The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Read online

  Frances folded her hands in her lap. “That won’t be necessary, my lord. I free you from any obligation my father may have asked of you.”

  Catching the lingering doubt in her tone and in her phrasing, Lucan frowned. “That’s the thing about obligations—only the person who made the request can revoke it.”

  “I’m certain my father would not have bothered to ask this favor of you, had he known to what lengths you would go.”

  The closer they came to the end of the long alabaster drive, the more anxious Lucan felt. He wondered how much she knew—if anything—about the history between her father and Whitelock. “I’m certain he would permit me to turn this carriage around and take you back to Fallow Hall in order to keep you from a man he abhors above all others.”

  Frances gave him a patient smile. “He does not hate Lord Whitelock. They were once rivals for my mother’s hand, but the animosity between them ended when my father married my mother.”

  “Is that what your father told you when Whitelock began showing up at Mrs. Hunter’s?” Lucan doubted it.

  “I know my father. He does not harbor grudges.” She swallowed and turned toward the window. “Nonetheless, I have chosen not to mention Lord Whitelock to him because reminders of my mother bring my father pain.”

  Lucan frowned. It was as he’d guessed—Hugh Thorne was not even aware of Whitelock’s inexplicable appearance in his daughter’s life. While Frances’s motives were pure of heart, Lucan wished she’d have witnessed her father’s acute dislike of Whitelock firsthand.

  “It seems that you cast your own desires aside for the sake of your father quite often. You do not speak of your mother. You have not mentioned Whitelock. I can only guess that there have been many more instances.”

  “A gambler and practiced deceiver may not be able to understand this, but when you care for someone, you put your own desires aside. You do not manipulate that person with sly tricks. Nor do you selfishly scheme against your own friends in order to win a wager.”

  What she called selfish, he called survival. “Mark my words, if it wasn’t for my trick today, there would be four people plotting and scheming against the two of us. Even you have to admit that the sleight of hand served its purpose.”

  “Entertaining or not, it was still deception.” She pursed her lips in condescension. “Besides, you were merely fortunate that no one asked to check your pocket.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief and laughed. He might have been showing off a bit earlier by demonstrating one of the parlor tricks he’d used to stay in the good graces of hosts who still invited him to parties, yet the one person he’d wanted to impress hadn’t been fooled for a single moment. “You are quite the knot, Miss Thorne, full of twists and tangles. I find myself wondering if your abhorrence of my actions lies solely on my own shoulders or if perhaps I am paying for the sins of my father.”

  “I know you were not part of my father’s trials. Your family’s public disapproval of your defense of him speaks for itself.”

  That was something, at least. “Someone else, then? Was there another selfish schemer in your history who left such a dark stain behind that it can never be scrubbed clean?”

  He knew there was. That cad Roger Quinlin came to mind. Lucan wanted to goad her into admitting it so that he could tell her that he wasn’t like Quinlin either. But why should telling her suddenly be so important?

  The simple answer was that he needed her to trust him under these circumstances. Yet he suspected that his need went a little deeper.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You would do better to worry over your own dark stains.”

  “Ah, but yours are now under my keeping, as well.” The carriage slowed. Lucan sat forward and took one of her hands. “Be on your guard, Miss Thorne. I do not trust Whitelock.”

  “So you have said.” She snatched her hand free.

  He didn’t relent. This was too important. “Use whatever you can—fire poker, duster, beater, pen knife . . . ”

  She sat straighter. “I do not believe Whitelock will attempt to kiss me, so I need not worry.”

  At the mention of a kiss, the tension between them altered. Through her lenses, he saw those smoky eyes dip to his mouth. Abruptly, the carriage shrank, closing in bit by bit. He could smell the soap on her skin. See the milky white of her complexion, flawless aside from where a soft blush tinted her cheeks. Her nostrils flared as if she were drawing him in as well. Then she licked her lips, reminding him how soft and supple they’d felt against his own.

  “You did not use your defense against me,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  She quickly looked out the window. “No, but I will in the future.”

