Nearly a Lady (Haverston Family Trilogy #1) Read online

  “Hush. Honestly, what if he should hear you?”

  “Not much chance of that, I think. He hasn’t moved for hours.” Gideon sensed the woman bending over him and then a rag, cool and damp, was placed on his brow with something approaching, but not quite reaching, gentleness. “Are you absolutely certain he’s not dead?”

  Because the young woman sounded just a mite eager to find her friend’s assessment of his well-being in error, Gideon thought it might be best to open his eyes.

  His vision was filled by the woman from the stable. The braid was gone, he noticed. Light brown hair with broad gold streaks had been pulled up rather inartfully to frame an oval face. She wasn’t beautiful by society’s standards. Her nose was a trifle too prominent, her lips a touch too wide, and the near explosion of freckles across otherwise creamy skin was certainly unfashionable. And yet, the overall effect held an indefinable appeal.

  A different kind of beauty, he decided. Not more, nor less, than the ideal held by his peers. Simply . . . other. Only a fool would insist a qualitative decision be made between two varieties of beauty. One would always be found lacking when the other was used as a measurement. Like comparing a bouquet of hothouse roses and a nosegay of wildflowers. Or like comparing the proverbial apples and oranges. Why apples and oranges? he wondered.

  “Why not grapes and cherries?”

  The young woman reared back at the sound of his voice and Gideon noticed three things in quick succession. One, that her eyes—previously directed at the top of his head in the obvious hope of finding blood seeping there—were as golden as the streaks in her hair. Two, that she was rather small for having bested him in a fight—embarrassing, that. And three, she was indeed lumpy under her gown.

  “I beg your pardon,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and manfully ignored the increased pounding it caused in his skull. “That wasn’t quite what I had intended to say upon our first meeting. Then again, I hadn’t intended to have you bash my head in either. Bit more excitement than either of us had planned for the day, I imagine.”

  The amber eyes widened, blinked. “I . . .”

  “Miss Winnefred Blythe, I presume?” He was relatively certain it was Freddie who’d been told to take her trousers off. “Or have I managed to terrify the wrong woman entirely?”

  Her eyes instantly narrowed to slits. “You haven’t managed to terrify anyone. Least of all me.”

  The young woman was hastily pushed aside by another, slightly taller woman with dark hair and wide blue eyes. She looked to be the elder of the two by only a few years. Gideon wondered if she’d helped her friend in the stable last night. He certainly hoped so. Being knocked unconscious by two small women was a degree better than being knocked unconscious by just the one.

  “I am Miss Ilestone,” the second woman began. Very much, Gideon thought, as if she had expected him to have already guessed who she was. “Please forgive Miss Blythe. It’s been an unsettling night. What she meant to say is that we think you were set upon by a ruffian, or ruffians. We found you bound and unconscious in the stable.”

  He idly rubbed his wrist, felt the lingering burn of rope. “Ruffians,” he repeated, not believing a word of it. “With tart mouths and long braids of hair?”

  “Braids of . . . ? Oh, dear, I was afraid of this,” Miss Ilestone placed a mothering hand to his forehead. “Head wounds can be so precarious. Only last year, Mr. Pirkle fell from the roof of his inn. When he came round again, he swore up and down it was Mrs. Pirkle who pushed him.”

  Ah, so that was their game, was it? “And why could it not have been Mrs. Pirkle?”

  “She has been dead these seven years.”

  “That would certainly make her an unlikely suspect,” he agreed. “I suppose my things were stolen, my—”

  “Not at all. Isn’t that fortunate? Winnefred and I must have frightened them away when—”

  “Terrified them,” Winnefred interjected.

  Miss Ilestone shot her friend a quelling glance. “—When we came out of the cottage. We were making a tremendous amount of noise.”

  “You knew they were there?” He really shouldn’t be encouraging them, but it was such a fun story, really.

  “Not initially, no,” Miss Ilestone said. “We saw you come from the house and enter the stable, and when we stepped out for a peek, we heard the sounds of a scuffle. We ran back inside, grabbed pots and pans and—”

  “A rifle, by chance?”

