The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (30 page)

Bending low, he took her hand and with his other cupped her elbow and pulled her gently to her feet. Her leg tingled numbly and threatened to buckle.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, steadying her. “Your ankle?”

“Just strained, I think. I'm fine.” She had actually landed on her hip and bum, but wasn't about to specify that part of her anatomy.

She hobbled a step toward the cart, and suddenly his arm dipped beneath her legs and the other behind her back and she found herself swept up into his arms.

“Put your hands around my neck.”

She felt her face flush, certain she was too heavy, self-conscious at having her side pressed flush to his body, his arm under her knees.

His mouth tightened and his neck beneath his cravat tensed—whether from bearing her weight or concern, she was afraid to hazard.

Reaching the cart, he set her on the tailboard. Jester barked his approval and hopped up behind her.

“Perhaps we ought to have the surgeon or at least the apothecary take a look at that ankle.”

“No, sir. Really, I'm fine.”

He lifted a hand toward her dangling limb. “The left one I believe . . . May I?”

She felt her mouth form an O, but no sound came.

He cupped the heel of her slipper and lifted it gently. His other hand grasped the toe, gingerly rotating her ankle. “Does that hurt?”

She swallowed and shook her head. Actually, it felt heavenly.

His gloved hand worked its way up her stocking-swathed ankle in a series of tentative squeezes. “All right?”

She nodded.

“Let's see your hands.”

She held them forth for inspection like a grotty waif. Both were dirty, but she'd scraped the left one as well, trying to stop her fall.

Mr. Upchurch withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Stay here.”

He strode to the lazily flowing mill leat, dipped the handkerchief into the water and returned, squeezing it out as he neared. Again he held her left palm, and with his other hand dabbed at the dirt and scrape. The cool water felt wonderful on her raw, burning skin.

She felt like a child and yet like a cherished woman at the same time.
Foolish girl
, she told herself.
He is only being kind.

He wiped the dirt from her other palm, then looked into her face. “You, em . . .” He cleared his throat. “You might want to, em, tidy your hair. Your . . . cap is a bit askew.”

Dread rippled through her.
Oh no.
Had her wig slipped? Was any blond hair showing? He appeared self-conscious at pointing it out but not shocked or suspicious.

“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to pull down her cap, and hopefully her wig with it.

He turned his back as she did so, stepped a few feet away, and sank to his haunches, studying a series of gouges in the road large enough to bury a cat.

“I attended a commissioners' meeting, where repairs to this road were approved and funds allocated. Progress is not what it should be. I shall have to speak to the town council.” He rose. “Nora, do sit up front for the rest of the trip. I don't want to see you knocked off again.”

Her nerves pulsed a warning—
too close.
“That's all right, sir. I don't mind.”

“Please. I insist.” He gestured toward the front bench, high over the cart's tall wheels.

Uncomfortable at the thought, she said, “Sir. Um. I don't know that I should be sitting up there. That is, when we reach Fairbourne Hall. I . . . think I would rather walk the rest of the way.”

“But your ankle.”

“It's fine, sir, truly. Please.”

He gave her a knowing look. “It would not go well for you belowstairs if you were seen riding beside Mr. Upchurch. Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“I see. Very well. But do take care with that ankle.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

As he climbed up and drove on, Margaret wondered if he would have been as kind and attentive had Betty or Fiona fallen from his cart. Probably, she thought.

But she hoped not.

When she reached Fairbourne Hall and delivered the powder and rouge, Helen asked how the errand had gone.

“Fine.” Margaret answered vaguely.

Helen's eyes sparkled with mischief. “Did Mr. Upchurch . . . notice you?”

Is that what Helen hoped would happen? “Not especially. But he was very kind.”

Helen lifted one eyebrow. “Was he?”

Margaret felt her cheeks heat under Helen's watchful gaze but did not elaborate further.

A few days later, Nathaniel sat in the library, reviewing sketches for a proposed new row of laborer cottages. But he had difficulty concentrating. His mind kept wondering, replaying the scenes from the last weeks. Dancing with Miss Macy at the servants' ball. Standing near her on the balcony, staring up at the stars. Strolling with her along the moonlit arcade. Carrying her in his arms. . . .

A knock roused Nathaniel from his reverie. He looked up, feeling almost guilty, as if caught doing something he ought not. He was surprised to see Robert Hudson in the threshold.

“Hudson, hello. I didn't expect you back so soon.”

“Is this a good time, sir?”

“Yes, of course.” Nathaniel straightened and cleared his throat. “How did it go?”

“Very well, I think.”

Nathaniel gestured toward the chair before the desk. “What did you find out?”

“Several interesting things.” Hudson sat and pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket. “First, Sterling Benton is indeed in financial straits, over head and ears in debt, according to a talkative banker.”

“You were discreet in your inquiries, I trust?”

“Sir.” Hudson tucked his chin, mouth down-turned, offended he even needed ask.

Nathaniel rotated his hand, gesturing for his steward to continue.

“Sterling Benton has borrowed too much, spent too much, and gambled too much, and refuses to retrench. Evidently very keen on keeping up appearances.”

Nathaniel was reminded of Lewis's spend-all ways. “Go on.”

