Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Page 17

  Eventually, Fairly, who had wandered off to a window seat—the man had a penchant for lurking near exits—spoke up.

  “Gentlemen, I see we have demolished the fare provided by our host, and I am soon to leave for Town. Perhaps we might spare our guest further games and simply ask him what his business is with Miss Hollister?”

  Westhaven’s answer came easily enough, for it turned out to be no answer at all. “I am not at liberty to disclose the exact nature of my dealings with Miss Hollister. I can assure you, however, I wish her no ill, nor do I believe she has reason to be… uncharitably disposed toward me. I hope you would be good enough to let her know I have called, because unless Lord Greymoor forbids it, I will call again.”

  A pretty speech, delivered with a determined glint in the man’s eyes. Gwen was technically under Andrew’s protection, though Heathgate was head of the Alexander family, so Andrew provided a response.

  “We will tell her you called, and you may await her here upon her return,” Andrew said, because if she didn’t want to deal with the fellow, Gwennie should have the pleasure of rejecting him herself. “Please send word first, and be warned she might not receive you. Gwen lives a retired life, and we would, each of us, go to great lengths to protect her privacy and peace of mind.”

  Andrew pinned his guest with a look: pistols, swords, or fisticuffs being great lengths in the opinion of some.

  Westhaven—canny fellow—apparently decided his errand was complete. “I’ll take my leave of you then, gentlemen.” He rose, bowing to each in order of precedence. “I am grateful Miss Hollister’s family takes her interests so to heart.”

  A small, assessing silence followed that pronouncement.

  “If you can wait for my horse to be saddled, I’ll join you for the ride back to Town,” Fairly said.

  “Certainly.” Westhaven had no choice, manners alone preventing any escape from Fairly’s generous offer.

  Andrew and Heathgate saw them off, then Andrew headed back to the stables, Heathgate at his side. Heathgate said nothing as Andrew opened a stall door and approached the little white mare who stood listlessly nosing at her hay.

  “She’s failing,” Andrew said. “I’ve asked the lads to dig a hole, because the ground will soon be frozen.”

  “You want me to shoot her?” Heathgate offered. “You needn’t tell Gwen or Rose the details.”

  Andrew considered the offer—a peculiar manifestation of fraternal concern, for ages ago, Daisy had been Andrew’s first mount—and considered the pony nuzzling his ribs. She pawed the straw then creaked into a bow, apparently still willing to earn the treat Andrew always kept on hand for her.

  “Not yet, but thank you. She’s stiff, though not in severe pain. She’s also dropping weight, but the older ones do that when the weather gets colder. It’s more the look in her eye that bothers me. When she doesn’t have company, she’s starting to go away.”

  Douglas Allen had sported some of the same look, not long ago.

  “She may surprise us.”

  Andrew made no reply, for this too was brotherly love. He gave the pony a good long scratch on her shoulders and another bite of carrot.

  “We have some time before Gwen is due back,” Andrew said as he latched the stall door behind him. “There’s no need to make a decision today.”

  “Of course not.” Heathgate looped a casual arm across Andrew’s shoulders, and Andrew made no protest. “I’ll clean my gun just in case. Now, how do you suppose Fairly and Westhaven are managing?”

  ***

  David parted from Westhaven when they reached Park Lane. As his mare plodded on toward home, he considered how to summarize the exchange for Heathgate and Greymoor, and what, if anything, ought to be passed along to Gwen regarding her visitor. He was not inclined to burden her with this development prematurely, thinking that her hands were full with a sick child, a troubled estate, and the company of an equally troubled, if relentlessly polite, man.

  David did not believe Westhaven was Rose’s father, nor did he suspect the man was trying to blackmail Gwen regarding details of her past. More likely, Westhaven came as the emissary of Rose’s father, which raised the question: Why didn’t, or couldn’t, that man present himself? One rather hoped he was still extant, so that somebody—Greymoor, Heathgate, even Amery—might have the pleasure of killing him, if that was Gwen’s preference.

