The Spurned Viscountess (6 page)

“I’m not lost,” Rosalind snapped, irritated at noticing his good looks when she was a married woman.

“No, of course not. Walk to the end of this passage and turn left. You should find yourself at the end of the Long Gallery near the chapel.”

“Thank you.” Shame tempered the irritation lacing her voice. He was being helpful; he couldn’t help his good looks any more than Hastings was to blame for the scar running the length of his face. “I can find my way from there.”

His grin widened as if he saw straight through her. “What’s that you have there?”

“A kitten.”

His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Does Lady Augusta know?”

“Yes,” Rosalind said, her tone indicating she didn’t wish to discuss the matter. The kitten squirmed, making guilt ripple through her. She’d dallied long enough. “I must go. Good day.”

“Good day, Lady Hastings.”

Rosalind hurried down the passage, following Mr. Soulden’s directions. Five minutes later she burst into her chamber more than a little out of breath.

Mary thrust aside her darning and leaped up at the suddenness of her appearance, her freckled face paling. “Miss? What on earth?”

“Where’s my healing bag, Mary?”

“What do you have there?”

“A kitten. The poor thing was half-drowned when I found it. I suspect it came from a ship, and it either fell or was tossed into the sea. My bag, Mary.”

Mary bustled away and returned with Rosalind’s pouch of herbs and ointments. “How could it survive, falling in the water that way?” She drew closer then jerked back in alarm when Rosalind pulled back her cloak. “It be black!”

Rosalind scowled at her maid. “This is not a witch’s cat.”

“Hmm.” Mary pursed her lips, looked as if she might add another comment but desisted on seeing Rosalind’s glare.

“I need a hot brick to make a warm bed for the kitten.” Rosalind turned her attention to the little creature. Still damp and bedraggled, it shivered and looked downright pitiful. Huge hazel eyes gazed at her for an instant before sliding shut. The kitten gave another convulsive shudder, and Rosalind leaped into action.

She rubbed the kitten briskly with a soft linen towel, then she checked him for injuries. Although skinny and in need of food, there were no obvious wounds. Mary returned with a hastily assembled bed, and Rosalind was about to place the kitten inside when his paws snared her attention—his toes, to be more precise. She gasped and whipped a cover over the kitten so only his head was visible.

“That cat is black,” Mary stated, with a toss of her head.

Rosalind frowned at the top of the kitten’s head. And he had too many toes! Thank goodness Mary hadn’t noticed.

A loud thump on the chamber door startled them both. For an instant, they stared at each other, silent messages passing to and fro while they decided how to proceed. The kitten had made Rosalind forget her troubles, albeit for a short time. A second insistent thump had Mary scurrying to answer. She jerked the door open and stepped back. Rosalind froze.

Hastings.

Rosalind settled her attention back on the kitten, rubbing it gently with the cover she had thrown over it. “Lord Hastings? May I help you with something?”

She hoped he wasn’t going to make her get rid of the kitten after all. His forbidding expression indicated something dire. Then a thought occurred, and she gasped out loud. He hadn’t come to bed her. Had he?

“I came to…” His mouth snapped shut and his scar seemed to glow, making him look like a ghostly apparition from one of Mary’s tales.

“Y-yes?” Her hands flexed as she glanced at him. That one glimpse was all she needed. Apprehension battled with disappointment as she accepted the truth of the matter. His expression was that of a man acting against his will. She didn’t need to think overly hard on the matter. She wanted an agreeable husband, one who wanted children as much as she did.

Lucien concentrated on the woman while inside he railed at his stupidity. He shouldn’t have come, but then he seemed to make one mistake after the other with the English mouse.

He inhaled deeply, trying to prod sense into his dull brain. Another mistake. The room smelled of her, of flowers and greenery—the outdoors.

A cheerful fire burned in the grate behind her, making the pale blond hair glow like a full moon hanging in a velvet sky. Jerking his gaze from the sight, he tried to rid his mind of the unwanted image. He cleared his throat in preparation to tell her why he’d sought her company.

A soft shuffle to his right made him realize the maid was witness to his stupidity.

“Johnson, the head groom, is gifted in treating animals. Take the beast to him.” Although he sounded abrupt, he couldn’t stop the anger. Each time he looked at the woman, fury built and grew, writhing inside him like a raging beast, yet the sane part of him acknowledged he owed a duty to her. Good or bad, she was now his wife. He tried to remind himself she wasn’t responsible for Francesca’s death, but the resentment remained. The English mouse was alive.

