He frowned. For some reason, acting with such nobility of character didn’t feel as fulfilling as he’d thought it would be. He glanced at Wilson. “Walk the mare a bit, would you? I won’t be long.”
“Ye don’t think it?”
Sir Loughton nodded, annoyed at the knowing gleam in the groom’s eye. “I am on my way to town and I haven’t time to linger.”
“Ye’ll stop long enough to see the dook, won’t ye? I don’t trust him as far as I kin see him.”
“After Miss Arabella, is he?”
“There ye are, guv’nor. I’ve always held ye was as sharp as ye could stare.”
Though touched by such unexpected approbation, the baron merely nodded. “I will have a look at your guest. And if there is any question as to his respectability, I will send him on his way.”
“If’n the ladies will let ye,” Wilson said, suddenly glum.
“Is Miss Arabella favoring his suit, then?”
“It ain’t her. It’s Lady Durham and Lady Melwin.” Wilson wrinkled his nose as he led the horse away. “It’s the first time we’ve ever had a dook at Rosemont.”
Sir Loughton glanced at the house. There had been one other time Rosemont had hosted a duke beneath its multi-garreted roof…but that had been long before Wilson’s arrival, and long before Lady Jane and Lady Emma had come to stay.
He approached the door and knocked. After a prolonged wait, the huge oak door creaked open.
Sir Loughton stepped into the foyer and pulled off his bright muffler. “Hello, Mrs. Guinv—”
Instead of the glum housekeeper, an exceedingly correct individual dressed in somber black faced him. The paragon bowed with just enough depth to indicate his uncertainty as to Sir Loughton’s title.
“Who the devil are you?” Sir Loughton asked.
The man looked down his long, thin nose, his sandy lashes casting shadows across his colorless cheeks. “I am Hastings, my lord. The Duke of Wexford’s valet.”
“Wexford? So that’s who—” He broke off when he encountered the valet’s interested stare. Sir Loughton gave a short laugh. “I suppose it makes perfect sense, now that I think about it.”
“Indeed,” Hastings said, his expression holding just the faintest tinge of boredom. “Shall I take your coat, sir?”
Sir Loughton obligingly allowed the valet to help him shrug out of his greatcoat. He tried to alleviate the awkwardness of the moment with a jovial laugh. “You haven’t been forced to pay for His Lordship’s lodgings by serving as butler, have you?”
Hastings was not amused. After a lengthy pause that effectively melted Sir Loughton’s grin, he permitted himself a small, polite bow. “Hardly, my lord. I am merely making myself useful, as I always do.”
The tone implied that Sir Loughton had never done anything so noble. The baron had experienced enough seasons in London to recognize a master servant when he faced one. “It is very kind of you to help the ladies of Rosemont. You are to be commended.”
“Of course, my lord,” Hastings said in a voice that implied the valet thought the baron was being impertinent in even mentioning such an obvious fact. “May I ask for whom you are calling?”
“Lady Melwin. I came to see if she has a commission for me, as I am on my way to town. I am Sir Loughton, a friend of the family.”
“Of course, my lord.” Hastings opened the door to the morning room.
The valet waited until the baron had entered, and then he cleared his throat and announced, “Your Grace, Sir Loughton has just arrived for Lady Melwin.”
Lucien looked up from where he was writing yet another letter to Liza and assessed his visitor. Tall and athletic in build, the man possessed distinguished white hair and a pair of piercing blue eyes.
Lucien smiled as he rose. “I believe you knew my father.”
“Lud, yes. He and I were members of White’s.”
“Then you probably saw more of him than I.” Lucien’s father had ever been conscious of his standing, maintaining his memberships in the best clubs despite the wear on the family purse. “He once told me he felt more at home there than anywhere else.”
A reluctant smile creased the baron’s face. “Heard you’d been wounded, but you look right as rain.”
“A minor injury I sustained when I fell from my horse. Miss Hadley found me and kindly brought me here for her aunts to patch up.” Lucien sealed his missive and held it out for Hastings. The valet immediately crossed to take it and bowed his way from the room.
