Barbara Metzger Page 3

  Rockford looked down to see those same damnable green eyes. These were not spitting fire like the widow’s, nor were they aimed at relieving him of what little gray matter he had between his ears. The boy’s eyes were awash with tears, and his lower lip was trembling. “Yours,” he repeated once more, carefully taking his hand away from the child’s shoulder and gently brushing his fingers across the top of the lad’s head before nudging him back across the room toward his mother. For the first time in memory, Rockford found himself speechless, faced with such loathing and disdain. And that was his own opinion. Mrs. Henning must think worse, for she never lowered the barrel, even when the boy reached her side.

  What could he say to make amends for frightening an infant, for threatening to steal a woman’s child? His mind could not think of the words, and his tongue could not have spoken them anyway. Blast, he was a diplomat. He was fluent in a score of languages. He was a first-class fool. “My…my son’s name is William,” was all he could stammer.

  “So do you think you own the name, like you own half the county? The last I heard, not even earls had that right.”

  “Of course not. I just meant… That is, I had heard…”

  She took her eyes off his head for an instant, to glance out the window to where Fred Nivens was turning the coach. “I can well imagine what you heard.” Then she told her older son, “Go tell Billy to hurry with his bath, that his father is waiting.”

  With one look over his shoulder to make sure that his mother was well defended, Kendall hurried down a narrow corridor.

  “Billy?” Rockford echoed after the boy left. That was worse than Willy. He started to say something about the respect due to the son of an earl, but thought better of it, since the widow still held her weapon, although the barrel was lowered, as if her arm was growing weary from the weight. He did say, “His name is William, after his mother’s father.”

  She must have heard a hint of censure he could not keep from his voice, for the gun barrel rose again. “We already had one William, and since Billy is a good enough pet name for one of the king’s own sons, we deemed it good enough for Billy.”

  Another profligate, scandal-ridden royal, just what Rockford wished his son named for. But he let it pass. The sooner he had William out of here, the sooner he could forget his blunder, and forget the silly-billy name. “You say he is at his bath? In the middle of the day?”

  The little boy spoke up, braver now that he was back at his mother’s side. “He fell in the mud when we were feeding Rosie.”

  “And Rosie is…?”

  “Our pig. We were bringing her acorns.”

  His son was throwing slop to pigs? Deuce take it, the child should be at lessons, learning to be a gentleman, not a hog farmer. Wisely, Rockford held his tongue. All that mattered was getting William back, and getting Mrs. Henning to put down that blasted pistol. He gestured toward the weapon. “Do you always keep it loaded? It seems an odd way of greeting guests.”

  She pointedly glanced toward the outline of the gun at his waist. “Do you? That seems an odd way to pay morning visits.”

  “But I do not have children in the house.”

  “And you might never have, if that pistol has a hair trigger.” Then, to Rockford’s amusement, Mrs. Henning blushed for speaking such warm thoughts out loud. He could not remember when he had last seen a mature woman—a widow, no less—color up. At his answering smile, she hurried on: “There is no danger anyway. The boys all know the rules, of course.”

  Since when did little boys follow rules? Rockford might not recall much of his own childhood, but he knew enough to question Mrs. Henning’s confidence. Besides, the children were supposed to leave loaded weapons alone, but not stay away from ill-tempered and unpredictable swine? Her rules were absurd. Why, William could have been trampled or gored or—

  “Papa!” The shout came from down the corridor, and was followed by rapid, running footsteps, and then a small dust storm blew into the room. Mrs. Henning stepped out of the way as a half-naked halfling, wrapped in a towel and a coat of mud, launched itself at Rockford’s legs, almost staggering him. What the sudden onslaught did not accomplish, the stench nearly did.

  Spindly arms reached up, and Rockford had no choice but to lift the boy to his chest. Now his entire set of clothing—his last set until his valet and his trunks arrived—would have to be destroyed, not just his breeches and his boots.

  This one was William, all right.

