“Not this year.” Harry took Lucinda’s arm and steered her towards the gate. “The Newmarket win took him to the top of his class; I’ve decided to retire him at his peak, so to speak. He’ll stand for the rest of this season. I might give him a run next year, but if the present interest in him as a stud continues, I’d be a fool to let him waste his energies on the track.”
Lucinda’s lips quirked; she struggled to suppress her grin.
Harry noticed. “What is it?”
Colouring slightly, Lucinda shot him a glance from beneath her lids.
Harry raised his brows higher.
Lucinda grimaced. “If you must know,” she said, switching her gaze to the horizon. “I was simply struck by the fact that managing a stud is a peculiarly apt enterprise for…er, one with your qualifications.”
Harry laughed, an entirely spontaneous sound Lucinda realised she had not before heard.
“My dear Mrs Babbacombe!” His green eyes quizzed her. “What a thoroughly shocking observation to make.”
Lucinda glared, then put her nose in the air.
Harry chuckled. Ignoring her blushes, he drew her closer. “Strangely enough,” he said, his lips distinctly curved, “you’re the first to ever put it into words.”
Lucinda fell back on one of Em’s snorts—the one that signified deep disapproval. Disapproval gave way to hope when she realised Harry was not leading her back to the gig but towards a small wood bordering the nearest field. A path led between the trees, cut back to permit easy strolling.
Perhaps…? She never finished the thought, distracted by the discovery that the wood was in reality no more than a wind-break. Beyond it, the path was paved as it ambled about a small pond where water lilies battled with reeds. “That needs clearing.”
Harry glanced at the pond. “We’ll get to it eventually.”
Lucinda looked up and followed his gaze—to the house. Large, rambling, with old-fashioned gables, it was made of local stone with a good slate roof. On the ground floor, bow windows stood open to the summer air. A rose crept up one wall to nod pale yellow blooms before one of the upstairs windows. Two large, leafy oaks stood one to each side, casting cool shade over the gravelled drive which wound from some gateway out of sight down a long avenue to end in a sweep before the front door.
She glanced at Harry. “Lestershall?”
He nodded, his eyes on the manor house. “My house.” Briefly, his lips twisted. “My home.” With a languid wave, he gestured ahead. “Shall we?”
Suddenly breathless, Lucinda inclined her head.
They strolled on to where their path debouched onto the lawn, then crossed the grassy expanse and ducked beneath the low branches of one of the oaks to join the drive. As they approached the shallow stone steps, Lucinda noticed the front door stood ajar.
“I’ve never really lived here.” Harry steadied her as they scrunched across the gravel. “It had fallen into disrepair, so I’ve had a small army through to set it to rights.”
A burly individual in a carpenter’s leather apron appeared in the doorway as they set foot on the steps.
“Mornin’, Mr Lester.” The man ducked his head, his cheery face lit by a smile. “It’s all coming together nicely—as I think you’ll find. Not much more to do.”
“Good morning, Catchbrick. This is Mrs Babbacombe. If it won’t inconvenience you and your men, I’d like to show her around.”
“No inconvenience at all, sir.” Catchbrick bowed to Lucinda, bright eyes curious. “Won’t be no trouble—like I said, we’re nearly done.”
So saying, he stood back and waved them on into the hall.
Lucinda crossed the threshold into a long and surprisingly spacious rectangular hall. Half-panelling in warm oak was surmounted by plastered walls, presently bare. A mound draped in dust covers in the centre of the floor clearly contained a round table and a large hall stand. Light streamed in from the large circular fanlight. Stairs, also in oak with an ornately carved balustrade, led upwards, the half-landing sporting a long window which, Lucinda suspected, looked out over the rear gardens. Two corridors flanked the stairs, the left ending in a green baize door.
“The drawing-room’s this way.”
Lucinda turned to find Harry standing by a set of handsome doors, presently set wide; a boy was polishing the panels industriously.
The drawing-room proved to be of generous proportions, although on far smaller a scale than at the Hall. It boasted a deep bow window complete with window seat and a long low fireplace topped by a wide mantel. The dining-room, now shaping to be an elegant apartment, had, as had the drawing-room, a large mound of furniture swathed in dust cloths in its midst. Lucinda couldn’t resist lifting one corner of the cloth.
