Hidden inheritance, p.4
Hidden Inheritance, page 4
At an understanding look from the governess, Vanessa joined the travelers for a hot meal, sitting quietly with the governess.
The horses were changed, the passengers climbed back in, and they set off again. The parson and his wife left at the next stage point. The others prepared to endure the night of jostling over the north-bound road. Vanessa closed her eyes and tried to sleep, seeking to discourage conversation.
It was not, perhaps, the best solution. With nothing else to occupy her mind, her thoughts moved naturally to the one thing remaining at the back of her head all the time—Nicholas Leighton, the Earl of Stone. Would he be a cold, hard man? Surely he could not be so very bad if Mr. Hunt’s cousin vouched for him. That gentleman was held in the highest esteem by a man she had known most her life, dear Mr. Hunt.
So, given Mr. Millbank’s approbation, surely she must consider Lord Stone to be a man of . . . consequence? But what was he really like? she mused. Would he be a remote tall blond with piercing blue eyes, or possibly a dark romantic with Byronic leanings? Soon she would know.
First impressions were important, she believed. She hoped she could set herself to rights at the inn where they stopped in York before continuing on to Stone’s Court.
Her longing for a feather bed grew as the hours passed. Vanessa felt every bone and muscle in her body protesting vehemently. With every hour that passed, she wondered if she was doing the right thing in coming such a great distance.
When at last she stumbled from the coach at the inn at York, she first sought information about her transportation to Stone’s Court. A man would have to be sent out, it was explained. She then sought a room where she could restore herself and take a nap. She was so tired, not even the thought of a hot meal enticed her. Her final thought before drifting to sleep on a blessedly comfortable feather bed was of the earl. Was he a devil or a saint?
Chapter 3
Vanessa peered eagerly from the window of the carriage. On either side of the road lay a deer park of some magnitude. They had entered the gates of the property some time before, and it seemed they had ridden for ever so long. She could see a few fallow deer wandering beneath the trees of the fine woods. It was a tranquil scene of exquisite beauty, like a hand-tinted etching in a picture book.
Relaxing against the squabs, she reviewed the morning’s events. Vanessa had intended to rest only a short while before continuing on to the Leighton estate. When shown by the landlady to a tiny room where she might refresh herself, she had slumped on the bed and fallen into an exhausted sleep within seconds.
Hours later, the sympathetic landlady shook her awake with the information that the groom from Stone’s Court was below. The sleep had been vastly restoring, however, even if it left her feeling somewhat fuzzy in the head. Vanessa paid her bill with gratitude. She could envision herself arriving half-asleep and making a terrible impression on her new employer. If she saw him. Of course, it might be that she would deal directly with the steward, Mr. Millbank. She hoped she might request a meal. Her store of food was depleted, and her stomach had been protesting since she left York. She ought to have taken time for lunch at the inn.
Her attention was caught by the double row of lime trees they now passed between, and she leaned forward once more to look out the window. A mist had descended over the area, blotting out the distant view. The damp seeped in around the carriage door and penetrated her cloak. She shivered—more with apprehension than with cold, however. She was so close.
There was a rattling of gravel beneath the wheels as the coach turned. All at once she could make out a ghostly shape. It was a building, appearing like one solid rock of stone, rising in austere splendor before her. She drew in an awed breath. Narrow windows looked down on the forecourt. The structure bore a definite resemblance to a fortress of old.
The carriage drew to a halt, the door was opened, and Vanessa was helped down. The groom hesitated, then swung up and sat by the coachman as he drove the carriage away around the curve of the drive. Alone, feeling abandoned in the misty gloom, Vanessa looked about her.
She stood on the lower level of the broad steps leading to the double doors, one of which stood partially open to the mist. Cautiously, wary as a doe, she moved toward those doors. She could hear muffled sounds echoing through the damp air with eerie foreboding. Truly, this residence lived up to her employer’s name.