Loughton gave a sharp nod. “If you were in Jane’s hands, then you were safe. I can’t vouch for Emma.” He tapped his forehead with a finger and said bluntly, “All wind, no bellows.”
Lucien chuckled. “You seem very intimate with the household.”
“I should. I hunted with James Hadley every year for fifteen years before he stuck his spoon in the wall.” The sharp blue gaze pinned Lucien. “Did you know him?”
“I only had the pleasure of seeing him twice. Once here and once in London.” Lucien shrugged. “He was a very well-spoken man.”
“Hmmm. I thought you would have known him better than that.”
“I wasn’t allowed that pleasure,” Lucien said shortly.
The door burst open and Aunt Jane swept in. “There you are, Your Grace! Arabella must visit the vicar to deliver some jams. I thought perhaps you could—” Jane came to a sudden halt when she caught sight of the baron. “You,” she said, her voice rich with loathing.
Sir Loughton grinned. “Who else, m’dear?”
“You are not welcome at Rosemont.”
Sir Loughton chuckled. “Don’t be a gudgeon, m’dear. No need to air your dirty laundry in public.”
She cast him a dagger glance. “There is nothing we need speak about that cannot be said in front of the duke.”
“Very well. If he is such a confidant that I can discuss your losses—”
“However,” she continued, her accents as frigid as her glance, “since I am busy today, you may return to see me at another time.”
There was such an undercurrent between the two that Lucien found himself wondering what had caused such unrelenting animosity on the lady’s part and such keen interest on the gentleman’s.
Sir Loughton shrugged. “I am free to discuss our business matters whenever you are.”
“That is certainly accommodating of you,” she said stiffly.
“It is, isn’t it?” He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and rocked back on his heels. “Hm, let me see. I am free on Thursday. Perhaps I shall stop by at dinnertime.”
“You cannot just invite yourself to someone’s house. Of all the impertinent, rude, overbearing—”
“Arrogant, pompous, and boorish.” Sir Loughton gave a wolfish grin. “I believe you called me those names just last night. Pray strive for some originality.”
Last night? Aunt Jane and Aunt Emma had retired to their room immediately after dinner. Could they have gone to Sir Loughton’s? But why?
Jane’s glare would have sent a normal man into immediate hibernation, but Sir Loughton was made of sterner stuff. “Till Thursday, then.” He stared at her from beneath bushy brows, openly challenging her.
Jane’s mouth folded in frustration before she finally burst out with a testy, “Oh, very well. Come to dinner. I don’t care.” She stomped to the door, her color high, her shoulders ramrod straight. “And pray try to find some proper clothing.”
Sir Loughton blinked his surprise. He looked down at his sober brown coat. “What’s wrong with—”
But it was too late; Jane had already whisked out of the room.
Lucien pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Well.”
Sir Loughton grinned, deep laugh lines appearing to either side of his eyes. “Don’t let her bluff you. It is the way of the Hadley women, you know. They don’t like to feel dependent on any person.” Sir Loughton gave Lucien a long, shrewd look, then stuck out his hand. “I must be going, but I enjoyed meeting you.”
Lucien shook the baron’s hand, then moved to open the door. “Shall I walk you to your horse?”
“Thank you. I’d welcome the company.” Sir Loughton limped out the door, accepting his coat and hat from Hastings and then progressing to the front step. Once there, out of hearing of the servants, he shot a hard look at Lucien.
“How long does Your Grace plan to stay at Rosemont?”
“A few more weeks, perhaps. Why do you ask?”
The old gentleman’s blue eyes didn’t waver. “Just wondered. I heard you were staying only until you’d healed, but you seem fit to me.”
“I daresay I would be in worse case, except Aunt Jane happened to have some of her sheep tonic at the ready.”
“Good God! Surely she didn’t!”
He looked so alarmed that Lucien felt it necessary to add, “Lady Melwin assured me it wasn’t poisonous.”
