He shrugged. “While you are in mourning, you must remain here. You will require a chaperone. As there are no suitable family members and you are without a proper lady’s maid to chaperone you.”
“I am training Allie for the position,” she said defensively.
He waved her interruption away with his hand. “I shall have to arrange for a widow or spinster to live here to ensure your conduct remains within the bounds of propriety. No tearing around the estate alone on horseback or walking to the village unaccompanied.” His eyes narrowed. “You require a companion. You cannot be relied on to make wise decisions. I doubt I’ll find anyone able to control you. Your father told me how you disgraced yourself in your first and only London Season two years ago. You pushed a gentleman so hard, he almost fell.”
She flushed with embarrassment recalling the man’s drunken suggestions, his hands groping her, and what had made it worse, the critical gaze of theton, who’d seemed focused on her rather than him. “He was in his cups. When he passed me in the hall, he squeezed my bottom.”
Roland nodded sagely. “One of the reasons I feel it better for us to marry. You have the looks to stir a man.”
He made it sound as if her appearance were in some way her fault.At his rudely insulting stare, she dropped her gaze, fighting the urge to rub the gooseflesh on her arms. Did she stirhimthat way?
There was no sense in arguing with him. Without another word, Prue turned and ran upstairs to her bedchamber. She had missed breakfast but had no appetite and wouldn’t go down to luncheon.
Allie the housemaid, who was eager to become her lady’s maid, waited to help her change out of her riding habit into a suitable dress. As she had no black gowns, she chose a lavender-and-cream striped gown. “I’ll wear the cream-colored spencer, Allie.”
Spying Roland from her window returning to the stables to visit the home farm, she left the bedroom and hurried down to the library, where last evening she had flicked through the papers by candlelight before dawn broke. But she’d found nothing of interest. The staff had been at sixes and sevens, with the young maids weeping and the rest anxious and in need of instruction, so she’d spared precious time consulting the distressed butler and the housekeeper.
Prue slipped inside and ran over to her father’s cedar desk. The faint scent of cologne reminded her of him, making her chest tight. She removed the pile of letters from the drawer and sat down to read them. Conscious that Roland might change his mind and return at any moment to check on her, she stuffed the rest of the papers into the bodice of her gown and stood in thought. Would Paul Stone, her father’s secretary, know anything? It was doubtful. He only came once a week from London to deal with father’s correspondence, but he would be questioned by the magistrate. Barns, the bailiff, lived in the village, but she didn’t think she’d learn anything useful from him, and if she asked them, Roland was sure to hear of it.
Turning away, Prue saw a pile of burned papers in the fireplace. She bent to stir them with the poker. Blackened fragments of letters, but nothing decipherable. Frustrated, she left the room, as the front door closed and Roland’s raised voice echoed along the passage, demanding something from Gerald, the head footman. How she hatedthe sound of his voice. He was arrogant and officious toward the staff. She wondered how many of them would stay. Mrs. Collins, the cook, had been here forever, so she would. The housekeeper, Mrs. Burrows, was relatively new, having replaced Mrs. Green, who had gone to live with her sickly sister. Nyland would stay for his pension in a few years’ time; she was sure Roland would depend on him. Little escaped the butler, or the housekeeper, for that matter. Roland had spoken of taking ‘a new broom’ to the household, which meant many would be let go. She felt sorry for those who would be forced out of their jobs, some of whom she’d known since she’d been a child and were more like friends.
She darted down the kitchen stairs to see Cook. The plump lady, usually a jolly soul, sniffed and wiped her eyes on her apron as she prepared a roast for their supper.
“Poor Father! It’s awful, isn’t it, Mrs. Collins? I can’t believe it.” Prue gasped as the tears welled up in her throat and threatened to choke her.
“My dear Lady Prudence.” Cook enveloped Prue in her plump arms and held her against her soft bosom. She smelled reassuringly of vanilla and sweet pastry. “Your father was a good man. He did not deserve such a dreadful end. We are all dreadfully upset.”
