Rapture Becomes Her (8 page)
Read Rapture Becomes Her Online
Authors: Shirlee Busbee
Barnaby shot him a glance almost of dislike. “You just had to say it, didn’t you?”
“Been waiting for just the right moment.”
Dismounting in front of the arched and pedimented three-story porch in the middle of the building, Barnaby was unprepared for the commotion his arrival caused. The pair of molded and paneled oak doors, dark with age, swung open the moment his foot touched the bricked driveway and a half-dozen servants, some wearing dark green livery, spilled out to greet him. Like arriving majesty he was gently wafted through the doors, and upon entering the house, to his stunned gaze, it appeared as if the grand hallway was filled with a crowd of people, bobbing and bowing, all of them seeming eager to meet him. Or catch their first sight of the American, he thought dryly.
The house steward down to the smallest, shiest scullery maid came forth to be introduced to the new master and most passed in a blur before Barnaby. Raised as the son of an aristocratic wealthy planter in Virginia, he was used to servants and elegant surroundings, but he was still a bit startled at the size of the staff. Did he really need six scullery maids?
The introductions over, leaving word with the butler to bring up a tray, Lamb hustled Barnaby upstairs to the quiet of his suite of rooms. When the door shut behind him, Barnaby looked at Lamb and muttered, “And that was just the house servants?”
“Most of them—there were probably a half dozen you might have missed, and I thought I recognized one or two of the gardeners and a few stable folk that had finessed their way inside.”
“Good God! It’s like a small city.” He glanced around the sitting room in which they were standing. Taking in the bronze damask upholstered sofas, leather-covered chairs and satinwood tables, the large mahogany desk near the bow window and the long sideboard against the far wall, he estimated that the room was large enough to hold a ball. An equally large bedroom decorated in the same shades lay beyond. His gaze was met with the same luxurious gold and tobacco silk-covered walls, and similar rugs in shades of fawn, cream and amber lay scattered across the gleaming expanse of parquet flooring. He peeked into the dressing room and almost laughed. It was barely smaller than his sitting room in Virginia.
Wearier than he realized, he sank down into one of a pair of channel-backed chairs of brown mohair, positioned at either end of a small sofa in front of the fire that blazed in the marble fireplace. Looking at Lamb, he said simply, “Big house.”
Lamb laughed. “Indeed. And this is just one of several properties you own.”
“No wonder Mathew was put out when I inherited,” Barnaby said, staring moodily at the fire. “I wouldn’t have taken it well either to have something like this place snatched out from beneath me—let alone the fortune that goes with it.”
Lamb’s eyes traveled over the richly furnished room. “It’s certainly a motive for the attack on you.” When Barnaby continued to stare at the fire, he said softly, “Lest you feel too guilty, I would remind you that all of the Joslyn family is very wealthy—you may have inherited the jewel in the crown, but Mathew and his brothers, Thomas and Simon, are hardly paupers. Gossip has it that Mathew’s home, Monks Abbey, is nearly as large and impressive. And I’ve heard that Thomas, especially, has an impressive fortune of his own.”
Barnaby leaned his head back, wincing when his wound came in contact with the back of the chair.
Lamb muttered an oath and crossed quickly to his side. “I want to take a better look at that gash of yours.” When Barnaby objected, he said fiercely, “Enough! I can see that it is bleeding from here. Now let me tend to it.”
Before they had left Barnaby’s room at The Crown Lamb had heard the story Barnaby and Mrs. Gilbert concocted about Barnaby’s unfortunate “illness” to explain his unexpected arrival at the inn and had gone along with the story. Lamb agreed that there was no need to announce to the countryside that the previous night someone had tried to murder the newest Viscount Joslyn. And the illness would give Barnaby an excuse to remain in his bedchamber should it prove necessary.
Lamb’s lips thinned as he examined the deep laceration at the back of Barnaby’s head. Probing the bleeding wound, he decided the viscount was going to suffer relapse of his illness and retreat to his bed for a few days.
Leaving off his examination, Lamb said, “It needs stitching, but for now, I’ll do a quick cleanup and get rid of the obvious blood. After Peckham arrives with the food and drink I ordered, I’ll see to it. For the present you just sit here and don’t move.”
Barnaby grimaced, but agreed. Lamb disappeared into the dressing room, only to reappear a few moments later with a strip of clean linen. With less-than-tender care, and ignoring Barnaby’s jump, he pressed the linen to the cut and held it there for several minutes. Removing the pad of linen, he took another look at the cut. Blood was still seeping out, but satisfied for the time being, he tossed the blood-soaked linen into the fire.
“That’ll do until I can sew it up.”
“Do I thank you or curse you?” Barnaby asked, the cut throbbing from John’s ministrations.
“You may thank me now and curse me later,” Lamb snapped.
They both heard the butler’s approach through the sitting room and John hissed at him, “Remember, just sit there. Look bored.”
Peckham, a small, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and shrewd blue eyes, entered the room. Carrying a huge tray with a domed silver cover, he set the tray down on the carved mahogany table behind the sofa.
“Would you like me to serve you now, my lord, or would you prefer to wait?” Peckham asked.
“Oh, ah, I’ll wait. Thank you, er, Peckham.” Giving him a languid wave, Barnaby added, “You may go.”
Lamb accompanied Peckham from the bedroom and as they were crossing the sitting room, he murmured, “His lordship is not feeling himself—we think it was something he ate on his journey.”
Peckham glanced at him. “Nothing serious I hope?” “Oh, no, I expect in a few days he’ll be up and about and eager to see the estate,” Lamb said easily. “But he’d prefer not to have any visitors for a while.”
“I shall see that he is not disturbed,” Peckham replied, and exited the sitting room.
Returning to the bedroom, Lamb took a deep breath. Now to sew up Barnaby and get him in bed—even if he had to wrestle him to do it.
