Passion and Propriety (Hearts of Honour Book 1) (12 page)

Bess still didn’t depart, and Hannah sensed she had more to say.

“Is something the matter?”

After a furtive glance towards the landing, the young maid leaned in close. “Excuse me for askin’, miss, but the master . . . is he a
good
man? Me auntie worked for ’is father, and I’ve ’eard some dreadful stories. She was real upset when she ’eard I got this job. Said it weren’t safe.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Hannah assured her. “This particular Lord Blackthorn is a gentleman, through and through.”

“But isn’t ’e fearfully scarred and wild-lookin’? Lucy in the kitchen overheard Mrs Potts talkin’ with Trevor and—”

“Enough, Bess.” Hannah’s tone was gentle but her expression firm. “The viscount was severely wounded in service to the King and quite understandably dishevelled when he arrived after a harrowing journey.
However,
he is perfectly acceptable in both appearance and manner. There’s no need to be afraid, and I’m trusting you not to frighten the other girls by spreading gossip.”

“Yes, miss.” Bess curtsied and hurried away, leaving Hannah to hope the girl was both subdued by the scolding and comforted by the reassurances she’d been given.

Finding William dressed in a clean, loose-sleeved nightshirt, and with his hair neatly brushed and tied back in a queue, she couldn’t help thinking the young maid had nothing to fear . . . other than the possibility of developing a
tendresse
for her surprisingly handsome new master.

“Feeling better for a rest?” she asked, her smile fading at his answering scowl.

“I’d feel better if this blasted arm would stop itching.” Making a claw with his good hand, he looked as if he would like to tear the bandage away.

“It sounds as if the stitches are pulling.” Hannah moved to his side, slipped the loose nightshirt off his shoulder, and began to unwrap the bandage.

He winced. “How am I supposed to use my arm again if I can barely stand the slightest jostling?”
 

“Give it time, my lord. You were at death’s door mere days ago and must exercise patience. I suspect you’ve used up your quota of miracles for a while.”

“You believe I’m the recipient of a miracle?”

“How else would you explain your recovery? Grace’s skills are impressive, but they only extend so far. There’s been no lack of prayers sent up on your behalf.”

William harrumphed, and Hannah fell quiet while wiping away the remaining unguent from his arm.
 

“These need to come out.” She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. “But Grace sent word this morning she won’t be able to visit for at least a day or two. There was another cottage fire, I’m afraid. The occupants are badly burned.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” William frowned before his expression turned pleading. “Can you not do it?”

“I could, I suppose, but I’ve only observed the procedure.”

“I trust you.”

Hannah’s eyes widened, a pleased smile teasing her lips. “Very well, then. The wound is all but healed, and you’ll feel much better when the stitches aren’t tugging. My sewing scissors should do the trick.” She gestured to where they lay beside the embroidery hoop that was sitting on a side table. “I’ll just take them down to the kitchen and give them a thorough clean.”

“Is that necessary?” William’s brows rose.

“Grace certainly thinks so, and
I
trust
her
.”

She returned as quickly as she could and set to work. William grimaced but remained silent. It was pleasing to know he could refrain from uttering profanities if required, not that she’d have thought too badly of him if he’d slipped. Removing the catgut stitches wasn’t easy, tugging each one free requiring some force. The poor man was shaking by the time she had finished.

“Better?”

He shrugged his good shoulder while inspecting the violent-looking wound that wrapped around his upper left arm.

“I should have let them take it off. I’m unlikely to regain full use, and the damned . . .
darned
”—he shot her an apologetic look—“thing is ugly as sin.”

“It’s not that bad.” Hannah tried to sound encouraging, but it did look rather frightful. “The colour will fade, and it’s not like you’ll have it on display. It will be covered up with a shirt and jacket . . . or a nightshirt.”

“At least I’ve no wife to faint in horror at the sight.”

“Precisely.” While touched by his plight, she refused to indulge his inclination towards self-pity, personally aware of how damaging it could be. “Though I think you’re underestimating the fortitude of the fairer sex, my lord. We do have to endure the rigours of childbirth . . . well, those blessed to have the opportunity. I can’t see that exposure to a scar would cause any great distress in comparison.”

“Well said.” The compassion evident in his gaze triggered unexpected tears to prick the backs of her lids. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

Hannah hadn’t been asking for
his
pity and, under the guise of needing to dispose of his soiled bandage, she made a hasty escape.

Chapter 11

Honourable

William waited impatiently for Hannah’s return. She was the first and only woman he had ever cared for, and he couldn’t help but savour every bittersweet moment of their diminishing time together. Fool that he was. His future was bleak enough without adding lovelorn to his lot. Summoning what sense he had remaining, he committed to at least
attempting
to safeguard his heart from harm. He imagined the best protection was to find a purpose with which to fill his days.

Foremost on his agenda, alongside making as full a recovery as his sorely abused body would allow, was seeing to the restoration of his inheritance. As long as he didn’t take advantage of Hannah in the process, he told himself there was no danger in enlisting her help to fulfil his mission. She was clearly a sensible woman—well respected in the community, or so Dawkins assured him—and sure to know where the greatest needs lay.

William snorted. The honourable
thing would be to send her away, yet here he was searching for excuses to keep her with him. Testament to his folly, his eyes lit up when Hannah entered the room.

“You’ve already eaten?” She frowned, staring at the dinner tray on the bed beside him.

“I didn’t want to bother you.” Her expression led him to believe she was not pleased, his lack of experience with the fairer sex leaving him uncertain as to why. “I managed to feed myself unaided,” he added before grimacing. He sounded like a child boasting to his nursemaid. Her lips curved in a smirk, and William bit back the profanity he was tempted to utter. At least he’d made her smile.

