Part 3 (1/2)

So, that's the situation,” Arabella finished, offering her steward and housekeeper a smile that she hoped was encouraging.

”Begging your pardon, m'lady, but it just doesn't seem right. I can't quite get my head around it,” Mrs. Elliot said. ”It's so sudden like, losing his lords.h.i.+p just like that. I mean, he was quite a young man, really.” She sniffed a little. ”Of course, living a life like . . . well, it's not my place to say.” She glanced significantly at Franklin, who nodded.

Arabella decided not to respond to this. Her brother's violent and untimely death would be the main topic of conversation and speculation in the servants' quarters for weeks, if not months, to come.

Firmly, she returned the subject to the present situation. ”His grace has said that he will make no significant changes in the composition of the household, so no one should be afraid for their jobs.”

”But there are bound to be changes, madam,” Mrs. Elliot declared, dusting her hands on her crisply starched ap.r.o.n. ”Stands to reason.”

Arabella sighed. ”Yes, I'm sure there will be, but I'll be surprised if the duke spends much time in the country. I suspect London is more to his taste. It's possible you'll see very little of him.”

”Aye, a fine gentleman he is an' all,” the housekeeper said. ”Almost as fine as that man of his.” She sniffed again. ”Causing all sorts of trouble and bother, he is, with his fancy ways. His grace must have this, and that must be just so, and that's not what his grace is used to . . . I don't know as how I'll stand it. Isn't that so, Mr. Franklin?”

”It is so, Mrs. Elliot,” the steward agreed as gloomily. ”A new broom, that's for sure.”

Arabella swallowed another sigh. She had always encouraged an easy, open relations.h.i.+p with the domestic staff, much to the disapproval of her brother, but it had suited her own nature. However, she wasn't really in the mood to hear them air their grievances at present. She had enough troubles of her own.

”Well, I'm sure things will settle down in the end,” she offered. ”And as I said, I don't imagine his grace will stay in the country for very long and I'm sure he'll take his servants with him when he leaves.”

”But what about you, my lady?” the housekeeper asked. ”Where will you be going?”

”I'm not sure as yet,” Arabella said. ”I imagine I'll go to my relatives in Cornwall. But it'll take a little while to arrange and the duke has very kindly said I might remain here until I've sorted things out.”

Mrs. Elliot shook her head. ”Don't seem proper, m'lady, begging your pardon. But for an unmarried lady . . .” She shook her head again. ”Can't think what Lord Dunston was thinking of . . . not making provision . . .” Fl.u.s.tered, she caught herself and let the sentence trail away. It was not her place to question the actions of her employers.

Arabella let it go. She said brusquely, ”The duke and I will lead quite separate lives. I shall keep to my own apartments in my own wing. You will, of course, serve his grace's meals in the dining room, but I will take mine here in my parlor. From now on you'll take your orders from his grace and refer any visitors directly to him as the master of the house. He'll explain the situation for himself. Oh, except for my own friends,” she added. ”If Miss Barratt should call, for instance, Franklin, there will be no need to disturb the duke.”

”Quite so, madam.” Franklin's bow managed to convey his displeasure at being reminded of such an obvious fact.

Arabella stood up, bringing the interview to an end. ”If there are no more questions . . . ?”

”I don't believe so, madam,” the steward said with another bow. The housekeeper curtsied and they both backed towards the door, closing it behind them.

Well, that was over and done with, Arabella thought with relief. She'd been as businesslike and matter-of-fact as she could manage but it was all too easy to imagine the dismay belowstairs at this abrupt change of owners.h.i.+p. It would be the same among the tenant farmers. Everyone on the estate was dependent on the goodwill and generosity of the owner of Lacey Court. Vagaries of temperament could make their lives unlivable. Frederick had been a neglectful master, uninterested in the welfare of his tenants or indeed in anything to do with the estate except in terms of the income it provided him, but Peter Bailey was a more than able agent and administrator and Arabella saw to the more pastoral aspects of estate management. She could only hope Jack Fortescu would recognize Peter's value and keep him on. But he might well prefer to put his own man into such a vital position.

Just thinking about it all made her head ache. This day seemed to be sixty hours long. She sat down at her lacquered oak writing table and drew a sheet of parchment towards her. How did one begin a begging letter to relatives one barely knew? Particularly when one wasn't begging for something as innocuous as a small loan or a bed for the night. A permanent home was a monstrous request.