  Chapter Three

  “I tried to catch him,” a pretty young girl said from the doorway, clutching another towel to her. Mrs. Henning was biting her lip to keep from laughing at the expression Rockford knew he must be wearing, along with a good measure of mud. “I know you did, Amy, dear,” she said, while carefully hanging the pistol back on its high hooks. “Lord Rockford, may I introduce my sister, Miss Aminta Bourke. Amy, this is Billy’s father, the Earl of Rockford.”

  The sister was about seventeen, sweet innocence personified in her sprigged muslin and ribbon-tied hair. She had Mrs. Henning’s fair skin and green eyes, which she kept lowered to her toes. She made a polite curtsy, then offered her hand. When she noticed that her fingers were as filthy as the earl’s son—and the earl—she raised her hand to her cheek in dismay, which left a smudge across her face. “Oh, no!” she cried, then dropped the towel and fled the room.

  Mrs. Henning calmly retrieved the towel, smiled, and said, “You are her first earl, you see.” She would have retrieved the monkey—surely that could not be a real child under the grime—clinging to Rockford’s neck, but the boy did not let go.

  At least he was not shy, Rockford noted. William did not appear the least daunted by his encounter with Rosie, nor by meeting the father he must barely recall. As for being intimidated by the eminence of the title or the dignity of the earl’s bearing—hah! The lad showed as much respect as the pistol-wielding widow. Who appeared to be silently laughing at him. Well, he’d inform both of them about proper conduct toward their superiors, as soon as he could get a word in edgewise.

  “Papa!” William was babbling. “I knew you would come! I just knew it! I told everyone my papa would come get me as soon as Claymore wrote you about Nanny’s broken arm—”

  Nanny had a broken arm?

  “—and how Susie, that’s the nursery maid, left after Aunt Eleanor found her and Mr. Arkenstall in the broom closet.”

  The bailiff in the broom closet?

  “But then they made up, except that new tutor Mr. Arkenstall hired said he would help me get washed and dressed, only Nanny said it was wrong and wouldn’t let him, that I could do it myself. Did you know water can go right through the floors?”

  Onto the magnificent carved and painted ceilings? Or the priceless rugs?

  “And so they sent Nanny off to her sister’s, and he stayed, the tutor, but I did not like him, so I broke his birch rod—”

  The tutor would never work again, if he could walk.

  “—so I ran away. Only Aunt Lissie—”

  Who the deuce was Aunt Lissie?

  “—wouldn’t let me stay because she said Aunt Eleanor would be worried. But Aunt Eleanor wanted to ran away too, she said, and so she asked Aunt Lissie to keep me here. Isn’t that fine?”

  Aunt Lissie was Alissa Henning? Fine was not quite the word Rockford would have used, had he the chance before William started in again.

  “So you did not really have to come, Papa, but I am glad you did, ’cause now you can meet Rosie. She’s the biggest pig in the whole world, you know. Aunt Lissie said she was supposed to be d-i-n-e-r, but she is much too nice for that. You’ll see. Oh, but now that you’ve come, maybe I won’t have to go to lessons with Vicar?”

  Not if he couldn’t spell dinner correctly.

  “But Kendall helps me. He’s the smartest boy in the village. And Aunt Lissie teaches us to draw. Want to see the picture I made of Harold? That’s my pony, but you know that. You sent him. And I told you his name in the thank-you letter I wrote
. Aunt Eleanor helped, but she promised not to tell.”

  The boy smacked his lips against his father’s cheek in a wet, noisy kiss anyway, just in case the earl forgot how grateful he was—or in case Rockford had one last clean spot.

  “That’s because Harold is the best pony in the world. And Jake lets us clean out his stall and brush him too. And we get to collect eggs, but Henny, she’s the—”

  “Biggest hen in the world?”

  “No, Papa, she is the meanest, so we let Amy take her eggs ’cause she’s a girl and Henny likes her better. So does Martin. He’s the blacksmith’s son, but we’re never supposed to leave Amy alone when he’s around ’cause he’s got the biggest—”

  Rockford put his hand over the boy’s mouth. “Enough. You can tell me everything else later.”

