The Gamekeeper's Lady

Of course there was. No female would arrive at his door without an ulterior motive. In the past it usually involved hot nights and cool sheets. But not this one. She was far too innocent for such games. He waited for her to speak.

‘Do you hunt a great d-d—’ Her colour deepened. ‘A lot?’ she finished.

She stumbled over a root. He reached out to catch her arm. She righted herself, flinching from his touch with a noise in her throat that sounded like a cross between a sob and a laugh. Her eyes weren’t laughing. Unless he mistook her reaction, she looked thoroughly mortified.

He resisted the urge to offer comfort.

Damn it. Why did he even care? She was one of his employer’s family members. Even walking with her could be misconstrued. But he didn’t want her to trip again. He didn’t want her hurt.

God help him.

He caught her up, and she turned to walk forwards at his side.

‘Do you?’ She peered at him from beneath the brim of her plain brown bonnet with the expression of a mischievous elf. His hackles went up. Instincts honed by years of pleasing women. She definitely wanted something. He felt it in his gut. Curiosity rose in his breast. He forced himself to tamp it down. ‘It is all according to Mr Weatherby’s orders and what Cook requests for his lordship’s table. Most of my work relates to keeping down vermin.’

‘You hunt foxes?’

‘Gentlemen hunt foxes.’ He couldn’t prevent the bitter edge to his tone. ‘I trap them and keep track of their dens so the hunt can have a good day of sport.’ There, that last sounded more pragmatic.

‘Is there a den nearby?’

They left the woods and followed the river bank, the same path he’d walked earlier. ‘There are a couple. One up on Gallows Hill. Another in the five-acre field down yonder.’ He pointed toward the village of Swanlea.

Her eyes glistened with excitement. An overwhelming urge to ask why stuck in his throat. He had no right questioning his betters.

‘Badgers?’

Great God, this girl was a strange one. ‘Stay away from them, miss. They’re dangerous and mean. We hunt them with dogs.’

The light went out of her face a moment before she dropped her gaze. He felt as if he’d crushed a delicate plant beneath his boot heel. Good thing, too, if it kept her away from the sett not far from his dwelling.

‘I’ve never seen one,’ she murmured.

‘They come out only in the evening. Usually after dark.’

Once more he had the sense he had disappointed her, but why the strange urge to make amends? If she disliked him, so much the better. He held his tongue.

The path joined the rutted lane that led to the village in one direction, and over the bridge to the back entrance of Wynchwood Place in the other. The way to the mansion used by such as he. The lower orders.

He scowled at the encroaching thought.

Off in the distance, on a natural rise in the land, the solid shape of the mansion looked over green lawns and formal gardens. A house of plain red brick with a red-tile roof adorned by tall chimneypots. Nothing like the grandeur of the ducal estates, but a pleasant enough English gentleman’s country house.

Their footsteps clattered with hollow echoes on the slats of the wooden bridge. At the midpoint she halted and looked over the handrail into the murky depths of the River Wynch. ‘When I was young, my cousin, Mr Bracewell, told me a troll lived under this bridge. I was terrified.’

She glanced over her shoulder at him, a tentative smile on her lips. A vision of his sister Lizzie, her eyes full of teasing, her dark curls clustered around her heart-shaped face, flowed into his mind. A river of memories, each one etched in the acid of bitterness. Mother. The children. And Charlie before he got too serious to make good company. The acid burned up from his gut and into his throat. He clenched his jaw against the wave of longing. He bunched his fists to hold it at bay.

Slowly he became aware of her shocked stare, of the fear lurking in the depths of strange turquoise eyes. ‘L-listen to me ch-chattering. You want to get h-home to your d-d—meal.’

Fear of him had turned her speech into a nightmare of difficulty. He saw it in her face and in the tremble of her overlarge mouth. He was such a dolt.

Before he could utter a word, she snatched the box from his hand and fled like a rabbit seeking the safety of a burrow.

Hades. The past had a tendency to intrude at the most inopportune moments. He thought he had it under control and then the floodgates of regret for his dissolute past released a torrent emotion. Silently he cursed. Now he’d spend more hours wondering whether she’d report him to her uncle or Weatherby. The girl was a menace. Whatever else he did, he needed to avoid her as if she had a case of the measles.

For all his misgivings, he followed her discreetly, making sure she arrived at the door safely. As any right-thinking man would, he told himself. Especially with so fragile a creature wandering around as if no one cared what she did or where she went.

