Barbara Metzger Read online

  The groom shrugged. “You just might not find the place up to your standards, is all. Dinner ’specially. Bound to be potluck, with no time for fixing fancy dishes like you’re used to in London. It’s plain country fare here, most days.”

  Rockford could not imagine Claymore and Mrs. Cabot maintaining the Hill in anything less than pristine condition, nor its kitchens providing worse meals than he’d had on the road. The stables, from what he could see, were as neat and orderly as always, smelling of fresh straw and well-groomed horses, although there were few enough of them in the nearby stalls. He nodded. “And your name is…?”

  “Fred, m’lord,” the groom answered, looking nervously toward the rear of the stables, as if wishing he could leave. “Fred Nivens. I were hired by Mr. Arkenstall, what left. But that don’t mean I had any part in his thieving, like some hereabouts be hinting.”

  Still, he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, and shifting his eyes from the horse to the earl to the back of the stables. Rockford would reserve judgment until he spoke to Jake and checked the ledgers for himself. Meantime, he walked with the groom and the hired horse toward the rear, glancing in the empty stalls. He did not notice any pony.

  “Tell me, Fred, did my son ride along with Claymore and Mrs. Cabot into the village?”

  Fred stopped short. “Master William?”

  “Yes, that son.” Rockford’s patience was wearing decidedly thinner.

  Fred scratched his head. “Why would you ask that?”

  The earl tapped his muddy boots with his riding whip. He was not used to being interrogated by his own servants, and this one was either dense or deceitful. Either way, Fred’s term of employment was growing shorter by the moment. “Because his mount is not here,” Rockford said in slow and even tones that would have had his secretary shaking, “and Jake would never leave the pony out in the cold rain.”

  Now Fred looked at Rockford as if the earl were fit for Bedlam. “The nipper’s been over to Mrs. Henning’s for months now.”

  Months? His son had been gone for months and no one told him? Then again, perhaps Claymore had written, or Eleanor, but his secretary wouldn’t have bothered him with such puny details as his five-year-old son leaving home for who knew where. Bloody hell, the lad could have joined the navy, for all anyone informed Rockford! And who the devil was Mrs. Henning, anyway?

  “Tell me about this woman and why my son is at her house, wherever that might be, instead of here, where he belongs.”

  Fred Nivens began to brush down the wet horse, keeping as far away as possible from Rockford and that whip the earl kept rapping against his well-muscled leg. “As to the whys and wherefores,” Fred said, “you’d have to ask Mr. Claymore, I ’spect. But Mrs. Henning, she’s a widow what came here one day and said she was taking the nipper, to pack his clothes. Just like that, I heard tell.”

  Just like that? And Eleanor let this stranger take the boy? She must have been so ensorceled by her lover’s blandishments that she could not keep her mind or her eye on what was important, namely Rockford’s son. Damn her and that plaguesome bailiff; may they fall in a Scottish loch and get eaten by…by whatever creature of superstition lived in that benighted place. What if Mrs. Henning was an old witch who turned little boys into frogs, or a slave trader who sold them to chimney sweeps? Or a procuress who—Lud, it did not bear thinking on, so that was all, of course, that Rockford could imagine.

  “Who is this female?” he demanded. “I have never heard of her.”

  Now Fred smirked. “You would have, if you’d visited more. Everyone knows her, by reputation, at least. She’s Alissa Henning, what used to be Alissa Bourke, whose father was steward over at Fairmont. He got her educated way past her station, what gave her ambitions to better her lot.”

  Good grief, the woman sounded no better than she ought to be, and the groom’s snide smile confirmed Rockford’s suspicions. “Fairmont is Sir George Ganyon’s place?” Rockford was already figuring how long it would take him to ride there if he cut across the home farm fields.

  “Right, and Sir George has his eyes on her, they say. Lets her stay on in one of his cottages. Holding out for a ring, she is, I’d wager. Worked the first time, it did, when the doxy trapped some nobleman’s son into marriage by claiming to be in the family way. His family don’t recognize any jumped-up fortune hunter, naturally, so she’s left to give lessons and hold other folks’ children for ransom.”