  “Heavens, no. Whatever would we do with a rifle? At any rate, we made a great deal of noise with the kitchenware, waited a bit, looked in the stable, and there you were.”

  What a marvelous bit of lying, he thought. He would’ve liked to have asked who had come up with it, and whether it had been a spontaneous sort of thing or something they’d worked on over the course of his incapacitation, but he could hear the fear again. Just as he had in the stable. Miss Ilestone’s voice was smooth, but her hands trembled. Miss Blythe gently pulled her away from the bed and took a subtle step forward to stand in front of her in a protective manner. It would be faster, easier, and less painful, he decided, to simply to let them think he believed the lie for now.

  “Well, it would seem I owe you ladies a great debt of gratitude.”

  Miss Ilestone flushed, coughed nervously, and fixed her stare on the headboard over his shoulder. “It was nothing, my lord.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Lilly,” Miss Blythe said sweetly. “You were exceedingly brave.”

  “Winnefred—”

  “Miss Blythe is quite right. If you . . .” He trailed off, blinked and cocked his head on the pillow. “Why do you assume I’m a lord?”

  “We’ve met before,” Miss Ilestone explained. “I suppose you don’t remember. It was years ago and it was only in passing. You were home from school—just the day, I think—and I was staying with my cousin, Lady Engsly, at your father’s estate.”

  “Lady Engsly is your cousin?” Gideon sat up slowly, relieved when the room didn’t revolve in one direction and his stomach the other. “Have you had word from her recently?”

  “No, not for . . .” She thought it over for a moment. “Not for nearly two years now. We were never close.”

  “Why?” Miss Blythe asked. “Has something happened to her?”

  He blew out a quick breath. Though he didn’t share his peers’ mortal fear of scandal, neither did he enjoy discussing a family embarrassment. In his opinion, life was too short to spend it atoning for someone else’s sins. But a debt was a debt, and the Engsly estate owed Winnefred Blythe for a promise not kept.

  “Lady Engsly disappeared, some seven months ago and with a substantial amount of money stolen from the Engsly coffers.”

  “Stolen?” Miss Ilestone echoed, her eyes going round.

  “Whatever for?” Miss Blythe asked. “Your father was rich as Midas.”

  “Freddie,” Miss Ilestone chided.

  The younger woman had the grace to look a little abashed. “I only meant she hadn’t wanted for funds.”

  “No,” Gideon agreed. “She hadn’t. My father was generous with his second wife, both in life and in his death. She received a sizable inheritance upon his passing last year. Why she felt the need to secret away more money we’ve yet to determine. In the meantime, the family is making an attempt to remedy the damage she has done. Hence my trip to Scotland.”

  “Damage?” both woman asked at once.

  He nodded and once again pushed past the distaste of airing his stepmother’s crimes. “One of the ways Lady Engsly diverted funds was to patronize fictional charities. Another was to double the total of an expense and keep the second half for herself.”

  “And which are we?” Miss Blythe challenged. “The charity or the expense?”

  “That would depend, wouldn’t it?” Gideon tilted his head at her. “Have you received any money at all from the Engsly estate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re the expense.” He smiled broadly at her scowl.


  “But we received the allowance from Lord Engsly,” Miss Ilestone pointed out. “First your father, then—”

  “Not exactly. The funds may have been in Lord Engsly’s name, but they were dispersed by Lady Engsly and Mr. Lartwick—my father’s late secretary, in case you’re wondering, and Lady Engsly’s cohort in crime. My father never knew of the pair’s pilfering, and neither my brother nor I knew you were here until last month.”

  The women exchanged a quick look of surprise and skepticism. Miss Blythe opened her mouth as if to say something—something unpleasant if her expression was any indication of her thoughts—but closed it again when Miss Ilestone gave one, almost imperceptible, shake of her head.

  “Is there something you’d like to ask?” Gideon prompted.

  Both women looked to him uncertainly. Always the fear, he thought. “Why don’t you think on it some, and while you’re at it, give some thought as to what you would like to do with yourselves now.”

  “Do with ourselves?” Miss Blythe repeated. “You’ve come to evict us, then.”