While she didn’t look back, he knew she was aware of his presence from the way she maintained her awkward half-run, half-trot. Her ugly brown skirts caught at her ankles and her bonnet ribbons fluttered. A little brown sparrow with broken wings.

The thought hurt.

Perhaps she now thought him a rabid dog? A good thing, surely. Hopefully she thought him terrifying enough to keep away from his cottage. He ought to be glad instead of wanting to apologise. Again.

At the entrance to the courtyard, she cut across the lawn. He frowned. What the devil was she up to now? Instead of entering through the front door, she was creeping through the shrubbery toward a side door. Well, well, Miss Bracewell was apparently playing truant. The little minx was nothing but trouble.

She slipped inside the house and he continued around the back of the house to the kitchen door, passing through the neat rows of root vegetables and assorted herbs in the kitchen garden. Mrs Doncaster knew her stuff and Robert had been doing his best to pick her brains, with the idea of planting his own garden in the spring.

The scullery door stood open and, removing his cap, Robert entered and made his way down the narrow stone passage into the old-fashioned winter kitchen.

Mrs Doncaster, her face red beneath her mobcap and her black skirts as wide as she was high, looked up from the hearth at the sound of his footfall. A leg of mutton hung over the glowing embers, the juices collecting in a pan beneath and the scent of fresh bread filled the warm air. Robert’s stomach growled.

‘Young Rob,’ she said with a frown. “Tis too busy I am to be feeding you tonight.’

Robert smiled. ‘No, indeed, mistress. Mr Weatherby is sending me to town tomorrow—is there anything you need?’

‘Wait a bit and I’ll make you up a list.’

Wincing inwardly, he forced himself to ask his question. ‘I’m also in dire need of some carrots if you’ve any to spare, and a few herbs for my stew.’

‘Oh, aye. Caught yerself some game, did you?’ She tucked a damp grey strand of hair under her cap. ‘Maisie.’ Her shriek echoed off the rafters. Robert stifled the urge to cover his ears.

The plump Maisie, a girl of about sixteen with knowing black eyes, emerged from the scullery. ‘Yes, mum?’ When she spied Robert, her round freckled face beamed. ‘Good day to you, Mr Deveril.’

‘Fetch Robert some sage and rosemary and put up a basket of carrots and parsnips, there’s a good girl,’ the cook said.

Maisie brushed against him on the way to the pantry. They both knew what her sideways smile offered, had been offering since the day he arrived. She wasn’t his sort. Far too young and far too witless. And the warning from Weatherby that his lordship would insist on his servants marrying if there was a hint of goin’s-on, as the old countryman put it, had ensured Robert wouldn’t stray. He edged into a corner out of Cook’s way.

‘Saucy hussy, that one,’ Mrs Doncaster said, swiping at her hot brow.

‘Do you need more coal?’ Robert asked, pointing at the empty scuttle beside the blackened hearth.

‘You’re a good lad, to be sure,’ she said with a nod. ‘You thinks about what’s needed. You got a good head on your shoulders. I can see why Weatherby thinks so highly of you already. Take a candle.’

Praise from the cook? And Weatherby? His efforts seemed to be paying off. More reason to make sure he didn’t put a foot wrong. Hefting the black iron bucket, Robert made his way through a low door and down the stairs. The coal cellar sat on one side of the narrow passage, the wine cellar on the other.

Helping the cook had paid off in spades, or rather in vegetables and the odd loaf of fresh bread, but he wanted far more than that. He needed the respect and trust of his new peers if he was going to get ahead.

He tied a neckerchief over the lower part of his face. Dust rose in choking clouds, settling on his shoulders and in his hair as he shovelled the coal up from the mountain beneath the trapdoor through which the coalman deposited the contents of his sacks. Removing the kerchief, Robert ducked out of the cellar and heaved the scuttle back up the wooden flight.

‘Set it by the hearth,’ the cook instructed. ‘Wash up in the bowl by the door.’

Robert washed his hands and face in the chilly water and dried them off on a grubby towel hung nearby. He’d wash properly at home.

‘Drat that girl,’ Mrs. Dorset said. ‘I need her to turn the spit while I finish this pastry.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Robert made his way around the wooden table and grasped the iron handle. It took some effort to turn. How poor Maisie managed he couldn’t imagine.

