At Your Pleasure (17 page)

This serenity was not to be trusted. Great matters still pressed on all sides, demanding her worry.

But joy knew no reason and did not repay restraint. She let herself smile as she passed through the entry hall. She laughed as she stepped out into the cool morning air.

The sun, rising higher, welcomed her.

The silence in the library spoke briefly and eloquently of disbelief. Adrian, his weight braced against the great oak desk behind him, let it extend to its natural conclusion. His gaze found the telescope, its brass fittings gleaming in the rising light. To think her rotted father had kept it as a prize.

He must find some other chamber in this house in which to conduct his business—some space uncorrupted by the stench of Colville men.

Lord John was the first to speak. “You must be joking.” He wheeled toward Braddock. “He jests, surely!”

That Lord John solicited Braddock’s opinion was, in itself, a good measure of his shock. Raised by a father too proud of his station, the boy more generally behaved as though the lower orders existed only to scrape and serve.

Braddock knew better than to reply. Though his frown clearly conveyed his displeasure, he at least understood the nature of this meeting. Adrian had called it to give not explanations but orders.

“I do not joke,” Adrian said calmly. “Beestings is never safe in early autumn. Any wisewoman will tell you so.”

Lord John pivoted back.
“Beestings.”
His sputtered laugh smacked of scorn. “But this is absurd! Think you I cannot recognize the effect of spoiled food? No curdled milk ever left a man unconscious for twelve hours or more! I know very well when I have been poisoned, sir—” Braddock laid a hand on his arm, which he angrily shook away. “Do not touch me! You low fool who stands here mute, swallowing these lies as obedient and wretched as a mule—”

Braddock’s color rose. One hand fisted at his side as he retreated a pace. He would not dare speak back to the boy, nor respond in the light of day; any public incident would ruin him and cast a black mark on his master besides.

But a midnight accident . . . Adrian considered him closely. This was not the first provocation he had swallowed from Lord John. An accident might happen very easily, and in the end, it would serve Adrian just as ill.

“Go speak to the men,” Adrian told him. Best to keep them apart for now. “Inform them that it was some feculence from the kitchen which sickened them.”

“I will tell them,” Braddock said gruffly. He cast a dark look toward Lord John. “And should any object, I’ll gladly correct ’em.”

“No need. Should anyone doubt it, he may apply to me for clarification.”

Braddock bowed and turned to leave.

Lord John shoved a hand through his disordered hair. His eyes looked wild. “I cannot credit this,” he said when the door closed. “This is madness. You know it was no food that poisoned us. And the woman?” He dropped his hand to slap against his thigh. “That you propose to let her rove
freely
, despite the fact—”

“I do not propose it,” Adrian said flatly. “I order it. Should obedience vex you unduly, you may leave this house for London—within the hour. I can spare no men, but I will give you provisions, and your horse.”

The lad made a noise of disbelief. “I cannot—you cannot mean—to make that journey alone—”

Adrian shrugged. It was true that thieves and bandits peopled the high road. Most of them believed the best way to avoid a hanging was to leave their victim unable to testify. “You must not sound so discouraged. I have made the journey several times myself. All it takes is skill with a sword.”

The implicit insult brought the blood back to the boy’s face. He took a sharp step forward. “What next, then? What next, if I stay? Shall you invite her brother into the house to watch over us while we sleep?”

Adrian straightened off the desk. “To reply to a threat with a jibe may work in the nursery, but among men, it does not wound so much as annoy, much like a fly’s useless buzzing.”

“You protect a woman who poisoned us! You coddle
that traitorous bitch, when any man but a papist dog would string her up in the courtyard for his guards to teach—”

The blow knocked the boy off his feet.

Sprawling on the ground, he blinked up at Adrian, who drew a long breath, then offered a smile.

“Have you aught else to say?” Adrian waited a few moments. “No? Ah, well. You may thank your father for the backhand. I have no objections to a fist, but I understand that Lord Barstow dotes on your pretty face. Perhaps you should write him your thanks. I’m sure he’ll wish to hear your other thoughts as well.”

