My Notorious Gentleman (11 page)
“The Grange is our place!” the boy bellowed back at her. “Me and Denny claimed it first!”
“But he’s bought it, darling. Besides, it’s too dangerous for children! You know you’re not allowed to play there. Most of those old outbuildings are full of rusty nails and broken ladders. You could fall and break your neck, and no one would ever—”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Denny fell! He was running away from
him.
”
Grace paled.
“Are you gonna help me save my brother or not?”
She swallowed hard. “Let me get my shoes.” Truly shaken, now that she understood, she dashed back into the house, kicked off her slippers, and pulled on the nearest shoes she could find: her boots.
When she rushed back outside, Kenny was already well ahead of her, racing back toward the Grange rather than waiting around for her. Grace ran after him.
She still wasn’t quite sure exactly what had happened, but it sounded like Denny had had some sort of accident. For his brother to have come tearing over to the parsonage seeking adult help, it was obviously an emergency, and she feared it must be serious.
Rather panicked, she ran to the Grange—hoping in the meanwhile that none of her neighbors glimpsed her fleeing across the countryside in her night rail and robe, with no sort of corset that might have helped constrain certain indecorous womanly bouncings.
Arriving at the Grange a few minutes later, she heard thunderous yelling in the distance.
A flash of motion ahead revealed Kenny running through the orchard toward the river, still some distance ahead of her.
Grace followed, and the deep, angry voice grew louder as she neared. Hurrying through the orchard, she spotted Kenny hiding behind a tree to her right. He pointed toward the river with a look of dread.
“Stay here,” Grace ordered, passing him. Out of breath, she dropped her pace to a brisk stride, red-faced from her morning jog and trying to catch her breath.
Clearing the orchard’s rows of trees, she came out onto the green and immediately saw two figures silhouetted beside the rushing stream.
One was tall and muscular and making all the noise.
The little one was Denny—cowering.
Denny Nelcott never cowered.
“You have no business sneaking around here! You see what happens? You could have been killed, you little menace! I had better never see you or your brother around this farm again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Whatever had happened, the other twin did not look too seriously wounded.
He was, however, soaked to the skin and looking defenseless, chastened, and heart-breakingly pitiful—on purpose, no doubt.
Lord Trevor Montgomery was having none of it.
As Grace marched toward them, as yet unnoticed by either angry male, big or little, she was not sure how she felt about the stern tongue-lashing to which the ex-spy was subjecting the mischievous boy.
For herself, she had been so panicked that serious harm had befallen the child that her instinct would have been to catch him up in her arms and hug him out of sheer relief. Trevor obviously did not share her sentiments.
As she approached, she could see that he was genuinely furious. The scolding wasn’t just for show.
Something had clearly happened; the twins had obviously got themselves into mischief. Still, his yelling at the little orphan like this rankled her protective instincts and brought on a whiff of righteous indignation.
As she approached, however, one last emotion tumbled into the already-agitated mix as the sight of the man slammed her with desire.
Trevor was soaking wet, the morning sun gleaming on his skin, his dark hair plastered back sleekly to his head.
His clothes stuck to his muscled body everywhere, hugging every manly line of thigh and bottom. His white linen shirt, hanging open down his chest, had become nearly transparent. Grace swallowed hard, appalled at herself for a fleeting vision of helping him change out of those wet clothes . . .
Her pulse surged, and it had nothing to do with her sprint across the fields. She clenched her teeth, determined to fight temptation, ignoring the tug of shocking lust with a will.
He was still giving Denny Nelcott what-for. “If I ever catch you on my land again—”
“What is going on here?” she interrupted, marching toward them.
T
revor looked over, interrupted in midrant.
Oh, perfect.
This was all it needed. An angry Sunday school teacher stomping toward him on the warpath, with an expression on her face like a mother bear about to attack a hunter who had accidentally disturbed her cubs.
Still, Trevor could not help noticing that she looked exceedingly lovely in her state of dishabille. His gaze flicked over her in immediate interest, heating him despite the cold, wet clothes that clung to his body.
Her face was flushed, her blue eyes bright with anger. The V-neck of her banyan robe had parted down her chest and was currently less modest than the spinsterish gown she had worn to the Lievedon Ball.
Indeed, she was rather magnificent at the moment, her hair flowing loose and long over her shoulders, streaked with morning sunshine and billowing in the breeze as she strode toward him with a glare.
