Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] Read online

  “Aye, no doubt it’s a foreign concept for you, boyo, with that face of yours, but we lesser mortals are obliged to woo our intended. I’m gettin’ quite practiced at it—want me to give you a few pointers so you can woo a fine aristocratic lady of your own?”

  Harry sniffed. “I’ve no time for lengthy wooing, and I have no intention of marrying a fine aristocratic lady who’ll happily make a cuckold of me in a few years. I’ve asked my aunt to find me a bride from the middle classes—they’re more moral than the aristocracy. Respectability is a passion in the middle classes.”

  “But you’ll still be after makin’ an arranged marriage?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Ethan pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m just bog Irish, so what I know about the aristocracy or the middle classes you could fit on the head of a pin, but it strikes me that any lass that’s been pushed into a marriage of convenience would be more likely to develop a wanderin’ eye a few years down the track than a lass that married for love.”

  “I’m not marrying for love. It’s all rubbish, anyway.”

  Ethan gave him a considering look. “Ah yes, I remember hearing something about that. Lady Andrea or Anthea—some name like that, wasn’t it?”

  “I was a foolish boy then,” Harry said curtly. “I’m done with all that nonsense. I’m a practical man now.”

  “Oh aye, of course you are,” Ethan agreed. “That’s why your hair is sopping wet and your hands are frozen.”

  Harry gave him a sharp look, but before he could think of a word to say, Ethan was saying, “And here we are at the turnoff, so I’ll be biddin’ you good-bye. Good luck in Bath with your aunt and your respectable middle-class girls. I’ll be checkin’ on that horse, and I’ll let you know if I come across any likely properties for purchase on the way.” And with a wave, Ethan cantered away.

  Nell Freymore tilted the man’s hat back and watched the handsome stranger ride off to join his friend.

  What sort of man gave his own hat and gloves to an unknown female riding on the back of a cart? A bedraggled female at that.

  He was a horseman, she could tell that from his horse, a magnificent, proud-stepping black Thoroughbred. And from the way he rode with an easy grace that could never be taught, as if he were born on horseback. Papa had ridden like that, before.

  She’d noticed him well before he’d got close enough to see his face. She’d been watching his horse. She always noticed horses, couldn’t help it. And both his horse and that of his companion were exceptional animals; the black strong and with a long, graceful gait, and the roan ugly, but very powerful. Both horses looked to be very fast.

  She wanted one of those horses. Quite desperately. They ate up the miles with such easy speed. It was agonizing being in the heavy dray, traveling at such a frustrating snail’s pace. All that could be said for it was that it was as fast as she herself could walk, and easier, because she’d been so very tired when the carter had offered her a ride. She was grateful for it, but oh, to be on a fast horse.

  She watched the men, half hoping one of them would vanish and the spare horse would be left wandering, for Nell to catch and ride away on. She lived on such fantasies these days, dreaming her life was different. It was foolish she knew, but sometimes fantasy kept hopes alive.

  She needed that more than anything.

  As the horsemen came closer, she’d found herself dwelling on the taller one. There was something about him. His friend talked and smiled as they traveled, but he rode quietly, as if lost in his own thoughts. Self-contained.

  She wasn’t sure what made her realize he was watching her. He was still quite a distance away when she knew. She felt it.

  She’d pretended not to notice, had looked away, hadn’t wanted to met his eyes. She wasn’t as comfortable around men these days. She’d gazed up into the canopy, looking for a chink of blue sky.

  It was always a hopeful sign, that glimpse of blue, but today the sky was as it had been for weeks. Gray. Cold, pitiless gray.

  She’d intended to ignore him—them—as they passed, as if they weren’t there. His friend passed at a smooth, easy pace: a wink to her and cheery greeting to the carter up front and then he was gone.

  But he had lingered, slowing, moving his horse closer and closer until he was so close she could smell his horse and the damp wool of his greatcoat. She couldn’t pretend any more that he wasn’t there.

