
as that.

Orlando did, however, feel the
intense gray gaze slicing into his back like needles of ice.

***

"You should have reported it
to Lord Lynden," Cook said, grinding the cloves with so much force Susanna
was worried the pestle would crack under the pressure.

"I didn't see the
point," she said. "We have no clues as to who it was. Besides, Jeffrey
would only worry."

Hendricks snorted as he handed a tray
to Susanna. "Only in that he'd be worried the intruder would take it upon
himself to break into the Hall next."

Bessie clicked her tongue as she
set the table where Holt sat listening and watching. It wasn't like him to be
so quiet. Susanna had grown used to his friendly chatter, his easy laughter,
and flirting. Something was on his mind, something to do with where he'd gone that
afternoon. He'd only been back a short time and together they had covered the
orange trees for the night before coming inside. She'd gone straight upstairs
with Bessie to wash up for supper and returned to the kitchen to see him
sitting at the table, saying little and apparently lost in thought.

She'd assumed he'd gone into the
village but hadn't asked. He could do as he wished in the afternoons. Curiosity
gnawed at her nevertheless. Curiosity and a dull ache. Most likely he'd gone to
see a woman. Men like Holt always had women waiting for them somewhere. They
seemed to attract them like bees to lavender.

The ache turned to a wrenching twist
and she turned her back to him lest he notice her staring. No matter how much
she tried
not
looking at him, her gaze always wandered there when he was
nearby.

"You're unkind,
Hendricks," Bessie said. "Lord Lynden would be concerned for his kinswoman
and you know it."

"I s'pose so."
Hendricks peered over Cook's shoulder and sighed. "But I'm not sure he
could do much to help, as the mistress says. What can he do when we don't know
who it was?"

"It should still be
reported," Cook said with a grunt as she pounded.

"Are you trying to turn
those cloves to dust?" Hendricks asked. "They look ready to me. Come
on, put 'em in, I'm starving."

Cook shook the pestle at him.
"Don't tell me how to do my job, Mr. Hendricks. I don't tell you how to do
yours, do I?"

"Yes, you do."

Cook humphed and scraped the cloves
into the pot simmering over the fire. "A few more minutes to let the
flavor seep through then we're ready."

"He'll probably come to see
you tomorrow," Holt said, rising.

"Who?" the servants all
said as one.

Susanna knew the answer.
"You were up at the Hall?"

He nodded and came to stand
beside her. There was an extra intensity about him tonight that hadn't been
there before, as if something troubled him. She didn't like it. She missed her
amiable gardener. Could the intruder be worrying him? Or something else?

Something to do with the desire
that had passed between them?

"You spoke to Jeffrey about
last night?" she asked.

"Not him, no. I spoke to a stable
hand and another man there. I'm sure it won't take long before Lynden comes to speak
to you. I mentioned the intruder to Milner at The Plough."

"You did what?"
Hendricks whipped around so fast the spoon in his bowl did a full swivel around
the rim before settling back into place. "You fool! Now everyone will
know. Cowdrey will—" He caught Susanna's glare and stopped.

"Leave Farmer Cowdrey to me,"
she said. "Anyway, I'm sure Mr. Holt had good reason to tell Milner."

"Two reasons," Holt
said, addressing Hendricks. She applauded him for that. Hendricks, bless him,
was as protective of her as her own father, perhaps more so since her father's
health had begun to fade. Holt may never win the servant over before he left,
but treating him with as much respect as he would the master of the house was a
good start. Particularly as it didn't feel like he was treating her with any
less
respect by doing it. Indeed, she felt as if his words were directed at her,
meant for her ears only.  

"First," he said,
"Milner is the quickest way to get word out about the intruder. Once word
is out, it's less likely to happen again. The village will be on edge,
watchful. Anyone who was away from their home last night will come under
suspicion. I think it's the best way to ensure it won't happen again, if the
intruder was a local."

"And if he wasn't?"
Bessie asked in a soft voice.

"And if he wasn't, I know
who it might be. That's my second reason for speaking to Milner. He told me
about a stranger to the village, other than myself. The stranger asked
directions to Sutton Hall, so I went there after leaving The Plough. That's
when I spoke to the stable lad and the stranger himself."

"And?" Cook prompted,
her attention as focused on Holt as the rest, her cooking forgotten.

"His name is Monk. He claims
he was at the Hall last night talking to Lynden."

"So it can't be him,"
Bessie said, satisfied. "His lordship will vouch for him."

"Aye," Hendricks said.
"Did you ask him?"

Holt shook his head and turned to
Susanna. She saw the unspoken words in his eyes. He didn't want to ask Jeffrey because
he didn't trust him to tell the truth.

But that was absurd. Jeffrey had
no reason to send a man to climb through her window. Why would he? Of all
people, he knew they had nothing worth stealing.

"Of course it may not be
someone who went into the village at all," Cook said, ladling broth into a
bowl from the pot. "There could be someone hiding in the woods." She
stopped ladling and gasped. "Oh my."

Bessie clasped Hendricks's arm.
"Do you think it's possible?"

