Proud Mary Read online

  “Need you ask me such a question? It is just as important to be gainfully employed. Which the Blandfords, young Tanner, and Old Jack were not. And now they will be, and housed. Please sit, my lady.”

  Lady Mary remained standing.

  “And the eight servants you dismissed while I was away at my brother’s wedding? Are they gainfully employed and housed elsewhere, too?”

  “Yes. They—”

  “Mrs. Keble told me you put them to work in your mills. Is that so?”

  “I offered them employment at my cloth mills, which they accepted. And you will excuse me for correcting you. Those men were not your servants. Sir Gerald hired them. The positions they had within this household were unnecessary and wasteful. In fact they were leading meaningless lives and their minds had become stagnant. Inanimate companions had more life and occupation than those men. And as you are well aware, Abbeywood’s finances, such as they are, can ill-afford to pay for the board and paint from which such figures are formed.”

  Again he glanced at his assistant. The elderly man now had hold of a corner of the desk to keep himself upright, so he said more curtly than he intended, “Sit, my lady!”

  “I do not wish to sit, Mr. Bryce. And I do not understand why you insist I do.” She suddenly felt uncomfortably warm under the Squire’s steady gaze, looked about her, saw the well-lit fire in the grate, and frowned. “Nor do I understand why this room is permitted to be kept as warm as a kitchen on baking day when, as you say, this household cannot afford to be wasteful. And do not tell me it is not overly warm in here because you, Mr. Bryce, have stripped to your—to your—shirtsleeves, which is a most impolite way to receive visitors—”

  “I was not in expectation of a visit from you, my lady,” Christopher cut in blandly, though he was quick to stifle a smirk at her expression of affront at his social solecism. “Perhaps if you’d sent word of your coming I’d have roused myself to the trouble of throwing on my frock coat to sit sweltering, waiting your arrival?”

  “How droll you are today, to be sure, Mr. Bryce.”

  He inclined his head. “A rare occasion indeed, my lady. Not as rare as seeing me upon a dance floor, but today is not a day for dancing either.”

  Or witnessing me swim naked in a mill pond. Though I suspect such a prim little thing as you, my dear Lady Mary, would faint at the sight of provincial masculinity gloriously on show.

  Christopher was not a betting man—he was too cautious with his money, and even more so with what belonged to others—but he would’ve laid good odds that her late husband Sir Gerald would never have had the bad manners, or the bravado, to remove his nightshirt in his wife’s presence, even in the most intimate of situations and stand naked before her. After all, carrying out his marital duty was just one of the chores Sir Gerald, as baronet, was obliged to perform. So he had confided in Christopher after a long night of heavy drinking.

  For Christopher there had been many such long evenings in his neighbor’s book room, listening to Sir Gerald drone on about his self-consequence, his place in the “grand scheme of things”, and how he intended to make his mark on the world that would surprise his wife’s relatives, and leave them—the Duke of Roxton in particular—speechless.

  Christopher had been tasked to discover precisely how Sir Gerald intended to leave his mark, knowing it had to do with the war in the American Colonies. The Spymaster General Lord Shrewsbury suspected Sir Gerald of high treason for passing state secrets to the French to help their new-found friends, the American patriots, win the war against their English masters. Christopher was to get the proof of this treason, spending more hours than he cared to remember keeping company with his drunkard neighbor.

  Information gleaned from these conversations was written up in reports to the Spymaster. But there were some details Christopher kept to himself. Details he would rather not know, intimate details about his neighbor’s marriage, and the Lady Mary. And it confirmed Christopher’s private opinion: Such a pretty little redhead as the Lady Mary was wasted on the likes of the boorish Sir Gerald. What was the point of making love if all the senses were not engaged? Bedding her should have been an honor and a delight…

  To gaze upon her stripped out of corset and chemise, feminine curves bathed in the soft yellow glow of candlelight, glorious red hair tumbled to the small of her back… To have her hips moving with desire as he—