  He couldn’t fault the girl for her tone of resignation, even if it did rankle. “I’ve come, as I believe I mentioned, to right the wrong done to you by a member of my family. The allowance owed you will be paid in full, Miss Blythe, and a small bonus added as restitution. You may stay here as long as you like, or if you prefer, we can find another home more to your taste . . . Unless your tastes run to Buckingham Palace. If that’s the case, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

  He turned his attention toward the older woman. “As for you, I think . . . How is it you came to be here, Miss Ilestone? My brother’s letter didn’t mention you.”

  “It didn’t? I . . .” A shadow crossed her face, but it was gone as quickly as it arrived. “I came with Freddie—Miss Blythe, that is—from your father’s estate. My immediate family is gone, and Lady Engsly offered me the position of governess.”

  She couldn’t have been more than seventeen at the time, he thought. “And were you salaried?”

  “Well, there was Miss Blythe’s allowance . . .” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable. “I was hardly qualified, at any rate.”

  “I see. Your back pay as well, then. Equal to Miss Blythe’s allowance, I should think.”

  Ah, there now, was the sort of reaction he’d been imagining during his trip. Miss Ilestone’s face lit with pleasure and excitement. Her hand reached out and gripped Winnefred’s.

  “Twelve years? Twelve years of back pay? Are you certain? It’s a considerable sum, and your brother—”

  “Will be appalled to find you’ve gone without compensation for your work.” He shot a quick smile at Miss Blythe. “I’m certain it was . . . challenging.”

  Miss Ilestone’s soft laugh filled the room, but his focus was on Miss Blythe. Unless he was much mistaken, her lips twitched just a little.

  “I was an angel,” she informed him.

  “Fallen, perhaps,” her friend said dryly. She let go of Miss Blythe’s hand to brush at her gown. “Well, you must be famished by now, my lord. I’ll fix some breakfast and ready a room in the house. You mean to stay a day or two, do you not?”

  “I do, but you needn’t put yourselves out. I’ll take a room at Mr. Pirkle’s inn.”

  “Unfortunately, the inn was lost to fire a fortnight ago.”

  “Mrs. Pirkle again?”

  “Mr. Pirkle,” Miss Blythe said with a cheeky smile. “And he was in it at the time. You’ll want to be careful with that bump on your head.”

  “Mr. Pirkle was pulled to safety with time to spare,” Miss Ilestone assured him. “Come along, Freddie, we’ve chores, and Lord Gideon needs his rest.”

  “I believe I am adequately rested,” Gideon began by way of protest, but Miss Ilestone shook her head at him.

  “Better to be cautious.” She moved toward the door but stopped with her hand on the handle. “I wrote,” she said softly, turning to face him once more. “Your father and brother both. I never received a reply.”

  Gideon thought this new information through carefully before speaking. “I cannot answer for my father. I’m afraid it is possible he received your letters and chose not to respond. But Lucien isn’t one to ignore his responsibilities. It simply isn’t in his nature. The most likely explanation is that your letters never reached him. At the moment, I very much doubt he is aware of your existence.”

  She absorbed that information silently, then nodded once and left.

  Miss Blythe waited for the door to close before speaking. “Lady Engsly hid those letters, didn’t she?”

  “Someone obviously did,” he replied after a moment’s consideration. “It could just as easily have been Mr. Lartwick, or someone they had in their pocket. There’s no telling, really, until we find Lady Engsly.”

  Winnefred nodded in a way that mirrored her friend’s before moving toward the door. “I need to help Lilly.”

  “A moment, Winnefred. Do you mind if I call you Winnefred?”

  “I—”

  “Excellent.” He cut her off for the simple pleasure of watching those golden eyes flash a little in temper. “Why is it you’ve made your home in the gardener’s cottage rather than the house? It’s lovely, mind you, but cramped for two people.”

  He was being truthful on both accounts. The stone walls of the building were freshly washed and the rough plank floors scrubbed clean. Cheerful, if inelegant, curtains dressed the four small windows and the bed—which he currently occupied—was covered with a spread expertly embroidered in shades of blue and green. Shelves along the far wall displayed dishes, cooking utensils, medicinal supplies, and an array of knickknacks women everywhere—to the bafflement of men everywhere—felt compelled to collect and showcase: small figurines of bisque, dainty boxes of hand-painted wood, and an ornate teacup too delicate to be of practical use.