The aroma of the meat sent moisture flooding in his mouth. God. He hadn’t tasted a roast for months.

‘Slower, young Rob,’ the cook said, her rolling pin flying over the floured pastry.

He grinned and complied. ‘I met Miss Bracewell in the garden on my way in,’ he said casually, hoping to glean a little more insight into the troublesome lass. ‘Is she the only relative to the master?’

The cook’s cheerful mouth pursed as if she’d eaten a quince. ‘The devil’s spawn, that one. You want to stay well clear of her.’

The venom in her voice rendered Robert speechless and…angry. He kept his tone non-committal. ‘She seemed like a pleasant enough young lady. Not that she said much more than good day.’

‘I likes her,’ Maisie said, returning with basket in hand. ‘She opened the door when I had me hands full once.’

‘Goes to show she’s not a proper lady,’ the cook said and sent Robert a sharp stare. ‘A blot on the good name of Bracewell, she is. Her and her mother. My poor Lord Wynchwood is a saint for taking her in. Mark my words, it’ll do him no good.’

‘What—?’ Robert started to ask.

‘Mrs Doncaster.’ The butler’s stern tones boomed through the kitchen.

Robert jumped guiltily. Old Snively was a tartar and no mistake. All the servants feared the gimlet-eyed old vulture. A smile never touched his lips and his sharp eyes missed not the smallest fault according to the house servants.

Snively’s cold gaze rested on Robert’s face. ‘Gossiping with the outside staff, Mrs Doncaster?’

Robert felt heat scald his cheeks. Arrogant bugger. Who did the butler think he was? Robert gritted his teeth, held his body rigid and kept turning the spit, lowering his gaze from the piercing stare. This man had the power to have him dismissed on a word, and from the gleam in his eye the stiff-rumped bastard wasn’t done.

‘If you’ve no work to keep you occupied, Deveril,’ Snively said, ‘perhaps Mr Weatherby can do without an assistant after all.’

‘I’m here to fetch a list for tomorrow, Mr Snively,’ Robert said.

‘Now see here, Snively,’ Mrs Doncaster put in, clearly ruffled, ‘if you kept that good-for-nothing footman William at his duty, I wouldn’t need Rob’s help, would I? Fetched the coal up, he did. Without it, his lordship would be waiting for his dinner.’

Snively fixed her with a haughty stare. ‘Planning, Mrs Doncaster. The key to good organisation. If you had William bring up enough coal for the entire day, you wouldn’t need to call him from his other duties.’

‘Ho,’ Mrs Doncaster said, elbows akimbo. ‘Planning, is it? Am I to turn my kitchen into a coal yard?’

It was like watching a boxing match threatening to spill over into the crowd, but Robert had no wish to become embroiled. It was more than his job was worth. It didn’t help that the old bugger was right, he had no business coming here this evening.

Across the room, Maisie had her lips folded inside her teeth as if to stop any unruly words escaping. Robert knew just how she felt. The portly, stiff-necked Snively was terrifying. Mrs Doncaster’s bravery left him in awe.

‘Planning,’ Snively repeated and swept out of the kitchen.

‘Hmmph,’ Cook grumbled. ‘Johnny-come-lately. Thinks just because he worked in London, he can lord it over the rest of us who’s been here all our lives. Hmmph. His back’s up because he heard what we was saying. Always jumps to defend her, he does.’

The butler rose a notch in Robert’s estimation. ‘I’ll be on my way now Maisie’s back.’

‘Yes. Go.’ Mrs Doncaster, still in high dudgeon, waved him away.

Holding out the basket, Maisie lifted a corner of the cloth covering its contents. ‘I’ve put a nice bit of ham in there for your breakfast,’ she whispered with a wink, then trundled off to her spit.

A cold chill seemed to clutch his very soul with icy fingers. They were all at it. Handing him food, putting him under an obligation. One day, by God, he would repay their charity. Somehow he’d find the means.

More debts to pay.

He pulled his cap on and made his way out into the growing dusk. ‘Spawn of Satan’ ? What the hell had Mrs Doncaster meant? And why the hell had he bristled?

Chapter Four

‘Bring the light closer, Frederica, for goodness’ sake—how can I read in the dark?’

Frederica rose from her chair and moved the candlestick on the tea table two inches closer to her uncle.

Looking up from the most recent missive from Simon, Mortimer peered over his spectacles at her. ‘That’s better.’ He coughed into his ever-ready handkerchief.