  “She’s holding William for ransom?” Rockford could not believe what he was hearing, or that his trusted retainers had let this abomination happen.

  “Near as makes no difference. I spend half my time bringing food and fetching books. On the widow’s orders.” He neglected to say that the pretty widow refused to give him the time of day, but he did spit on the ground near the horse’s feet, to show his opinion of the circumstances. “And Jake has to go give riding lessons over by Fairmont, to the young master and the widow’s own brats.”

  She stole the pony too?

  Chapter Two

  Rules, hell. There were actual laws against kidnapping. Rockford had taken part in some of the parliamentary discussions about penalties, urging stricter enforcement. Otherwise no son of wealthy parents would be safe, be he from the nobility or the merchant class.

  So much for safe if country bawds could get away with stealing an earl’s son in broad daylight. Rockford threw his whip against the stable door. Not this time. He was the Earl of Rockford, and no one took what was his. Not ever.

  “Can you drive?” he asked the groom, whose jaw was hanging slack at Rockford’s reaction.

  Fred nodded.

  “Good. I cannot fetch the boy and his baggage home on horseback. Hitch up whatever coach is handiest. I shall meet you out front after I change into dry clothing.”

  “But, m’lord, your trunks ain’t come yet.”

  Rockford was reaching for his saddlebags. “I always carry extra with me.”

  “But your valet…”

  Rockford raised one dark eyebrow to show Fred Nivens he had gone far beyond the line. One could make only so much allowance for laxer country manners. “I do know how to dress myself, you know.”

  “A’course, m’lord,” Fred said, staring at the pistol Rockford was also drawing out of his saddlebag. “Begging your pardon.”

  Rockford ran up the back stairwell, passing no one, but hearing some maids giggling behind parlor doors. No fire burned in his bedroom, naturally, with him not due to arrive for another day, but his anger kept him warm enough. He used his soiled shirt to dry his wavy dark hair, his limp neckcloth to wipe at his muddied boots. Despite his words to the overfamiliar groom, he could not easily remove the high-topped footwear without assistance, so was stuck with his uncomfortable, damply clinging buckskins. Nor was he used to tying his own cravat, so Rockford always carried a spotted silk cloth to wrap loosely at his throat. He’d do for a call on a loose-moraled adventuress, once he tucked the pistol in the waistband of his sodden breeches.

  Fred was waiting in the carriage drive, that nasty smirk on his face. “I guess Widow Henning’ll be getting her comeuppance, eh, m’lord?”

  “You are not paid to guess,” Rockford said as he stepped into the lumbering old coach, realizing that Eleanor must have taken the family carriage. “Just to drive. Get on with it, man.” When he saw that there were no hot bricks to warm his chilled feet, he’d thought of riding up with the groom instead of in the ancient equipage, since the rain had trickled to a mere drizzle. The man’s insolent grin decided him otherwise. He’d have a word with Jake about his underling’s impertinence later, after they had recovered William. There were codes of behavior to be followed, even in the country. Every Rockford employee met the earl’s exacting standards or found himself dismissed—except, of course, for the ones who scampered off with the earl’s belongings, in the earl’s more comfortable carriage, before he noticed their transgressions.

  Damn, how could he have left his estate, and his son, so lo
ng in the hands of others? Because he was busy, he answered himself, and he relied on his totty-headed sister. More fool he, for thinking a woman could act responsibly, especially a female in heat. Lud, he would have supposed Eleanor past such wanton cravings, with her fortieth birthday quickly approaching. That was a mistake, too, supposing he knew anything about women and their desires. What he did know, and cursed himself for forgetting, was that not a one of them was to be trusted.

  Take this Mrs. Henning now. The devil could take her to perdition, with Rockford’s blessings, but he had to consider the wily widow before their encounter.