  William nodded, but as soon as Rockford’s hand moved he asked, “But I can stay here, can’t I, Papa? Can’t I? It’s the best place in the whole world.”

  Mrs. Henning saved him by saying, “Why don’t you go finish your bath, Billy, while your father and I talk? Ken, Willy, you can help. And ask Amy to check the gingerbread.”

  When the boys left, Rockford said, “Perhaps I will sit down after all, Mrs. Henning. Before I fall down.”

  She looked at her worn, chintz-covered sofa and the embroidered squares covering the bare spots on her stuffed chair, then she looked at the damp and dirty aristocrat. She shrugged, placed the towel Amy had dropped on the seat of a bare wooden chair, and indicated that was where he should sit.

  The Earl of Rockford, consigned to the least comfortable chair in the house, sighed. He could not even blame her. For anything, it seemed. “I—” he began.

  “Do not read your correspondence, I gather.”

  Rockford wiped his hand on his thigh, not that the fabric of his breeches was any cleaner. “My secretary…”

  “Yes?”

  “Will be boiled in oil.” The earl found it amazing how, after a decade of never so much as issuing a challenge, he now felt like committing mayhem on at least a score of scoundrels. At least Mrs. Henning’s lips almost curled into a smile at his words, which made his next words—a self-damning confession, actually—more painful. “He was only following my orders, however.”

  The would-be smile faded, as he knew it would. Rockford told himself her opinion did not matter. How could it? What did the respect of a poor country widow mean to the Earl of Rockford? He sighed. More than he wished, when his own amour propre was at such low tide.

  “Please,” he began. “Will you tell me what happened here, how matters came to such a pass that my son is under your roof?”

  “My badly thatched roof, you mean.”

  He could not deny that a Rock Hill scion deserved better than a tiny cottage, although Mrs. Henning’s parlor was comfortable, except for his hard chair, and the fire was welcoming. He redirected his inquiry. “What happened to Nanny Dee, and do you know if she is all right? I would have…” He would have done a great many things differently, but it was not entirely too late. “Does she need anything?”

  Mrs. Henning’s expression seemed to lighten at his concern for the old nursemaid. “Her arm healed completely, thank goodness. According to Mr. Claymore, she is quite content at her sister’s. It is over near Melton, I believe, where she has handfuls of nieces and nephews to fuss over her, as well as great-nieces and -nephews to coddle.”

  “That is all well and good, but if her broken arm did not bother her, why did she leave Rock Hill after so many years?”

  “I think she took the accident as an omen to retire. In truth, I think she realized she could not keep up with your son.”

  “He does seem a bit, ah…”

  “Energetic?” she supplied.

  He was thinking uncivilized, actually, but he nodded politely. “And was there no one else at that entire estate to look after a little boy? I understand about the nursemaid, but surely there were others. Or a woman from the village.”

  “You must know that Rock Hill is not fully staffed. No, I suppose you do not. Most of the servants were dismissed, although I doubt their names were removed from the salary rolls. It appeared that Mr. Arkenstall was paying himself the wages of the unemployed workers, or that is what the vicar surmises.”

  “Surely Claymore would not stand for that. He has been butler to the family for ages. Why, he quite thinks of Rock Hill as his.”

  “Yes, but, like Nanny Dee, he grows old. He said he wrote, without receiving an answer. Without your agreement, of course, he held no authority over the steward, who kept the ledgers and claimed to be acting on your orders to economize. I doubt Mr. Claymore realized the depth of the fellow’s knavery. No one did, especially Lady Eleanor.”

  “Ah, yes, my sister. How the deuce could she be taken in by such a rogue? I trusted her good sense.”

  “But she had no reason to doubt that Arkenstall was not merely obeying your commands. And the changes were slight, at first. A footman here, a dairymaid there.” Mrs. Henning folded her hands in her lap and looked away, not meeting his eyes. “And I think she feared that she too was growing old. She told me she wanted adventure in her life while she could still enjoy it. She wanted to have her one grand passion.”

  “She read too many rubbishing novels, that’s what.”