“I’m damned glad to hear it. What in the hell was Jane thinking to allow such a thing? That woman needs to be—” He clamped his mouth closed, his brows lowered. “I beg your pardon.” He walked silently beside Lucien, a frown on his face. “I say, while you were ill, you didn’t happen to hear what was in this tonic, did you? It is the most damnable thing, but Jane and Emma have discovered some sort of sheep…I don’t know. A sheep love potion, I suppose you would call it.”
Lucien choked.
Sir Loughton reddened. “Oh, it sounds foolish, I know. But since they started dosing their flocks, they’ve tripled the number of lambs.”
Lucien stopped. “Tripled?”
“Or more.” Blue eyes surveyed Lucien from head to toe. “How did it make you feel? I mean, did it…” The baron reddened even more. “I was wondering how the potion worked. Supposedly, it besets the sheep with lust.”
Lust? Oh, Lucien had experienced lust, all right. Unfortunately, it was the same lust that had flamed him to intemperate actions all those years ago. The sheep tonic had nothing to do with it. “All it does is make one very, very sleepy.”
The old gentleman’s face fell. “Is that all?”
“Perhaps you should ask for a sample and see for yourself.”
Sir Loughton gave a rueful shake of his head. “If I did that, I would have to admit that there’s a possibility that this tonic works.” A twinkle lit the blue eyes. “Jane would never let me forget it.”
From across the stable yard, Lucien watched as Arabella and Ned turned the old cart onto the road. Sensibly clad in a gray coat that would have made a farmer’s wife proud, Arabella held the reins and urged Sebastian to a brisk trot. The wind tossed her hair, tugging long chestnut strands free so that they blew across her cheeks and wrapped beneath her chin.
As the cart turned onto the road, its bed came into view. Two large, tarp-covered mounds were clearly visible, with straw sticking out of the sides. The perfect place to hide casks.
Lucien took a step forward. He had to saddle Satan and follow them, discover if they were—
Sir Loughton’s voice came from behind him. “An amazing woman, Arabella Hadley. Keeps Rosemont running almost single-handedly.”
With great difficulty, Lucien managed to nod politely, his every instinct to race after them. “She shouldn’t be going out by herself.”
“Ned is with her.”
“You obviously haven’t had the benefit of speaking with him.”
Sir Loughton chuckled. “Bubbleheaded, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Lucien said shortly, watching as the cart rumbled from sight. He raked a hand through his hair. “You could as easily tell a dead person to roll over as tell Arabella Hadley to be cautious.”
“You seem to know her rather well.” The baron’s hard blue gaze met Lucien’s again. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but as a friend of the family, just what are your intentions regarding Miss Hadley?”
“My intentions are every bit as honorable as yours are toward Lady Melwin,” Lucien returned instantly.
Sir Loughton gave a bark of laughter. “I suppose you have me there. It is none of my business, anyway.” He held out his hand. “I am glad you came to Yorkshire, Your Grace.”
“As am I.” Lucien shook the offered hand.
As he watched the baron ride away on a showy chestnut, Lucien cast one last, grim look toward the road where Arabella and Ned had disappeared, then turned and stalked to the stables. He had a sinking feeling that a certain man by the name of Mumferd would know exactly what was happening at Rosemont. Cursing his suspicions, he saddled Satan and rode toward the Red Rooster.
Chapter 14
Night was her favorite time. Arabella loved the endless black of the sky and the wildness of the sea. Breathing deeply of the tangy salt air, she reached the low stone wall that lined the cliff and peered back over her shoulder at Rosemont.
The house was shuttered in darkness, one solitary window gleaming with light.
Lucien. Arabella stared at the light and murmured, “I wonder what you are into now.”
Every day, he received mysterious letters, and on one occasion had left the house immediately, setting out on Satan and returning well after dark. She knew where he spent his days, for he was invariably by her side. But his evenings remained shrouded in mystery.
She kicked at a loose rock in the garden path, huddling deeper into her coat. She’d wanted to follow him, but Sebastian was simply no match for Satan.
