The Charmer (2 page)

"Why did you leave?"

"I'm traveling to Salisbury to
visit my sister."

"You're from Salisbury? That
explains the accent."

His accent was a London one, but
she seemed to know no better and he saw no reason to enlighten her. "I
thought it time I visited her, but I ran out of money. I used my last coins
dining at The Plough in the village." Lie upon lie upon lie, all smoothly
spoken. He was an expert at them, as were all the members of Hughe's band, past
and present. It was vital for survival to be able to act in any role at any
moment with no preparation.

"What type of garden work
did you do at Collier Dean?"

"Digging, weeding, pruning."
What else did gardeners do? There wasn't much call for it working in the Assassins
Guild or at his family's London house. They had a small garden to service their
kitchen, but it consisted of a few herbs and such. Certainly nothing like the
exotic trees he'd seen backed up against her garden wall. He shrugged.
"Whatever was required of me."

"You weren't head gardener
then?"

"Head, body, hands and
feet." She didn't even crack a smile, so he forged on. "I was under
the direction of the lady of the house, a keen gardener like you, madam."

"Did she grow oranges?"

"What?"

"Oranges. Did she grow
them?"

"Uh, no." Only a madman
would try to grow oranges in England. They were a fruit more suited to warmer
climes like Spain. Surely they weren't the trees he saw in her garden. Why
would she want to grow them when she could have perfectly good English fruit
trees like cherry or apple?

"Then you are of no use to
me," she said. "Not that I need a gardener."

He thought it best to keep his
mouth shut. Lady Lynden didn't look like she would appreciate him pointing out
that her hands were covered in hard calluses and she had dirt smudged on her
forehead, or that the pails of soil looked much too heavy for her to drag
around. This last he could not admit to having witnessed anyway.

"I'm very busy. Good day,
Mr. Holt." She marched off, giving him a fine view of her shapely calves.
When she reached the far wall and the dark green leafy trees, she turned around.
A flicker of either surprise or irritation crossed her face before she waved
him off, as imperial as any queen. "Try Cowdrey Farm," she called
back. "It's quite a walk to the west, but Farmer Cowdrey will have work
for a strong lad like yourself."

"I'm eight and twenty, not a
lad. And I'm a gardener, not a farmer, but thanks anyway."

She turned her back to him once
more but not before he heard her muttering, "Beggars can't be
choosers."

"I'm not a beggar either. Or
a vagrant."
I'm an assassin
.
And a bloody good one.

He trudged back along the gravel
drive to the road leading into the village. Lady Lynden might have been the
most beautiful woman Orlando had ever seen, but she was as prickly as a hawthorn.
Ordinarily he would avoid shrews like her but not this time. He had to
thoroughly investigate the claims against her and if she were guilty, then he
would have to assassinate her.

Women who went about murdering
their husbands could not be allowed to escape justice.

***

Susanna Lynden sat on the ground
under her largest orange tree and watched the retreating back of Orlando Holt
through the garden arch. It was a broad back attached to the sort of shoulders
that would be useful for hoeing garden beds and for sinking one's teeth into if
she felt so inclined. Which she absolutely did not. She was not ready to take a
lover, and she suspected Orlando Holt would make a terrible one anyway, or
terrible for
her
at least. Too handsome for his own good and certainly
too charming. Men like him never stayed true to their women, and she'd had
enough of straying men.

Good lord, she must have been
lonelier than she thought. She'd met Holt only briefly, yet her mind had
stripped him naked. Perhaps it was time she got a lover. How did a gentlewoman
go about obtaining one? Nail a handbill to the post outside The Plough
announcing the vacancy? She threw her head back and laughed, startling a yellow
butterfly perched on a leaf.

No, there would be no lover for
her, or a gardener. Not even a laborer. Pity, because Holt would have been
perfect with his experience and his size. She'd be lucky if she could afford
the wages of the three servants they currently kept as well as food enough to
feed them, her father and herself. The little money they had needed to stretch
until she'd found a city shopkeeper to stock her marmalades and succades. Finding
someone was taking longer than she expected.