  “No, she was reveling in the admiration of a dashing suitor. Mr. Arkenstall was a handsome man, with wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes. He did not look like a villain in the least. Why, all the women in the village used to sigh when he rode past, from the baker’s niece to the vicar’s wife. He had the manners of a gentleman and the facile tongue of a poet, knowing just how to flatter and cajole. He was very…persuasive.”

  Rockford could not like her description of the blackguard, the flowing locks and the flummery. He especially did not like the persuasive part. “Did he approach you too?”

  She chuckled. “In such a…a coming way? Of course not. What could I offer a man of that ilk?”

  If she did not know the answer to that question, Rockford thought, she had not looked in a mirror. “So you were not taken in by his false charm?”

  “I did not say that. What woman does not like compliments? The whole parish was beguiled until he started raising rents and letting workers go. He blamed you, of course, maintaining his own goodwill as long as possible. He said your style of London living was too expensive for the estate to support the way it had been doing.”

  “I do not take a farthing from the estate! My personal investments provide more than amply for my needs.”

  “But he was your estate manager. Why should anyone doubt him?”

  “So they believed I was a spendthrift, a wastrel, living the life of luxury while my dependents went hungry?”

  She studied her hands again, without answering.

  “I see.” Despite his anger, Rockford also saw that the widow’s were not the soft white hands of an idle lady, but strong and competent-looking. And calm. She was not wringing her hands the way her words were wringing at his soul.

  “I believed I had competent employees.”

  “But you never came, never took an interest in Rock Hill. And then there were all those mentions of your name in the newspapers. Not that the whole village reads the gossip columns, but they hear things, even so far from London. Everyone knows how extravagant the prince regent is, how lavish his entertainments, how he and his friends spend fortunes on momentary pleasures.”

  “You should not believe everything you hear.” Although much of it was true. Rockford started to brush the mud off his sleeve, until he realized he’d be brushing it onto the widow’s floor, and she likely had no maid to sweep up after him. Lud, what a coil. His reputation had a worse odor than his clothes, and he, Robert, Lord Rockford, was going to have to beg forgiveness from a countrywoman of no possible distinction except decency and green eyes. He took a deep breath. “And so you took William into your home?”

  “I could not leave him there, could I?”

 
; A less caring woman could have. The only worthwhile effort Eleanor had made in the boy’s behalf was handing him to Mrs. Henning. “And the money?”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand, but raised her chin. “My husband was taken from us two years ago, my lord, and I live in straitened circumstances, as you must be aware, supporting my household on meager funds and what I can earn giving drawing lessons. Lady Eleanor certainly was cognizant of my financial condition. We both agreed Billy would do better here anyway, with the boys to play with and lessons in the village, than on his own at Rock Hill. So yes, I accepted foodstuffs from Rock Hill, and money for Billy’s clothes and schooling. More than was strictly necessary, I freely admit. I did not think you would begrudge classes for my sons with the vicar, or the occasional treat, not when you were likely spending more than all of it combined on a single pair of boots. I shall, of course, repay you for any—”

  He held up his hand. “No, no, I never meant to imply that you had misappropriated funds from the estate.”

  “Of course you did. You came here armed, did you not? As if two women and two little boys were holding your son hostage, bleeding your coffers dry in exchange for his well-being.”

  Now it was Rockford’s turn to study his fingers. “Perhaps at first,” he admitted. “The gossip, you know.”

  She threw his words back at him: “You should not believe everything you hear.”

  He believed he needed a drink. And a bath.

  Once again, Rockford was at a loss for words. There were no pat phrases he could mouth, no rules of proper conduct for such a blatant breach of common civility as he had shown to this woman.

  Instead of waiting for him to flounder through an apology, as most other females would have, glorying in his grovels, Mrs. Henning asked, “So what shall you do now?”

  After stringing that groom Fred Nivens up by his thumbs? “Why, I shall return to Rock Hill and straighten out the mess. Now that I am aware of the problem, everything will be addressed and corrected. Tenants will be recompensed, former retainers rehired, no matter the cost.”