  “Mr. Bryce—Mr. Bryce, are you attending me?” Lady Mary demanded, taking a step closer to the desk when he did not blink or answer immediately. “I knew my coming here would cause considerable curiosity, but I could think of no other way of speaking with you in private because I—Mr. Bryce?” She peered at him, frowning, realizing his thoughts were anywhere but in his office. “Are you certain it is not too warm in here because your face is flushed and you are looking—”

  “No. It is not too warm!” he blurted out rudely, lust and the guilt which came with illicit longing making his tone harsher than he intended. “I may, may I not, keep my office as warm as I please and work in my shirtsleeves—or-or nightshirt—if I so wish it!?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course you may,” she stammered, shocked by his unexpected and uncharacteristic incivility.

  Yet when she continued to stare at him, his guilt increased, wondering if indeed his expression had in some bizarre way reflected his deepest unattainable desire. So ludicrous it was laughable, and pathetic, because it would never occur to her, not in a thousand full moons, that a Cotswold squire’s daydreams were filled with wanton thoughts of her.

  But because Mr. Deed was also staring at him as if he had had a momentary mental lapse, he offered up a convoluted explanation, one designed not only to allow him to regain his equilibrium in mind and body, but which would also reinstate—even if it was only his thoughts which had wandered across the social divide—the societal distance required of him as steward and a nobleman’s daughter; their disparate births, her rank, and his position demanded it. So he stated the obvious, which she already knew, and which would surely reconstruct that metaphorical stone wall of icy cordiality and formality that must exist between them.

  “I should not need to remind you that this estate is in dire financial circumstances—”

  “I am well aware of its-its—circumstances, Mr. Bryce. You remind me at every opportunity—”

  “—because Sir Gerald lived well beyond his means,” Christopher continued tonelessly. “Your husband’s wants far exceeded his needs and his income. He spent excessively on all manner of impractical objects—snuffboxes, Sevres porcelain, and expensive carriage clocks—items of no use to the effective management of this estate. He also kept a vast number of servants, employed to perform the most menial of tasks—an unnecessary conceit, and one he could ill-afford. No doubt the government’s new tax on male servants to pay for the war in the colonies will have little effect on the size of His Grace of Roxton’s household retinue. The burden of such taxation, as always, falls on those least likely to be able to carry it. I know you do not wish your nephew to be presented with an encumbered estate when he comes of age.”

  “Mr. Bryce, you are correct. I do not want Jack to inherit an economic ruin. Nor do I require another lecture on Sir Gerald’s excesses. But perhaps you require reminding that acting as steward, it is your business to balance the books, not to pass judgment on my husband’s character. Nor do I understand why you have singled out His Grace of Roxton for particular censure. The Duke has graciously permitted you to do as you please where this estate is concerned, even though he could, if he so wished it, remove you from your post and put another in your place.”

  Christopher opened his mouth to comment when the thud of a chair hitting up against the wall turned his attention to his assistant. Mr. Deed stumbled backwards but in two strides Christopher had him by his bony elbow and pulled him to his feet. He quickly set the chair to rights and eased the elderly man onto it, telling him in an undervoice to remain seated. He then returned to stand behind his desk and po
inted to the chair set out for Lady Mary.

  “Sit. I am not asking you. I insist. In doing so, I may sit. And Mr. Deed may remain seated and ease the pain in his arthritic knees. I know you do not wish to be impolite. Nor would you deny him the warmth of a good fire so that he may do his work on behalf of this estate without pain.”

  Instantly, Lady Mary was contrite and sat as requested. She spread her quilted petticoats and perched on the very edge of the chair, back straight and hands in her lap. Her glance and small nod of acknowledgment at Mr. Deed softened Christopher’s mouth, and he leaned forward in his chair, clasped hands on his desk, and addressed her as if she were the only person in the room.

  “I don’t wish to argue with you, my lady,” he said quietly. “But you have been misinformed if you believe the Duke of Roxton has any power over me. I have taken on the role of steward because Sir Gerald, in his last will and testament, charged me with this duty and I accepted it. If you wish me to go over that document with you—”

  “No. No. I could not bear it. Not again. It is enough of a humiliation my husband saw fit to draw up such a despicable will. That my daughter and I are left to the mercy of a stranger—”

  Christopher’s eyes went dull and he sat back.

