Page 39 of Reforming Lord Neil

Muse looked up at Neil and whined. He sighed and pointed to Caroline. “Go on with the girl.” The dog lowered her head and followed after Caroline. No doubt the child would shower Muse with love and more biscuits, if there were any.

Neil went to the barn and took up his saddle. Perhaps there would be a letter for him that day. Perhaps not. But he could use a drink of something other than cider, and some time to himself.

* * *

When Neil arrived in Dunwich, there were no letters waiting for him. Only two old men in the pub, Putnam and Higgins. The proprietor, Mr. Jones, served Neil a bowl of stew, a thick slice of bread, and a large mug of ale. Not precisely better than what he had consumed of late, but different. Different would need to be good enough.

Putnam and Higgins moved from their table at the front of the public dining room to his, against the wall, without his invitation. They brought their drinks with them.

“How are you enjoying working for our Mrs. Clapham?” Putnam asked. “She’s a good sort, isn’t she?”

“A fine gentlewoman,” Neil agreed shortly, keeping his eyes upon his food. He had not come seeking out company.

“Too fine for that farm,” Higgins said with a sigh. “I keep hoping that vicar will do something about them out there.”

This was the first Neil had heard of a vicar. The women had gone to church after his arrival, but he had not attended with them. “What vicar?”

“Our vicar, at the church.” Putnam chuckled before taking a long pull of his ale. “He’s a widower.”

Neil had to work to loosen his jaw enough to chew his bread. Once that was cleared, he tried to ask with disinterest, “Has he shown an interest in Mrs. Clapham?”

If a man of such standing as a vicar was interested in a woman, he ought not to wait around and let her continue the burden of caring for her family alone.

“Not Mrs. Clapham.” Higgins chortled. “Mrs. Godwin. The man’s sixty if he’s a day, and he always makes a point of speakin’ to Mrs. Godwin at length. My own missus has noticed and said he better get to courting if that’s what he wants.”

Relief made everything from the back of Neil’s neck to his hands around his spoon relax. Apparently, Putnam noticed, given the way his eyes started twinkling.

“Courting is serious business,” Putnam said. “Man has to be sure the woman is worth it.”

Higgins settled back in his chair, cradling his drink in both hands. “One look at a woman can be enough for that,” the old man said. He scratched at the whiskers on his chin. “Take Mrs. Clapham for example. Strong, handsome woman, even though she looks as though a strong wind might blow her over. Like as not could run a big house as well as she runs that farm.”

“Aye. A woman of many talents.” Putnam grinned most impudently at Neil.

Neil put more stew in his mouth to avoid talking. Perhaps the old men would take the hint and change the subject. But before they could, the door to the pub opened again. All three men glanced that way, though Neil could not say why he cared who had entered. He knew no one in the area, so he would not recognize the newcomer.

Except he did.

Mr. Frederick Clapham entered the public house, sweeping off his tall and fashionable hat. “Refreshment at once,” he demanded, turning to the room. He stopped when his gaze fell upon Neil. Then he smiled, slowly. A predatory smile, if Neil had ever seen one.

“Gentlemen,” Neil said quietly to Putnam and Higgins. “I think you had better change tables.”

Higgins muttered something that sounded resentful, but he and Putnam stood and went back to their original table across the room. Mr. Clapham approached and bowed.

“Mr. Duncan, I believe? The gentleman farmer?”

Neil had no intention of revealing his true status, not to this man. Having practiced deceit himself, his first instinct about Clapham stayed with him. Something about the man made Neil uneasy and suspicious.

“Mr. Clapham.” Neil did not stand, though he nodded once.

“May I join you?”

Neil gestured to the recently vacated chairs across the small table from him. “You may.”

Mr. Jones returned with a tray. He hastily set tea, a plate of sandwiches, and a bowl of stew before the new arrival. It seemed he was familiar enough with Clapham to give him a specific sort of refreshment.

After Mr. Jones withdrew, Clapham took up his teacup. “When we met, I thought you only dressed as you did for the day’s work. Now that I see you again, I wonder if you have a preference for such attire.” He sipped at his cup.

With as smooth a tone and perfect elocution as ever he had used, Neil responded coldly. “I fail to see why my decisions regarding fashion would be worth any speculation. It is not as though we move in the same circles, Mr. Clapham.” Disinterest was the way to act with this man. Clapham thought too highly of himself. Feeding into that might make the man lower his defenses, but Neil preferred to maintain his own dignity.