The boy’s paralysis broke all at once; he scrambled to his feet and backed away. “My father will see you dead, sir!”

“If it were in your father’s power, or his friends’ power, I would be dead already,” Adrian said. “Alas, it seems that Barstow neglected to educate you. Ask him to explain to you the sum of money he owes me, and what of his correspondence has found its way into my possession, and how this might guide your understanding of his reluctant friendship with me. I think you will find it most instructive.”

Lord John made a convulsive move, a shake of the head halted midway. Now, for the first time in this conversation, uncertainty showed in the pinched line of his lips.

“You look unwell,” Adrian murmured. The boy’s cheek was already purpling. “Spoiled food can wreak havoc on the bodily humors, can it not?”

Lord John’s lips moved soundlessly.

“Can it not?”

“Yes.” The boy spat it. “Yes, it can.”

Adrian laughed. “Indeed, we should be grateful that nobody died of that rotten meal. It happens every day. We must pray that it does not happen again for the worse.”

The boy, learning quickly, made no reply to this threat. He was trembling visibly now—as much with rage, Adrian guessed, as with fear. He did show some small promise. This lesson in restraint would benefit him.

“You will keep your eyes and your thoughts away from Lady Towe,” Adrian added quietly. She was his concern now, and none other’s. “Now go find Braddock. Apologize for your insult to him. Then ask if you may help him spread the news.”

Nora returned from her walk to a house fully awakened. As she turned the corner she nearly collided with Adrian, who steadied her by the shoulders before stepping back a pace. “My lady Towe,” he said. “Good morning.”

To see him in the light of this new day was to discover she no longer knew how to look at him. He was dressed soberly, in a dark-green coat with riding leathers; his hair was scraped away from the severe, bold bones of his face.

Nervousness overtook her. “Good morning to you.” Now would come an order to return to her room, or to explain her purpose in wandering out of doors.

But all he said was “You look well. Sleep was restorative?”

She found herself at a loss. He met her eyes easily, his
expression showing no sign of what had passed between them in midnight’s hush.

“Yes,” she said faintly. “I am well.”

“I am glad of it.” He inclined his head again, a brief courtesy, and walked onward.

She turned to watch his progress in an increasing daze. Was it really to be so simple? Would he pretend that she had never told him of what had happened six years ago?

Had the news not meant anything to him?

She opened her mouth, then bit hard on her tongue. She should be grateful for his indifference. It should confirm and strengthen the harder feelings she should have for an enemy.

Yet, before he turned the corner, she called out to him. “Wait! I . . .”

He turned back. “Yes?”

She tried for a more dignified tone. “I confess I was surprised to find my chamber unguarded.”

A smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “Would you prefer the guards?”

“No, of course not. But I cannot understand—” She paused, flustered. Of course she did not wish to point out the wisdom in keeping her under watch after she had drugged his company. “That is, I do wonder what you told them.” She feared to encounter a soldier with a grudge.

He lifted a brow and stepped toward her. “Told them? Of their prolonged sleep, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Why, the explanation was simple: what but spoiled
food? Beestings pudding is always a chancy dish. I hope your cook will refrain from attempting it again.”

It took a moment to digest her astonishment. “You can’t be serious.”

“But I am.”

“They can’t believe that!”

“But they do.”

She could read nothing in his calm expression. “But . . . why?” Why would he lie to spare her their wrath?

“That was all they needed to know,” he said with a shrug. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Are you coming, then?”

What strange madness was this? Was she still dreaming? “Coming where?”

“Montrose mentioned that you were due to visit the apiary. I should like to see how it turned out.”

“My goodness. I’d . . . forgotten.” He’d helped to design it, in fact.

He smiled—a beautiful smile, it seemed to her, absent of any complex motive. “Did it turn out so poorly, then?”

“No,” she said. “Not at all.” Suddenly she felt amazed by this . . .
easiness
between them. The strange peace she had felt watching the dawn touched her again. Tentatively she smiled back at him. “In fact, it turned out wonderfully.”

