Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) (31 page)

“So that leaves us with Tom, Tye and the baron,” Hazlit said. “Tom is off at some house party for now; Tye is serving out his sentence before hunting begins in the Midlands in the fall; and the baron is tending his acres in Hampshire and socializing with your father.” 

The decision became simple. “We focus on the baron, then.” 

Heathgate shoved away from the desk. “You two focus on the baron. Whom do we know in the Midlands who can investigate a death that occurred at least forty years ago?” 

“Why does it matter?” Hazlit asked. 

Something outside the window apparently caught the marquess’s attention. “Because,” he said, back to his guests, “when a child is sick at boarding school, if it’s more than a sniffle, the family is typically notified, primarily so the patient can be transported into their loving care prior to death or protracted illness. Schools are not set up as hospitals, and the risk of contagion if the illness is serious could close the school down. For a child to die at boarding school is unusual.” 

Hazlit heaved up a sigh that suggested he also chafed at Heathgate’s insightfulness. “I’ll see if my sister can dig up any connections around the school.” 

Trent took the last sip of his drink. “I will prepare for another sortie into the wilds of Hampshire. I don’t suppose either of you needs a housekeeper who’s both empty-headed and possibly carrying my next half-sibling?” 

Hazlit snorted. “You might consider making the old boy marry the girl.” 

No, he would not inflict Wilton on even a willing woman.

“How would I compel Wilton to behave honorably?” Trent placed his glass on the sideboard, though he would have been welcome to more. “I’ve threatened to deny my sister Emily her come out next year, which hasn’t had the intended effect of subduing Wilton’s behaviors.” 

“So send Lady Emily from Town for a bit,” Heathgate suggested. “Deny her the Little Season, which is the dress rehearsal for all that nonsense in the spring. She might enjoy it, being the belle of the shire, an earl’s daughter, and such. Felicity says the girl was raised primarily in Town but never went about much.” 

“Never went about at all,” Trent corrected him. “Not unless Dare, Leah or I took her. I hate to think of consigning Emily to Wilton’s company again.” 

“Let him see that his hold on her has slipped,” Hazlit said. “That might take the wind from his sails more effectively than anything else.” 

Heathgate pushed his insightful, helpful self away from the window. “Then too, having his young daughter underfoot might make him less inclined to tryst with his latest inamorata. Having your sister visit Wilton Acres might serve several needs.” 

“I’ll ask Emily and Lady Warne about it,” Trent said. “I wouldn’t make such a decision lightly, and Mr. Benton will weigh in as well.” 

“When do you leave?” Heathgate collected Hazlit’s glass and set it with his own on the sideboard. 

“A few days. I have correspondence to deal with, and I’m closing up my town house prior to selling it. If the two of you would look in on Ellie Hampton in my absence, I’d appreciate it.” 

Another look passed between the two men, but this one Trent deciphered easily enough. 

“It isn’t like that.” It had
never
been like that. “We’re disentangled, and I don’t want to hover, but she’s…” 

Heathgate smiled. “We’ll look in on her. Won’t we, Benjamin?” 

“We will. My sister is serving as governess to Mr. Grey’s boys, and I’m out this way periodically to keep an eye on her as well.” 

Trent left them to their excellent sipping whiskey, but the upshot of Hazlit’s entire trip to Hampshire had been to confirm Trent’s suspicions: Baron Trevisham was strengthening his association with Wilton, Paula’s mother was of an increasingly nervous disposition, and her brothers were a pair of ne’er-do-well scapegraces. Not a one of them had seemed to care a whit for Paula once she’d wed, but they were exactly the type of people who might see merit in putting a period to Trent’s life for their own reasons. 

***

“A caller, my lady.” 

Drat and damn.
Ellie mustered a smile for her butler. “The veranda will do, and we could use some sustenance.” 

Lady Greymoor—for who else could it be?—was not shy about enjoying her victuals, though for herself, Ellie found the prospect of the lady’s company daunting. This was understandable, when Ellie had missed considerable sleep the previous night and had her heart broken in the bargain. 