She drove her fork into the soft
earth and pushed herself to her feet. Her head touched one of the low-hanging green
oranges, and she ducked out from under the canopy. She slapped on her hat and
stood back to survey her oldest and strongest tree. Its leaves were a healthy green
and the fruits almost the same color. They would turn orange soon and need
protecting from the winter. Already the air felt chilly even when the sun was
out.

How cold would it get this year?
She'd only lost one tree last winter, but the others had dropped most of their
fruit. She hadn't been able to give them the full attention they needed while
living up at the Hall, and her father hadn't the strength to do what was necessary
to protect all of them from frost. This year she'd wanted to try a new housing technique
for ensuring their safe wintering, but time was growing short along with the
days, and there was still so much to be done. The temporary and somewhat flimsy
shelter would have to do for now.

She picked up her pruning knife
and lopped off the straggling branches to make it easier to cover the trees. It
grew more and more difficult to reach the higher ones, and soon her arms and
neck ached. She removed her gloves and massaged her shoulder.

"Those trousers really don't
suit you, Susanna."

 She ground her back teeth
together then turned around with what she hoped was a genteel smile on her face
for her late husband's cousin. She had to remind herself that he meant well,
but it didn't make his stupidity any less, well, stupid. "I find skirts
too restricting in the garden."

Jeffrey—Lord Lynden—squinted and
stretched his neck. With the high collar and his chin resting on the stiff ruff,
his neck appeared unnaturally long. "Is that dirt on your forehead?"

"Probably. I find I can't
escape the stuff out here."

"I suppose not." He indicated
the pruning knife. "What are you doing with that?"

"Pruning."

"And what's in the
pails?"

"Dung from Cowdrey Farm's
cows mixed with soil."

He pulled a face. "It looks
like hard work."

"I can manage, and I enjoy
being out here with my orange trees." It was true, she did like gardening,
but she could certainly use some help. Not that she would tell Jeffrey she
couldn't afford a laborer. Any mention of money, or her lack of it, would only
bring up the topic of her marrying again, something she wished to avoid. With
Farmer Cowdrey having asked her countless times already, she was becoming an
expert in avoiding the subject altogether. And avoid it she must. Two
disastrous marriages had proved to her it wasn't a state she wanted to enter
into again, ever.

"I can provide one of my
gardeners to help you if you like," Jeffrey said.

He'd never offered her staff
before. Considering he loathed spending money on things that didn't directly
improve his own estate, it was quite a generous offer. What did he want in
return? "Thank you, but I can manage."

He regarded her closely, still
frowning. Jeffrey was always frowning it seemed, so unlike her late husband,
his older cousin. Phillip had been dark-haired and silver-tongued, a
combination that meant everyone liked him, particularly women. Jeffrey was more
serious, hardly ever laughing with abandon as Phillip used to do, and flirting
wasn't an art he'd mastered. Most of the village women crossed the road to
avoid speaking with him.

Susanna knelt down on the ground
and dug through the fertile mix of dung and earth in the pail.

"That reeks," Jeffrey
said. "Must you do it now?"

"I have to put it around the
trees."

"This moment?"

"I can think of no better
one." She stood and eyed the nearest tree several feet away. Her lower
back ached just thinking about moving the pail and digging through the dung and
soil. "Would you mind dragging the pail over there?"

"Me?"

She turned to look at him and
almost burst out laughing. He had his wrist pressed to his nose, the white lace
cuff trailing over his mouth and chin like a snowy beard. "I see no one
else here."

Half his face may have been
covered, but it didn't hide the disgust in his eyes. "This is why you need
a man to help you."

She refrained, just, from pointing
out that he was a man.

"What about your
servants?" he went on. "Can't one of them help?"

"They're busy and too aged
for this type of work in addition to their usual duties."