He glanced about the room, taking in the feminine fripperies—a hairbrush inlaid with mother of pearl, a straw hat, a nightgown strewn across the bed, colorful ribbons and satin bows that reminded him of Francesca and her delight of beautiful things. Savagely, he locked the painful memories away.

“Well?” he demanded. “Do you wish me to summon a footman?”

“I don’t need help.” Her chin tilted upward.

Lucien nodded curtly and stalked to the door, in a hurry to leave the chamber and the woman’s presence. “As you will. I must go. Lady Augusta will meet with you this afternoon in the Great Hall. Lady Radford and her daughter, Lady Sophia, are visiting.”

“Thank you for telling me,” she said.

Lucien paused with his hand on the door latch, every sense suddenly alert. He turned, his gaze sweeping the room, finally coming to rest on the woman. She arched one blond brow in a quizzical manner.

He frowned. For once, his instincts were flawed. He shrugged off his sense of unease and strode from the woman’s presence. The only element of danger in the chamber was the woman.

“Three weeks.” Lucien forced his arms into his shirt and yanked the black fabric over his shoulders, fastening the buttons with jerky fingers. “Why does it seem so much longer?”

And why had he taken to talking to himself? It was
her,
his new viscountess. Their nuptials twenty-two days ago had messed with his plans. Finding Francesca’s murderer remained his top priority, not puzzling out his strange reaction to the English mouse.

He finger-combed his hair, dragging the long strands off his face to tie back. A folded scrap of paper sitting on the floor inside his chamber door grabbed his attention. Frowning, he completed his queue before stooping to retrieve the note.

Stay out of smuggler business unless you wish to face the consequences.

Fury struck him as he read the words, and he crumpled the paper, tossing it aside in disgust. Either the smugglers were educated or they’d paid someone to write the note for them. A cynical laugh escaped him. Nothing in the note or words gave him a lead. Not that it mattered. They might think they could warn him off, but it wouldn’t work. He jammed his feet in his boots and left his room.

Lucien stomped through the Great Hall, disturbing a pair of maids with his mumbling. They paused in their polishing and bobbed a curtsey. One turned her face so she didn’t have to confront his scar while the other stared intently at his groin before closing her right eye in a saucy wink. Lucien averted his gaze. The brazen, dark-haired maid had offered to warm his bed several times, which didn’t make sense given the way she never actually looked at his face. Each time, he’d sent her on her way, but she continued to watch him, making him feel like a particularly tasty slice of tart. He’d have to do something about her soon, but not today.

“Good day.” The giggles that followed him down the hall made him scowl harder. Living in the castle meant there were no secrets—all would know of the state of affairs between him and the English mouse. No doubt, they discussed the matter in depth while going about their duties. Lucien cursed inwardly.

He continued down the brightly lit passage to the steward’s office. At first, he’d found the meetings with the steward tedious, an unavoidable aspect of his presence. However, he’d come to enjoy the hours of honest toil. Rolling up his sleeves and working with his hands until he was too tired to think had filled the lonely hours. And the time spent out on the estate had proved helpful in his search for Hawk. Gossip picked up from the locals continued to help, yet they ignored direct questions on the subject.

Lucien’s jaw clenched. The man was a powerful force in the area, but he was closing in; the anonymous note in his chamber warning him off confirmed the instinct.

Lucien thumped on the closed door of the office and entered without waiting. A fire burned in the study hearth, heating the room to an unbearable temperature. The steward sat behind his desk, a somber and earnest expression on his face, his quill scratching as he made notations in the estate ledgers.

He looked up at Lucien’s arrival. “Viscount Hastings.”

“Maxwell.” Lucien inclined his head and sank into a wooden chair near him. “What needs doing next?”

Maxwell peered over the top of his spectacles. “Several cottages require repairs. I know it’s late in the season, but I have been so busy. There’s been no one to supervise the work. But surely you don’t intend to start the job now?” A tide of ruddy color spread from the man’s cheeks and upward toward his horsehair wig. He shuffled on his seat, avoiding Lucien’s gaze before blurting, “You are still newly wed, in your honeymoon period. Surely you don’t wish to upset—”

At that moment, St. Clare hobbled into the study to join them. He paused, brows rising. “Hastings, what are you doing here? You should spend time with your charming young wife instead of concerning yourself with estate business. I want to bounce a grandson on my knee before I leave this world. The only way to leave a mark on the world is a man’s get. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, boy.”