Frederica handed him his tea. She hated tea in the drawing room. A senseless torture for someone who had not the slightest chance of making polite conversation under the best of circumstances. Which made her almost easy conversations with Mr Deveril all the stranger.

‘You s-said you needed to talk to me about something, Uncle?’ She needed to get back her drawings of squirrels. She hadn’t yet decided which ones to colour.

‘Is everything prepared for Simon’s visit?’

Inwardly she groaned. ‘Yes, Uncle.’ She took a deep slow breath. ‘I’ve asked Snively to have the sheets for the guests’ rooms aired and instructed him to hire help from the village for the day of the ball.’

He glanced down at the letter in his hand. ‘Radthorn is bringing guests, too, I gather. They will stay at the Grange with him. The ball is going to be far grander than usual. Simon has raised a concern.’

Hurry up and get to the point. She tried to look interested.

Uncle Mortimer lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. ‘He worries you have nothing appropriate to wear. That you won’t be up to snuff. In short, he says you need dresses. Gowns and such. Kickshaws. He also says you need a chaperon, someone to keep an eye on you.’

Oh, no. Frederica’s body stiffened bowstring tight. Vibrations ran up and down her spine as if at any moment she would snap in two. A chaperon would interfere with all her plans. ‘I d-d-d—’ Inhale.

‘Do.’ Uncle Mortimer shifted in his seat. ‘Simon is right, you run around the estate like a veritable hoyden. Look at the way you ran off yesterday.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you even know how to dance?’

‘Simon showed me some country dances.’ Sort of. ‘Mrs Felton in the village has my m-measurements and can make me up a gown or two, but I d-don’t n-need someone watching over me. I’m almost five and twenty.’

Uncle Mortimer scratched at the papery skin on the back of his hand, a dry rasp in the quiet. A deep furrow formed between his brows. ‘Simon said there must be waltzing.’

She gulped, panic robbing her of words. All of this sounded as if Simon had every intention of submitting to Mortimer’s demands. Because he needed money, no doubt. She felt a constriction in her throat.

Breathe. ‘I’ve n-never attended the T-Twelfth Night ball before—why this time?’

Uncle Mortimer stared at her for a long time. He seemed to be struggling with some inner emotion. ‘Dear child. You cannot wed a man like Simon without at least learning some of the niceties. Given your…your impediment, I would have thought you would be eager to oblige. I am going to a great deal of expense and trouble, you know.’

He sounded kind when she’d never heard him sound anything but impatient. He was trying to make her feel guilty. ‘I’d be h-happy s-single.’

‘We are your family. You are our responsibility. Simon is generously shouldering the burden. You must do your part.’

‘Simon must know I’ll never be a fitting wife. After all, I’m m-my mother’s daughter.’

A knobby hand pounded on the chair arm. Uncle Mortimer’s tea slopped in the saucer. ‘Enough. You will do as I say.’ As if the burst of anger had used up all his energy, he sagged back in his chair and covered his face with one hand.

Frederica took the teacup from her uncle’s limp grasp. ‘Surely we can d-do without a chaperon.’

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Lady Radthorn has agreed. It will be done.’

Could this nightmare get any worse? ‘Lady Radthorn?’ Frederica had seen the old lady in the village. She looked very high in the instep. Not the kind of person who would take kindly to a noblewoman’s by-blow sired by no one knew who, but everyone assumed the worst.

‘No arguments. Lady Radthorn has arranged for the seamstress to attend you at her house tomorrow. You will need a costume for the ball. Several morning and evening gowns and a riding habit. The bills will be sent to me.’

Frederica felt her eyes widen as the list grew. ‘It sounds d-dreadfully expensive.’

Uncle Mortimer’s jaw worked for a moment. He swallowed. ‘Nothing is too much to ensure that you have the bronze to make you worthy of Simon.’ He closed his eyes and gave a weak wave. ‘No more discussion. All these years I have paid for your keep, your education, the food in your stomach with never a word of thanks, ungrateful child. You will do as you are told.’

Selfish. Ungrateful. The words squeezed the breath from her chest like a press-yard stone placed on a prisoner’s chest to extract a confession. Was someone like her wrong to want more than the promise of a roof over her head?

