“It’s my first day, so I don’t know a lot about it, but Janna—she’s the woman I met on the train who told me about this job—she said that the fair had paid the owner money to let them use the garden area for their medieval camp. People come here to learn how to fight with swords, and basic archery, and other medieval-lite sort of stuff. I’m going to be the ticket taker, face painter, and general dogsbody.”
“The owner rented out the grounds....” He paused, his eyes suddenly opening wide as he spun on his heel. “She wouldn’t dare!”
“Who wouldn’t—” My words were cut off when Alden took off without a backward glance, loping across the drive and around the part of the house that jutted out toward us. He disappeared around the back.
I had a feeling the summer was going to be interesting. Especially if Alden was going to be around.
“Mmrowr,” I said to myself, then smiled, hoisted my bag, and followed after him at a much more sober pace.
Chapter 3
The back of the house opened onto a vista that was almost as impressive as the front. I’d seen many formal gardens in my time in England, but the expanse of green that lay before me wasn’t anywhere near the word “formal.”
“More like wild,” I said to myself as I dropped my bag at the steps leading up to a stone verandah, and stood considering the expanse of green, unevenly mowed lawn that stretched to the left to two small outbuildings, and what looked like a stable. To the right, the lawn led to a wall of dark green, probably a hedge marking a smaller garden, and a large red and white striped marquee tent. A small marquee sat in front, with a wooden sign readingREGISTRATIONleaning haphazardly against a card table. Over the top of the hedge, I could see another marquee, this one yellow and white.
The garden proper had no fountains, but did contain two flower beds that were messy with weeds, daisies, and several choked rosebushes. A stack of metal folding chairs lay next to them, along with several boxes, a couple of ice coolers, and a small round table at which sat a very old lady and a small woman with pink hair and her arm in a sling. Alden stood next to them.
I approached, the weed-bedecked gravel crunching underfoot as I walked across a drive that curved around one side of the house, swooped across the back, then swung toward the largest of the outbuildings.
“—have absolutely no right to do that, which I’m sure you know.” Alden’s voice was an amusing mix of sexy British-tinged bass, and irritation. “I’m sure my solicitor will agree.”
“Young man,” the old lady said in a rich, plummy voice of the generation born between world wars. I swear she enunciated each letter with exacting precision, her voice reeking of privilege and blue blood. “I do not know who you are, but I must ask you to stop berating me. It is unseemly in a gentleman, and not something I will tolerate in my own garden.”
“It’s not your garden any longer, Lady Sybilla,” Alden said firmly, although he did drop the volume of his voice. “I know your solicitor contacted you last week to tell you when I would be arriving.”
“I have no knowledge of what you speak,” the old lady said, sniffing and looking away.
Pink Hair patted the old woman’s arm while turning a frown on Alden. “That’s OK, Lady Syb. Don’t let him browbeat you.”
“And just who are you?” Alden asked. I stopped beside him and offered a pleasant smile to everyone.
“Fenice Carson, not that it’s any of your business,” Pink Hair snapped. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t think it’s nice of you to accost Lady Sybilla like that.”
“My name is Alden Ainslie, and I’m the owner of Bestwood Hall,” Alden said tersely.
“Owner?” Fenice’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean,owner?”
“I mean that as of last week, I purchased Bestwood Hall from Lady Sybilla.” He gave the old woman a look that included a raised eyebrow. “The terms of the sale included the proviso that she move from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage, where I am obliged to provide housing for her until such time as she no longer needs it. She is not, however, still to be in residence in the house, nor is she supposed—without my express permission—to make legal arrangements with vendors who wish to use the house or grounds.”
“You talk like a solicitor,” Fenice said in a voice that was fairly accusatory. “Are you one?”
“No, although I did two years of law. I decided it wasn’t for me,” Alden said, then turned to me. “What was the name of the man who you said hired you? Renegade? Rogue?”
“Vandal,” I said.
“That’s the fellow. Do you have his number? I’d like to tell him that any agreement he made with Lady Sybilla has been made null and void by the sale of the property to me, and that he needs to clear out his equipment immediately.”
Fenice pursed her lips, then cleared her throat and forced a smile. “We’ve had an awkward introduction, haven’t we? Shall we begin again? I’m Fenice Carson,co-owner and archery instructor for Hard Day’s Knights, a medieval full-contact combat unit that my brother, Patrick, and I started a year ago. Would you like some tea?” She held up the teapot that sat before her and the elderly Lady Sybilla. “I don’t believe I’ve met your friend?”
“Who? Oh.” Alden looked oddly embarrassed when Fenice nodded toward me. I didn’t know whether I should be amused or offended by such a reaction, and was just mulling that over when Fenice handed both Alden and me cups of tea. “This is...” He coughed, gestured toward me, and started again. “Her name is Mercy Starling. She said she works for the man named Scoundrel.”
“Vandal,” I corrected, and gave both ladies another smile.
“Really?” Fenice examined me with obvious doubt. “He didn’t tell me about this. Patrick is Vandal, by the way. He has some silly notion that the nickname makes him irresistible to women, so don’t feel like you have to use it. Mercy, you say?”
“Janna was supposed to have the job, but she went away to Ibiza, and my own summer job fell through with a seriously depressing crash, so I approached Vandal, and he said I could have the job.”
“I see. That explains it, then, doesn’t it?” She passed a plate of cookies to me.
