Chapter Seven
Whitney brought her horse to a stop just as the trees gave way to an empty, grassy field and threw herself out of the saddle. She stared across the field, glaring at Rose Cottage as it hid behind a high stone wall covered in climbing roses. It looked to be completely enclosed from her vantage point, but there seemed to be a drive of crushed white shell leading to it. The place appeared well tended, though she could see no signs of anyone about.
Taverham’s groom burst into the open and he joined her quickly. “Lord, you’re going to get me dismissed from my position.”
“That will not happen if we say nothing about this.” She shook her head. “See to our horses and remain here. I want to see for myself what he has done.”
She’d not been introduced to Lady Brighthurst, but she’d seen her with Lord Taverham before Miranda’s return. There had been something in her expression Whitney hadn’t liked back then, and after all she’d heard since, she distrusted the woman. She had learned from her cousin that Lady Brighthurst was dangerous, and hated Miranda simply because Lord Taverham had married her. She doubted the woman could recognize her name, as they’d never been introduced, and prayed she may not know who she was friends with, or related to, either.
Whitney gathered up her skirts and marched across the grassy clearing and up to the wall. The pearl-gray stone was higher than her head and she could not see into the enclosure below the roofline and chimney stacks. She stalked the perimeter, searching for flaws, breaches in the stone that might allow her to peer through and know for sure that her suspicions about Lord Acton were correct.
At the far side of the structure, beyond sight of Mr. Landry, she came face to face with a man holding a pitchfork.
She shrieked, and took a hasty step back before she was impaled. “Oh, you scared me!”
“That was the point. What are you doing?” the man demanded.
Since he seemed to be a servant, possibly a gardener, she made herself smile. And since the pitchfork remained aimed directly at her face, she bobbed a hasty curtsy to show she meant no mischief. “How do you do, sir?”
The man sized her up, buried the handle in the dirt and leaned upon the pitchfork. “I asked what you were doing here?”
“Why, nothing untoward,” she told him, fluttering her lashes as she decided the best way to approach him for information. He seemed very unfriendly very quickly. “I saw this charming cottage from a distance, and simply had to come closer and speak with the lady of the house. Such a pretty spot to live, don’t you think? I was looking for a way inside so I might knock and make myself known to her.”
She peered around his shoulder and saw a first break in the construction. There was a heavy looking garden gate set between the walls a little farther around.
“Never you mind who she is.” The fellow scowled. “No one calls here.”
“Is that so? How tragic. It’s such a charming spot.” She glanced around with wide eyes, looking for signs of other servants. Perhaps she could slip past this one man. “Does anyone come out?”
“No,” he said bluntly, shifting the pitchfork from hand to hand. “And it’s my job to keep busybodies away, so be off with you.”
“Who’s there, Thomas?” a woman asked in a tiny voice to Whitney’s left.
From behind the wall.
Whitney faced the stone obstruction, looking for cracks or gaps to see through. Finding none apparent, she almost growled in frustration. She didn’t recognize the voice, but then, she’d never heard Lady Brighthurst speak, either.
“Oh, hello there,” Whitney cried to the lady. “How do you do?”
After a moment, the lady sneezed. “Not well, thank you. Who is it with you, Thomas?”
The gardener looked Whitney up and down. “A lady of quality, by the look of her fancy clothes, but she hasn’t given her card as yet.”
Whitney thought a moment. What harm could there be in giving her real information? She fumbled in her pockets, hoping she might just have a card with her. She came up empty. “I am afraid I don’t have one with me, but I am Miss Whitney Crewe of London,” she called out. “I am an artist of some renown.”
It never hurt to speak well of your skills when speaking to other women.
“I don’t believe we are acquainted,” the woman inside said flatly.
“I am a friend of Miss Quartermane.” Whitney waited for a positive response to that name and an invitation to come in.
“I am not acquainted with anyone called Quartermane,” the lady claimed, which made it a certainty that she was not Lord Acton’s evil sister.
“Oh dear,” she murmured. For the first time, she began to have doubts that this was Lord Acton’s sister after all. She might just owe the man an apology for her condemning private thoughts. Before she did that, Whitney had to be sure. “Might I have the pleasure of meeting you so that we might become known to one another?”
The gardener shook his head very quickly.
“I am not allowed visitors,” the lady whispered.
“Not allowed visitors.” Whitney adopted her most scandalized expression solely for the benefit of the gardener’s keen eyes. “Why ever not?”
“I—” The woman began to cough violently. When the horrible sound continued for a good many minutes, Whitney pressed her hand to her chest in sympathy. The lady did not sound very good at all. “I think you must go away now,” the woman eventually gasped out.
She heard other voices with the lady, murmuring soothing words to lure her back inside to a warm bed and glass of wine, and was glad she had someone to care for her during her illness. “Goodbye then,” Whitney called out. “I do wish you a swift recovery.”
Whitney glanced at the gardener without bothering to conceal her concern. But she still needed to know who that woman was. Unfortunately, she suspected the gardener, judging by his cold expression, would not be forthcoming in that respect. “I’ve never met so many unfriendly people in my life in one place. Very well, I shall depart with my curiosity unsatisfied and a bruised heart. Perhaps I will also go to another district for inspiration for my art and meet nicer people there.”
She gathered up her skirts and made slow progress around the structure. The gardener did not follow more than a few steps and, after he turned away, she slowed, listening to the people move about the enclosure closest to her.
“Wait,” the lady inside the walled garden called out suddenly. “Did you say you were an artist?”
“Yes, I am indeed. I came to Worcestershire in search of inspiration.”
She was also here to teach Taverham’s son, but kept that to herself for now. If the woman was Lady Brighthurst, she’d rather not announce the connection for now.
The lady gasped behind the wall. “I should like to see your work. I am a great patron of the arts. Do you sketch, too?”
“Yes, quite often. I find it soothing.” Soothing, and awkwardly arousing when her subject was male. That, she never confessed to anyone.
“Will you come back tomorrow?” the lady asked
Whitney grinned widely but kept her voice unconvinced. “For what purpose? To be threatened by that awful fellow with the pitchfork again? I think not, madam whoever-you-are.”
“Thomas would never harm you if I ask him not to,” she promised. “I need someone drawn for me. But I must speak to my brother first.”
Brother.
Whitney shivered with a sudden chill. “Tomorrow, but only if you honor me with your name and your brother’s today.”
“Emily. My name is Emily. I desperately want a sketch of my brother, Lord Acton. Are you acquainted with him?”
“I am not.” Although she had feared Acton was hiding his sister here, the confirmation he had lied rocked her more than she imagined possible. She would not return tomorrow, and she certainly wouldn’t sketch Lord Acton for Lady Brighthurst. “Unfortunately I am engaged elsewhere tomorrow,” she lied. “I would come back another day if I have time.”
“Thank you.” The lady resumed coughing, and then other voices could be heard behind the wall, demanding Emily return inside to rest. Although Lady Brighthurst protested that she wasn’t tired, they all moved away, possibly inside the cottage until Whitney could hear nothing more.
Whitney snarled silently. Acton had let his sister come home. There was simply no excuse possible to forgive his behavior. How dare he go back on his word and put that dear, sweet boy in danger!