  “Good.” He felt a grin tugging at his mouth, pleased that he wasn’t the only one plagued by their unexpected chemistry. Even though he knew he should keep his distance, he couldn’t help adding, “Then I will see you soon and test your skill.”

  She jerked her gaze back to his, blustering. “I will not have you endangering my employment by calling on me here.”

  “You needn’t worry. No one will know that I’ve paid a call. I know how to move about all sorts of places unseen.”

  “You believe that only because you haven’t been caught yet. I’m not willing to put my future and my father’s in jeopardy to satisfy your misguided assumptions,” she accused. “I have lived in London my entire life, and I know when circumstances call for caution. Working for Lord Whitelock is not one of them.”

  Her arrogant belief in her ability to sense danger might very well the thing that put her in the direst of circumstances. “Since I know that it is your nature to turn obstinate, I did not force you to remain at Fallow Hall. I agree that you are more capable than any other woman in my acquaintance. However, I will keep watch over you, whether you like it or not.”

  Frances chose to ignore Lucan’s threat and focus on her new life. She did not have the time to argue with him, or to examine the way his words caused her pulse to quiver. Instead, she left the carriage without a word and ignored the enigmatic pull that made her want to linger.

  Whitelock’s country residence was not a mere house or manor. It was a palace with marble floors, elegant crystal chandeliers, and walls lined from floor to ceiling with romantic paintings.

  Upon her arrival, Frances met Mr. Greggs, the tall, stoic butler, and Mrs. Riley, the fretful, needle-nosed housekeeper.

  “Dear heavens, Miss Thorne,” Mrs. Riley said, busying herself with taking Frances’s hat, gloves, and satchel and handing each off to a waiting maid. “We’ve been at sixes and sevens, not knowing what to do when our driver arrived without you not a quarter hour ago, and he not having full recollection of how it had happened.”

  Frances didn’t want the driver to pay for what Lucan had done, and she quickly took the blame. “I apologize for causing you worry. I must have stepped into the wrong carriage. Fortunately, arriving at a neighboring estate, I soon realized my error.”

  At least part of it was the truth. As for the rest, she need not mention how she’d been escorted to the wrong carriage under false pretenses.

  Then, after clucking around her like a mother hen to make sure all her limbs were intact, Mrs. Riley showed her around the estate. There were five floors in all, with the servants’ quarters in the attic, the guest chambers on the second floor, the family rooms on the first, the main rooms on the ground floor, and the kitchens, laundry, butler’s pantry, and housekeeper’s office below stairs. Lord Whitelock employed forty house servants and sixteen more in the stables and on the grounds. She met nearly all of the house servants, priding herself on remembering all of their names.

  Out of those, Nannette, Penny, and Bess—the first and second floor chambermaids, stood out the most. Each one possessed friendly manners and fresh-faced vibrancy that Frances hadn’t often seen amongst the servant class.

  “His lordship rescued me from a workhouse in the dials,” Nannette said, tucking a glossy ebon
y tuft of hair beneath a frilled cap.

  Penny’s large brown eyes looked owlish against her pale features as she shared her story. “It was mid-winter two years past when Mum caught the fever. I buried my little sister the same week. I’d have been next if not for his lordship taking me in.”

  “I was left at a foundling home when I was twelve. I was too old, and they wouldn’t let me stay,” Bess said. She was a small bit of a girl with wispy mouse brown hair and a skittish demeanor, but when she smiled it was infectious. “His lordship rescued me the same as he did with all the others. I’ve been here three years now and worked up from the kitchens.”

  Just as she had when others had stopped to tell their similar stories, Mrs. Riley shooed them along, albeit good-naturedly. “You’ll have plenty of time to speak of his lordship’s kindness and generosity to Miss Thorne, but she’s had a rough time of it today and deserves her rest.”

  On the second floor, the housekeeper showed Frances to her rooms. They were situated in the east wing, just one floor above Lady Whitelock’s. The balcony windows hosted a view of the inner courtyard—a grassy knoll trimmed in conical topiaries with a curvaceous fountain in the center. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the statue depicted a reclining woman with a swan rising above her.