No, you did not
, she lectured herself as she took a seat among the roses on the veranda only to be pulled to her feet by none other than the heartbreaker himself.

“Trenton?” 

“Good afternoon.” He accompanied his greeting with a slight, searching curve of his lips. “I hope I’m not intruding?” 

“No, of course not.” Ellie gave up trying to hide her answering smile, though worry soon crowded her joy. “Please assure me you did not ride through the wood.”

“I did not. Cato rode with me to the foot of your lane. I’m to have one of your grooms accompany me back to Crossbridge, or I’ll suffer a scold worthy of Mrs. Drawbaugh in a taking. I know I’m imposing, Ellie, but I’m trying to be sensible about it.”

He wasn’t imposing, he was taking a risk, racketing about the countryside for the sake of sentiment, and yet, Ellie could not muster a scold, not for one last visit. 

“Will you have seat?” 

“Unless you’d rather walk?” 

Walking meant she could slip her arm through his and have more privacy with him than if they sat in the shade, the obligatory footmen hovering. She shouldn’t want privacy with Trenton, but she’d only hours ago given the man his papers. She could hoard up a moment of proximity with him now, for surely there’d be little enough of it in the future. 

“You look tired,” Trent said quietly as they started off in the direction of the garden. “I’m sorry for that.” 

“You’re not quite in the pink yourself. I can’t say I feel a great deal of remorse.” 

His eyebrows twitched, but then he caught her smile. “One shouldn’t. Feel remorse, that is. You shouldn’t.” 

“So is this how it’s done?” Ellie asked. He’d taken off his riding gloves, and his bare hand rested over hers on his arm. “You make a final visit to ensure the civilities will be observed?” 

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve brought Zephyr over so Miss Andy might have the use of her until she outgrows the beast. My boys will want ponies with more pluck, and Zephyr’s pride will be offended when she sees she’s been replaced.” 

Zephyr’s
pride? “That is… kind of you.” 

“Not kind. Devious. I needed to see you’re managing well enough and that you don’t hate me.” He looked so uncertain—bashful, dear, tired, sincere—that Ellie fell in love with him all over.

Perishing damned Halifax, she would never attempt to dally again. 

“I could never hate you,” Ellie said in low, fierce tones. “I only wish…” 

Regret joined the sincerity in his gaze. “I wish, too, Ellie.”

Well. Wishes changed nothing. Ellie cast around for a remark about the roses, the pansies, anything safe. 

“I found your flowers.” Not a brilliant gambit, though it marginally changed the topic. 

“I couldn’t be very creative. I had to climb that blasted tree with them in my teeth—hence, nothing with thorns.” 

Ellie looked down to admire a bed of daisies, also to keep her smile from showing. “No thorns.” 

“Then too,”—he surveyed her gardens, which he had seen many times before—“before I denuded your bushes of every red rose, I’d want to have the property owner’s permission.” 

Red roses, for love. They ought to stand for arrant folly, and for widows who had no talent for casual dallying. Lord Amherst didn’t appear to have the knack for it, either.

“Gardeners can be a fussy lot,” Ellie said. “Permission is a good idea, generally.” 

“So we’re not to be enemies?” Trent’s eyes told her nothing, and maybe that was telling in itself. 

This time, Ellie let him see her smile. “Never enemies. I will stand up with you at the assemblies when my mourning is over. I will expect you to come admire the new baby some fine winter day. I will want to see your boys up on their trusty steeds in the near future, and if I ever fly my kite into a tree, I’ll send for you.” 

“Tricky things, kites.” Trent smiled back at her, a true smile that lifted a weight from Ellie’s heart. “I’ll be happy to assist.” 

They whiled away another half-hour on the veranda, with Trent telling her about his decision to sell the town house and let his Town staff go. She approved that choice and was pleased to hear Mr. Darius Lindsey might visit Crossbridge in the near future. Ellie relayed the contents of a recent letter she’d had from Drew, who was at the Hampton family seat, trying to sort out tenants Dane has all but ignored. Then Andy interrupted, for she’d spied the pony trotting along beside Arthur when Trent had come up the drive.

