The Earl's Runaway Governess. Catherine Tinley
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did not find her all would be well.
Of course she had no idea whether he was even looking for her. He might be content simply to let her vanish. On the other hand, that last look he had thrown her—one filled with evil intent—haunted her. Henry was entirely capable of ruthlessly, obsessively searching for her simply because she had thwarted his will by escaping.
She shrugged off the fear. There was nothing she could do about it beyond being careful. Besides, so far everything was working out well.
With renewed confidence, she set off for the modest inn where she had stayed last night. On Thursday her new life would properly begin.
* * *
‘You are telling me that there is no way to avoid this?’
‘Lord Kingswood, I simply executed the will. I did not write it.’ Mr Richardson was unperturbed.
Fanny had gone, helped from the room by her daughter. Fanny had been gently weeping, the image of the Wronged Widow. Ash’s hidden sigh of relief when the door had closed behind her had been echoed, he believed, by Mr Richardson. Fanny had not, it seemed, lost the ability to make a scene.
‘You have not answered my question.’
There! The subtlest of gestures, but the lawyer had squirmed a little in his seat.
‘Tell me how I can extricate myself from this and allow Lady Kingswood to raise her own child.’
‘With your permission, Lady Kingswood can of course raise her daughter.’
‘But her having to seek my permission is not right. She is the child’s mother. Why should I be the guardian?’
The lawyer shrugged. ‘Her father must have had his reasons. He did not clarify, and it was not my place to ask such questions.’
Ash decided to try another tack. ‘What of Lady Kingswood’s portion? How can I give my cousin’s widow more than her husband did?’
‘That part of the estate, as you know, is not entailed, which is how the Fourth Earl was at liberty to leave it to you. It is true that you do have the option of selling it or gifting it to someone. However—’ he raised a hand to interrupt Ash’s response ‘—after the death duties have been paid the estate will barely manage to break even. Lord Kingswood had been ill for more than a year, as you may be aware.’
‘No. I was not aware.’ Guilt stabbed through him. Damn it! Why had he not known about John’s illness?
‘During that time Lord Kingswood’s investments suffered from a lack of attention, as did the estate. His steward was very elderly—he predeceased Lord Kingswood by only a few weeks—and the burden of management fell on the shoulders of Lady Kingswood. As...er...she had no previous knowledge or background in such matters...’ His voice tailed away.
‘But nor do I!’ Ash ran his hand through his thick dark hair in frustration. ‘If the estate has suffered under Lady Kingswood’s stewardship, then how can I, equally inexperienced, be expected to do better?’
Mr Richardson eyed him calmly.
‘Well?’
‘I am afraid I have no answer to that question. What I do know is that if things are left to Lady Kingswood to manage...’ Again his voice tailed off.
Ash reflected on Lady Kingswood. The young Fanny he remembered had been a beauty, a lively dancer and a witty conversationalist. He had no idea about the woman she had become.
‘Are you suggesting that Lady Kingswood is incapable of managing?’
‘I could not possibly comment.’
‘Damn it!’ Ash slammed his hand down on John’s desk. He was trapped. A title, financial responsibilities, and now this. A twelve-year-old child to raise and a large estate to manage.
‘Quite.’ The lawyer indicated three large chests in the corner. ‘Lady Kingswood informs me that documents relating to the estate and all of Lord Kingswood’s business affairs are contained in these chests.’
Ash opened the nearest box. It was full to bursting with papers, haphazardly stuffed into the chest. It would take at least a week to sort this box alone.
‘Right. I see. Right.’
His mind was working furiously. This was going to take weeks to sort out. Weeks even to discover the extent of the commitment he had been left with. And his life was already full—friends to meet, parties to attend, an appointment to look at a new horse...
He came to a decision. ‘I shall go to London now, as planned, and then return on Thursday, once I have dealt with my most pressing appointments.’
Inside, rage threatened to overpower him. Why have I been given this burden? Damn it, John! Why did you have to die?
The inn at Netherton was similar in some ways to the Hawk and Hound. There was a stone archway off to one side, and Marianne had barely a moment to register the swinging metal sign before the coach swung into the yard.
See? Marianne told herself. It is just an inn. The people here are no different from the people at home. I can do this.
It was a refrain she had repeated numerous times in the few days since she had slipped away from the only home she could remember. Today she had survived the indignity of travelling on the public mail coach for only the second time in her life, sandwiched between a buxom farmer’s wife and a youth travelling to visit his relations in Reading. The farmer’s wife had talked incessantly, which had been both vexing and a relief, since no one could ask her any questions.
Grateful that the jolting coach was finally arrived at Netherton, Marianne descended, and pointed out her bandboxes to the coachman. He untied them from the top of the coach and passed them down to her, then he jumped down again, making for the warmth of the inn and its refreshments.
Marianne looked around the yard. The only other vehicle was a dashing high-perch phaeton, painted in an elegant shade of green, with green and black wheels. She had seen carriages like it before. They were all the crack among the London sporting gentlemen. Henry, of course, owned one—though his was a little smaller and painted red.
So where was the cart or the gig that would convey her to Ledbury House? Mrs Gray had said only that she would inform the family of her arrival. She had no idea who would be meeting her.
The other passengers had also dismounted and were going inside. Those who were travelling on would have a few moments here to relieve themselves, or quickly buy refreshments from the landlord.
Hesitantly, Marianne followed them into the inn.
The interior was dark, cosy and well-maintained. A fire burned in the grate, for the January day was chilly.
Marianne made her way towards the wooden counter at the far end of the room, where a woman who must be the landlady was busy pouring ale. As she walked Marianne found herself warily assessing the strangers in the room. Since the day and the hour she had left home she had not felt truly safe for even a minute. She had no experience with which to assess where danger might lurk, so found herself constantly on edge.
Her fellow passengers were already seating themselves in various parts of the taproom, and there were also two men who looked as if they might be farmers, each with a mug of beer in front of him.
Then she saw him. Her heart briefly thumped furiously in her chest and the hairs at the back of her neck stood to attention.
He was seated with his back to her, at the table closest to the counter. She could see his dark hair, swept forward in fashionable style. He wore a driving cloak with numerous capes. She could also see long legs encased in tight-fitting pantaloons and gleaming black boots. He looked like