Lucien gritted his teeth. He was not Hastings. He was not the boy. He was the owner of a successful estate in Italy, and he intended to return as soon as he discovered Hawk’s identity and exacted his revenge. “The estate needs attention before the cold weather sets in.”

“A few days will make little difference.” St. Clare shot Maxwell an amused glance. “Next week is soon enough to start the chore. I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing.” A dry chuckle bounced between them, the unspoken sentiment raising Lucien’s hackles. “Things far more pleasurable than toiling on the estate.” St. Clare closed one eye in a salacious wink. “Enjoy the marriage while you can.”

“There’s no one to oversee the work.” Lucien ignored the man’s insinuation that he should take the woman to bed and keep her there until her belly swelled with child. The idea made his stomach churn.

“Charles will take care of the repairs.”

A snort escaped Lucien. The honorable Charles Soulden was a useless fop. His so-called cousin spent his nights carousing about the countryside with his friend Viscount Mansfield, his days sleeping away his excesses. Work? The man didn’t know the meaning of the word. “I believe Charles has social obligations to fulfill. I heard him inform Lady Augusta of them last night.”

St. Clare shrugged, leaning heavily on his ebony cane. “No hurry. As I said, a day or two will make little difference.”

Irritated with the man’s attitude, Lucien turned to Maxwell. “I’ll start the repairs today. Rosalind will understand the need for my absence.” After wandering the estate, Lucien knew the need for repairs was dire. It was no wonder the village people accepted money from the smugglers in exchange for providing labor and a cloak of secrecy. Lucien could hardly blame them for trying to provide for their families. What was also obvious was the growing resentment from the villagers and tenants who lived on the estate.

Impatient with talk, Lucien leaped to his feet, wanting the hard physical activity of estate work. He needed to fall into his bed at night with his limbs heavy and aching with tiredness. For then, he might actually sleep.

Lucien paced to the door in front of the desk, eager to be gone. “I’ll put the work in motion. Are the building supplies ordered?”

The man blinked. “There was no point. The work wasn’t scheduled.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Lucien marched from the study. Long strides carried him into the outer bailey. A raven cawed from its roost atop the disused North Tower.
Damn pile of stones.
It needed dismantling before it toppled into the sea.

At the stables a groom came running at his call. After a short delay, he mounted Oberon and trotted from the stable yard, glad to be gone from the oppressive bastion.

He urged Oberon into a canter. For once, Oberon was content with the pace and they loped alongside a hedgerow, heading for the cluster of cottages on the edge of St. Clare village.

A crop of barley grew in the field adjacent, the stalks spindly and sparse for the time of the season. Planted too late, perhaps with inferior seeds.

Was it any wonder the village people relied on the smugglers to supplement their incomes? It was a matter of survival.

As Lucien reached the brow of the hill, he had a view of St. Clare village in the valley below. A plume of smoke rose from a chimney. In front of the nearest cottage, a red rooster scratched in the dirt. A toddler crawled through an open door out into the muddy street. Somewhere a blacksmith worked his forge, the incessant pounding of a hammer beating in time with Oberon’s hooves. A group of women who’d been talking ceased their prattle and turned to stare. The scene bore little resemblance to the prosperous Bacci estate in Italy.

Lucien slowed Oberon and dismounted. Every man, woman and child in sight froze, clear suspicion on their faces. Even the rooster seemed wary, squawking in fright and disappearing into an alley running between two cottages. Lucien could understand the attitude. He was finding it difficult to trust these days, second guessing the motives of everyone around him.

“My lord?” The frail woman elected as spokesman was so skinny she looked as though a gust of wind would send her soaring through the skies.

“I have come to check the cottages, to see which require repairs.”

They greeted his words with a stunned silence. Lucien frowned once again over the lack of concern from the castle.

A huge man with bulging biceps and a blacksmith’s hammer in one hand appeared behind the group of women. “Talk be cheap.”

The women backed up as if distancing themselves from the man.

“Do you have time to give me a tour?” Lucien asked. “Can you show me what requires attention?”

The man stepped closer, pausing to spit a wad of tobacco from the corner of his mouth. The brown lump landed two inches from Lucien’s highly polished black boots. “Aye, for all the good it will do.”

Lucien ignored the clear challenge. “Is there someone to attend to my horse?”