There was no butler in evidence, yet they must have been expecting her. Then she realized she ought to have sought the servants’ entry. Yet the carriage had stopped here. Puzzled, she poked her head around one of the tall doors, then gasped.
Within was a lofty central hall, the likes of which she had heard described by a friend after a visit to Blenheim Palace. There were two large and two smaller arches, quite elaborate in design. The walls above were frescoed, with musicians, muses, and an array of gods and goddesses silently serenading.
The fantastic sight was set aside as she renewed her determination to seek the servants’ entry. Just as she turned to leave, she caught sight of a man crossing beneath one of the archways, his footsteps echoing on the white-and-black marble floor. He neared the central portion of the hall, directly under the filtered light from the dome, before she realized he must be the steward, Mr. Millbank.
His height was above average and his shoulders were impressive, though he wore a plain white cambric shirt, open at the neck. Surely the earl would have an exquisitely tied cravat above a waistcoat of elegant design? Nankeen breeches were tucked into well-worn boots, not the sort she expected to be worn by the owner of this romantic pile of stone. However, those legs were well-formed and nicely muscular, revealing an athletic inclination. He was handsome in a careless way, in spite of tousled dark-brown hair and a smudge of ink on his cheek.
The sight of the ink smudge confirmed her first impression. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped forward to speak to him. His down-to-earth look appealed to her, most reassuring amid the grandeur of the house.
“Hello?” She cleared her throat, then took another step to place herself in his path. He lifted his eyes from a sheaf of papers held in one very well-shaped hand to give her a puzzled look, as though wondering what on earth she was doing there.
“I am Miss Tarleton, sir. The coachman put me down at this entrance, though I daresay I should have sought the servants’ entry. Perhaps you could contact my employer, Lord Stone, to tell him I am come?” She gave a look about her, unaware of the amusement and appreciation for this fresh beauty that crept into the midnight-blue eyes of the man she faced.
“Welcome, Miss Tarleton. If you are not too fatigued, perhaps you might like a tour of your new home for the coming months. I assume it will take you some time to effect the repairs to the tapestries?”
Nothing was said about contacting his employer, and Vanessa was too delighted in his company to risk repeating her request. He tucked the papers under one arm, then extended the other to her. Vanessa, gratified to find the steward was such a personable man, smiled brilliantly up at him, nodding her pleasure at the thought of a tour of the house—if you could call so grand a place by such a humble word.
“I am well enough, sir. Though the road north from York is not smooth, the carriage made the trip tolerable.” She beamed a second smile at him, her eyes assuming a sweetly grave expression. “If the tapestries are anything as described, and neglected for so very long, it could well take some months. I must confess to a bit of apprehension. Though I have handled the preservation of the tapestries at Blackwood Hall for many years, they are not quite the age of these. Those date merely from the seventeenth century. I understand the tapestries here are much older, and I fear they may be difficult to work on.”
“I was told you are highly skilled. How does it come that a young woman who should be doing nothing more than concentrating on a Season in London should spend so much time at tapestry repair?” His eyes met hers with a shock of warmth in them that shot to her toes.
A hand fluttered to her throat as she responded in soft, breathless tones, “I enjoy needlework, sir. Our tapestries needed tending and I did it.” She hated to reveal there had been no money to hire a weaver to make repairs.
They entered a large saloon that she thought must be lovely on a sunny day. Facing south, with many windows, it possessed a cheerful aspect even in this misty light. The furniture, what still remained in the room, sat concealed by holland covers. She could hear echoes of lumber being dropped on a floor, the sound of voices, the rasp of a saw. The pungent odor of fresh paint drifted about them.
“We thought you might find this an acceptable place to work. It has good light, and a large table could be set up here to accommodate the tapestries. I assume you will want to lay them out to work on them?”
The idea of working in this grand room was a bit overwhelming. Then she remembered she was the daughter of the late Baron Tarleton, and not some mere weaver. Giving him a suddenly confident smile, she replied with serene charm, “It sounds admirable to me, though it seems a large room for the task. Will it not be inconvenient you have it thus occupied for so long?”
