A Wager for the Widow. Elisabeth Hobbes
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cat and her stomach tightened with annoyance that she had passed up the chance to reveal his conduct. She expected him to leave now that she had arrived, but to her consternation he made no attempt to leave the room. Instead he drew up a low stool and sat between Eleanor and her father. Now she looked closely at his clothing she noticed the thin band of orange-and-green piping around the neck of his tunic, signalling the livery of Tawstott. As he handed her the wine cup, she held his gaze.
‘Master Rudhale, how long have you been in my father’s service? He has not mentioned you to me.’
Sir Edgar spoke before Rudhale could answer. ‘Rudhale has been in my service for a little over five months, though he grew up in the town here. His father was my falconer until his death two years past. You must remember old Thomas Rudhale, Eleanor?’
Eleanor wrinkled her forehead. Although she knew the name, hawking had never been a favourite pastime of hers and she spent little time in that part of the estate. The face finally crawled into Eleanor’s mind. A quietly spoken man who rarely strayed from the mews, his belt and jerkin hung about with bags and odd-looking equipment. Another memory surfaced, too, however: a young man slouching around the outbuildings. Eleanor’s eyes flickered to the steward. Surely that youth, too thin for his height with dull floppy hair, could not be the one who stood before her now, arms folded across his broad chest and a wolfish smile playing about his lips?
‘Yes, I remember,’ Eleanor said slowly. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘We all are. Never was a man so good with a goshawk,’ Sir Edgar barked, clapping his hand on the steward’s shoulder.
‘Unlike his son,’ Rudhale remarked darkly, tracing a finger meaningfully down the deep line of his scar. ‘Father sent me to work as usher to a merchant in the north in the hope I could make my fortune and keep my eyes.’
Eleanor’s eyes followed the path of his finger. Taking that side of his face alone he looked like a cutthroat, but the ugliness was tempered by his almost sapphire eyes and enticing smile. Rudhale watched her carefully, as though testing her reaction to his deformity. Determined not to respond, she fixed her eyes on his.
‘You seem rather young to be steward of such a large household,’ she remarked.
‘William may be young, but he comes highly recommended,’ the baron explained. ‘He and Edmund shared lodgings for a while.’
‘Edmund remembered me when this position arose.’ Rudhale smiled. ‘Sir Edgar was good enough to trust Edmund’s testimony. You are right though, few men my age could hope to attain such a prominent role, but I hope I am proving my worth.’
Eleanor narrowed her eyes, digesting the information as Sir Edgar hastened to assure Rudhale of his value. Her brother had a habit of choosing friends who shared his tastes for drinking and women. From Rudhale’s behaviour on the ferry it would seem he was yet another good-for-nothing reprobate of the sort that Edmund would naturally find delightful.
She took a large sip of wine, swallowing her annoyance down too. The wine was spicy and sweet and Eleanor relaxed as the warmth wound down to her belly. Sir Edgar placed great importance on keeping a good cellar stocked and Rudhale was clearly capable of rising to the challenge. Eleanor held the cup to her nose and inhaled deeply. She raised her eyes to find the steward watching her carefully, his blue eyes fixed on her as though he was assessing her evaluation. She took another mouthful.
‘It’s good,’ she commented appreciatively.
‘It’s seasoned with ginger and aged in whiskey casks,’ Rudhale explained as he refilled Eleanor’s glass. ‘I am trying to persuade your father to buy half a dozen barrels in preparation for the midwinter feast.’
‘You’re giving a feast?’ Eleanor stared at her father, unable to keep the astonishment from her voice. She forgot her irritation with the steward in the light of this news. Sir Edgar was notoriously reclusive and it was a family jest that if his wife permitted him to, he would live within the confines of his library on a permanent basis.
Sir Edgar frowned and threw himself heavily into the chair opposite Eleanor. He pulled fretfully at his greying beard, no longer the vibrant red Eleanor remembered from the previous winter.
‘I have no choice, my dear,’ he growled. ‘Unfortunately Duke Roland is rumoured to have made damaging losses at cards and dice. Whether or not that is true I don’t know, however he has decided that he will be spending the winter months touring his lands and living off the generosity of his tenants-in-chief. As his nephew by marriage, I am being granted the great honour of having his retinue here for two weeks. He expects a feast to celebrate the passing of the shortest day.’
‘Father!’ Eleanor’s eyebrows shot upwards at the incautious manner in which her father spoke of his liege lord in front of the steward. Her lord as well, she reminded herself, as Baldwin had also owed fealty to Duke Roland. She glanced across to where Rudhale was now busying himself replacing scroll boxes on the shelves that lined the walls. Sir Edgar must have read her thoughts because he leaned across and took her hand.
‘Don’t fear for what William here might think. He knows he is serving a cantankerous old man and, like the rest of you, I expect him to humour my moods. I trust his discretion absolutely.’
Rudhale nodded his head in acknowledgement. He placed the final caskets on the shelf and Eleanor found her eyes drawn to his slim frame as he reached with ease to the high shelves. Rudhale crossed the room and picked up the bottle from the table. He refilled their glasses and returned to lean against the fireplace beside Eleanor, his long legs crossed at the ankles and the firelight turning his blond locks as red as Eleanor’s own.
‘I suspect your mother might have had something to do with her uncle’s decision,’ Sir Edgar continued. ‘She sees certain advantages to having guests. The duke will be bringing a number of his court with him. Your sister is of an age where she needs to be seen in society and your brother should be married by now. For your part, Eleanor—’
‘I myself will be returning home as usual as soon as I am permitted, Father,’ Eleanor broke in sharply, anticipating what was coming next. The room, already stifling, grew hotter. She stood abruptly, walked to the window and leaned back against the cool panes. ‘You told me nothing of this in your letter. I will not be paraded around like one of your prize mares. I am done with all that!’
‘For your part,’ Sir Edgar continued, with only the slightest hint of reproach in his voice, ‘I would be grateful if you would provide a dozen or so casks of oysters for the feast. I have never found any finer than those from Baldwin’s fisheries. I am sure you would wish the duke’s party to be well fed and there could be business in it for you, too. If you will insist on living independently, I must at least try to aid you where I can.’
‘Oh!’ A prickle of heat flickered across Eleanor’s throat. ‘Of course, Father. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...’
‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Sir Edgar chided gently. ‘I don’t say I blame you, but that is a conversation for another time.’
Eleanor glanced at Rudhale. The steward was now bent over the fire, adding logs to the diminishing flames. He gave every impression of appearing unaware of her blunder, though the deliberate way in which he went about his task left Eleanor in no doubt that he had been listening to every word. A burst of irritation shot through her that she had let her guard down in front of him. She crossed the room and refilled her cup before offering the bottle to her father and finally the steward. Hoping to break his self-possession, she addressed him with a demure smile.
‘This wine really is very good, Master Rudhale. I can tell you must have taken great pains to ensure its safe arrival!’
She had the satisfaction of seeing him blink a couple of times as he worked out the meaning behind her words, before he broke into a broad grin, his blue eyes gleaming. Even that had not appeared to disconcert him. He raised his cup to her and drained it.
‘May I compliment you on your taste, Lady Peyton. It needs time to settle really; being thrown around in a saddlebag