  Henning, he recalled, was the family name of the Duke of Hysmith, so she had definitely married up, as they said. What she must not have considered before entrapping some green lad into leg shackles was that Hysmith had a clutch of sons, so disowning one would be no hardship. Now she was forced to live off Sir George Ganyon’s generosity, which was another miscalculation on her part. The baronet had always been tightfisted, leaving his tenants’ roofs leaking while he purchased another high-bred hunter. He had to be fifty by now, and still lusting after anything in skirts, if Fred Nivens could be believed. But no, the clever Mrs. Henning had chosen to take up kidnapping to make her fortune, instead of the uncertain future of a miser’s mistress. Well, she would not see one more groat of Rothmore money, he swore. Not that she would have any use for it in jail. He adjusted the pistol at his waist. He’d never aimed a weapon at a female yet, but this conniving shrew deserved whatever justice he chose to mete out.

  For now, Rockford’s stomach roiled at the movement of the badly sprung carriage and the unaired, stale-smelling interior. No, he was queasy at the thought of poor William, he told himself. Heaven knew what the boy was suffering. Stolen from the only home he had ever known, torn from Nanny Dee’s comforting bosom, abandoned by his aunt, and thrust among a female Captain Sharp, he must be wretched and afraid. Poor little tyke.

  *

  The poor little tyke was raking wet leaves in the fenced-in yard of a poorly thatched cottage. Lud, the woman had Rockford’s son forced into manual labor! Things were worse than he’d supposed.

  They’d driven past Sir George Ganyon’s Fairmont, and Rockford had almost paused there, if only to get out of the cold, confining carriage for a bit. The baronet’s home was made of the same stone and slate as Rock Hill, but appeared puny by comparison. Hell, Kensington Palace seemed puny by comparison to Rock Hill, but Ganyon’s place looked dark and ill-kempt, with ivy growing over the windows and a shutter missing from one window. Rockford signaled Fred to drive on. Later he’d have words with his neighbor about harboring criminals, but now he wanted to get the boy and get out of the damned rocking coach.

  Two boys were working in the widow’s yard, he noted as he started to step down from the carriage, eager to put his chilled feet on solid ground. The one not raking was gathering acorns into a bushel—Zeus, had they taken to eating mashed acorns? He appeared taller and older, though, perhaps ten, Rockford thought, but what did he know of youngsters? Still, that must be William with the rake and the ugly brown knit cap over his ears. Rockford recalled the pristine white lace bonnet his infant son had worn, and felt another pang of remorse. Or else his stomach was giving one last protest to the coach’s swaying as he got down.

  The older boy told the younger, “Go tell Mother we have company, Willy,” so there was no mistake. The dirty-faced urchin was Rockford’s son, and they were calling him Willy, by George! The son of an earl was not called Willy.

  The little boy ran into the house, but the older stood his ground, despite Rockford’s glare. He glanced from the frowning stranger to the grinning Fred, and picked up the fallen rake, as if to defend his family from marauders.

  “I mean you no harm, boy,” the earl said, taking a tentative step toward the gate. “I am Rockford.”

  “No, the Earl of Rockford is handsome as the devil and dresses better than the prince himself. Everyone knows that.”

  Lud, Rockford hoped he dressed better than the corpulent regent! He reached up to adjust the loose knot at his neck, but the boy was going on: “And he rides like the wind. The Earl of Rockford would not be caught dead in that old rig where the pigeons used to roost.”

  So that was the noxious smell. Rockford cast a reproachful eye toward Fred, who was snickering. The earl wondered how long the groom would laugh when he was out of a job. He turned back toward the half-size gatekeeper. “I assure you, my boy, that I am indeed Rockford. I have come for my son.”

  “But you don’t want—” the lad started, only to be interrupted by a woman’s voice from the cottage doorway.

  “That is enough, Kendall. You are being impolite to our guest.”

  “But he says he’s—”

  The woman noted what her son did not: the finely tailored coat, the rich leather boots, the arrogantly raised eyebrow, and the confident tilt to the chin. “Make your bows, Ken, and show the earl in.”

  “Yes’m,” the boy answered, making a creditable bow and politely holding the gate for Rockford to pass through. “This way, my lord.”