  But the one-room cottage hadn’t been designed to house two young women; it had been built for a single man. There was scarce enough room to maneuver around the furniture, sparse even as it was.

  Winnefred tilted her head and watched his face as she answered. “We found the cottage easier to maintain on a limited budget.”

  The Murdoch House was hardly a vast manor, Gideon thought with a frown. It boasted no more than four bedrooms, two servants quarters, a single parlor, dining room, and kitchen. Her funds were limited, no doubt, but adequate to keep the house open.

  “Perhaps I’d have been able to keep us out of this cottage,” she continued. “If I were a man and therefore capable of grasping the value of a coin well spent and a coin well saved.”

  He blinked at that, then laughed. “What a singularly bizarre thing to say. And I don’t think you believe a word of it.”

  She didn’t immediately answer, just continued to search his face. For what, Gideon couldn’t guess, but it was disconcerting, the way those gold eyes stared without blinking. After a moment, she turned and walked to the shelves. She pulled down one of the painted boxes, took out what appeared to be an opened letter, and returned to stand in front of him once more. Her chin came up, her mouth opened . . . then closed again.

  She balled the letter into her fist. “If this is a jest,” she finally said, “it is a cruel one. And I’ll see you pay for hurting Lilly.”

  Before he had a chance to respond, she marched toward the door and left.

  What an odd creature, he thought, and not at all what he’d been expecting. He’d envisioned a retiring young woman—shy and mousy—perhaps living with an elderly couple hired from the village to see to her needs. He’d imagined soft voices, quiet manners, and an air of genteel poverty.

  Well, he’d certainly gotten the poverty bit right. They were living in the gardener’s cottage and wearing threadbare gowns a decade out of fashion. What the devil had they been doing with forty pounds a year?

  A simple enough thing to find out. Resolved not to spend what was left of the morning lying about and wondering over questions he could easily have answere
d, Gideon hauled himself out of bed. He was forced to lean against the headboard when his battered system protested the sudden movement, but his body had taken worse beatings, and it wasn’t long before he managed to right himself again. Then he set out to look for his cane.

  Chapter 3

  Mad as a hatter.”

  Winnefred made the comment to no one in particular. Upon leaving the cottage, she decided on taking the long way to the house. The very long way that included the path around the vegetable garden, which, in all honestly, wasn’t a way to the house at all. But she needed the time and space to think, and she thought best when her hands were occupied.

  There was always something that needed doing, something that required her attention—a chore, a responsibility, an errand. Murdoch House and the land it sat on could scarce be called a farm. Besides the large vegetable garden, their only agriculture possessions were a cow, a calf already claimed by a neighbor, a goat, and a handful of chickens. But even those small trappings had been won with years of hard work and sacrifice, and now required constant care and upkeep. She and Lilly hadn’t survived the last twelve years by indulging in idleness.

  She stopped in front of the turnip patch, stooped to pull at weeds, and methodically considered the events of the morning and the man that had set them all in motion.

  Lord Gideon hadn’t come to evict them, and he wasn’t lying about his intentions. Of that much she was relatively certain. She’d watched him, very carefully, when she’d said she might have been able to keep the house open if she’d been capable of understanding the value of money. It had been, nearly word for word, a quote from the nasty letter he had sent her last year.

  He hadn’t recognized it. She’d seen the mix of confusion and humor in his black eyes.

  “The man should be in an asylum, or kept by his family, not running amok in the countryside,” she grumbled. Because if he couldn’t remember letters he’d written, and honestly believed a house could be run on five pounds a year, he was stark, raving mad.

  If he’d been anyone else, anyone other than a Haverston, she’d have pitied him, even put a concerted effort into making him comfortable while they searched for his family. But he was a Haverston—next in line to the marquessate, at that—and her compassion for his illness took a distant second to her concern for what that illness might mean for her and Lilly.