“Some pieces will need to be replaced but most of the furniture seems sound enough.” Harry’s gaze remained on her face.
“Sound enough?” Lucinda threw back the cover to reveal the heavy top of an old oak sideboard. “It’s rather more than that. This is a very fine piece—and someone’s had the sense to keep it well-polished.”
“Mrs Simpkins. She’s the housekeeper,” Harry supplied in answer to Lucinda’s raised brows. “You’ll meet her in a moment.”
Dropping the dustsheet, Lucinda went to one of the pair of long windows, presently propped open, and looked out. The windows gave onto a terrace which ran down the side of the house and disappeared around the corner to run beneath the windows of the parlour, which itself gave off the dining-room, as she next discovered.
Standing before the parlour windows, looking out across the rolling lawns, ringed by flowerbeds, presently a colourful riot of spring and early summer blooms, Lucinda felt a deep sense of certainty, of belonging, as if she was putting down roots where she stood. This, she knew, was a place she could live and grow and blossom.
“These three reception-rooms open one into the other.” Harry waved at the hinged panels separating the parlour from the dining room “The result’s quite large enough to host a hunt ball.”
Lucinda blinked at him. “Indeed?”
His features impassive, Harry nodded and waved her on. “The breakfast parlour’s this way.”
So was the morning room. As he led her through the bright, presently empty and echoing rooms, lit by the sunshine streaming in through the diamond-paned windows, Lucinda noted the dry plaster walls waiting to be papered, the woodwork and panelling already polished and gleaming.
All the furniture she saw was old but lovingly polished, warm oak, most of it.
“There’s only the decorating left to do,” Harry informed her as he led her down a short corridor running beside the large room he had described as his study-cum-library. There, the bookshelves had been emptied and polished to within an inch of their lives; piles of tomes stood ready to be returned to their places once the decorating was done. “But the firm I’ve hired won’t be in for a few weeks yet—time enough to make the necessary decisions.”
Lucinda eyed him narrowly—but before she could think of any probing comment, she was distracted by what lay beyond the door at the end of the corridor. An elegantly proportioned room, it overlooked the side garden; roses nodded at the wide windows, framing green vistas.
Harry glanced about. “I haven’t yet decided what this room should be used for.”
Looking around, Lucinda found no pile of shrouded furniture. Instead, her gaze was drawn to new shelves, lining one wall. They were wide and open, just right for stacking ledgers. She glanced about; the windows let in good light, an essential for doing accounts and dealing with correspondence.
Her heart beating in a very odd cadence, Lucinda turned to look at Harry. “Indeed?”
“Hmm.” His expression considering, he gestured to the door. “Come—I’ll introduce you to the Simpkins.”
Suppressing a snort of pure impatience, Lucinda allowed him to steer her back down the corridor and through the baize-covered door. Here she came upon the first evidence of established life. The kitchens were scrup
ulously clean, the pots gleaming on their hooks on the wall, a modern range residing in the centre of the wide fireplace.
A middle-aged couple were seated at the deal table; they quickly got to their feet, consternation in their faces as they gazed at Lucinda.
“Simpkins here acts as general factotum—keeping an eye on the place generally. His uncle is butler at the Hall. Mrs Babbacombe, Simpkins.”
“Ma’am.” Simpkins bowed low.
“And this is Mrs Simpkins, cook and housekeeper—without whom the furniture would never have survived.”
Mrs Simpkins, a buxom, rosy-cheeked matron of imposing girth, bobbed a curtsy to Lucinda but fixed Harry with a baleful eye. “Aye—and if you had only thought to warn me, Master Harry, I would have had tea and scones ready and waiting.”
“As you might guess,” Harry put in smoothly, “Mrs Simpkins was once an undernurse at the Hall.”