His voice was warm and confiding. “The entire place is in the midst of refurbishing. Not all the furniture will be returned. A good many new things will have to be ordered, I suppose. What is the latest vogue in London?”
He held on to her slender hand by simply bringing his arm close to his body. Common sense told him she was merely a tool toward his goal. But his other senses were clamoring to be heard, and they gave distinctly different reactions. The needlewoman had turned out to be exceedingly lovely.
“There is an Egyptian influence, according to Mr. Ackermann’s Respository. I quite enjoy the simple curving, rather classical lines, though I wonder at some of the lions’ heads and paws and caryatids depicted. I do feel that a crocodile couch and a sphinx sofa are perhaps going a bit far. I have nightmares of entering a salon simply swarming with beasts.”
She gave a light chuckle that the listener found enchanting. “The Prince Regent is much taken with the Chinese style in furniture and decoration. When I attended the celebration of his appointment as Regent, I observed numerous examples in his apartments.”
Vanessa abruptly ceased her chatter. She did not intend to impress anyone with a past now gone. She moved with him as he guided her through the subsequent rooms, listening intently to all he explained. His voice was pleasing, husky and deep. The warmth of his body through the fine cambric of his shirt was strangely comforting. She ought to have objected to the intimate manner in which he tucked her arm so tightly to him. Instead she found she quite liked it, and said nothing. His body was firm, well-muscled, unlike Lord Chudleigh’s.
“This is the music room. Somewhere underneath all that holland cloth is a pianoforte. Do you play?”
“Not the pianoforte. I play the harp, but mine is stored at Blackwood until such time as I have a place for it.” Desiring to change the subject, she asked, “This is a rather drafty old place, is it not? I hope I do not regret leaving the warmer climes of Wiltshire for this desolate spot.
A faint smile touched his lips. The most irresistible urge to tease the possessor of those delightful blue eyes came over him. Why not? It wasn’t often he was able to be someone else. “I feel certain you will not find it so harsh. You found London pleasant?”
A suddenly wayward tongue permitted her curiosity, fed by long hours in the coach, to escape. “The gossip in London is that Lord Stone is fond of high living. Or at least the ladies. I should think this would be quite boring for a man of his apparent interests.” She paused, then plunged on, heedless of indiscretion. “Is he such a shocking rake as I have heard?”
The man at her side gave a little cough. “You heard much gossip while in London?”
Vanessa nodded, confiding, “I vow, between those wicked tales and the stories of his many sins from my Aunt Agatha, I was almost ready to overlook my dire need for this position.”
He glanced down at her worried countenance. “And are you in dire need?”
She gave her head a doleful shake. “If you but knew my Aunt Agatha, you would have no need to ask.”
“Dragon, is she?” He was all sympathy, recalling the remark made by Millbank.
“Indeed. I suppose it is that very trait that makes me hope the earl is closer to my steward’s praise than my aunt’s awful predictions. I have no desire to join her household.” In her delight at the beauty of the house, she failed to note he did not answer her question.
The man at her side frowned, then directed his remarks to the room they were entering. What would this charming creature say when she discovered who he really was?
She emitted an unconscious sigh as they continued to the end of the house, where the sight of the long gallery brought her to a halt. It was in the process of extensive alterations. Here the paint smell was strong. Odd pieces of lumber were scattered in tumbled piles, and carpenters bustled about, intent on their tasks. They cast darting glances at the two who entered, but said nothing.
Vanessa was embarrassed at the faint rumbling of her empty stomach. She gave her companion an apologetic look, then sighed. “I do hope I can get some sort of meal before too long.” She politely omitted mentioning her missing meals. She turned from his concerned gaze to look about.