  Of course, such an outcome might make explaining the situation a bit difficult when Rose was of an age to ask awkward questions.

  David took himself into his study, poured a neat finger of whiskey, and sat down to think through the conversation with Westhaven on the way back to Town. In hindsight, he realized that for all his probing and fencing, and even in his direct questions, Westhaven had never once asked about a child.

  On that thought, David trimmed his pen and started writing. His first epistle was to Greymoor and Heathgate, his second to Thomas Jennings, his man of business. The Alexanders would make their inquiries regarding the handsome earl, and David would make his. Between them all, they would come to learn whom the man swived, in what position, at what time of day or night, and on which days of the week.

  ***

  “Please have some more tea, Miss Tanner,” Douglas coaxed. “The weather is so very unpleasant, you must fortify yourself.”

  Loris Tanner was tall, dark-haired, and blessed with slate-gray eyes Gwen characterized as serious more than pretty. Her face comprised a graceful set of feminine features: a wide, full mouth; a straight, even haughty nose; dramatically arched eyebrows, and bones that would age well. She was quite attractive and of an age with Gwen. Gwen was struck, however, by a sense of stillness in Miss Tanner’s features, a quality of watchful repose, not unlike the expression Douglas often wore.

  “Thank you, my lord, but I should be going.” Miss Tanner stood and began pulling on plain gray gloves as if to leave.

  Douglas did not rise when she got to her feet, but rather remained in his chair sipping tea and looking pensive. “Before you leave us, Miss Tanner, if you could appease my curiosity on one small point?”

  “Of course.” She did not sit back down, and unease flitted across the woman’s otherwise calm features.

  “You have described for us your stay in Brighton and your father’s business there and his subsequent illness. We have your very polite note explaining same, and now we have your charming presence among us.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Gwen had no idea what Douglas was about, but her stomach knotted in anticipation of the trap he would inevitably spring.

  “My question is this,” he said, putting his teacup down, and still looking preoccupied. “How is it you could be in Brighton a week or so ago, and yet also be purchasing sweets in the village baker’s shop at the same time?”

  Miss Tanner dropped to the settee she had just vacated, her expression going blank. Gwen did feel sorry for her, but how many times had Gwen told herself: Douglas is a man who notices details.

  “Miss Tanner,” Douglas went on, “if you are in difficulties, then we will render you assistance. If you have committed a wrong, we will not turn you over to the magistrate posthaste, but try to settle matters between ourselves. We have been at Linden these past weeks, you see, and we know things here have not been as carefully managed as one might hope.”

  Miss Tanner shot a beseeching look at Gwen, who gave a slight shake of her head.

  “This matter must be resolved to Lord Amery’s satisfaction, Miss Tanner, though if he says he will try to do that without involving the magistrate, then you may rely on his word. I would trust my life to his honor.”

  Perhaps it was that dramatic endorsement of Douglas’s integrity, or perhaps Loris Tanner could see no other option, no dodge, no ploy, that would serve in the present circumstances.

  She stood and went to the window, where a miserable, cold rain p
elted the glass and whipped the dead leaves from the trees. “My father disappeared shortly after Lord Greymoor’s last visit here. The circumstances of his departure were consistent with a lifelong inability to resist strong spirits. When he was sober, Papa was the best of men and the best of stewards. My father knew his business, but he was dismissed from one post after another because of his drinking.

  “He was well liked,” she went on dully, “for he wasn’t a mean drunk, but when he drank, he’d carouse for days, even longer. He would drink himself insensate, not recalling what he’d done, where he’d been. A local woman accused him of taking liberties with her during one of his drunken spells, and he left before charges could be laid. I believe our magistrate, Squire Belmont, claimed he had to research the exact charges to be brought to give my father time to depart the area, for his accuser is not particularly well regarded.”

  “And do you know your father’s whereabouts?” Douglas asked. “The truth, if you please.”