“Aye—and I can remember you in short coats quite clearly, young master.” Mrs Simpkins frowned at him. “Now you just take the lady for a stroll and I’ll pop a pot on. By the time you come back I’ll have your tea laid ready in the garden.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you to—”
Harry’s pained sigh cut across Lucinda’s disclaimer. “I hesitate to break it to you, my dear, but Martha Simpkins is a tyrant. It’s best to just yield gracefully.” So saying, he took her hand and led her towards the door. “I’ll just show Mrs Babbacombe the upstairs rooms, Martha.”
Lucinda turned her head to throw a smile back at Mrs Simpkins, who beamed delightedly in reply.
The stairs led to a short gallery.
“No family portraits, I’m afraid,” Harry said. “Those are all at the Hall.”
“Is there one of you?” Lucinda looked up at him.
“Yes—but it’s hardly a good likeness. It was done when I was eighteen.”
Lucinda raised her brows but, recalling Lady Coleby’s words, made no comment.
“This is the master suite.” Harry threw open a pair of panelled doors at the end of the gallery. The room beyond was large, half-panelled, the warm patina of wood extending to the surrounds of the bow window and its seat. A carved mantel framed the fireplace, unusually large; a very large structure stood in the centre of the floor, screened by the inevitable dustcovers. Lucinda glanced at it curiously, but obediently turned as Harry, a hand at her back, conducted her through the adjoining dressing-rooms.
“I’m afraid,” he said, as they returned to the main chamber, “that Lestershall doesn’t run to separate bedrooms for husband and wife.” Lucinda glanced up at him. “Not, of course,” he continued imperturbably, “that that should concern you.”
Lucinda watched as he leaned a shoulder against the window frame. When he merely returned her expectant look with one of the blandest innocence, she humphed and turned her attention to the large, shrouded mound.
“It’s a four-poster,” she decided. She crossed to lift a corner of the dustcover and peer under. A dark cave lay before her. With thick, barley-sugar posts, the bed was fully canopied and draped with matching brocades. “It’s enormous.”
“Indeed.” Harry watched her absorption. “And has quite a history, too, if the tales one hears are true.”
Lucinda looked up from her study. “What tales?”
“Rumour has it the bed dates from Elizabethan times, as does the house. Apparently, all the brides brought back to the house have used it.”
Lucinda wrinkled her nose. “That’s hardly surprising.” She dropped the covers and dusted her hands.
Harry’s lips slowly curved. “Not in itself, perhaps.” He pushed away from the window and strolled to where Lucinda stood waiting. “But there are brass rings set into the headboard.” His brows rose; his expression turned pensive. “They quite excite the imagination.” Taking Lucinda’s arm, he turned her towards the door. “I must remember to show them to you sometime.”
Lucinda opened her mouth, then abruptly closed it. She allowed him to lead her back into the corridor. She was still considering the brass rings when they reached the end of the hall, having looked in on a set of unremarkable bedchambers along the way.
“These stairs lead to the attics. The nursery is there, as well as the Simpkins’s rooms.”
The nursery proved to take up one entire side of the commodious space beneath the rafters. The dormer windows were set low, just right for youngsters. The suite comprised five interconnecting rooms.
“Bedrooms for the head nurse and tutor on either end, bedrooms for their charges, male and female and this, of course, is the schoolroom.” Harry stood in the centre of the large room and looked around, a certain pride showing in his expression.
Lucinda eyed it consideringly. “These rooms are even larger, relatively speaking, than your bed.”
Harry raised his brows. “I had rather thought they would have need to be. I’m planning on having a large family.”
Lucinda stared into his clear green eyes—and wondered how he dared. “A large family?” she queried, refusing to retreat in disorder. “Taking after your father in that respect, too?” She held his gaze for an instant longer, then strolled to look out of a window. “Three boys, I assume, is your goal?”
Harry’s gaze followed her. “And three girls. To preserve a reasonable balance,” he added in reply to Lucinda’s surprised glance.
Annoyed at her reaction, and the fluttery feeling that had laid siege to her stomach, Lucinda snorted. And glanced about again. “Even with six, there’s room enough to spare.”
She had thought that would be the end of that particular conversation but the reprobate teasing her hadn’t finished.