Meanwhile, his young captive, noticing that Trevor was distracted, slipped out of his grasp and ran toward his beautiful rescuer.
Trevor let him go. The boy dashed away, squishing with every step in his wet boots. The soggy little miscreant fled behind Grace, joining his identical accomplice.
“What happened here?” she demanded in a clipped tone.
“Why don’t you ask them?” Trevor retorted, only to realize belatedly that his answer made him sound more like a third youngster than a man.
Grace arched a brow at him, then turned around to check on the brats huddling behind her. They were hiding from him and making a ploy for her sympathy.
It was working, too, the little monsters.
“Denny, are you all right?”
“He’s fine,” Trevor grumbled, as she checked the soggy one for cuts or broken bones.
He had already done that, and he was sure he had more medical training than she did.
“He fell into the river trying to walk across it on a log. They both were lucky,” Trevor added. “Do you know how easily this could have turned into a tragedy? I woke up from a dead sleep thinking I had a serious intruder. These two broke into my house. It was very stupid of them, too, considering my line of work. People who sneak up on me while I’m asleep don’t usually live to tell about it.” He glared at them.
“Do you hear that?” Grace said angrily to the children. “Boys, he could have killed you. You don’t break into people’s houses! Especially not his. Now, apologize!”
Trevor rolled his eyes, for instead of a simple “I’m sorry,” the pair of scheming little barbarians resorted next to tears.
Sniffles, trembling chins, sobs worthy of the stage.
To his dismay, it worked on her.
“Don’t cry,” she said tenderly to each in turn, smoothing their hair, cupping their chubby grubby cheeks. “Look, it’s over now. The important thing is, nobody got hurt.”
When she hugged them, it was all he could take. “Miss Kenwood, honestly!”
“What? What’s the matter with you?”
From behind her, the little devils smiled smugly at him when she turned away.
“Don’t baby them!” Trevor said in exasperation. “They’re pulling the wool over your eyes, woman! Can’t you see that?”
She looked outraged at such a charge against the little cherubs and rose to her full height in maternal indignation. “They’re just children!”
“They’re a pair of little demons,” Trevor muttered. Then he tapped the corner of his eyes and pointed at the brothers. “I’m watching you.”
The dry one, the little rock thrower, stuck his tongue out at Trevor from behind Grace.
He narrowed his eyes in response. “Who are their parents? They would not tell me their names, but I mean to have a word with their father about their total lack of discipline.”
Grace cast Trevor a warning look and put her arms around the boys. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it. They will not trouble you again.”
“They’d better not, or I’m going to get a big, nasty guard dog and give him orders to eat them next time.”
“That will do, my lord. You’ve made your point. You’ve terrified them quite enough.”
“Terrified them? It was they who terrified me! This one nearly drowned right before my eyes. If you are able to control these rascals, keep them off my property. I bought this place to get some peace and quiet. These boys are not my problem. I will not be responsible for them sneaking around here and getting themselves killed!”
“Fine. Boys—apologize to Lord Trevor. Now.” She took them each by an arm and marched them forward. “Go on! Apologize to the great hero for disturbing his precious peace and quiet,” she muttered under her breath.
Trevor scowled at her, and Grace scowled back.
The boys mumbled, “Sorry.”
“That’s better. Good-bye, Lord Trevor. I’ll make sure and keep everyone away from you. We’ll not disturb you again. Welcome to Thistleton,” she added in reproach. Then she turned the pair around and began walking them back toward the parsonage, a hand on each of their shoulders.
Trevor stared after her in exasperation, bewildered at how he had somehow become the villain in all this. “Whoever their parents are, those people should not have the care of a cat, let alone small children!” he yelled after her, unwilling to leave it at that.
At that, Grace stopped walking. For a moment, she stood motionless, her back to him.
The two boys kept going, however; then they, too, paused and turned back to see why their Sunday school teacher had lagged behind.
Trevor blanched as he saw her dainty fists clench by her sides. As though mentally arguing with herself, Grace slowly turned around.
She marched back to him alone. “The reason these two boys go roaming ’round the countryside, Lord Trevor—the reason their parents don’t do a better job of minding them—is because their father is dead, and their mother is sickly. She was nearly crushed by grief when her husband died in the war.”
Ah, hell,
thought Trevor.
She took another step toward him with a look of wrath, an avenging angel in a dressing gown, her eyes shooting sparks of righteous blue fire.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he mumbled.
