He did not stay. At his request, Lady Lavinia took him to the steward’s office at the back of the house and left him in the hands of Ratchett, who looked to be eighty if he was a day and every bit as dusty as the mountain of estate and account books that were piled everywhere, including on the top of his desk.
The man bobbed his bald head several times—or was it merely that he had the shakes?—and squinted in the general direction of Percy’s left ear. He indicated the dusty piles and expressed himself of the opinion that his lordship must be desirous of spending the day going through them. His lordship desired no such thing. But looking thoughtfully at his good and faithful servant, who had not once looked directly into his face, he made the instant decisionnotto ask the man to take him about the estate in person.
He needed to do something about the straysandthe ancient steward, he thought. And the butler was a bit on the creaky side too.
“Some other time, perhaps,” he said. “I plan to spend the rest of the morning wandering about outside, seeing what is what.” Which was admittedly a vague sort of plan.
And then, just as he was about to sally forth into the outdoors, he was waylaid by the butler, who informed him mournfully that the earl’s bedchamber had always been more subject to damp than any other room in the house, though it was worse now than it had been in his late lordship’s day. He would see to it personally that his lordship was moved to the roomiest of the guest rooms at the rear of the house.
It was exactly what Percy had wanted. Had the offer been made yesterday, before he retired to bed for the night, he might have accepted it gladly. But... well, his servants could jolly well make the room habitable. He had not made many demands upon them for two full years, had he?
“No need to bother,” he said. “But see that a fire is lit in there and kept burning.”
The butler inclined his head and creaked forward to open the front doors.
Percy stepped out and took a few deep breaths of the sea air, which was brisk to say the least. He went down the steps and strode out across the lawn in a roughly westerly direction. But leaving doors open in the house must be a habit, he concluded a minute later when he realized that the dog was following him—the spindly one, which must have been very close to the point of terminal starvation when Lady Lavinia took pity on it. It did not look firmly established in the land of the living even now.
“It is like this,” Percy said, stopping and speaking with some exasperation. “Hector, is it? I have never heard a more unsuitable name in all my life. It is like this, Hector. I intend to walk, tostride,to cover distance. If you are foolish enough to follow, I shall not waste energy trying to prevent you. I shallnotstop to wait for you if you should falter, nor will I carry you if you should find yourself exhausted and stranded far from the house and your feeding bowl. And, while on the subject of feeding, I havenodoggie treats about my person. Not a one. Is that clearly understood?”
The pathetic apology for a doggie tail waved halfheartedly and, when Percy turned to stride onward, Hector trotted after him.
Perhaps he understood ancient Greek.
The park was pleasantly set up and probably made an impressive enough foreground for the house itself during the summer, when the grass would be greener and the trees would have leaves and flowers would be blooming in the beds. Its chief attraction for most people, of course, would be its position high on a cliff top with unobstructed views of endless expanses of sea. Some people—mostpeople, actually—were funny that way. A couple of the flower beds here had been artfully situated in hollows, where they would be sheltered from the winds. Wrought-iron seats had been placed in them, presumably so that the beholder could enjoy the flowers without having either his hat or his head blown off.
The wall that surrounded the park on three sides was built of stones of all sizes and shapes and no mortar or anything else to bind them together, he noticed with interest. It was all held in place by the skill of the builder in matching one stone to another and... But he did not understand how it was done so that the whole thing did not simply collapse as soon as the builder’s back was turned. He must ask someone.
Over the west wall he could see the beginnings of a valley, though he could not see what was down there. Farmland, presumably his own, stretched away to the north. Most of the fields he could see were dotted with sheep and lots of them, but there was nothing that looked like a cultivated field. Itwasonly February, of course.
He wondered why the estate apparently prospered so little. Perhaps he would try to find out. Or perhaps he would not bother. How could anyone stand tolivehere? He would expire of boredom in no time at all—which, come to think of it, was exactly what he had been doing in London too. Perhaps boredom had less to do with a place than with the person who felt it. Now there was a lowering thought.
He considered following the wall around to the north, behind the outcropping of rock at the back of the house, so that he could see more of his land. But the going looked rugged, and he turned instead to follow a footpath leading southward along the inside of the wall, even though he realized that every step was bringing him closer to the edge of the cliffs. Before he reached them, however, he came to a house in the southwest corner of the park, nestled cozily in a hollow and surrounded on three sides, like the main house itself on a smaller scale, by high rocks and bushes. It was a house without a roof. Or, at least, it had the frame of a roof, but not the covering that would keep the elements out. It did not take much power of deduction to conclude that this must be the dower house, Lady Barclay’s home—his third cousin-in-law once removed. There were two men up on the rafters. One of them was hammering while the other stood and watched.
Percy strode forward. The house looked square and solid and reasonably well sized. He guessed there were at least four bedchambers, perhaps six, upstairs, and several rooms downstairs. There was a neat garden, bordered on the east, the unsheltered side, by a low box hedge. A rustic wooden gate in the middle of it opened onto a straight path leading to the front door.
Percy stopped outside the gate. The two men had seen him approach. The hammering had stopped.
“How is the work progressing?” he called up.
Both men pulled at their forelocks, bobbed their heads, and said nothing. Perhapstheyunderstood ancient Greek?
“It is progressing,” a cool, velvet voice said, and its owner stepped into sight from beside the house, a basket of what looked like weeds over one arm, a small trowel in her other hand. Presumably weeds grew in February, even if flowers did not.
She was wearing the gray cloak and bonnet again, though the cloak had been pushed back over her shoulders to reveal a plain blue dress. Plain suited her. He had discovered yesterday that she had an excellent figure. It was not voluptuous, but there were curves in all the right places, and everything was in perfect proportion to her height. She had long legs, which he might have considered interesting if she had held any sexual appeal for him. He had never fancied the idea of making love to marble. It sounded chilly.
Her hair too was more appealing without the bonnet. It was thick and shiny and smooth and simply styled. He guessed that it was straight—and long. But he didnotentertain any fantasies of running his fingers through it.
“It would proceed much faster if there were more men up there,” he said. “Or if the two of them worked in tandem rather than one at a time. I will have a word with Ratchett. That roof needs to be on before the weather produces something nasty.”
“You will do no such thing,” she told him, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead. “My cottage has nothing to do with Mr. Ratchett. Or you.”
He looked deliberately about him as he clasped his hands behind his back. The dog, he noticed, was still with him, and was now sitting at his feet like a faithful hound.
“Is this or is it not my land?” he asked her. He looked at the building. “And my house? Are not repairs to my property my concern and my expense? Is Ratchett or is he not my steward?”
That last point, actually, might be questionable.
“By law,” she said, “it is yours, of course. In reality it is mine. I am entitled to live here as the daughter-in-law of the late earl and the widow of his only son. Its upkeep ismyresponsibility andmyexpense.”