The wind lifted, cold and unrelenting, and Arabella began to look longingly at the flicker of the fire she could see reflected on the walls of Lucien’s room. Not that she wanted to actually be in his room, of course. Any room with a warm fire would do. Still…she could just imagine how warm and toasty it would be: the fire flickering in the grate, the huge curtained bed nestled in the corner, the faint scent of candle wax in the air, and Lucien…She closed her eyes and imagined him sleeping in the great oak bed, his hair tousled, his jaw dark with the faintest hint of a shadow, his long lashes covering his remarkable eyes.
Asleep, he would look younger and more boyish, though nothing could detract from the air of latent sensuality that hung about him like the heady scent of sandalwood. Even sound asleep, he would have the power to make any warm-blooded woman yearn to touch him, and trail her lips across the line of his jaw.
Stop it, she silently admonished herself. She sank onto the hard, cracked marble bench beneath the oak tree and shook her head. Obviously, the days of working side by side with Lucien were taking their toll. She shivered as a gust of wind rushed across her, bathing her in icy cold and rattling the branches over her head.
She hugged the coat closer and sank her numb chin into the voluminous folds. Here, on the cliff edge, the wind blew stronger than anywhere else. Even on a calm day, a steady current of air sliced up the cliff face and pummeled the oak tree in a constant struggle to see which was stronger. It was a wonder that the old gnarled oak still stood, but it did, huge and craggy, with thick limbs that stretched out to the sea, defiant to the end.
Restless, she stood just as the crunch of gravel alerted her to Wilson’s arrival, and she turned to see him emerge from the gate. His face was barely discernible in the dim light.
“Are ye ready, missus?”
“Yes.” She took the lantern he proffered and turned to lead the way down the path. The trail was stiff and rocky, filled with treacherous dips and stones, but she walked with the ease of familiarity. The path followed along the cliff face, one side solid rock, the other thin air and deep blackness, filled with the smell and taste of the sea.
As she rounded the last curve, the path angled down a rocky, grass-faced ledge. The wind rose, buffeting the rock face until she thought she could feel it tremble beneath her boots. The moon appeared only periodically between huge black clouds that roiled uneasily over the dark sea.
After what seemed an interminable time, they turned the last bend. They were now almost to the bottom of the cliff and approaching a large boulder. In the light from the lamp, it appeared that the trail went directly to the rock, then stopped. But a
s they came closer, one could just discern where the path took a sharp left turn and disappeared into a narrow crack in the cliff wall.
Arabella lifted the lantern as she stepped into the crevice. A sudden gust threatened to extinguish the light, but two more swift steps brought her into the damp, still air of a cave.
From behind her came Wilson’s heavy-booted feet. “If’n we don’t hurry, we’ll be caught in the tide. ’Tis harsh tonight.”
“Then we’ll hurry.”
“’Tain’t always that easy when yer dealin’ with two numbskulls like my nephews.” Still grumbling, he took the lantern from her and led the way. The narrow tunnel was treacherous with low ceilings and broken ground, but to Arabella and Wilson, it was as familiar and unremarkable as the entryway at Rosemont.
They rounded a corner and stepped out into a large cavern. There, the hollow dampness rose bold and bleak. The cavern was only half the size of Rosemont’s great hall, but since the lantern shed only a pale circle of light, the blackness left the impression that they had just found the edge of eternity.
She and Robert had found the cave long, long ago. Robert had been certain that this was where the Captain’s lost treasure was hidden. They had searched for weeks with the wholehearted zeal of children, but they’d found only a few markings on the wall and some broken pottery.
Wilson took a step into the cavern, bumping his head on the low ceiling of the entryway. He cursed, his rusty voice echoing hollowly. Large black puddles stretched out before them, the edges white with sea foam. When the tide came in, water overflowed the cavern wall, filling the cave with brackish salt water until it resembled a lake.
Right now the lake was only partially filled, barely touching the bottom lip of the ledge. But when the tide was high, both entrances were completely submerged. Then, only one corner of the cave remained dry—a ledge high to the right.
On the ledge were signs of habitation: several lanterns hung on pegs, the remains of a small peat fire, and a cot that had been shoved against the back wall. The rest of the high ledge was covered with barrel after barrel of the new shipment.