Hot tears ran down Prue’s cheeks. She’d thought she didn’t have another tear left to shed.
“Won’t you eat a bite, milady? I’ll have bread, ham, and a wedge of cheese sent up to your chamber. There’s some of the chicken and leak pie in the larder.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Collins. I have little appetite.”
“How about some of my ginger biscuits and a nice cup of tea?”
“Yes, I’d like that, thank you.”
Prue climbed the servants’ stairs to her bedchamber. She would never convince Roland to send her to London the following Season, once she cast off her mourning clothes, where she might find a suitablehusband, a man after her own heart who would be a loving partner. Even once she’d turned one-and-twenty, it would be impossible to return without a sponsor or find somewhere suitable to stay. But Roland was determined to marry her. Wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, she swallowed her tears and squared her shoulders. She must handle this herself, as there was no one to turn to for help. Except Gramma. Prue longed to see her great-grandmama, whom she loved dearly, but Gramma was elderly and could do little to protect her from Roland once he officially became the earl.
She closed her bedchamber door and sat on the window seat to read the sheaf of papers she’d taken from the library. Mostly letters that had been placed aside for the secretary. There was one from Papa’s friend, Sir Eric Wallace which spoke of a formal dinner at Carlton House that they both were to attend. It gave her pause to think. It was possible her father would have confided in Sir Eric. She must find a way to ask him.
William, one of the young footmen, knocked, and carried in a tray loaded with the tea things: a plate of ginger biscuits; a slice of pound cake; a wedge of cheese; and bread and butter. He unloaded them onto the table.
“Thank you, William,” Prue said, smiling at him. It was clear from his dazed look and shaky hands how shocked and worried he was. Sympathy tightened her stomach. She was unable to offer any sort of reassurance for his future. There was no telling what Roland would choose to do.
Glad of the hot drink, she returned to the papers and selected one. At first disbelieving her eyes, her hand trembled, almost spilling her tea. She put her cup down and reread the few words.
“Be warned. Meddle and suffer the consequences. What’s done cannot be undone.”
An icy-cold shiver ran down her spine. The note was unsigned. The quality of the paper and the fine cursive pointed to someonearticulate and most likely affluent. Papa must have seen this but hadn’t wished her to know about it. She thought back to the time when a wheel had come loose on his carriage, causing it to topple over. Fortunately, Papa and their driver hadn’t been hurt and her father had called it an unfortunate accident. Perhaps that was the reason he had urged her to bring her visit to Gramma forward. She’d planned to go to Richmond next month and had wondered why he’d been so insistent she leave as soon as possible. She’d been reluctant because of the new foal born a few days ago. But she’d finally agreed to leave on Monday. Now, the reason for his urgency became clear. He must have expected trouble. Did this mean he’d been killed because he’d refused to bow to the threat?
Breathing slowly to calm herself, she chose another letter. “My Lord Sedgwick,” it read, “At your request, I have investigated the matter and have uncovered something I suspect will be of great interest to you. I should like to come and see you as soon as possible. A delay could prove most unwise. I await your further instructions.” It was signedBartholomew Everton. She had no idea who he was or what he wished to discuss with her father. Neither was there an address. Mr. Everton did not live in this area. Would Sir Eric know of him? It was important to find this Mr. Everton but impossible to pursue the matter while she was here. Roland would grow suspicious. Somehow, she must get to London. Doing so would be far easier once she stayed with Gramma in Richmond first.
At the knock on the door, Prue shoved the papers under a cushion. The footman entered. “Mr. Stanton has requested you join him for dinner, Lady Prudence.”
She silently groaned. “Thank you, William.”
Prue folded the two notes and tucked them into her reticule. What if there were other attempts on her father’s life she knew nothing about? She must ask the coachman. At the washstand, she dabbed cool water on her face and tidied her hair. Then she went downstairs to face Roland.