An hour later, thinking of various tortures he’d inflict upon his “servant,” Barnaby’s head was neatly stitched and, despite his bitter protestations, he was in one of his own nightshirts—something he rarely wore—and enthroned in the huge, velvet draped bed which sat upon a dais in the middle of the room. Brooding, he watched as Lamb poured him some coffee—tepid after sitting so long—and served up a slab of smoked country ham, chunks of bread and thick slices of yellow cheese. Adding butter, mustard, pickles and an apple to the plate, he brought it over to the side of the bed.
“Eat half of this and I’ll leave you alone for a few hours,” Lamb said, setting it down on the mattress.
Balefully, Barnaby regarded him. “I am not an invalid, you know.”
“And I intend to make certain you don’t become one.” There was no arguing with Lamb when he was in one of his mother hen moods and admitting, at least to himself, that he really wasn’t feeling up to snuff, Barnaby ate as directed. To his surprise and Lamb’s satisfaction, it appeared that his appetite was excellent and he demolished the plate of food.
Leaning against the pillows, he watched as Lamb whisked away all signs of his meal.
Barnaby bit back a yawn, and reluctantly he confessed, “You know, mayhap a few hours in bed won’t come amiss.”
Lamb smiled and, picking up the tray, prepared to leave the room. Reaching the door to the sitting room he glanced back at Barnaby. Gruffly, he said, “Get some rest.”
“I intend to,” Barnaby answered. When John would have turned away, he added quietly, “Thank you.”
Lamb smiled, nodded and walked through the doorway, leaving him alone.
Lamb was able to keep him abed that first day, but by Thursday, Barnaby, ignoring his furious objections, rose from his bed, bathed and dressed as usual. Leaving Lamb to sulk in the dressing room, he left his rooms and walked down the curving staircase to the black-and-white marble tiled foyer. A young man Barnaby remembered being introduced as his house steward, Tilden, was standing in front of a black japanned cabinet, shuffling through several envelopes, a faint frown on his face. Hearing Barnaby’s step on the stairs, he looked up.
A smile replaced the frown and he bowed and said, “My lord.”
“Ah, good morning, Tilden, isn’t it?”
Pleasure gleamed in the young man’s steady gray eyes. “Yes, my lord. I am happy to see that you have recovered from your indisposition.”
“No more than I,” Barnaby said. He glanced around. From the foyer doorways appeared to beckon in all directions and, looking at Tilden, he asked with a smile, “Now, if I wanted breakfast, where would I find it?”
Tilden laughed and said, “If you will allow me, my lord, I shall show you into the morning room. And perhaps, after you have eaten, I could give you a short tour around the house?”
“Excellent!”
The morning room with its slightly faded green-and-cream rug and blue-and-ivory chintz-covered chairs was surprisingly cozy and Barnaby felt more at ease since he had first laid eyes on Windmere. Pale sunshine leaked into the room from the narrow windows and, finishing a fine breakfast of stewed fruit, bacon, coddled eggs, toast and marmalade at the oval oak table, Barnaby was ready for Tilden’s tour.
During the following days with Peckham, the housekeeper, Mrs. Bartlett, or Tilden, Barnaby toured the seemingly endless rooms of the house, then handed over to the head gardener, Hervey, he tramped over the extensive, manicured gardens, the greenhouses and the huge kitchen gardens at the rear of the house. He met the head stableman, the bailiff, the coachman, the head shepherd, listening and observing intently as each one of them explained the workings of the great estate. At night when he retired, his head was abuzz with all that he had learned that day, but with every passing hour, the mantle of responsibility, while heavy, felt more and more familiar.
On a Wednesday afternoon, two weeks to the day that Barnaby had first set foot in Windmere, young Sam, the blacksmith’s son, appeared at the kitchen door, telling an astonished Peckham that he had a message from Mrs. Gilbert for my lord. Reluctantly, Peckham delivered the news of Sam’s arrival to Barnaby in the library, where he was going over some paperwork with Tilden, who was proving, along with his other duties, to be an excellent secretary.
Barnaby threw down the page of accounts he had been studying and standing up, scandalized Peckham by saying, “Take me to him.”
Peckham coughed delicately. “I think, my lord, that it would be better if I brought the, er, young man to you.”
“Nonsense,” said Barnaby. He glanced around the elegant room. “Believe me, Sam would be more comfortable in the kitchen.”
The cook was flustered to have his lordship stroll into her bustling kitchen. But Barnaby put her at ease with a friendly smile. “Mrs. Eason, I believe?” he said, and at her nod, continued, “I remember you from that first day.” And made her his adoring slave when he added, “May I compliment you on the poached salmon steaks and the pullets with chestnuts that were served with dinner last night? I enjoyed the entire meal, but the salmon and pullets were exceptional.”
Mrs. Eason, short, buxom and round as a plump pigeon, wisps of curly brown hair escaping her white cap, dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, her cheeks pink with pleasure.
Young Sam was sitting at a scrubbed heavy oak table, a small plate of just-from-the-oven cinnamon biscuits and a tall glass of milk before him. Feeling Barnaby’s eye on him, he hastily swallowed the biscuit he’d been eating, swiped his lips clear of crumbs and jumped to his feet. Brushing back a lock of dark hair from his forehead, his equally dark eyes on Barnaby’s face, he said, “My lord, Mrs. Gilbert is most wishful for you to visit her at the inn. She says that”—he frowned, trying to remember her exact words—“you’ll find it worth your while.”
Sam had been sent back to the inn with word that his lordship would be arriving within the hour, and despite Lamb’s argument to the contrary, Barnaby rode away from Windmere alone. His blue eyes worried, Lamb said, “I would remind you that this time two weeks ago, someone tried to kill you.”
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