“Marcus Benton is Sterling's nephew and apparent heir—assuming Sterling's marriage to the forty-something Macy widow results in no offspring.” He opened the leather cover and consulted his notes. “Marcus is three and twenty years of age and is the son of Sterling Benton's younger brother—a law clerk—who resides in Greenwich. Apparently Sterling sponsored his nephew through Oxford, where he read the law. Marcus has no profession at present and lives the life of a gentleman supported by his uncle's generosity.”

“Generosity that may be coming to an end.”

Hudson nodded. “So it seems. Marcus has lately come to reside with his uncle and new wife in Mayfair. The wife has three children, but the eldest daughter had been the only one residing at Berkeley Square regularly. Except at school vacations, Caroline Macy boards at a girls' seminary and Gilbert Macy is at Eton.”

Hudson hesitated. “I know you did not ask me to investigate the missing Margaret Macy, but I did learn something during my inquiries that bears on the situation.”

Nathaniel steeled himself, fearing he might hear something unsavory about Miss Macy's conduct.

“Go on.”

“Apparently, she will come into a good deal of money from a great-aunt who left her fortune in a trust, which is set to mature at Miss Macy's twenty-fifth birthday on . . .” Again Hudson consulted his notes.

“November the twenty-ninth,” Nathaniel murmured, lost in thought. He became aware of the high arch of Hudson's eyebrows but ignored his expectant expression.

“Might explain why an eligible nephew has come to stay,” Hudson said.

Nathaniel screwed up his face in thought. “I wonder why this inheritance has been such a secret before now. I never heard it mentioned before—by her or the gossipmongers.”

“Perhaps she hoped to avoid—what is the term?—fortune hunters. Not that I include you in that lot, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “Does she even know of the trust, do you think?”

“I did not gather it was unknown by her, but rather that she and her parents made a point of keeping it secret from society at large.”

“I wonder if Benton knew before he married into the family.”

Hudson coughed. “Do you mind a little hearsay along with the facts?”

“I suppose not.”

“I gather there was quite a row in the Benton house when Sterling learned the details of the trust. From the tenor of the argument, it seemed evident that he thought
his wife
was the one inheriting the money.”

Nathaniel stared at his steward, incredulous. “How on earth did you learn the details of an argument between man and wife in their own home?”

“My dear Nathaniel”—Hudson gave him a tolerant smile, reverting to Christian names as they had used in Barbados—“if one wishes to learn what really goes on in a house, one need only sweet-talk the right housemaid.”

Sweet-talk the right housemaid
 . . . Nathaniel mused. He wondered if he ought to give it a try. And he had just the right housemaid in mind.

Despite his intentions, Nathaniel didn't manage to see Margaret all day.

That evening, he and Helen had just sat down to dinner when the second footman opened the dining room door and announced their brother. Lewis strode unceremoniously past the young man, and flopped into a chair.

“Lewis,” Nathaniel said. “We did not expect you back so soon.”

“Not that we aren't glad to see you,” Helen added quickly.

“Hello, old girl. You are looking well, I must say.”

Helen self-consciously touched her curled and styled hair. “Thank you.”

Nathaniel gestured to the under butler. “Another place setting, Arnold.”

“Right away, sir.” Arnold signaled to the first footman, who languidly turned to do his bidding. Arnold, meanwhile, set several glasses before Lewis and poured wine.

Lewis took a long drink, then said, “I had to come and tell you the news.”

“Oh?”

“I saw Sterling Benton in town. You remember him—married the Macy widow?”

Nathaniel felt Helen's quick look but kept his focus on Lewis. “Yes, what of him?”

“I spent a most diverting evening at White's, I can tell you. I won several guineas off an obliging solicitor-friend of mine. Well, not
friend
exactly, but a useful acquaintance.”

Nathaniel frowned at the thought of Lewis gambling away family money—money needed for the estate, but he bit back a reprimand. “I thought you were going to tell us something about Benton?”

“I'm getting to that. Be patient.” Lewis took another drink and gestured for a refill. “I was in a generous mood, having won for once, so I bought this solicitor-friend several rounds. Don't scold—a wise investment, as it turns out.”

Nathaniel felt his jaw tighten. “How is that?”

“Well, he was well in his cups when Sterling Benton comes in, puffed up and slicked down as usual, that pup of a nephew at his heels.”

Lewis took a long swallow of burgundy. “My friend takes one look at the haughty pair of them, then leans near and tells me he has a few ideas about why the Macy girl went missing.”

Lewis had Nathaniel's full attention at last.

His brother's eyes glinted. “He hinted that Miss Macy has quite a tidy fortune coming to her on her next birthday. She's to be quite the little heiress.”

Helen's eyebrows rose. “Really? I had no idea.”

“Nor I,” Lewis said, turning to him. “Did you know?”

Nathaniel hedged, “She never said a word to me.”

So,
Nathaniel thought
, the once-secret inheritance is becoming generally known.
He supposed Margaret's disappearance had loosened the tongues of the few who knew about it, whoever they were.

Lewis returned to his tale. “At all events, I called Sterling Benton over, ignoring the sharp kicks my companion delivered under the table, and asked after Miss Macy. Benton feigned such fatherly concern, but I could tell it was balderdash. So I told him he need not worry about her.”