A shiver slithered down Susanna's
spine and she found her hand safely enclosed in Holt's big one. The pad of his
thumb rubbed her knuckles, the movement soothing, sending a different kind of
shiver through her. A warm one that made her heart lurch in her chest. His gaze
locked with hers, reassuring. Comforting. She felt utterly safe with this man
beside her.

Yet that was absurd. Orlando Holt
was a mystery and she needed to remember that. What sort of gardener needed
direction for even the basic tasks, and didn't have his own gardening gloves?
What sort of servant worked for no pay when much wealthier manors were within
walking distance?

She could not trust him with all
her secrets. Not yet.

"No one is hiding out in the
woods," Hendricks said, patting Bessie's hand. "It's much too cold
tonight. There's frost in the air already. Anyway, I'll protect you." His
wrinkles bent into a reassuring smile meant only for the maid. She smiled back,
but it lacked assurance.

Cook handed a bowl to him and he
had to let go of Bessie's hand to take it. "No offense, Mr. Hendricks, but
I'll sleep with my sharpest knife under my pillow tonight, just in case. Unless
Mr. Holt wants to sleep outside
my
door?"

"Hush, Cook," Bessie
scolded, lowering her head but stealing a glance at Holt.

Susanna removed her hand from
his. "What do you mean?"

"I slept in your parlor last
night after we scared the intruder away."

"You did? On the
floor?"

"Yes. It's surprisingly
comfortable and the rushes smelled pleasing."

"I always have clean
rushes," Bessie said. "But I hope it wasn't too uncomfortable."

"He had a mattress,"
Hendricks snapped.

Susanna hardly heard either of
them. Blood pounded between her ears, deafening her to almost everything else.
He had watched over her. Knowing such a strong and handsome man had spent hours
outside her bedchamber door was a heady thing. But not as heady as knowing he'd
done it to ensure her safety and not for more base reasons.

Her gardener may be a mystery,
but he had just endeared himself to her in a way that his flirting never could.

"Why did no one tell
me?" she asked but not harshly. She did not want Holt or the others to
think her ungrateful.

Bessie, Hendricks, and Cook
exchanged worried glances as they passed bowls between each other. "We
didn't want to alarm you, m'lady," Bessie said. She handed Susanna a bowl
of the steaming broth. "You'd had quite an ordeal and, well, we weren't
sure if you'd welcome Mr. Holt sleeping so near."

"Oh. Yes. Of course."
She placed the bowl on the tray to take up to her father. "It's
unconventional, true, but I must be told everything that occurs in this
house."

"Yes, m'lady," Bessie
said, passing over another bowl which Susanna set next to the first on the
tray.

"In that case," Orlando
said. "I should tell you that I plan on sleeping in the parlor again
tonight."

"I don't think that's
necessary. As Hendricks said, the intruder is unlikely to return tonight."

"Protest all you like, madam,
but I
will
be sleeping on the parlor floor again."

The nerve of him! She was about
to tell him he should mind his place but bit her lip to stop herself. Holt
sported a devastating smile. He knew precisely what she'd been about to say.

"Shouldn't you be asking me
and not ordering me?" she said instead.

He cocked his head to the side
and she almost laughed at the cheekiness of his stance and the impish gleam in
his eyes. He was certainly a man used to breaking a tense mood with his charm.
"In that case,
may
I sleep on your parlor floor tonight, m'lady?"

"No," she said, just to
see his reaction.

"Not the right answer."
When she began to protest, he added, "You told me to ask so I did. You
mentioned nothing about obeying."

"Are you this impertinent
with all your employers?"

"Always, but they couldn't
help but like me anyway."

"Are you sure they didn't simply
tolerate you? Perhaps they were short of strong backs in the garden."

He pressed a hand to his chest.
"You wound me, dear lady."

She chuckled despite herself and
shook her head. He was incorrigible.

"I'll let you make it up to
me by allowing me to sleep on the parlor floor," he said.

"Not the floor, a mattress,"
Hendricks grumbled. "From the most comfortable guest bed, mind."

Susanna picked up the tray with
the bowls of broth for both her father and herself. "Good night,
everyone."

"Good night, m'lady,"
Bessie, Hendricks, and Cook intoned.

Orlando merely gave her a wicked
smile.

***

Susanna dismissed Bessie from her
bedchamber and watched her leave through the adjoining parlor where Holt was
laying a blanket over the mattress he'd carried in moments before. Hendricks
wasn't so easy to remove. He hovered in the doorway, a stern expression giving
his wrinkles extra depth.

"Good night,
Hendricks," she said. "You may go now."

But it was Holt who walked out.
"Forgot the pillow," he said, heading to the guest bedchamber.

Hendricks crossed his arms.
"I'll wait here awhile, m'lady. Just until he's asleep."

She sighed. "Hendricks, it's
all right. Mr. Holt has proved himself trustworthy. If he wanted to harm me, he'd
have done so when we were alone in the garden."

"I'm not worried about him
harming you," he muttered.

Nor was she. She suspected she
was in more danger of being seduced than harmed.

She squeezed his arm. "Go
now. Blow out the lamps on the landing on your way down."