An Honorable Gentleman. Regina Scott
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“I’m very sorry,” Gwen felt compelled to say. “I can’t imagine who met you out here.”
“Neither can I,” he replied, gently nudging Dolly aside with his knee so he could release the rope. “But I assure you I had better not see him again.”
Please, Lord, let it be someone besides Father!
“Certainly not,” she agreed, moving forward to latch her free hand on Dolly’s collar and pull the mastiff out of the way. The dog came reluctantly, clearly wanting to sniff about this fascinating creature they’d found in the stables. “Is your horse all right?”
He’d stepped into the stall and was running his hands over the animal as if to make sure, his movements gentle, soothing. Why had she thought he was meant for battle? She could imagine those hands playing a sonata or painting a masterpiece just as passionately.
“He seems to be unharmed,” he murmured, and she could feel his relief.
Gwen ventured closer, peering through the spindles of the upper screen on the box. The golden light from her lantern warmed horse and master alike, glowing in their dark hair. “What’s his name?”
“Icarus.” The word brought a smile to his lips, and Gwen felt her lips turning up in response. He patted the horse on its glossy flank. “He likes to fly higher than he should.”
She wondered if the same could be said of his master. “He’s beautiful.”
“That he is. A descendant from the Byerley Turk.” He dropped his hand and turned. His face was solemn, troubled, and she stood a little taller to hear his concerns.
“Tell me the truth, Miss Allbridge. Can this estate provide anyone a living?”
She hoped so; she prayed so. Everything she’d ever dreamed of depended on it. “Certainly!” she told him, putting every ounce of faith into the word. “It was the finest estate in the upper valley before the colonel took ill. All it needs is a little attention.”
Trevor glanced around the stable. Stalls just like the one in which he stood stretched away on either side. The place would hold a dozen horses and several carriages when full, with room for coachman and grooms in the quarters upstairs. Now the darkness surrounded them like smoke, and she thought she could hear the scurrying of tiny feet not far away.
“I suspect,” he said with a sigh, “that it also needs an influx of cash.”
She dimpled at him. “Well, that goes without saying.”
He closed his eyes a moment. Was he praying? Did it truly look so awful to him that he had to reach to God for help? She wanted to touch him, stroke away the worried lines from his eyes and mouth. But that was not her place. All she could offer was encouragement.
“It will look brighter in the morning,” she murmured. “I promise.”
He opened his eyes and regarded her. Perhaps it was a trick of the lantern light, but his jade eyes seemed to have warmed. She felt warm just gazing into them. The vast stable was suddenly too small, too intimate. She swallowed and turned for the door. “I’ll just show you to the George now, shall I?”
She took a deep breath to steady herself and glanced back in time to see him swing himself easily into the saddle. “If it’s in your village, I’ll find it. Have your father send down my shaving kit. And tell him I expect a full report tomorrow morning in the library at ten.”
With a cluck of encouragement, the magnificent Sir Trevor and his equally magnificent horse disappeared into the night.
An influx of cash. Trevor shook his head as Icarus picked his way down the graveled drive. Gwen Allbridge smiled as if finding money was an easy matter. He supposed it would be for many a gentleman. But she couldn’t know that he was a gentleman in title only.
It had ever been this way. He had been born outside of wedlock, to a mother who was considered no lady. Yet his mother, his father, the accountants who arranged for him to attend the best schools, to wear the finest clothes, expected him to act the gentleman. Nay, they demanded it of him.
Gentlemen did not sully their hands with work; gentlemen lived off the income from their estates or their shrewd investments in the ’Change. But when you were born to neither estate nor investment, when the money was provided merely to educate, clothe and feed you while you were a lad, how were you supposed to get on?
He’d found a way, but few respected it. If the determined Miss Allbridge knew how he’d earned his meager income and his baronetcy, he had little doubt she would be far less eager to welcome him to her village.
But she wasn’t the only one so eager, he quickly learned. He located the George easily enough: a two-story, whitewashed building with black shutters and the picture of the king swinging merrily from the sign over the red front door. The inn was located in the heart of the little village, surrounded by tile-roofed cottages and two glass-fronted shops, all dark for the night.
The tall, long-nosed innkeeper was all politeness as he made sure Icarus was rubbed down and stabled. He easily agreed to have Trevor take a room for the night on the upper floor. That is, until he read Trevor’s entry in the great register book lying open on a high table near the entry.
“Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam of Blackcliff?” He squinted down at the words in black ink on the wide-lined book, then jerked up his head on his long neck like a stork checking for foxes. “Mrs. Billings—do you hear that? We are housing the new master of Blackcliff!”
Only three men lounged in the public room behind Trevor, but he could hear them muttering, the scrape of a chair as someone rose as if to get a better look at him. The pudgy innkeeper’s wife waddled from the steaming kitchen, wiping her hands on her wrinkled apron. Her brown eyes were bright as sugared raisins. “The master himself? Oh, an honor, sir, to be sure!”
In short order, he’d been installed in what he was assured was the best room in the house, jacket taken to be cleaned and pressed, pan warming the huge bed while a dinner of spiced mutton, soft pudding and buttered squash warmed his insides. Now that was more like it, that was what he’d hoped to find at Blackcliff—diffidence, competence, respect.
The morning was even better, with a breakfast of eggs and country ham, sharp cheddar, grilled tomatoes fresh from the vine and applesauce loaded with cinnamon, all with a week-old London Times to keep him company.
And there was the announcement: “Trevor Fitzwilliam, elevated to the rank of baronet. It appears that nepotism is still alive and well in our fair empire.” He crushed the paper with his fist.
So he wasn’t the only one to see his father’s hand in all this. Could the duke have found a more out-of-the-way place to send the son he refused to acknowledge publicly? There wasn’t an estate in Devon or Lincolnshire he could have purchased? No, Trevor must be sent about as far north as possible, into the Evendale Valley to the west of Carlisle, well into the peaks and lakes of Cumberland.
But, as always, Trevor had acted as a gentleman. He’d come to look at his estate, assess its ability to provide him an income. He would see that all assets of his land were producing, make sure his tenants were cared for and capable.
But nothing said he had to stay.
He had asked that Icarus be ready for him by half past nine, but he hadn’t expected the crowd waiting for him when he exited the George. Nearly two dozen men, women and children crowded expectantly in the coaching yard behind the inn. They wore rough cottons and dark wools, patched and frayed but generally clean. Their faces were pinched, their eyes wide. He couldn’t think what they wanted from him, but the moment he stepped out, a cheer went up.
Trevor raised his brows.
Then Gwen Allbridge shouldered her way to the front. Today she looked every inch the lady, her coppery curls barely visible inside a white satin-lined straw bonnet, her slender body wrapped in a dark green coat with a ruffled collar and lace at the cuffs, tied under her bosom with a rose-colored ribbon. He felt himself smiling at the sight