  Rockford was surprised, and not just by the boy’s good manners. The widow seemed younger than he’d thought, barely thirty, he’d guess. She was not as flamboyantly beautiful or full-breasted as he’d expected from an ambitious highflier, either. In fact, she seemed almost demure in her plain high-necked gray gown with the barest hint of ribbon for trim. Gray was not the color he would pick for mistress material, nor did it suit Mrs. Henning’s pale coloring and neatly coiled light brown hair. She ought to be wearing green, to match her truly fine eyes, or scarlet, to proclaim her profession.

  Trying to keep his rekindled anger in check, Rockford gestured for Fred to walk the horses while he followed the widow through the doorway of her cottage. The first thing he noticed was the welcome warmth, then the smell of baking gingerbread. The small parlor was simply furnished but tidy, except for some piles of books. At least William was not being held prisoner in some foul hovel. In fact, he seemed fond of the woman, clinging to her skirts while he peered up at Rockford. The earl tried to smile for the boy’s sake, as if to say, “I am here. You are safe. All will be well.” William shyly smiled back, showing a gap where his front teeth should be. Rockford hoped that was normal.

  “Will you be seated, my lord? Perhaps you would like some tea to take the chill from the day?” Mrs. Henning asked in carefully modulated tones, with no hint of an accent. But then Fred had said she was well educated.

  “No, thank you,” he replied, amazed that he could hold polite conversation with this vulture in dove’s clothing. “I will not be staying and do not want to track mud onto your floor.”

  She smiled, making her seem even younger and prettier. Now Rockford could see how Hysmith’s son had been caught, and why that old goat Ganyon was so moonstruck. “With boys and bad weather,” she said, “a little dirt is inevitable. I do not mind, truly, if you make yourself comfortable.”

  Rockford had been around far too long to fall into that trap. He stayed by the door. She took up a stance by the mantel, tousling William’s fair curls to dry them by the warmth of the fire. If he was jealous, Rockford told himself, it was for the fire’s heat, not her gentle, seemingly loving touch. “My business will not take long,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. “I want my son back.”

  “Of course you do. He is a fine boy. But are you sure…? That is, have you made the proper arrangements? You do realize a boy cannot simply be left with servants, my lord. He needs—”

  “I assure you, I am fully aware of what the son of an earl requires for a proper upbringing.” He raised his eyebrow at the tiny cottage. “I assure you, this is not it.”

  She gasped at his plain speaking. “I have done the best I could, my lord.”

  “Aye, the best you could to feather your own nest, I’ll warrant.”

  She gasped again, and the older boy, Kendall, started forward, his small hands clenched into fists at his side. William co
wered behind Mrs. Henning. She started to protest, to claim her innocence, Rockford supposed, despite all the evidence, but he held up his hand. “Enough. I want my boy, and I want him now. If you cause any trouble, I am prepared to go to the magistrate, or worse.” He let his hand rest on the grip of his pistol at his waist, so she could not mistake his intentions.

  Deathly pale now, she gathered both boys closer to her side, as if to protect them from a madman with a gun. “You may take your son, of course, because that is your right, no matter how bad a parent you might be. As soon as he is finished—”

  “Now!” Rockford commanded. “I have been patient enough. I shall not negotiate for what is mine.” Two long strides took him across the narrow room. He grabbed William’s shoulder and pulled the boy to him, then took those same two strides back to the door, despite the child’s objections. He ignored the shouts and the cries. He ignored everything until he heard the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked. That he could not ignore. He turned.

  A lioness could not be more dangerous in defense of her cub. Mrs. Henning had taken a pearl-handled pistol from its pegs over the mantel and had it in her hand, aimed at his head. “I assure you, my husband’s gun is loaded and I do know how to fire it. I will not hesitate an instant, sir, if you drag my son one more step out the door.”

  Her son?

  “Your son?”

  She nodded, but the barrel of the pistol did not waver from the center of his forehead, where she could not miss at this range and where she would not endanger the boy. William. Her son.

  “Yours?” he repeated, as if, if he kept trying, he might get a more satisfactory answer.

  “Mine. William Alexander Bourke Henning. Named after his father, William, and mine, Alexander Bourke. He has the same strawberry mark on his…posterior as his father and my other son, to prove it. Do you wish to see?”

  “Mama!” both boys cried in protest.