But it seemed the lady could not hold her tongue. “How much did the land agent tell you about Colonel Avery?” she demanded.
“The former owner of the Grange?” He shrugged, on his guard. “Not much. Said he was a cavalry officer, eccentric in his old age.”
“Then it’s just as I suspected. He left out the most important part.” She pinned him in a stare of withering reproach. “Colonel Avery, you see, took it into his head to raise a regiment from around these parts. A hundred men joined him, fifty of them from Thistleton. Ten percent of our young men, and many heads of households.”
Trevor closed his eyes, for he could suddenly see it coming.
“Ben Nelcott was among them,” she continued, “the father of these boys and of the little girl you gave the flower to. He never came home again. Only a handful of them did. That senile old fool got most of them killed playing soldier. He sold them on ‘the good fight’ against the Monster, having an adventure, then he all but destroyed this village and countless families with it for miles around, for what? Naught but his own vanity.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, but she ignored him.
“These boys are orphans,” she informed him with devastating clarity, “and if I
ever
hear you roar at a child like that again, you can cross me off your list of friends—permanently.”
She pivoted to leave him in the solitude he had thought he craved. Damn it, this day was off to a bad start and just kept getting worse.
It shouldn’t matter, but Trevor feared their budding friendship or flirtation or whatever it was, was already doomed. Not wanting it to end this way, yet completely unwilling to grovel after recent events with certain other women, he called after her defiantly—one last question.
“What about you, Miss Kenwood?” His tone came out harsher than he’d meant it to, the result of spending too many years among warriors and men. “Was there some swain of yours who also went off with the colonel and didn’t come home? Is that why you still live with your father?”
“Me, love a soldier?” She turned around, visibly outraged by his impertinent question. “Of course not. I could never love someone who made a living killing his fellow man.”
The way she looked straight into his eyes when she said it made her point clear: He had no chance with this woman at all.
Not that he had sought one.
Had he?
Stung, Trevor stiffly dropped his gaze. “Of course not.”
Whatever softheaded thoughts he might’ve had about Grace Kenwood, it was very clear he had just been preemptively rejected on the basis, the very core, of who and what he was.
Well, then.
She grasped the two boys each by a hand and marched them off down the drive.
As he watched them walk away, leaving him alone—as he had insisted—Trevor dropped his head back and stared at the sky.
So much for that idea.
It was stupid, anyway,
he told himself. She was not even properly in his class. She would never fit into his world.
Not that he ever quite had, either.
Trevor let out a sigh. Ah, well. He had wanted to be alone.
It looked like his wish had just been well and truly granted.
S
till trembling with protective, righteous fury, Grace walked the boys back to the parsonage, where she gave Denny a towel to dry himself. Then she fed the children breakfast. For her part, she was too upset to eat.
What a cad. What a brute . . .
She was glad, of course, that her neighbor had rescued Denny. And he was right. Resilient as the boys were, they were perfectly fine after the morning’s escapade.
But Grace was still outraged at Lord Trevor. How dare he comment on her unmarried state! Ask her why she still lived with her father? Such insufferable rudeness! And here she thought he was a gentleman!
Obviously not.
He might as well have called her an old maid to her face. It was not that there had been any “swain” of her own who’d gone to war with Colonel Avery. It was simply none of his business! That, along with the fact, perhaps, that she did not like
anybody’s
noticing that she might be a trifle lonely. That her life might not have worked out quite as any young woman might have hoped.
She could break down in tears even now if she dared to think on it. But oh, that cretin, that too-handsome rudesby had had the gall to point it out. As if she owed
him
an explanation!
While the boys shoveled bacon, eggs, and jellied toast into their mouths, Grace stared absently at the bowl of apples in the middle of the table, too incensed to eat a bite.
She wished Papa had never suggested the Grange to him.
How was she supposed to live next door to a former spy, a trained assassin, especially now, when he had seen her looking so ridiculous, crossing the meadows in her night rail, dressing gown, and boots? That was all he needed—more reasons to mock her.
She shook her head to herself in seething silence. By heaven, as a pastor’s daughter, she could live with all sorts of deprivations, but if Lord Trevor pitied her for an old maid, no. That was more than her pride could stand. It was not to be borne. Calpurnia could have him, as far as Grace was concerned.