A light and airy feeling pervaded the room, in spite of the fact it was narrow and long. What must have been three rooms originally now opened up on one another, separated only by arches to form one great gallery. The carpenters were occupied in decorating the elaborate window surrounds. At the far end, a painter could be seen wielding his brush. As she passed under the first arch, the central part was revealed to be an octagon with a domed ceiling. It seemed a room to be found in a palace, not some ordinary manor house. Though Blackwood Hall had been a fine example of the latter, this was far grander, almost palatial.
The man at her side placed his hand over hers, a most pleasurable feeling. “We must see to your needs. The remainder of the tour can wait, I am certain.” He paused as a man with a long roll of what appeared to be architectural plans bustled up. Vanessa missed his look of irritation.
The man inquired, “Milord, if I could have but a moment of your time. I have drawn in the changes you requested in the octagon and would have you inspect them.”
Vanessa drew back as though stung. This was obviously not Mr. Millbank, as she had first thought. The man she felt so comfortable with, had shared amused looks and chuckles with, was her employer, the Earl of Stone! She had so hoped to make a favorable impression on the man, and now he must think her a veritable featherhead. And the things she had said! How humiliating!
Drawing in a vexed breath, she pulled away from his side, ignoring the flash of annoyance that crossed his face as she stepped toward the door. “Thank you, milord. I will seek the housekeeper. I am certain she will assist me.”
“Miss Tarleton . . .” His expression was thunderous.
Vanessa paused at the far entry to the long gallery and nodded graciously at Lord Stone. “Perhaps I shall see you later, milord? Thank you for your kind attention.” She dipped a very proper curtsy, then fled past a startled painter.
The corridor with its marble busts and statues of great antiquity normally would have fascinated her at any other time. Now as she hurried along the white marble tiles, she was torn between hunger and an embarrassed desire to seek refuge in her assigned room, wherever it might be found.
He had known who she was and deliberately refrained from telling her his identity. What a fool he had made of her! His amused glances now assumed a totally different aspect. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists in anger as she thought of what she would like to say to that dissembler. Oh, he had not actually lied to her, but he allowed her to believe he was Millbank. He must be well aware she would not have spoken with such an easy manner had she known he was the earl.
Furious, she stamped around the corner even as she berated herself for allowing her tongue to run away from her. What an odious man, and to think she must face him again. Aunt Agatha must have the right of it: he must be a devil and a rake.
When she arrived once more at the arch that led into the entrance hall, she saw a very tall, thin, almost cadaverous-looking man dressed in an impeccable black dress coat with crisp white tie checking the view from the open door. His melancholy mien draped about him like a shroud. The absent butler?
“Ahem.” She caught his attention at once. “I am Miss Tarleton, newly arrived from London. I just spoke with Lord Stone. Perhaps I could be shown to my room?” She tried to curb her ire, and gave him a hopeful look, not expecting too much from what must be an aged family retainer.
Jet-black eyes studied the Lady of Quality who stood politely before him. His brisk voice startled her. “I am Peverly, Miss Tarleton. I regret I was unable to meet you when you arrived. The house is in a bit of disarray at the moment, as you can see. I’ll ring Mrs. Murdoch. She will show you to your room in the west wing.” He spoke the words with a sense of importance, as though she should feel honor in such a location. He marched over to tug a long rope on the wall.
The entry of a short, rather plump woman dressed in rusty black was most welcome. She looked as though she might be a cozy soul, a woman Vanessa might find to be an agreeable coworker.
“Mrs. Murdoch, show Miss Tarleton to her room in the west wing.” The woman faced him as though in silent argument. ‘‘As his lordship specified,” he added. There was an unyielding command in his voice. Vanessa was aware of a feeling of conflict between these two.
With seeming reluctance, Mrs. Murdoch turned and motioned Vanessa to follow her up the stairs. Around one end of a broad arch Vanessa discovered a staircase with several landings, each displaying a collection of some sort. She ignored these, concentrating on the housekeeper. She could almost feel the animosity with every jangle of the keys on the chatelaine which dangled from Mrs. Murdoch’s ample waist. Her body fair bristled with indignation. Vanessa could only wonder what had upset the woman so.