"You should replace them with
more able-bodied ones." He took a step back and she sighed. It seemed
Jeffrey was like his cousin in one respect. Neither liked to get their soft,
white hands dirty.

"Jeffrey, why have you come
here?"

"To offer you the use of one
of my men for your garden."

He'd come just for that? Surely
not. "No, thank you."

"You won't need to pay
me."

"No."

"But you can't do this on
your own! Look at you. Your knees are dirty and your skin is brown!" He
sniffed. "And that smell. It's disgusting and unseemly. A woman of your
station should be inside sewing, not mucking about in filth. Admit it, Susanna,
you're in over your head with those orange trees. I don't know why you care
about them so much. They take up all your time since you came back here. You
should have left them to die after your mother's passing." He must have
known he'd over-stepped because he had the decency to flush and look away. He
knew how much Susanna had loved her mother. The trees were her legacy. She
would not let them wither.

"Thank you for your
concern," she said carefully lest the wave of emotion washing through her burst
out. "But I do not want your help."

He pursed his thin lips so that
they disappeared entirely. "Susanna," he finally said on a sigh.
"Why do you thwart me so when all I want is to care for you? As my cousin,
it's the least I can do. Allow my man to help." His gaze darted away and
wandered around the garden, avoiding her. "He's new to my employ but
trustworthy. And very strong, very capable. He'll do whatever you ask of him. I
highly recommend him to you."

Why was he insisting? What could
possibly be in it for Jeffrey? He wasn't a terrible person, but he never did
anything out of the goodness of his heart. If it had been anyone else, she
would have thought he was trying to woo her, but being her cousin by marriage
meant a union between them was unthinkable as well as illegal. Perhaps he
needed her to act as lady of Sutton Hall for some important visitors.

Like his cousin before him,
Jeffrey planned on putting Sutton Hall on the map, or at least the map used by
the nobility with influence at court. Being a baron wasn't enough for Jeffrey.
He wanted to be
noticed
, and that meant having the right people visit
and ensuring they were entertained during their stay. Phillip had been a natural
host, charming and witty, attentive but not sycophantic. Jeffrey would have a
more difficult time of it. He plodded through conversations, failing to grasp
subtle changes in moods or clever retorts. He needed a friend to guide him
through prickly political and social situations with high ranking guests, which
was why Susanna would be a terrible hostess. She'd learned from her two marriages
that being the perfect gentleman's wife didn't come easily to her. She
preferred her garden to the ballroom and tending the orange trees to indulging
the whims of fat noblemen.

"Susanna, please, I insist.
I beg of you to accept my offer to help."

Insist? Beg? Rather strong words for
a simple offer. She shook her head and grabbed the edges of the pail and
dragged it along the path.

"Whoa, mistress, stop,"
a vaguely familiar voice said from behind her. Before she could turn around,
big brown hands grasped the pail and lifted it. Lifted it! She looked up,
straight into the blue eyes of Orlando Holt.

"Where do you want it?"
He gave her a smile and a dimple appeared in each cheek. Now that he was closer
she could see that he was indeed older than she first thought. Those dimples
made him look impish, as if he'd been caught stealing from a plate of
sweetmeats. She had the ridiculous urge to press her smallest finger into them.

"Lady Lynden?" he
prompted. His smile widened. The man knew what she was thinking. She was
certain of it. Curse him.

"Over there," she said,
pointing to the nearest tree. She watched as he carried the full pail to the
tree. He wore only a jerkin over his shirt, like her, but where her clothes
were big and loose, his jerkin stretched tautly over his shoulders and across
his back.

"Who is that?" Jeffrey
said, coming up beside her. "A new servant?"

"A vagrant," she said
and bit back a laugh. Holt had emphatically argued with her over the point only
a little while ago. She couldn't deny sparring with him had made her feel more
alive than she had felt in months. Odd how such a simple exchange with a
stranger could do that. She must have been more desperate than she thought for
witty company. It certainly wasn't the handsome and charming male company she
missed—she'd had enough of that from her two husbands to last a lifetime.