Meanwhile, across the table, the Nelcott boys were laughing at each other’s antics, their fright forgotten now that the danger was safely behind them. Indeed, they seemed to regard their brush with disaster as a grand lark and possibly their best adventure yet.
“Denny, did he really save you from drowning?” Grace interrupted, uncharacteristically annoyed by their merriment. “I thought you knew how to swim.”
“Aye, I can, Miss—” he started.
“Not as good as me!” his brother interjected.
“Better than you!” Denny shot back, pushing him.
“Can not!”
“Boys! Answer the question!”
“I
can
swim,” Denny assured her. “But my foot got caught under a branch or somethin’ on the bottom of the creek. I got stuck. Could barely keep my nose above the water.”
“So he really did save you?”
“Aye, Miss.” Denny grinned. “He was brilliant!”
“For an ogre,” Kenny added with a giggle, and Grace scowled to realize the lads had now changed their opinion of the Grange’s new owner from villain to hero.
Hmmph.
“Well, you’d better stay away from him. He wants no part of you or any of us. You heard the man. All he wants is to be left alone. So let’s respect his wishes, and hopefully, no one will get killed. If I hear about you two sneaking back onto his property, you’re going to have to deal with
me.
Understood?”
Identical frowns appeared on their faces, but the mischievous pair finally got the message. The boys lowered their heads, and both mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s better,” she replied, then finally took an irked bite of toast.
T
revor refused to wonder if he had made a big mistake in buying the farm.
Grace Kenwood was not going to ruin this for him.
She had succeeded in making him feel guilty as hell for yelling at a pair of little orphans, but not everyone on earth was a saint like her. Yes, he sometimes raised his voice. Especially when a child’s life was at stake. Apparently that made him a cruel brute of some sort.
Or selfish.
Mindful only of what he had himself been through. Forgetting that other people had suffered, too, through this war.
That
did
seem to be what she had been accusing him of.
But how dare she? Well, she could serve that dish, but he wasn’t going to eat it.
If she wanted to see selfish, she could look at Nick. Or Beauchamp. He was a saint compared to them.
Strangely, these rationalizations did not make him feel any better—which only vexed him more.
Who did she think she was to take him to task? He was sorry if he did not live up to her standards, but he had saved that boy’s life this morning, and he did not deserve to be scolded by some churchman’s overly virtuous daughter.
Ah, hell, what did he care what she might think of him? It did not signify.
He was done with women.
Thrusting Miss Holier-Than-Thou out of his mind, he changed into dry clothes, then walked through the house, looking for breach points.
He locked the Grange up tightly as he moved from room to room, and near the end of his tour, he found the rusty window hanging open above the scullery sinks.
Aha.
The scullery off the kitchens was sunk fairly low into the earth, which made it an easy climb through the window at ground level; this was apparently where the little devils had been getting in.
Trevor shut the window with a harrumph and turned the latch, then at last set off for town—such as it was. For his first foray into the village, he needed to see if his mail had started arriving from London yet, and the dry goods store served as the local post office.
As he saddled one of his horses, he wondered what sort of reaction he was going to get from the locals. Small, close-knit hamlets like Thistleton did not always welcome outsiders with open arms. Certainly, he did not expect everyone to be as joyous about his arrival as the bubbly Calpurnia Windlesham.
Considering how fast news traveled in little rural communities, he took it for granted that everyone had heard by now about his clash with the pair of pint-sized rascals.
He hoped some of the villagers had firsthand experience with the sort of trouble those two little wild things could cause; otherwise, he feared he was going to be
persona non grata
in his new hometown before noon.
On the other hand, if the locals decided they should be afraid of him, they’d be more likely to leave him alone.
Hmm.
He swung up onto his horse, but as he rode off, it occurred to him that Grace’s word probably held a lot of weight in this town. She might hold his entire reputation among these people in her hands. He was in her territory, on her turf, he understood quite well, and though her influence here made him feel both sardonic and uneasy, he supposed he’d better watch his step.
Upon arriving at the village, he opted for a neutral expression, unsure of how he’d be received.
He tipped his hat to a cluster of villagers who stared as he rode by, but he did not deign to smile.
Country folk did not trust city dwellers as a rule. Besides, acting too friendly, too approachable, would only invite more intrusions.
Reactions to him seemed mixed as he rode up to the dry goods store and dismounted. But they were obviously curious. Shopkeepers in aprons stepped into the doorways of their establishments as he rode by, no doubt sizing up the value of his purse.