She dipped her quill in the inkstand and began. She scratched out the first line and tried again. Boris and Oscar padded between the table and the parlor door. Usually Arabella went for a ride at this time in the afternoon and the dogs raced off their surplus energy alongside her horse- Her horse . . . did Renegade still belong to her or did he now belong to Jack Fortescu? She stopped in mid pen-stroke. Renegade had been bred on the estate, so technically belonged to the estate. Strictly speaking, he was on loan to her . . . had been for five years.

The quill dropped to the parchment, spattering ink. What else didn't belong to her? Her clothes . . . well, surely they did. They had been bought with estate funds, of course, but . . . no, that was absurd. Boris and Oscar whined and she hushed them with uncharacteristic impatience. They were hers, at least. They had been a birthday gift from Sir Mark Barratt, the pride of a litter delivered by his adored Red Lady.

What little jewelry she had surely belonged to her. There were a few pieces of her mother's and the pearl set her father had given her when she made her debut at Court. A waste of money he'd called it when she'd returned home without a suitor on the horizon. But he hadn't taken them back. Although she supposed that technically, again they could be said to be part of the estate. Of course, she had a tiny stipend from her mother's jointure. It might go some way towards paying for her keep, but it wouldn't enable her to live independently.

Oh, it was impossible. Her head was spinning and the heat in the room was suddenly unbearable. She jumped up. ”All right, we'll go for a ride.” Two feathery tails wagged in vigorous enthusiasm. She went through to her bedchamber, slipping her arms out of the morning gown. It was the matter of a moment to climb into britches and a riding skirt of serviceable green broadcloth. She picked up the matching waistcoat, then let it fall to the bed. Briskly she tucked her plain white linen s.h.i.+rt into the waistband of her skirt. It was too hot for coats and waistcoats and she was not going out in public, she wouldn't even leave the estate boundary. She sat down to pull on her boots, the dogs now panting eagerly by the door. She grabbed her gloves and whip, picked up her hat, then tossed that to the bed. She needed to feel the wind in her hair.

”Come on, boys.” She opened the door and they bounded ahead of her down the stairs. It was close to three o'clock and the duke would be closeted in the library with Franklin and Mrs. Elliot, so she was unlikely to run into him-nevertheless, she took the back stairs and left the house through the scullery.

”Renegade's a bit dozy this afternoon, my lady,” the groom informed her as she came into the stable yard. ”'Tis the heat, I reckon. Sendin' us all to sleep.”

Arabella agreed with a quick smile and perched on an upturned rainwater b.u.t.t to wait for her horse to be saddled. ”Right powerful brute came in this morning,” the groom observed casually as he led her horse from the stable. ”An' a nice set of carriage horses. Four prime 'uns.” He cast her a slyly questioning glance as he flung the saddle over Renegade's back.

”I imagine his grace of St. Jules has only the best,” Arabella observed with a cool nod. ”I would expect him to be a fine judge of horseflesh.”

”Well, someone certainly is,” the groom declared. ”You should take a look at 'em, m'lady. The gelding's in the fourth stall . . . t'others at the end of the second row.”

Arabella slid off the water b.u.t.t and wandered towards the stables, trying to appear as if she had only a cursory interest in the new arrivals. Which was far from the case. The raking chestnut was a magnificent beast, but he would take strong hands and an even stronger will to manage. She thought of the duke's lean, elegant hands and realized with a shock that she hadn't known she'd noticed them. But she could remember every detail, from the manicured filbert nails to the smooth pale skin over the knuckles, to the slender wrists visible beneath the foaming lace of his cuffs. But slender didn't mean weak. She could imagine a tensile strength there, the strength of a man who could use that rapier as it was intended to be used.

Telling herself not to be ridiculous, she turned from the stall and marched out of the stable block into the suns.h.i.+ne. Renegade tossed his head when he saw her and Boris and Oscar ran in ever-decreasing circles around the cobbled yard. The groom led the horse to the mounting block and Arabella swung herself into the saddle. She leaned forward to pat the animal's neck. ”Wake up now, Renegade.” He snorted and tossed his head again, then walked sedately out of the yard.

Arabella directed him to the paddock and then gave him his head along the riverbank that ran at the bottom of the field. She relaxed into his smooth gait, exhilarated by the wind whipping her hair across her face, clearing her head, somehow smoothing the besetting tangle of problems.

