***
A few minutes later and John was back at the wall.
“Yer Grace?” he called up to his lordship, who expelled an oath before swinging himself down from the scaffolding.
“Speak, man.”
“Yer housekeeper insists she needs t’ go to town, sir.” John kept his voice low, nodding towards the stables. “T’ see about the new help, hirin’ the staff you agreed to. Only I can’t take her now meself and?—”
“Blasted woman,” Wells huffed. “Let her go, John, but have her tailed. Put Fergus or Pinky on her. I don’t think she’ll bolt, but nor do I trust her entirely either.”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded. “Pinky ’tis.”
“And John . . .”
“Sir?”
“Have Pinky see me after. I’ll want a report.”
John nicked his head in answer before he took off for the stables again, thinking that if Adams had overheard their conversation he’d wonder why his lordship took such interest in his housekeeper—and why his steward addressed his lordship as ‘his grace.’ Though if the man were smart, he’d forget whatever he’d just heard.
Charles felt glorious in the saddle, on the road, alone. She hadn’t ridden in years, and the mount she’d been grudgingly given was a sweet old mare that barely needed handling. The horse plodded along at an easy pace while Charles took in the fresh fall air and raucous birdsong. She relished the fact she was at last outside the Abbey’s walls—without Cuthbert stuck at her side like an ornery burr.
That she was being followed did not surprise her; she’d expected as much. But even this did not irk Charles. She had no need to flee if Lord Wells had lost interest in bedding her, because now she might be wholly and truly housekeeper of Almsdale, a respectable position with respectable pay. She couldsave her earnings till she had dowry enough for Eleanor and a bit left over for herself. And she’d have help about the Abbey soon too. She’d not be the only one scrubbing furniture, walls, and floors. Eventually, she’d do no scrubbing at all but simply manage her staff. That, after all, was what a real housekeeper did.
She urged her steed on, nudging the old mare into a trot, then a canter, and finally, feeling reckless, pushed her into a gallop. Only after a minute or two her mount balked at the exertion. Charles let her fall back into her steady amble. She’d not tax the poor creature more on such a glorious day as this. She could enjoy a slow ride too. After all, who knew when she’d be allowed out again on her own. Or perhaps she might steal a better horse next time to go joyriding on a day when Lord Wells was absent. Though when that might be . . .
No, she chastised herself. She’d not steal a horse, she’d simply borrow one. She would not add horse thief to her list of crimes.
Her thoughts reverted to Lord Wellesley at the south wall this morning, working alongside Adams’s men. Who the devil did he think he was, laboring like a commoner? He did not behave like a duke’s son, and she felt further stymied by his actions. Why he’d left London in the first place was a mystery still, not to mention why he’d brought such a rough crew of men with him. As to why he’d roll up his sleeves like a field hand, lifting stone . . . She could not fathom the man.
Yet the vision of his bare forearms resurfaced in her mind. She felt a small ache in her middle, realizing she’d missed his touch last night. Not his anger, not his prodding, and certainly not his pompous behavior—just his touch.
Charles sighed, irritated with herself for thinking of Lord Wellesley at all.
Wells heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard and looked up, surprised to see both Charles and Pinky ride in on their respective mounts. He grimaced to imagine why the devil Pinky now accompanied her back, but he willed himself not to react. He’d find out later.
Still, his mistress looked good on a horse, confident even. Cuthbert had done right to give her an old nag, but she sat the beast well. And she’d donned his old breeches again, making her shape that much more . . . He shook off the thought. Where the deuce hadshelearned to ride? Did all Cumberland women know their way around a horse? He found that hard to believe, especially given Cuthbert’s description of her family. Wells clenched his fists as he heard whistles and catcalls from Adams’s men. Charles had just dismounted and damn but if those breeches didn’t hug her arse tight.
Adams barked his disgust. “Leave off,” he shouted, glowering at his men, “or I’ll box ears myself.” Then he called down to Charles, “Beg pardon, miss. They’re not used t’ seein’ a lass dressed as a lad.”
“No offense taken, Mr. Adams.” She smiled up at him, bold as could be. “Were a side saddle in sight I’d have kept my skirts, but as it were, I’d no choice but to straddle my mount.”
Wells heard the men around him suck in their breaths while his face burned. She’d meant those words for him, he knew.
He ushered a swift rebuke. “You’ll don skirts if you want to keep your position here, woman.” His voice thundered across the courtyard. “No servant of mine parades her wares about my Abbey like a common strumpet.”
Charles blushed crimson at his dress down, bobbed a meek, skirtless curtsy, and scurried inside the Abbey.
Adams caught his eye as Wells muttered, “She’s a mouth on her, that one.”
“Aye,” the mason said with a smirk, “that she do.”
And they all returned to work, Wells seething inside while still aroused by her figure—along with half the men beside him no doubt too.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Charles wanted to murder him for the humiliation she’d just endured, yet she’d no one to blame but herself again. It had simply popped from her mouth, that bit about straddling her mount, and it had been true too, damn it. She knew perfectly well how to ride in skirts but not in a man’s seat. She’d had no choice but to don breeches. What’s more, she was respected enough in Cumberland that no one had commented the entire stretch she’d ridden through the village. Yet here, in front of Adams’s men, all of whomwereher folk, she’d been called out harshly by his lordship. Why, he’d all but ruined her reputation with his words, the blasted, self-righteous, conceited devil!