It suited her, as did the way she’d arranged her honey-coloured hair with loose curls framing her face. She was wearing his favourite gown, the blue one with the enticingly low bodice. For modesty’s sake, she’d added a lace-trimmed fichu, but it was possible to catch a glimpse of cleavage . . . if one looked closely.

To distract himself, William quizzed her about the needs of the locals and which issues she considered a priority, a picture soon emerging of a district stricken with poverty and unemployment. Most of the farmland lay fallow, and those who had work were employed in the mines. There was no great censure in Hannah’s tone, but he sensed perplexity at his ignorance.

“What did you mean by
another
cottage fire?” he asked. “I take it there have been previous fires.”

“Many, I’m afraid.” Her words settled like a stone in his gut. “The buildings are terribly dilapidated. The roofs leak, the chimneys are blocked and crumbling. That’s where the danger lies.”

William shook his head, dislodging the band that had tied his hair in place. “I directed every penny earned in rent to be used for maintenance and improvements, not to mention paying extra for major refurbishments as needed. This should be the most well-kept district in England.”

“It appears Mr Grantham has a great deal to answer for.”

William sighed. “As do I.”

“Why did you not come to check in person or send a representative to ensure your will was being carried out?”

Hannah’s question was perfectly reasonable, but he struggled to keep the defensiveness from his tone. “Because I vowed never to return. It was easier to sign off on whatever requests Grantham sent me without studying them too closely. I
thought
I was being honourable, taking care of the people who’d treated me badly when I was a boy. Not that everyone was unkind,” he added when she winced. “I made sure the manor staff were well taken care of, along with your
family, of course . . . or so I believed.”

Hannah turned to face the window, and he suspected she was struggling not to cry. He could only guess at the hardships her family had been forced to endure beholden to the likes of Grantham. William’s instincts had warned him not to trust the man, but he’d ignored them. If it hadn’t been for his supposedly imminent death, he’d never have returned, never have learned of the suffering being inflicted in
his
name.

Judging it wise to give Hannah a moment to compose herself, he reached for the bellpull beside the bed, pleased when it was answered promptly by a liveried manservant.

“Tea, please, for two, and a light meal,” he said, unsure whether Hannah had taken her luncheon.

“Yes, my lord.” The footman bowed and turned to leave.

“Wait,” William called, yet to meet any of his new staff other than Dawkins. “Your name?”

“Colin Brown, sir. My father used to work as a gardener for your father and grandfather.”

“Welcome to Blackthorn Manor, Mr Brown.” William remembered the gardeners, just not their individual names. “Is your father well?”

“He died some years back, my lord. In a mine explosion.” The footman’s expression didn’t change, but he averted his gaze to stare over William’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” William said. “You may go.” When the door closed, he turned to find Hannah watching him. “One of the
Blackthorn
mines?”

She nodded, and he let out a slow breath.

“How many are there?”

“Seven that I know of. They’re the biggest employers in the district, but they don’t pay well and are far from safe. You didn’t know?”

He shook his head. “Grantham must have forged my name to obtain the permits. Please tell me they don’t employ children.” Her pained expression gave him his answer, and he slumped back against the pillow. The temptation was strong to ask for one of her powerful sleeping draughts so he could disappear into oblivion, but it was past time he faced up to his responsibilities.

Hannah returned to sit in the chair beside the bed. “I know it’s not my place to pry. But I’m curious as to how you’ve managed all these years without taking any income from the estate. Obviously, you don’t have to answer—”

“It’s all right. I don’t mind telling you,” he said, deciding to at least attempt a defence of his honour. “What do you know about my family’s history?”

“Only what is generally known.”

Although she didn’t name it, he assumed Hannah was referring to the Blackthorn Curse.

“The first Viscount Blackthorn, my three times great-grandfather, had the title and estate bestowed upon him for services to the Crown . . . at a hefty price, of course.” He grimaced. “Jeremiah Blackthorn was a very successful businessman.”

“He was in trade?”

“On a grand scale,” William said drolly. While Hannah’s reaction was one of surprise rather than disdain, he found quite comical the
ton’s
obsession with bloodlines and the revulsion with which they viewed those forced to
work
for a living. Many of the nobilities’ forebears had similar histories to his own, those who hadn’t taken their place by force.

“What did he do?” she asked.

“He traded in human suffering and misery.” William grimaced before clarifying at her puzzled look. “He was a slaver. He captured men, women, and children, took them from their homes in Africa and transported them by ship to sell in America . . . those who survived the journey. The ones he kept, he used to build an empire, making an astonishing fortune in the process. The Blackthorn title lent him the credibility he craved but didn’t change the fact he was a brutal murderer who profited from the suffering of others, as were his sons and grandsons.”

Hannah sat back. “I’d heard rumours the Blackthorn Curse originated in Africa, but I thought that was just superstition, conjecture.”

“Based in truth.” He released a gusty sigh. “The first viscount handed down the story of the curse’s origins to his son and so forth in the hopes one of us would find a way to defeat it . . . or just as another way of tormenting the next generation.”

“You believe an African witch doctor put a curse on your family?”

“My father certainly did.”

“I suppose that’s why he consulted with practitioners of the occult when he tried to have the dreadful thing broken.”

“The curse
can’t
be broken.” William sliced the air with his good hand. “But it’s no longer of any consequence.”

Hannah frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I intend to be the last of my line. My father, his father, all the way back to the first Viscount Blackthorn were cruel men with vicious tempers. Drunkards. Gamblers. Murderers. The Blackthorns do not deserve to continue their legacy.”