  “A stranger? Not quite. Surely, as your neighbor, I have not been a stranger to you these past eight years? But, please,” he purred, the metaphorical societal wall between them well and truly back in place, “tell me in what way you are at my mercy?”

  “You know perfectly well what you have done!” Lady Mary retorted, and immediately had to rack her brain to come up with at least one plausible example of the Squire’s interference in her day-to-day life that would not make her sound petty and ungrateful.

  After all, she and Teddy remained at Abbeywood under his good graces, and if she were truthful, their lives had changed minimally since Sir Gerald’s death. Except perhaps where their freedom of movement—her daughter’s in particular—was concerned. So she latched on to this tangible example, one that continued to frustrate and confound her.

  “It is a mystery to me—indeed to my family—why Sir Gerald appointed you as Teddy’s guardian, and not a member of her family. My brother—her uncle—would have been a more suitable choice. Teddy loves her Uncle Dair, and they have similar temperaments, both preferring to be out-of-doors and physically active. I grant Dair was unmarried at the time of Sir Gerald’s death, but you, too, are a bachelor, Mr. Bryce. And of longer standing than my brother, who is newly married. And his wife, the Lady Fitzstuart, is the sweetest creature imaginable. Regardless of his unmarried or married state, he would have welcomed the opportunity to be T—”

  “At this moment Lord Fitzstuart is on his way to Barbados. So he is not only an absent husband, but you would have him an absent guardian, also.”

  “He did not leave his bride to sail off to the Barbados by choice! As I told you in my letter from Treat: He’s gone in search of our father. The Earl has been missing since a hurricane devastated the island. Many thousands are said to have perished, and every structure and living thing flattened to dust! That is the worst of possible circumstances, and in all probability our father is—our father is—dead, and he—Dair—he will have the gruesome task of identifying a rotting corpse! And you have the-the impertinence to suggest because he is doing his duty he would not be a fit guardian for my daughter?”

  “Yes. And I am sorry for it,” Christopher replied, leaning across his desk and offering her his plain linen handkerchief.

  While she had been talking, Lady Mary had grown increasingly agitated, shoving her hands under her apron and into the slits in her petticoats, searching the two pockets for, he presumed, her handkerchief. So he was pleased when she took his and dabbed at her eyes. He hated seeing her in tears, and loathed himself for causing her distress.

  “It was not my wish to upset you, only to make the point that had Major Lord Fitzstuart been Teddy’s guardian—and he now absent from England—you would be without his guidance should you require it. And he does not need the added burden while carrying out his duty to his father, of worrying over his niece. He can at least breathe easy, knowing her interests are being taken care of, and concentrate on the distressing task before him. That he has had to leave his young bride a month after their honeymoon is surely more than one man should have to bear.”

  Lady Mary nodded, a good deal calmer, the folded linen handkerchief now in her lap.

  “That is true, Mr. Bryce,” she conceded. “But if not Dair, then Sir Gerald did not have to look further afield than my cousin Roxton. The Duke is head of my family. Indeed he is head of a great many families connected by birth or marriage to the dukedom. He has been guardian to Sir Gerald’s nephew and heir Jack for almost ten years. And he is a most excellent and loving papa to his own children. Surely you must see that Roxton was the right and proper person to be named Teddy’s guardian.”

  “I do not see it, my lady.”

