Had a servant covered him? Cortland? Or had Penelope stopped into the study on her way up to bed that night?
Impossible.
She was the last woman in the world he’d ever consider bedding. As a baron’s daughter, she was not to be dallied with. He’d never wanted to dally with her anyway.
She was domineering, opinionated, and too damned independent for his liking.
When Hugh married—for eventually, he would have to—he was going to marry a silly young chit who would not deign to question any of his decisions. He did not want a managing wife. He wanted amanageableone. Ha! Penelope Crone was the last person any bachelor would credibly wish to marry. Any sane bachelor, anyhow. Good thing she had no desire to find a husband, or else they’d all have to leave the country.
He chuckled ironically to himself. If Penelope Crone ever set out to land a husband, he would be on one of the first packets out of Dover. Because Penelope Crone was unlike most women. She didn’t suffer in silence waiting for her wishes to be granted. No, that minx was not afraid to go after what she wanted, and she then usually got it right away.
He had enough to worry about with his mother’s persistent matchmaking. Once again, during this last visit, she’d announced that she’d located a bride for him. She said that her dearest friend, Mrs. Iris Merriman, was going to sponsor her nineteen-year-old niece this spring for her debut season. And the niece was a dream of a girl. She was sweet yet not overly so. She was biddable yet not empty-headed. His mother had already promised Mrs. Merriman that Hugh would be of the utmost assistance to her.But, of course,Hugh would escort them to the first event of the season.But, of course,Hugh would lead the niece out for her first dance at her come out.
He forcibly pushed all thoughts of matrimony from his mind as he turned up the drive to the estate he’d not visited in over twelve years, since before his father’s death. Fencing was falling down, gates hung at odd angles, and there seemed to be no order to the landscape whatsoever. As he neared the house, he realized that the manor was not in much better condition.
Cortland had told him that the steward was most likely swindling him. For Hugh knew rents were high. There ought to have been enough funds to keep Augusta Heights in near perfect condition.
No groom greeted him as he rode toward the stable, and no butler gaped out the door to see who was arriving. Hugh had intentionally not given word of his impending arrival. He’d wanted to catch the estate on a normal day. Well. Not a very auspicious beginning.
When he rounded the corner of the stable, he could see right into the interior of the building. For some reason, the doors had been removed. Likely, they’d fallen off their hinges and not been repaired. He could see that the floors needed sweeping, but at least hay was available and apparently being used to provide for the cattle inside.
A young lad leaned lazily on one of the bales of hay with a piece of it sticking out of his mouth. “That’s a fancy horse you got there, mister,” he managed to speak without removing the straw from his mouth. “But you must be in the wrong place. We ain’t had no visitors here never.” The boy barely moved a muscle, so very relaxed he was in his reclined position.
“Where’s your stable master, lad?” There was a man being paid to perform such duties. Hugh knew this by reading reports sent over by the steward, a Mr. Periwinkle. Or perhaps an even better question was, “Where’s Mr. Periwinkle?”
The lad leaned back and closed his eyes, in no hurry to be of assistance. “Mr. Periwinkle lives up at the big house. We ain’t got no stable master—no master at all, come to think about it.”
Hugh easily dismounted his horse and strolled over to this servant of his. Reaching forward, he snatched the piece of hay from the boy’s mouth and glared straight into his suddenly alert eyes. “You’ve a master now, lad. And I suggest that if you wish to keep your position in this house, you give my horse a good rub down. Then there are floors that need swept and stalls to be cleaned. You do wish to continue eating, don’t you?” Hugh was disgusted. Not with the boy so much as with himself for leaving this property mismanaged for so long.
But the boy wasn’t ready to give in yet. “Who are you to be telling me what to do?”
Hugh studied the dirty bare feet of this little mongrel and then the long greasy hair and stained clothing. “You do know something of horses, don’t you?”
The boy nodded, belligerently. “What matter is it to you?” He practically spat the words out.
Turning on his heel, Hugh responded without looking as he marched away, “I am Danbury, that’s what matter it is. Now get to work!”
No butler greeted him as he entered the house. No evidence of a housekeeper, either, if the layers of dust could be counted on to make such an assumption. He wondered if there was even a cook to be found in this dilapidated, rundown, and dusty old mansion. Hugh guessed where the liquor might be. In the study.
Which was exactly where he would find Mr. Periwinkle, no doubt.
Before Hugh even entered the room, he was assaulted by the odor of stale cigars.
His steward looked quite comfortable, lounging in an elaborate chair with his feet resting most comfortably on a large antique desk. Behind him, tall windows ran the entire width of the room.
Cortland had urged him to be hard-hearted with the man, which was something Hugh had struggled with in the past.
“Periwinkle, I presume?” Hugh broke the silence in a hushed tone, leaning nonchalantly against the very solid doorframe.
The overweight man jerked forward, then backward, and then disappeared altogether as he toppled backward completely. Grunts and curses emitting from beneath the desk assured Hugh that the man was not seriously injured. Pushing himself away from the door, Hugh strolled across the room to peer at the man lying on the floor. “Can I take that for an affirmative answer then?”
Blood must have been rushing to the man’s head, as his face and scalp turned a blotchy red color. “I am Mr. Periwinkle,” the man blustered. There was not much dignity to have, however, when a man’s feet were propped above his head and the rest of his person was caught in a most demeaning horizontal position.
Hugh reached out to assist the man up but found the supine gentleman’s fists already occupied. One with a half-burnt cigar and the other with an amazingly intact tumbler of scotch. Admittedly, Hugh had some respect for a man who protected liquor so assiduously. If only Periwinkle had protected the rest of his possessions with half as much diligence.
“Danbury, at your service, Viscount, that is.” Hugh relieved the man of both the cigar and the tumbler and set them on the desk before turning back to assist his steward to a more dignified position. “There now, won’t you come and sit over here? That desk, I presume, is reserved for me?” With these words, he lifted one eyebrow lazily. Hugh was an easy-going fellow most of the time, but he found these circumstances quite unacceptable.
As Periwinkle lumbered around to find another seat, Hugh propped his hip against the desk, crossed one ankle over the other, and folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me about the progress that has been made since the last report you sent to London. Tell me of the thriving fields and diligent staff you’ve added to the payroll. For I’ll have to hear of it from you, most assuredly, as I’ve yet to see any of it with my own eyes.”