Bees had no liking for smoke or noise, so the apiary lay a good distance from the manor, through fields where sweet white clover grew in abundance. They walked side
by side through grasses still wet with morning dew. In the distance birds hidden in the green depths of lime trees trilled taunts at them, joyful, frenetic.

“The weather looks to be holding,” Nora said as she glanced at Adrian sidelong. He had kept his own counsel for the last few minutes, setting a steady pace—although slower, perhaps, than was his custom. She kept up with him easily, her skirts wadded in her fists, while his attention roamed freely and impartially over the verdant, rolling landscape that enclosed them.

“So it does.” He tilted his face to the sky, then closed his eyes, basking in the light. The sight of his simple, sensual enjoyment startled and then arrested her. With his burnt gold skin and pale hair, he looked like the sun’s own creature, its natural worshipper. He looked like a man who knew how to make the most of even the simplest pleasures.

Her mouth went dry. She remembered, all at once and vividly, the look on his face when he had brought her to pleasure as a girl. His intense concentration, his slow smile of satisfaction . . .

“A turn of luck,” he said as she forced her eyes away.

She took a hard breath. “Yes, indeed.” Such foolishness! A man turned his face to the sun and her pulse began to race. Impatience with herself made her voice waspish. “But it comes too late, of course. There’s a hard winter upon us now.”

She sensed his curious glance but kept her eyes on the grass bending beneath her feet. “I heard some talk of these troubles,” he said. “Will you be forced to ration the harvest?”

“Will you not?” Any rains that swept Hodderby could not but pass through Beddleston as well.

“We might have been forced to it,” he said, “but for a measure I undertook two springs past—an experiment, to the great displeasure of my tenants. Mr. Tull’s seed drill—have you heard of it?” She shook her head. “A remarkable device,” he continued, “far more economical than casting seed by hand. Of course, the tenants fear that if their hands are no longer needed for broadcasting, they themselves may soon prove redundant. I’ve had a difficult time persuading them to use the invention. But it increased our harvest last autumn fourfold—”

“Fourfold!”

“Yes. Which allows us some margin of comfort even now.”

She could barely compass such bounty.
Fourfold!
“Is it very expensive, this device?”

“Not so much expensive as difficult to obtain,” he said with a rueful smile. “Mr. Tull justly fears for his life when his appearance is announced in a district. No man likes the idea that he might be replaced by a machine.” He laughed. “Perhaps I should be grateful to these rains: when we eat well this winter despite them, they will have proved, as I could not, the true uses of innovation.”

“I would write to this Mr. Tull! Hodderby could profit by his machine.”

“By all means. But I have his plans. If you like, my steward will consult with Montrose on designing such an instrument for you.”

She opened her mouth to agree, then caught herself. This was not her decision to make. David must be consulted on any step that might roil the tenancy.

The thought made her glum. Her brother’s interest proved difficult to capture when it came to questions agricultural. He had been born of their father’s temperament, better suited to courtly politics than rural government.

As was Rivenham, she’d assumed.

“Why do you bother with it?” she asked.

He cast her a startled look. “With crop improvement?”

“The management of the land is your steward’s concern, surely.”

“Of course. But it is my land. And my people.”

How simple he made it sound! “Yet, with your political interests, your business in London . . .”

“But they are all to a purpose,” he said. “What use in any of it, if not for the safeguarding of what is mine?”

Yes
. She knew what he meant precisely. “Beddleston is everything to you.”

A line appeared between his brows. “As is Hodderby to you . . . or so I recall.”

“Indeed, but—” She swallowed the rest of her words. Hodderby was not hers. It had been her father’s, and now it was her brother’s, and his son’s after him.

Yet—traitorous thought!—David would never care for Hodderby as she did. The land spoke to her; it was part of her soul. She could not separate her love of this place from her love of family, for to serve them was to serve the land; and from possession of this land came all
power, honors, and achievements to which the Colvilles so proudly laid claim.

Why, then, while the land was suffering and its people feared to starve, were its caretakers on some foreign shore, politicking and squabbling?