  Unwillingly, almost without volition, she’d dropped her gaze.

  His eyes were as gray and somber as the sky, his gaze as intense as hard frost, burning into her. Scorching.

  And then he’d given her his hat.

  And then she’d really looked at him. At the hard masculine face sculpted by a master, the straight, arrogant nose, the thin, beautiful, chiseled lips. Masculine beauty incarnate.

  It was one of those moments when time just slowed, seemingly endless, and yet afterward was over in a flash.

  The whole exchange had lasted perhaps five minutes. He’d uttered a few words, she hadn’t even spoken. For once in her life her nimble, too-ready tongue had failed her; she had no idea why. And at the junction he’d given her one last burning look and cantered away.

  She wasn’t sure what had passed between them, other than a hat, gloves, and a scant handful of words. But she’d never forget that face or those curious, cold gray eyes that burned.

  Her frozen fingers tingled as slowly the feeling in them returned. The gloves were warm—warm from their fur lining and from the heat of his big, strong hands. They warmed her frozen fingers.

  They warmed her bruised spirit even more. The kindness of a stranger. Unexpected. Incalculably touching.

  Nell clung to the side of the lurching dray and impatiently watched the countryside slowly slipping by. It became more familiar with every mile. She needed to be home. She needed to be doing. All this slow traveling gave her too much time to think, brood, grieve.

  She lifted her gaze to the dark tracery of the almost-denuded trees against the gray sky. Winter was coming. The world was dying around her.

  No. No, it wasn’t. Nothing, nobody was dying. Only Papa had died. Only Papa. She had to believe it.

  She was going home. She would be all right then. She’d get some money together and return to London. And this time she’d find her, find Torie . . .

  Where there was life there was hope, they said.

  Leaves, crimson and gold, drifted to the ground and lay buried in mud. And the questions, as always, churned unanswered in her mind.

  Why, Papa, why? Why not tell me what you intended? Why pretend to believe me and then act in secret?

  Evasions, lies, and secrets, always, all her life. And now when it was so important, when she needed to know more than life itself, it was too late. The knowledge gone with Papa to the grave, and only questions remaining.

  Why, Papa, why?

  The misty rain turned to a soft drizzle and dripped off the brim of the hat. Her face stayed dry. She was all out of tears anyway.

  When she’d left home last, summer was bursting forth and the world was green and bursting with life. Now she was returning home, summer’s flowers had withered away, winter was returning, and the world was dying around her.

  Nell ached with emptiness. It would be better when she was home. She could think more clearly there, work out what to do next.

  She might even be able to sleep . . .

  Oh God, if only she hadn’t fallen asleep that night. She could have, would have been able to stop him. But she’d slept and, sleeping, had lost everything.

  She’d barely slept since. She was so tired.

  She forced herself to sit up straighter. “We’re nearly home and then I’ll have money again, and with money anything is possible, isn’t it, Freckles?”

  A tail thumped and the dog sat up and licked Nell’s nose.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Nell gave Freckles a hug. What would she have done without Freckles? She’d been such a comfort and a staun
ch friend.

  Freckles brightened at the attention and snuffed interestedly at the man’s gloves. She gave Nell such a hopeful look that Nell felt like laughing. “No,” she said. “These gloves are not for you.”

  A pair of mournful brown eyes darted from the glove to Nell and back, demonstrating Unutterable Longing, alternating with Wistful Reproach.

  This time Nell did laugh aloud. “Yes, I’m sure they smell very interesting but gloves are not for dogs. And look, there is the steeple of St. John’s. In another twenty minutes we’ll be home.”

  To Nell’s surprise, the main gates of her home were closed. As far as she could remember they’d never been closed before. A chain had been passed through the bars and a padlock fastened it tight.

  Puzzled, she walked along the fence line to where she knew there was a gap where the stones had fallen down. Freckles bounded through and Nell followed.

  She walked down the drive. The rain had stopped, but she could see nobody around. It didn’t feel right.