Perhaps there was an empty cottage on her relatives' land in Cornwall. It wouldn't have to be grand, just a simple two-room dwelling would suit her. Her stipend would pay for the bare necessities and she could grow her own vegetables. She would have a garden, maybe a couple of fruit trees. She could barter produce for meat, flour . . . she didn't have to live on charity. There had to be ways she could earn enough to keep body and soul together once she could find her own roof. And so long as she could transport her orchids, she could continue to breed and sell them as she did now. At the moment it was merely a hobby, but it could become a truly paying concern.

She was feeling almost at peace, almost as if the future had now been decided to her satisfaction, when she finally turned Renegade towards home. Boris and Oscar lolloped beside the horse, their wild energy for the moment exhausted. They trotted into the stable yard and Arabella cursed under her breath. The duke and Peter Bailey were standing in the middle of the yard, seemingly engaged in an earnest conversation.

They both turned as she entered the yard. Peter Bailey swept off his hat. His kindly, intelligent countenance showed deep distress as he walked towards her. ”Lady Arabella, I'm so sorry to hear of his lords.h.i.+p's death.” He laid a hand on her bridle as he looked up at her.

She nodded with a rather wan smile. ”It was very sudden, Peter. Did the duke explain the circ.u.mstances to you?”

”Yes, at some length, madam.” Peter's expression became even more doleful and his voice was barely above a whisper. ”It's a very strange disposition of the Dunston lands and fortune, if I may say so.”

Arabella nodded again. ”I don't understand how it happened, but my brother was, as you know, a law unto himself and he had every right to dispose of what belonged to him free and clear.”

Peter contented himself with a half bow of acknowledgment. They would not speak ill of the dead, but like everyone else on the estate he had had no illusions about Frederick Lacey's general character, and the circ.u.mstances of the earl's death as recounted by the duke had done nothing to change that.

Jack waited discreetly for a minute or two, not wanting to disturb the whispered exchange. He didn't think he'd ever before met a respectable woman so careless of her appearance. Coatless, hatless, hair whipped into a tangle by the wind, her nose smudged with dust, perspiration beading her forehead, Lady Arabella looked perfectly at home in a stable yard and could have been any farmer's daughter coming in from a day raking hay in the fields. He thought of Lilly, his cool, elegant mistress, who never had a hair out of place even in the throes of pa.s.sion. For some reason the contrast brought an involuntary smile to his lips.

With an alerting cough he strode across the yard towards them. ”I thought you were too busy to ride this afternoon, ma'am,” he said with a dry smile. His gaze drifted over her, settling for an instant on the p.r.o.nounced swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath the thin s.h.i.+rt. An interesting counterpoint to the marked indentation of her waist and the flare of her hips in the green skirt.

”Exercising the dogs is one of my afternoon tasks,” Arabella responded, uncomfortably aware of that swift flickering appraisal. She wished she had worn a coat, or at least a hat. She must look like a gypsy, as disheveled and sweaty as she had been that morning in the conservatory, and the duke was as infuriatingly immaculate as ever. In fact, she was sure he'd changed his s.h.i.+rt since she'd last seen him.

He laid a hand on the smooth, warm neck of her horse, then palmed the soft, velvety nose. ”And it can't be done in company,” he mused with the faintest hint of a question mark.

”The speed I ride with the dogs is not conducive to conversation, your grace,” she stated, and nudged Renegade's flanks with her knees, urging him over to the mounting block. The sooner she brought an end to this awkward conversation, the better-she was at enough of a disadvantage as it was.

Jack stepped away from the horse but walked beside him. ”Beautiful gelding,” he observed.

”Yes, he is.” Arabella swung herself down from the saddle onto the block and turned away from the duke. ”Peter, if you'd care to come to the house after you've completed your business with his grace, I'd be glad to talk some things over with you.”

”With pleasure, ma'am.” The agent bowed again.

Arabella gave him a brief smile of thanks, handed her horse's reins to the groom, whistled up the dogs, and left the yard without so much as a glance towards Jack Fortescu.

Jack looked after her, stroking his chin, watching the sway of her hips as she walked away with a swift and purposeful step. Then he shook his head, as if giving up the search for a solution to a puzzle.

Peter broke the strained silence, observing rather tentatively, ”Lady Arabella is a great favorite with the tenants. They'll be heartbroken to hear this news. She knows them all by name, knows all their children. They know they can come to her in any crisis and she'll help . . . whether it's food or money or they need more time to pay the rent. I don't know what they'll do without her.”

Jack kept silent.