“Ah—but I’d thought to leave sufficient space for the odd few who might not come in the correct order, if you take my meaning. Begetting boy or girl is such a random event, after all.”
Lucinda stared into impassive green eyes—and longed to ask if he was joking. But there was something in the subtle tension that held him that left the distinct impression he wasn’t.
Feeling a quiver—no longer odd but decidedly familiar—ripple through her, Lucinda decided she’d had enough. If he could talk about their children then he could put his mind to the first of the points that came before. She straightened and lifted her head, her gaze holding his.
“Harry—”
He shifted, turning to look out of the window. “Mrs Simpkins has our tea and scones waiting. Come—we can’t disappoint her.” With an innocent smile, he took Lucinda’s arm and turned her towards the door. “It’s nearly noon, too—I suspect we should get back immediately after our impromptu feast. We don’t want to be late getting on the road this afternoon.”
Lucinda stared at him in disbelief.
Harry smiled. “I know how much you’re looking forward to getting back to town—and waltzing in gentlemen’s arms.”
Frustration filled Lucinda, so intense it made her giddy. When Harry merely raised his brows, all mild and innocent, she narrowed her eyes and glared.
Harry’s lips twitched; he gestured to the door.
Lucinda drew in a deep, steadying breath. If she wasn’t a lady…
Setting her teeth against the urge to grind them, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. Lips set in a thoroughly disapproving, not to say disgruntled line, she allowed him to lead her downstairs.
Chapter Thirteen
“SO—DO YOU have it clear?” Seated behind the desk in his library, Harry drew an unnibbed pen back and forth between his fingers, his gaze, very green, trained on the individual in the chair before him.
Plain brown eyes regarded him from an unremarkable countenance; the man’s attire proclaimed him not of the ton but his occupation could not be discerned from the drab garments. Phineas Salter could have been anything—almost anyone—which was precisely what made him so successful at his trade.
The ex-Bow Street Runner nodded. “Aye, sir. I’m to check up on the gentlemen—Mr Earle Joliffe and Mr Mortimer Babbacombe—with a v
iew to uncovering any reason they might have to wish a Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe—the said Mortimer’s aunt-by-marriage—ill.”
“And you’re to do it without raising a dust.” Harry’s gaze became acute.
Salter inclined his head. “Naturally, sir. If the gentlemen are up to anything, we wouldn’t want to tip them the wink. Not before we’re ready.”
Harry grimaced. “Quite. But I should also stress that we do not wish, at any time, for Mrs Babbacombe herself to become aware of our suspicions. Or, indeed, that there might be any reason for investigation at all.”
Salter frowned. “Without disrespect, sir, do you think that’s wise? From what you’ve told me, these villains aren’t above drastic action. Wouldn’t it be better if the lady’s forewarned?”
“If it were any other lady, one who would be predictably shocked and content thereafter to leave the matter in our hands, I’d unhesitatingly agree. However, Mrs Babbacombe is not one such.” Harry studied his newest employee; when he spoke his tone was instructive. “I’d be willing to wager that, if she were to learn of Babbacombe’s apparent involvement with her recent adventures, Mrs Babbacombe would order her carriage around and have herself driven to his lodgings, intent on demanding an explanation. Alone.”
Salter’s expression blanked. “Ah.” He blinked. “A bit naïve, is she?”
“No.” Harry’s tone hardened. “Not particularly. She’s merely incapable of recognising her own vulnerability but, conversely, has infinite confidence in her ability to prevail.” The planes of his face shifted, his expression now mirroring his tone. “In this case, I would rather not have her put it to the test.”
“No, indeed.” Salter nodded. “From what little I’ve heard tell, this Joliffe’s not the sort for a lady to tangle with.”
“Precisely.” Harry rose; Salter rose, too. The ex-Runner was a stocky man, broad and heavy. Harry nodded. “Report back to me as soon as you have any word.”
“I will that, sir. You may depend on me.”
Harry shook Salter’s hand. Dawlish, who, at Harry’s intimation, had silently witnessed the interview, straightened from his position by the door and showed Salter out. Turning to the windows, Harry stood idly flicking the pen between his fingers, gazing unseeing at the courtyard beyond.