  The closer she got to the house, the stronger the feeling grew. She mounted the front steps and pulled on the doorbell. She heard it jangling away inside but nobody hurried to answer.

  She would go in the back way. The kitchen door, at least, was never locked.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  The voice startled her and she swung around. The question had come from a man she’d never seen before. He was a small man of about thirty, neatly, almost finickily dressed in black trousers and a coat with a nipped-in waist and heavily padded shoulders. His thinning hair was brushed forward in an unfortunate attempt at the Brutus style and he carried a briefcase.

  “Who are you?” she responded. He looked like a lawyer.

  “I am Mr. Pedlington.” He looked her up and down as if she were an insect, then sniffed. “There is no work to be had here.”

  Nell supposed she did look rather bedraggled. She’d walked so far and then there was the rain, and all that mud.

  “I’m not after work,” she told him pleasantly. “I live here. I’m Nell Freymore.”

  His eyes popped. “Freymore?” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean—Not the late—”

  “Yes, I’m his daughter.”

  Pedlington looked uncomfortable. “I represent the firm of Fraser and Shaw.” He paused, as if she should recognize the name.

  She didn’t. She waited for him to explain.

  He cleared his throat. “Has nobody told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “Oh dear.” He ran his finger around his tight cravat.

  His manner was making her nervous. “What is it I’m supposed to know?”

  “Er, the house. The property.”

  “Yes?”

  “This house—” He gestured.

  “I know which house. It’s my home, after all.”

  He swallowed. “It’s not. Not anymore. My firm has been commissioned to sell it.”

  “Sell it? You can’t sell it—it’s mine.” He didn’t seem to take it in, so she added. “It belongs to me.”

  “No. I’m afraid . . . your father—” Pedlington hesitated. “He lost it in a card game.”

  “He couldn’t have,” Nell said. She saw the lawyer was about to explain and added, “I mean I know he loses things in card games—he’s always done it. He’s lost just about everything he’s ever owned. But he cannot lose this house because it doesn’t belong to him. He signed it over to me years ago . . .” Her voice trailed off. Pedlington was shaking his head.

  “It was all perfectly legal,” he explained. “I’ve seen the documents myself. The deed of both house and land is in the possession of our client. Solely.”

  Nell stared at him for a long moment, then her knees gave way. She plonked down on the top step, her thoughts in turmoil. “You mean this house has gone, too?” Papa had lost her home, along with everything else? He’d sworn the deeds were in her name.

  Lies, always lies.

  “Yes.”

  “Then where am I to go?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat and said with a mix of sympathy and officiousness, “But you cannot stay here. You must leave.”

  Two

  Firmin Court, Wiltshire Ten days later

  “The house, I must confess, is a little shabby,” Pedlington, the agent, said in an apologetic voice, “but a little refurbishment—”

  “It’s extremely shabby; in fact the whole estate reeks of neglect,” Harry Morant said with a pointed glance at ancient velvet curtains hanging in shreds.

  Pedlington grimaced. “I fear the late earl was rather negligent in the fulfillment of his duties . . .”

  Harry snorted. Duties be hanged. The way he’d heard it, the late earl had neglected everything except the gaming tables. But his neglect would be Harry’s gain.

  Pedlington continued, “This property is not part of the overall estate. It came to him through his late wife, so it’s not entailed.”

  They walked from dusty room to dusty room, down corridors hung with faded paper dotted with darker patches to show where paintings had once hung and furniture once stood. If this place wasn’t entailed, Harry wondered, why hadn’t the earl sold it? He’d sold everything else he could lay his hands on.

  The fourth Earl of Denton had brought a large and prosperous estate to ruin. He’d mortgaged it to the hilt, sold everything that could be sold, and even then it hadn’t been enough to cover his debts. At last, facing debtor’s prison, he’d had a heart attack and died. In the middle of the road, Harry heard.

