Walking, as was her habit, across one of the lower Woodglen fields, she reached the place where she could pick up the lane just before it forked, the left side leading to the massive edifice of Woodglen and the right side to Selwyn Court two miles on.
She stepped through a gap in the hedgerow ahead of Hector. The sound of pounding hooves sent her heart to her throat, and she leaped against the hedges as a massive horse thundered up. Hector wiggled his head between the hedge and Mia’s side to bark at the rider who had brought his mount under control just short of where Mia had been standing.
The great black beast danced nervously, and its rider glared down at her. She stared back at eyes dark and lit with anger. His hair, long and as black as the horse he rode and the clothes he wore, flew wildly around his short-brimmed beaver hat. “You damned fool. Don’t you check before you dart into the road?” he shouted.
I didn’t dart.Mia was so taken with the strange sight in front of her that she couldn’t get the words out. The beast was magnificent, its rider… Mia wasn’t sure what to make of the rider. She found animals easier to comprehend than their owners even in the best of times and certainly in this case.
The man’s face shifted, and for a moment, she thought he would apologize. He didn’t. “You could have been killed—you and that great lump of a dog—be careful in future.” The stranger stared at her a moment longer, urged his horse on without another word, and disappeared down the lane, taking the turn to the left. To Woodglen.
Mia put a hand to her pounding heart.Who was that? The cousin, perhaps?Then she remembered Mercy’s description.
…a weak-chinned fop, the sort Agnes had said was more apt to wait for someone to hand power to him than to grab it.The mysterious rider could not be the cousin. The man she just saw would have no trouble whatsoever taking what he wanted. None at all.
*
“The vultures arecircling for sure now.” Woodglen’s butler looked Gideon over from the scuffed tips of his riding boots to his hair, long and wild from the wind, contempt radiating from him.
“I’m equally delighted to see you, Fillmore. Step aside and let me in.” Gideon glared at the longtime retainer with as little respect as the old man had always shown him.
“You are supposed to be dead,” the butler sneered.
“Sorry to disappoint. I gather my brother didn’t share the joyous news when he found me last year. Are you going to move or do I need to push you aside?”
Gideon’s hips and back hurt like the devil after hours in the saddle. His meager supply of patience evaporated.
“You aren’t the heir,” Fillmore muttered.
If only you knew…Gideon took a step forward. For a moment, Fillmore appeared to weigh his chances of tossing Gideon out, but he stepped back. The old reprobate gestured to a footman. “Watch this one closely. I’ll inform Mr. Marshall. Keep him right where he stands.”
“The steward? Bring him to me.” One of the many facts piled on Gideon’s shoulders during his unsatisfactory visit to the offices of Sadler and January, Solicitors, in London was the name of Phillip’s land steward, Curtis Marshall. His brother had had the good sense to hire someone new after the old duke kicked up his toes.
Fillmore walked away without responding, and Gideon heard the old man mutter something about “God himself,” but whether Fillmore referred to the steward’s arrogance or his own, he could not tell.
Gideon pushed his saddlebags into the arms of the bewildered footman. “Take this to my room—any guest room will do. My luggage is following.” He swept off his hat, set it on the bags, and limped past the sputtering servant into the nearest parlor, the one his father had used to allow importuning strangers to use to cool their heels until he saw fit to address them, one designed for discomfort. He took a high-backed chair and sank into it, craving willow bark tea and a good brandy but fearing neither was likely to be forthcoming.
The footman stood in the doorway, still clutching Gideon’s hat and saddlebags.
Not particularly bright, this one.Gideon watched the boy trying to puzzle out whether failing Fillmore or defying this stranger who seemed to claim some right to be here would be the bigger mistake. Gideon raised one sardonic eyebrow and glared until the footman shuffled back into the entranceway. He heard the thump of heavy bags hitting the polished floor.
My saddlebags will rest by the door until I sort this out. At least they’ll be handy if they toss me out.
He thought, not for the first time, that he ought to have stopped at the inn in Nether Abbas, but his memories of the Cockcrow were dismal. He’d forced himself on to get this encounter over with as soon as could be. He had spent two weeks reviewing the investments, reports on miner properties, and the business of the estate at large. He’d almost bolted home to Wales when Sadler insisted there were things at Woodglen that needed his oversight. He still could.
He squeezed his eyes shut. It could be a long wait. He tossed about for a pleasant thought—anything to drive out the sick feeling that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach as soon as he turned the lane and saw Woodglen looming ahead. Some might take it for the impressive edifice it was meant to be. To Gideon, the place was a drooling monster ready to open its jaws and devour him. He blinked that image away and thought first of his home and children. They tugged on his heart, and a desire to cut and run back to his place of comfort surged through him.
Not yet.
He turned his mind to the ride down from London. He had reveled in the glories of the English countryside and the beauty of Blackmore Vale, flatter and more open than his home in Wales in spite of the hills rising along the south edge. It had almost kept his demons, unleashed by the need to come to this place, at bay. Even Nether Abbas—seen from a distance—appeared peaceful. He had skirted the village, having no more desire to go there than here.
One memory kept intruding, that of a young woman stepping into the path of his horse’s hooves. Not a schoolroom miss, and not anyone he knew. He guessed her age to be twenty or so. She’d have been a small child when he was banished. He let his memory roam over her—slender but nicely curved, she was a woman grown for certain and, judging from her dress, a lady. Her clothing hadn’t flattered her, but it was obviously well made. She had spirit, too. He’d thought for a moment she meant to take him to task. He found that oddly attractive. He regretted growling at her. Neither his momentary fear he might have injured her nor his black mood had given him an excuse to be churlish. He would owe her an apology if he ever encountered her again. If he stayed in the area long enough.
“Well, sir, state your business.” A man with the square build of a boxer and the face of an ill-tempered vicar stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, feet planted firmly apart, and glowered at him. When Gideon stared back, he went on. “Well, hurry about it before I have you shown the door.” Fillmore, standing behind the man’s left shoulder, watched with smug satisfaction.
“Marshall, I presume? Horace Sadler told me I would find you here. I’m here to inspect the estate and its operation.”
Marshall didn’t so much as blink.
“On behalf of the duke.”