  Christopher had never met the Duke and hoped he would never have cause to do so. Amongst Sir Gerald’s alcohol-fueled confidences had been many an anecdote about Lady Mary’s cousin, and none of them complimentary. He had learned that Roxton was the reason Sir Gerald had withdrawn from Polite Society. While he had little respect for the man—and he was certain Polite Society did not miss Sir Gerald’s self-important pontifications—he did have some sympathy for the Baronet’s shabby treatment at the hands of his wife’s relative. Sir Gerald’s confidences about the lascivious behavior of Roxton and his ilk came as no surprise, but Christopher did not believe for one moment the more salacious rumor that the Duke, and not Sir Gerald, was Teddy’s true parent. If for no other reason than he did not believe the Lady Mary capable of deceit, carnal or otherwise. Her conceit would never allow her to stoop to being a man’s mistress, not even if that man was a duke. That was Sir Gerald’s drunkenness talking. Though he was very sure Sir Gerald had been utterly sober when he stipulated in his will that his only child, Theodora Charlotte Cavendish, must spend the years until her twenty-first birthday, or her marriage, whichever was the sooner, at Abbeywood, under the guardianship of his neighbor, Mr. Christopher Bryce, or forfeit a dowry of four thousand pounds held in trust.

  “If you were to accept the Duke’s invitation and visit Treat,” Lady Mary argued, “and if you were to allow Teddy and me to accompany you, I am convinced you would agree that the estate is the most suitable place for her—for us—to live.”

  “You are free to live where you please, my lady. But Teddy will remain here, as was Sir Gerald’s wish.”

  “If you were a parent you would understand that I am not free. Nor do I wish to be free if it means being parted from my daughter. I am her mother, and even you are aware that I love her very much, and so I must live where she lives.”

  “Then we are in accord, my lady. You both will remain here at Abbeywood. And if ever you desire to visit your cousins, you are free to do so. Now, if that was why you came here, to try and persuade me, yet again, to allow Teddy to go live amongst her Roxton cousins, then, yet again, I must disappoint you.”

  He extracted the Duke of Roxton’s sealed letter out from under the one he had been reading before Lady Mary had interrupted his morning’s schedule, and held it out to her. He hoped it would banish her mulish expression and any ill-will she was feeling at what she no doubt considered his high-handedness. He then made motions to stand.

  “This came today, and it is from your illustrious relative. No doubt it contains the news you’ve been waiting to hear. Now please excuse me; there are quite a few persons waiting to see me.”

  It said a good deal about her preoccupation with her thoughts when she exchanged his handkerchief for the letter with a perfunctory “thank-you”, then slipped it into a pocket. So he patiently waited for her to speak, surprised at her unresponsiveness. Usually when he handed over correspondence from her relatives she was all smiles, and so breathless with anticipation to read their news that she could hardly wait for
him to quit her company so she could read in private.

  Not today. And so he silently waited for her to tell him why she had made the journey to his office at the back of the manor house.

  “Mr. Bryce, I had hoped to speak to you entirely alone, but I also do not want to inconvenience Mr. Deed by having him leave the warmth of this room, so if he can assure me what I have to say will go no further, then I will confide in you. I have no wish to upset the servants—”

  “My lady, you have my complete confidence!”

  “Thank-you, Mr. Deed,” Christopher stated at his assistant’s outburst, and nodded to Lady Mary. “How may I—how may we—be of assistance?”

  Lady Mary sat up very straight before leaning forward, as if not wishing to be overheard. Her violet eyes widened and her mouth trembled. Christopher could not help but lean forward, too, his gaze not on her lovely eyes but on her plump lower lip and that tremble. Her voice was a whisper, and he strained to hear her every word.

  “Mr. Bryce, there is—that is—I am very certain—Sir Gerald’s bedchamber is-is haunted. There is a-a ghost!”

  TWO

  ‘A-A—GHOST? You saw a ghost?”

  Christopher resisted the urge to roll his eyes and huff his disbelief. A ghost!? God grant him patience. He had interrupted his busy morning schedule for this. Correction. He had interrupted it for her. But she was talking fanciful nonsense.

  Yet, in the years he had known her, fanciful was not a word he associated with the daughter of the Earl of Strathsay. Prim, and practical, yes. And proud—oh yes, the Lady Mary was very proud. But fanciful? Never. So there had to be some basis in fact for her belief in a ghost, the fear in her eyes told him so. She truly believed it. And he believed her. It was just that he did not believe the house was haunted.

  So he took a moment to compose himself, lest he appear supercilious, and awaited further explanation.