  Then the scavengers had moved in; the bailiffs and those the earl had owed money to, picking over the leftovers of the once-great estate, wringing from it every penny that could be wrung. Pedlington had been appointed by the London firm whose task it was to salvage whatever could be retrieved from the mess.

  Harry had heard all about it in Bath. He’d cut his social engagements short, much to his aunt’s annoyance. There was no point anyway. The middle-class fathers of the girls his aunt had collected had made it clear to him that they aspired higher for their daughters.

  So Harry had ridden down here to inspect the property. Before the late earl had acquired Firmin Court, the estate had been renowned for its horses.

  “I don’t imagine the fifth earl is relishing the task ahead of him,” Harry said. Poor bastard.

  Pedlington shook his head. “No, indeed. He’s the late earl’s second cousin—lives in Ireland—and had no idea of how things stood. The poor fellow got quite a shock when he heard the full sum of it. Fainted, I’m told. What use is a title when it comes with an estate that’s mostly entailed and crippled with debt?” He gave Harry a hopeful glance. “At least this property can be sold.”

  Harry ignored it. This house had been stripped bare, and not recently. The rooms smelled of disuse and dust, but there was no odor of damp or decay. They passed from room to room, Harry insisting on being shown everything, though the house mattered least to him.

  “What the—” the agent muttered. One of the bedchambers was locked. The agent tried key after key with increasing annoyance. “It’s just a bedchamber, sir, of no interest. It is in the same condition as the rest of the house.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “And you have no key?”

  “No, but I assure you I shall obtain it forthwith,” Pedlington said in a tight voice.

  Harry, uninterested in a missing key, strolled back along the hallway. “Is that all you have to show me?”

  “Would you have any interest in viewing the kitchen regions? Or the attics and servant’s quarters?” Pedlington’s tone said he did not expect it.

  Harry made a dismissive gesture. “I’m not sure if there’s much point. The neglect is appalling, as is the dust.” He added as if in afterthought, “But perhaps the kitchen, though I expect it’ll be hopelessly inadequate. And since I’ve come all this way I might as well look at the outbuildings.”

  Pedlington, by now sure his trip had been made in vain, s
ighed. “Yes, sir. We can reach the outbuildings through the kitchen door.” They retraced their steps, their footsteps echoing on the bare wooden floor. A good, solid floor, Harry noted, with no sign of woodworm.

  Harry repressed a faint smile at the agent’s dejection. In the ragged, empty fields that surrounded the house, the grass grew thick and lush. If the stables were as solid as the house, he’d make an offer.

  All this place needed was a little money, a lot of hard work, and good management. His legacy from Great-aunt Gert would provide the money; Harry could provide the rest.

  The stable doors were ajar. Pedlington frowned. “I’m sure I locked this the last time I was here.”

  As they approached, a dog stuck its head out of the door. It growled as they approached.

  Pedlington stopped dead and eyed the dog nervously. “Shoo, shoo, dog,” he called, flapping his hands. “Go away.”

  The dog stood in the doorway, curling its lip in a low growl. She was a beautiful animal, a springer spaniel, white, with dappled brown markings.

  Harry addressed the dog sternly. “What do you mean, madam, growling at us in that ill-mannered tone? Behave yourself.” The dog, recognizing an authoritative voice, gave him a sheepish look, and the tip of her long, feathered tail wagged a little.

  “Just as I thought, you’re all bluff, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Harry squatted down and clicked his finger at the dog. “Come on, introduce yourself.”

  Squirming in a coquettish manner, the dog edged closer and sniffed Harry’s fingers. Her tail wagged harder, she licked his fingers, then rolled onto her back.

  “That’s better,” Harry said as he scratched her stomach. The dog writhed in bliss. Harry straightened and the dog leapt to her feet, her tail swaying gently as she watched him.

  Pedlington looked at the animal with dislike. “That animal is not supposed to be here. There is no dog on the inventory. It’s a stray.”

  “Yes, but quite harmless, as you can see. So, let us look at the stables.”

  Pedlington didn’t move. The man was too nervous of the dog.