  Now this, she thought, was something she would never see at Fallow Hall. Shaking her head, she thought it rather odd. Yet in the same breath, she did not doubt such a large statue and fountain held some significance. Lord Whitelock had said as much when he’d mentioned how his home hosted a wealth of art for her appreciation. And with earning a pound per week, she felt obligated to try.

  Frances speculated that perhaps the artist had admired a woman’s shape and likened it to a swan’s grace and beauty—or perhaps the woman represented the earth and the swan was supposed to be the . . .

  Frances squinted, unsure. She was starting to get a headache.

  “Quite captivating, isn’t it?” Mrs. Riley said as she moved to stand beside her. “His lordship has filled this house with such beautiful art. The fountain is a depiction of the myth of Zeus, who was so enraptured by Leda’s beauty that he transformed himself into a swan to be with her.”

  The housekeeper’s mention suddenly reminded Frances of the myth. From her own studies, she’d found the tale far from romantic. In fact, to her it had seemed more like Zeus had disguised himself to take advantage of an unsuspecting woman.

  Yet for Mrs. Riley, she pasted on a smile. “It’s lovely.”

  Frances turned away from the window and saw that her bedchamber was decorated in the same dramatic fashion as the rest of the house. Even her bedclothes were in a decadent white satin which shimmered in the light. The bed itself was immense, with its own vaulted ceiling attached to the four corner posts. Behind it, the curtains tied back to reveal a painting of woman dressed in gauzy silk and standing amidst a flower meadow.

  Frances found herself sorely lacking in education here as well. She knew it was for her to admire and appreciate, but it did not hold her interest.

  “His lordship is quite the collector,” she said, turning away from the painting.

  Mrs. Riley beamed like a proud mother. “Yes, indeed. He once told me that by furnishing his homes with beauty, those under his care could lead richer lives.”

  Frances offered an obliging nod before stifling a yawn. The long days of travel were taking their toll. While her chamber and the entire house was lovely, it was also a bit much to take in all at once. Quite honestly, she preferred the simplicity of Fallow Hall. Yet this was her home for the foreseeable future, and she would learn to get used to it.

  “You must be eager to get settled,” Mrs. Riley said, walking toward the door. “I’ve ordered water for your bath. Afterward, I’ll send Diana to take your measurements for new clothes.”

  With such a generous salary from Lord Whitelock already, Frances opened her mouth to object. “That won’t be necessary—”

  “His lordship insists. In fact, he had four day dresses and two evening gowns made for Miss Momper.” Mrs. Riley clucked her tongue. “Such a dear, sweet girl, we are sad to be without her, and her ladyship seemed to like her as well. Ah, but we cannot selfishly hold one of our own back when new opportunities arise.”

  “Was Miss Momper her ladyship’s companion for many years?” Frances couldn’t fathom a better opportunity than earning a pound a week.

  “Not quite a year. Let’s see . . . Since I’ve been here these past six years, there has been Cora, who is now housekeeper at one of his lordship’s other houses. Then Molly, who found herself a husband, and they have a shop in London. And Betsy, who is now a companion to a baroness and touring the Continent.” Mrs. Riley looked heavenward with a sigh. “His lordship is good to us all. He’ll be good to you as well.”

  Frances hoped so too. She wanted to free her father from gaol but through honest labor and a wage well earned.

  Yet even with all of Lord Whitelock’s accolades from his staff, she couldn’t quite silence the doubt that Lucan had put inside her head. Was there a reason her father had never mentioned Lord Whitelock?

  Find Lucan Montwood. He’ll know what to do. And why had her father put his faith in Lucan, even after all that had happened between their two families?

  These were two riddles she was determined to solve.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lucan sent the driver back to Fallow Hall without him. Now that Miss Thorne was under Whitelock’s roof, more than ever before Lucan needed to ensure her safety. Even though he had no material reason to suspect Whitelock’s motives regarding her, the toll of those warning bells persisted. What precisely was Whitelock’s plan—both in regard to Miss Thorne and also with the ten thousand pound debt? Lucan was starting to suspect that they were connected. But how?