  Miss Tanner turned from the bleak day to face Douglas. “I do not. My father knows I am not an accomplished dissembler. He is either dead, or he is trying to protect me from those who would seek information from me.”

  “Or he has descended into the bottle, there to drink out his days in reckless disregard for his responsibilities to you,” Douglas concluded. “Are you of age, Miss Tanner?”

  “I am,” she replied, giving him a curious look.

  “And what of your mother?”

  “I do not know who she was. I have always been with my father.”

  “And in your father’s absence, Miss Tanner, who has managed this estate?”

  For the first time, the lady paused before giving her answer. She raised her chin, adopting an attitude Gwen had seen Rose employ in her frequent righteous moments. “I have managed Linden.

  “And do not scoff, my lord,” she added. “Lord Greymoor is a good man, but he’s a horseman first. He has not the knowledge to run a sheep operation or to husband the land. Father thought to impress him with profits and wealth, and Lord Greymoor allowed it, even as the toll that took became increasingly apparent. We once went for almost four years without even seeing Lord Greymoor, and still my father ran this estate to the very best of his ability.”

  “So what happened, Miss Tanner?” Gwen posed the question because a look from Douglas suggested he’d rather she be the one to force this recitation. “From what you’ve said, your father’s drinking did not preclude him from managing this place to Lord Greymoor’s satisfaction, but your father is gone, and the estate is suffering.”

  Miss Tanner drew herself up, spine ramrod straight, and turned again to face the nasty weather.

  “That woman happened,” she said. “My father became infatuated with Mrs. Pettigrew, and lost all reason over her. Nothing would do but she must have his advice, and Papa must have finery to escort her about in, and a blooded gelding to come courting… what?”

  “Mrs. Pettigrew’s reputation precedes her,” Douglas said in tones of distaste. “I am most sorry for you that your father took up with her. But let us keep to the matter at hand, Miss Tanner. What do you know of the estate books?”

  “I know they are a mess.”

  Plain speaking, for which Gwen had to respect the woman. “Perhaps you could explain that mess to us, and please, join us in another cup of tea.” The small civility of another cup of tea must have reassured the woman that she wasn’t to be shot at dawn. She resumed her seat and accepted another cup of tea from Gwen.

  “Have you embezzled from the estate?” Douglas asked almost pleasantly as Gwen added a third sugar and a tot of cream to his tea.

  “I have not,” Miss Tanner said, “but I honestly can’t tell you what Papa did. He simply stopped keeping the books about two years ago. My efforts to create a fiction of order probably struck you as laughable.”

  “Certainly ineffective,” Douglas replied. “What was your plan?”

  Her shoulders drooped, reminding Gwen how tiring estate management could be, particularly by the end of the growing season.

  “I planned to hold things together until Papa came back, but then it was planting and lambing and shearing, and on and on, and we had nobody to provide direction. Linden is adequately staffed, and the people here have been on the land for generations. They’ll do their part, but somebody has to lead them. They looked to me because they knew, for all his drinking, my father was competent and I was his right hand in all things.”

  The story could have been Gwen’s own, but Loris Tanner had had no wealthy cousins to support her, no grandfather happy to turn his acres over to her, no doting aunt to send the occasional chatty note.

  As Douglas studied his teacup, Gwen suspected the very same thoughts were occurring to him.

  “I will contemplate your situation, Miss Tanner,” Douglas said when the last round of tea had been consumed. He stood, drawing her to her feet and laying her hand on his arm. “I will consult with Miss Hollister, who is also considering purchase of the property, and we will make a recommendation to Lord Greymoor regarding what should be done. Some provision will be made for you. Lord Greymoor does not shirk responsibility for his dependents.”

  He’d escorted her to the front hall, with Gwen on her other side.

  “You won’t be notifying the magistrate?” Miss Tanner asked, though it was clear the question cost her pride significantly.

  Douglas peered down at her, his expression one Gwen recognized not as mild distaste, but rather, Douglas’s version of concentrated regard. “That would not be appropriate. If the weather is dry the day after tomorrow, can you ride out with us?”