“She’s to be mine?” Andy asked.

“That’s up to your mother,” Trent replied. “I know Zephyr would appreciate having a job and somebody to care about her.” 

“I’ll groom her every day and comb her mane. Does she like carrots?” 

“Loves them. Shall I take you for a visit now?” 

“Mama? Please, may I?” 

Smiling at her daughter was so miserably, awfully hard when Ellie wanted to linger over yet another glass of lemonade with her lov—with her former lover. That way lay more tears, more damp, wrinkled handkerchiefs. She’d be flying kites into oak trees, next—by moonlight. 

“I’m ready for my afternoon nap,” Ellie said, “and the day grows warm. Mind you don’t get your pinafore dirty, Miss Coriander Brown, and change into your boots while I walk his lordship to the door.” 

Andy scampered off at dead run while Ellie called for Trent’s hat and gloves. 

“No hat,” Trent confessed. “A top hat gets caught on branches or tumbles off when Arthur takes a notion to go dancing.” 

“Which is why you’re growing as brown as a Tahitian native. You do look tired. Promise you won’t tarry long in the stables?” She resisted the urge to touch him—to pat his lapel, kiss his cheek, to take his hand. 

When Ellie had first learned that Dane had died, when she’d made his final arrangements, met with the solicitors, and explained the situation to Andy, she’d done so in a haze of sorrow—anger and bewilderment had befogged her, lending her days and nights a sense of unreality. 

The hurt she endured standing two feet away from Trenton Lindsey now, the sense of frustration and loss, was real. So was her fear for his safety. 

“You’ll manage?” Trent asked. 

What did he need from her, that he’d put such a question to her? 

“I’d have been indisposed if I hadn’t wanted to see you, Trenton Lindsey, or told you to keep your pony. Drew could find the child a suitable mount if I asked him to.” 

“You’re learning.” Trent leaned in and brushed a kiss to her cheek. “You may not have read that manual, but you’re picking up the rules.” 

Damn the manual to Halifax
.

“My regard for you it isn’t a game, Trenton.” Ellie went up on her toes and kissed
his
cheek in retaliation—also to catch one last whiff of his scent. “Thank you for coming and for the pony, but you needn’t feel obligated to come again.”

The words came out wrong. What should have been worry for his safety ended up sounding like a dismissal, though maybe that was for the best if it kept him tucked up at Crossbridge. 

Fortunately for the remains of Ellie’s pride, Andy came tearing down the steps to grab Trent’s hand and literally drag him off to the stables. Ellie let them go, because she was—honestly—feeling tired. As she undressed and climbed into bed, she decided that Trent’s visit had helped, or helped more than it hurt.

Yes, it hurt to know they weren’t lovers, hurt a lot. But it helped to know he cared how she was faring, cared for her goodwill, cared for their continued cordial regard for one another. As she drifted off to sleep, it occurred to Ellie that Trent could have sent the pony over with a note, but he’d come in person and taken the trouble to introduce Andy to the beast himself. 

That realization did
not
hurt.

*** 

“I always felt like Paula’s mind was somewhere else,” Darius observed when the footman had withdrawn from the dining parlor. “Rather like yours is right now.” 

Trent poured the last of a fine merlot into Darius’s wineglass, having limited himself to two glasses. “Sorry. I’m dreading a confrontation with Louise.” 

“Turn the cranky baggage off. The meal was good, but not worth dreading your own kitchen.” 

Darius, a mere younger son, had not merited Louise’s most impressive exertions though no man was dearer to Trent in the entire world than his younger brother.

“Louise does a fine job for me, but she skimps and cheats on the staff, who need their victuals more than I do. Then I have to take her to task, and she complies for a bit, until my back is turned. Don’t suppose you need a cook?” 

“I have a cook. I do not need an insurrectionist taking my coin in any guise, and neither do you. Shall I turn her off for you?”

The offer was sincere. Darius had an enviable ruthless streak, witness the way he’d hauled Trent bodily to Crossbridge weeks earlier.