The old men playing chess under the tree halted their game and watched him warily as he tied his horse to the hitching post, then walked up the few steps to the entrance of the store.
Thankfully, the dry goods dealer was a garrulous man. Trevor introduced himself, collected his mail, and glanced through it; then he wandered the three aisles of the tiny shop, determined to buy a few things whether he needed them or not, as a gesture of goodwill.
This done, he stepped back outside into the village square. Scanning his surroundings, he noted the location of various places of business that he might need in future. Blacksmith, bakery, pub . . .
But it was strange. On his first pass through Thistleton with the land agent, he had merely noticed the general quaintness of the village. Now that Grace had told him about Colonel Avery’s misadventure, his searching gaze picked up finer details. A closer look revealed the onset of a creeping shabbiness, a quiet despair that seemed to reflect his own.
Peeling paint, sagging shutters. An air of defeat.
The impact of what Grace had just told him about the old cavalryman’s ill-fated regiment sank in.
Fifty dead.
Ten percent was a horrendous loss, proportionally speaking. The army had rules about this, but in desperate times, they weren’t always followed.
Even worse, the loss had robbed Thistleton of its young men, the muscle of any small farming community. And then the disastrous weather killing the crops on top of that.
Good God, Grace, is this what you’re up against?
And he had had the audacity to ask her why she wasn’t married?
He hated himself at the thought. He could not believe he had thrown it in her face so irreverently this morning. But he had not understood. Not really. He had merely been a bit jealous and trying to understand. Well, he saw it now, whether he wanted to or not.
This tiny village had suffered a crushing loss of life in a distant war that most of these people probably didn’t even understand. Hell, he barely understood it himself, and he had clearance for all sorts of confidential memoranda.
No wonder they were staring at him.
He had
lived.
Survived an ordeal that had robbed them of brothers, husbands, sons.
God.
Fairly tingling with self-consciousness under the villagers’ silent scrutiny, he walked back slowly to his horse.
I don’t need this.
Peace and quiet. He hadn’t come here for them; he had come here for himself.
Don’t look at me like that. You people need to leave me alone.
He felt like absolute hell, all the more so because neither Grace nor her father had uttered one complaint.
Maybe he was a selfish bastard, just as bad as Nick, but in a different way.
Maybe he needed to open his eyes and look around him, stop focusing so much on himself. If not, he might as well go back and join Laura in a life of preening vanity.
He let out a sigh and lowered his gaze but did not have the heart to go fleeing back to his hermitage, leaving them like this. Indeed, with the morning waning, he was getting hungry, so he decided to try the local pub fare. Walking across the square to the Gaggle Goose Inn, he could still feel everybody staring at him, just like they did in London. Just what he’d come here to escape.
With a sigh, he stepped into the coaching inn. The Reverend Kenwood had said they served decent food.
It was dark inside compared to the June sunshine, but as his eyes adjusted, he glanced around and saw he was the only customer, at least for the moment.
Then he spotted the buxom tavern girl who was leaning on the bar, polishing silver. She straightened up when she saw him, and the way her stare immediately homed in on him, he felt a certain degree of relief.
At least someone here was ready to be friendly to him.
He had long since learned to recognize a professional when he saw one.
Indeed, it was good to know that out here in the middle of nowhere, if he needed female company some night, he wouldn’t have to go far to find relief without scandalizing the village. That’s what girls like this were here for.
“I’ll bet I know who you are,” she greeted him as she approached at a slow, hip-swaying saunter. “You’re the gentleman that bought the Grange, ain’t ye?”
“Guilty,” he replied.
“Well! Welcome, then.” She smiled broadly, revealing a fetching little gap between her two front teeth. An inviting gleam in her dark eyes, she gestured toward a table. “You just come and sit right down over here—Lord Trevor, ain’t it? You’re even handsomer than I heard.”
He arched a brow.
With a toss of her tousled raven mane, she led him over to a table by the grimy window.
Trevor followed her, bemused. Well, he had already crossed blades today with the town saint. It seemed he was about to make friends with the town sinner.
As he sat down, she set her hand on her waist and stood before the table, letting him look her over. “You can call me Marianne,” she said, leaning forward in cozy fashion, making sure he saw her cleavage. “I’m here to get you anything you want,” she added softly, her meaning very clear.
“Why, thank you, Miss Marianne. You’re very kind,” he whispered with an appreciative smile.
Now that’s more like it.