“My son will watch your ’orse.” He snapped his fingers and a child appeared at his elbow. “Take his lordship’s ’orse to the stables.”

The awed look on the youngster’s face as he stroked a grubby hand down Oberon’s neck reassured Lucien his mount would come to no harm. He handed the reins to the boy, watched to see if Oberon accepted the boy before turning to the man. “I am in your hands, sir.”

“Aye.” A blob of spittle landed on the ground at his feet.

Lucien chose to ignore the action, knowing he needed to earn the villager’s respect. Trust would take time because, from what he had seen, they’d no reason to believe anything a representative from the castle told them. “After you, sir.”

“Humph! I ain’t never bin called sir before. Name’s Sam Judson, the smithy.”

Lucien offered his hand and Judson’s mouth dropped open in bemusement. His gaze rose to size up Lucien. It wasn’t difficult to read his mind, and Lucien felt renewed anger at the St. Clare family. They owed a duty to the village people—a sacred trust. He held his hand steady for a moment longer and was about to lower it to his side when the smithy extended his beefy one. A tinge of red shaded the man’s cheeks as their hands clasped in a brief shake.

“What will you show me first?” Lucien asked. “Should we start at this end of the village and work our way to the other end?”

Judson hesitated, then his expressive face hardened in resolution. “This way, my lord.”

Over half of the cottages Judson showed Lucien required work to make them habitable. The leaking roof on one cottage and rotten timber on another were minor problems and easily solved. The empty well meant villagers had to carry water from a stream at the opposite end of the village. That promised more of a challenge. Judson introduced him to several men and mentioned the names of the tenants in each of the cottages. By the end of the tour, Lucien’s initial anger had solidified to a hard lump in his gut. This was no way to treat tenants. And by God, he’d see improvements before he left. The stolen identity forced on him would do some good after all.

Judson coughed to attract his attention. “Here comes your lady, my lord.”

Francesca? Lucien straightened from his observation of the well. A smile formed on his lips before abruptly fading when he remembered she was gone. His mouth tightened. What the devil was the English mouse doing in the village? He’d told her not to stray from the castle without protection. Damn it! Hadn’t he heard Lady Augusta the previous evening request her aid with the latest in the stream of visitors to Castle St. Clare? At the time he’d issued a silent prayer of thanks because the visitors kept his wife busy at the castle. The cantankerous old bat would make her displeasure known and they’d suffer the consequences tonight at dinner.

His eyes narrowed as the woman approached, a slender figure in a blue gown and cloak and a scrap of a hat perched on top of her head. She picked her way around the biggest puddles and splashed through others with scant regard for her clothes.

“I thought I told you to take a footman with you if you left the castle,” he said when she stopped in front of him.

“Matthew escorted us. I told him he could visit his friends. Since you were in plain sight, I thought that would be acceptable.” Her smile was wide and sunny.

Lucien ground his teeth together. “What are you doing here?”

“Exploring the village.” She sounded a little puzzled. “All I’ve seen of my new home is the beach. Lady Augusta has kept me so busy with household tasks and visitors this is the first chance I’ve had to leave the castle again. Besides, I have some knowledge of healing. I thought I could help.” She indicated the bag she held in her right hand.

“What about your appointment with Lady Augusta? I thought she wished your help with entertaining the vicar.”

“Lady Augusta is unwell and has taken to her bed. She asked me to send a footman with her regrets to the vicar and his wife and cancel their visit for today.” The woman stirred and chewed her bottom lip. He registered the gesture of nerves. When she glanced away, he continued to study her face, positive she wasn’t telling the truth.

He scanned the surroundings, the cluster of squalid buildings and the unkempt villagers. Why would she struggle through the mud to soil her hands? She darted another look in his direction. Under his scrutiny, her expression remained guileless, but she was still chewing her lip. A sudden thought occurred. Did she know Hawk? Was that why she was acting so skittish? Although the woman hailed from Gloucestershire, it was possible they were acquainted. A sick sensation made his insides roil. Was she conspiring with the man? Or had the man gained her trust since her arrival at the castle under the guise of helping the villagers? Her soft heart was evident in her every action, from speaking kindly to the servants to rescuing that creature from the sea. Would her kindness extend to Hawk?

His enemy.

“Here comes Mary,” she said, turning back to him. “We intend to visit Mistress Baker. The cook told us to ask for her and gave us directions, but I fear we took a wrong turning.”

“I will escort you,” Lucien found himself saying.