It all came back to her mother’s shame. The Wynch-wood Whore. She’d only ever heard it said once as a child, by Mrs Doncaster. Frederica had turned the words over in her mind with a child’s morbid curiosity, and later with a degree of hatred, not because of what her mother was, she had realised, but because she’d left Frederica to reap the punishment.

The sins of the father will be visited upon their children. Who knew what her father’s sins actually might be? For all she knew, her father could be a highwayman. Or worse, according to the servants’ gossip.

Well, this child wasn’t going to wait around for the visitation. She had her own plans. And they were about to bear fruit. In the meantime she’d do well not to arouse her uncle’s suspicions. ‘As you request, Uncle,’ she murmured. ‘If you d-don’t n-need anything else, I w-would like to retire.’

He didn’t open his eyes. Frederica didn’t think she’d be closing hers for most of the night. She was going to finish her drawings and be up early to catch a fox on his way home. The quicker she got her drawings done, the sooner she could get paid. If she was going to escape this marriage, time was of the essence.

In the hour before dawn, normally quiet clocks marked time like drums. The ancient timbers on the stairs squawked a protest beneath Frederica’s feet. She halted, listening. No one stirred. It only sounded loud because the rest of the house was so quiet.

Reaching the side door, she slid back the bolt and winced at the ear-splitting shriek of metal against metal. Eyes closed, ears straining, she waited. No cry of alarm. She let her breath go, pulled up her hood and slipped out into the crisp morning air.

To the east, a faint grey tinge on the horizon hinted at morning. Ankle deep in swirling mist, she stole along the verge at the edge of the drive. Her portfolio under her arm and her box of pencils clutched in her hand, she breathed in the damp scent of the country, grass, fallen leaves, smoke from banked fires. Somewhere in the distance a cockerel crowed.

Thank goodness there was no snow to reveal her excursion.

Once clear of Wynchwood’s windows, she strode along the lane, her steps long and free. Gallows Hill rose up stark against the skyline. Its crown of four pines and the blasted oak, a twisted blackened wreck, could be seen for miles, she’d been told. She left the lane and cut across the meadow at the bottom of the hill, then followed a well-worn sheep track up the steep hillside.

By the time she reached the top her breath rasped in her throat, her calves ached and the sky had lightened to the colour of pewter. Across the valley, the mist levelled the landscape into a grey ocean bristling with the spars of sunken trees.

She stopped to catch her breath and looked around. Bare rocks littered the plateau as if tossed there by some long-ago giant. Among the blanket of brown pine needles she found what she sought: a narrow tunnel dug in soft earth partially hidden by a fallen tree limb. Where should she sit for the best view?

She had read about the habits of the foxes in one of Uncle Mortimer’s books on hunting. Her best chance of seeing one was at daybreak near the den. Hopefully she wasn’t too late.

A spot off the animal’s beaten track seemed the best idea for watching. A broom bush, one of the few patches of green at this time of year, offered what looked like the best cover. From there, the light wind would carry her scent away from the den.

She pushed into the greenery and sank down cross-legged. Carefully, she drew out a sheet of parchment and one of her precious lead pencils. Pencils were expensive and she eked them out the way a starving man rationed crusts of bread, but knowing this might be her only chance to observe the creature from life, she’d chosen it over charcoal, which tended to smudge.

As the minutes passed, she settled into perfect stillness, gradually absorbing the sounds of the awakening morning, cows lowing for the milkmaid on a nearby farm, the call of rooks above Bluebell Woods.

Someone whistling and stomping up the hill.

Oh, no! She looked over her shoulder…at Mr Deveril striding over the brow of the hill, a gun on his shoulder, traps dangling from one hand. He was making straight for the fox’s den with long, lithe strides. Blast. He’d scare off the fox. She put down her paper and rose to her feet, gesturing to him to leave.

He stopped, stock still, and stared.

Go away, she mouthed.

He dropped the traps and started to run. Towards her. The idiot.

She shooed him back with her arms.

He ran faster, his boots scattering pine needles.

She felt like screaming. He’d ruined everything. Any self-respecting fox would be long gone by now and no doubt Mr Deveril would have him shot long before her next opportunity to come up here. Drat. She would need to find another den and right when she didn’t need a delay.

She bent to pack up her stuff.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, stopping short of the shrubbery. His massive shoulders in a brown fustian jacket blocked her view of the sky as his chest rose and fell from exertion. Lovely, beautiful man. She had the sudden desire to snatch up her pencil and draw. Him.