  “I can,” Miss Tanner said, relief jeopardizing her composure.

  “We will look for you then.” Douglas bowed over her hand and signaled for the butler to open the door.

  “Thank you, my lord. Miss Hollister.”

  The butler, who had heard Miss Tanner’s last question, closed the door behind her, caught Gwen’s eye, and winked.

  If Douglas saw that exchange, he made no mention of it, but offered his arm to Gwen. “A moment of your time in the library, if you please, Miss Hollister?”

  So formal, and yet Gwen was learning a different side to Douglas, too, one that suggested shyness was a part of his formality.

  “Interesting development,” Douglas observed, taking Gwen by the hand and leading her to the library sofa. “Do you believe she’s telling the truth?”

  “I do,” Gwen said, settling herself in beside him. “If she were bent on mischief, she could have sold every animal on the property and absconded. She could have continued to dodge us. She could have posed as Tanner’s wife, that sort of thing. I don’t envy her.”

  When Douglas slipped an arm around her shoulders, Gwen tucked herself into the curve of his body and marveled at how comfortable their proximity was.

  And… comforting, too. Not simply because the fire crackled cozily and Douglas’s cedary scent tickled Gwen’s nose. The comfort was purely a function of being with Douglas—touching him, and sharing with him the dilemmas and duties of the day.

  Douglas leaned his head back against the cushions, closing his eyes. “We have solved our mystery, and I must now decide whether to buy the property or not.”

  Abruptly, Gwen understood they were on boggy ground—ground she hadn’t foreseen while Douglas clearly had. “Is Andrew pressing you for an answer?”

  “He is not, yet. I like this property well enough. I like this house. I love, most of all, the memories I have here of time spent with you. The decision will be… difficult.”

  Love. Douglas would not love casually, would not even use the word casually.

  A shaft of pain lanced at Gwen’s heart, to hear Douglas talking in the same sentence—already—of both love and memories.

  “You would be good for this place, Douglas. The people here would do well by you.
”

  “Are you so anxious to get rid of me, then?”

  Gwen turned her face into his shoulder. “I most assuredly do not want to be rid of you. I wish it were not so, but there it is.”

  “You still don’t trust me?” he asked, something resigned in his voice.

  Gwen drew back to study him. “What do you mean? You heard my endorsement of you to Miss Tanner.”

  “Guinevere, why won’t you marry me?”

  The clocked ticked, the fire roared softly in the hearth, and the raw wind soughed around the corner of the house, and there was nothing—not one word Gwen could think of to say. Douglas deserved the truth, but she hardly knew what that truth was herself or how to give it to him. She stood, keeping her back to him as she moved toward the door.

  “It isn’t a matter of I will not marry you, Douglas. It’s that I cannot.”

  She slipped from the room in a flurry of skirts, leaving Douglas to stare at the fire and consider at significant length why a woman couldn’t marry the man who was in mortal peril of loving her beyond all reason.

  Ten

  “Ladies.” Douglas interrupted a fierce debate over plow designs, the most recent of many fierce and exuberant debates between Guinevere and Loris Tanner. “I am tiring more rapidly than I had predicted. I don’t want to leave you without escort, though. Shall I send a groom out to join you?”

  “I apologize, Douglas,” Guinevere said, turning her horse to walk along beside his. “I had not realized the time we’ve passed in the saddle. Why don’t we ride by Dove Cottage and then continue to Linden? We’ve seen plenty for one day, and the afternoon grows chilly.”

  “Miss Tanner?” Douglas inquired politely, though judging by his aching fundament, chilly was a vast euphemism.

  “I am a bit cold.”

  “Then we shall ride in.” He urged Regis into a rocking canter, the ladies fell in behind him, and they soon reached Dove Cottage.

  Douglas assisted Miss Tanner to dismount, but when she turned to lead her gelding to her stable, he stopped her with a hand on her arm.