  Until now, he’d limited his investigation of Whitelock to what he’d gleaned from servants, eavesdropping, and listening for anything that would offer insight to the viscount’s actions. All he heard was praise. In fact, Whitelock’s name on anyone’s lips touted accolades for him. Most of the pertinent information had come from Arthur Momper. Yet with Miss Thorne living under Whitelock’s roof, he wasn’t about to leave her safety to popular opinion or errant gossip. Lucan would have to gain access to the house itself.

  Using his spyglass from a safe distance, Lucan surveyed the house for the majority of the day. He cataloged the comings and goings of the servants and paid close attention to the doors that were used most frequently and the ones that were used the least. As in most households, the servants of similar stations kept company together. The stable hands and grooms had formed their own small community, as had the kitchen staff, the housemaids, the footmen, and the chambermaids.

  Observing their interactions, Lucan began to wonder where Miss Thorne would fit, or if her position—working closely with the lady of the manor—would essentially segregate her. And worse, make her easy prey for the lord of the manor.

  Lack of evidence notwithstanding, Lucan detested this arrangement. Frances did not belong here. He knew her well enough that she would not be satisfied with sitting and reading aloud all day long. She was a woman of action. He’d seen it in the way she’d demonstrated her lessons in defense. Her face had shimmered with life when she’d spoken of helping other women.

  The image of her brandishing a fire poker in Fallow Hall’s study earlier that day remained constant within him. He’d never seen her so happy, grinning, and laughing with his friends. She’d filled the room with her own unique vibrancy, so much so that even he—dark soul that he was—had felt it. He hadn’t thought such warmth and joy would ever penetrate the walls surrounding his heart. The sensation was as intriguing as it was disconcerting. He wanted to feel more of it, yet at the same time he feared what would happen if he did.

  But he’d given his word, and tonight, under the cloak of darkness, he would find a way inside the house. He would keep a diligent watch over her.

  Walking near the tree line along the
outer edge of Whitelock’s land, Lucan spotted Arthur Momper’s familiar sheaf of wheat-colored hair. He sat near the banks of a stream, head bent to his knees.

  Purposely, so he wouldn’t cause a fright, Lucan stepped on a twig. The boy jerked his head up, saw who it was, and quickly turned away to wipe his face dry. But it was already too late. Lucan had seen that he was crying.

  “What’s all this? Surely you don’t miss the odors of London,” Lucan teased, ruffling the boy’s head.

  “She didn’t write. Henny said she would write and let me know when I could come live with her,” the lad said, his voice muffled between his knees.

  Lucan knew Henny and Arthur were close, so this separation was bound to be a blow. “She’ll write. Don’t you worry.”

  Arthur shook his head. “You don’t understand. She said she would write every week. She promised.”

  “I imagine she has a lot of work to do now that she’s managing the maidservants of an entire estate,” he reassured.

  The boy lifted his head. His red-rimmed eyes locked on Lucan. “She’s all I have in the world, and now it feels emptier somehow. I don’t know why, but I’m scared.”

  Lucan felt a chill pass through him. He remembered a time when he’d felt that same way, and shortly afterward, he’d learned of his mother’s death.

  Concerned, he sat down beside the bank and settled an arm around the lad’s shoulder. “It just so happens that I know a few people in Wales. I’ll send a missive, and we’ll find her.”

  Arthur nodded and sniffed. Settling his chin on top of his knees, he stared out over the water. “Promise?”

  “I promise I will do everything I can.” And he would, because Lucan never gave his word lightly.

  At the end of her long day, Frances walked up to the second floor to retire. She had just left Mrs. Riley in her office below stairs, where they’d shared a late supper and had spoken of Frances’s duties, which included an afternoon per week of teaching Artful Defense. Since Lady Whitelock had been “out of sorts,” Frances had not yet met her. The delay gave Frances a short reprieve to become acclimated to her new surroundings.