CHAPTER 29
Dartfield Manor
Of the several country houses Connor had inherited, Dartfield Manor was his least favorite. The house was an ugly mishmash of two clashing styles.
The brown brick Jacobean façade with three rounded Dutch gables might’ve been well enough if it had been left alone to brood in its ancient ornateness. But, at some point over the centuries, some ancestor—perhaps poor of sight—had hired an equally blind architect to add on a whole new block in an entirely different style.
A white, gleaming, neoclassical addition thrust out inexplicably from the south wall, all self-important pillars and huge, arched windows reflecting the sky.
There had been no attempt he could see to make the two styles, centuries apart, match. It would’ve made more sense simply to build two separate houses. But there they were, joined for all eternity. One dark and twisty, one bright and airy, symmetrical and pure.
Connor shook his head, beginning to wonder if the match between him and Maggie was as ill-conceived as that massive eyesore.
After being trounced by his lady at noon, he had not spoken to her again. Not from pouting or sulking—he was a man, for God’s sake—but merely from the necessity of focusing on the task at hand. The girl exasperated him and he needed a clear head as the leader of this journey. Besides, he didn’t want to make it any worse.
Later, he supposed, he would try a third time to reach some sort of peace treaty with her. For now, he did not need the headache. In truth, he was still kicking himself for botching it, and was rather sure that Maggie would have liked to kick him, too.
But he sighed and put her out of his mind, preferring to focus, as he had been doing for the last several hours, on staying ahead of the weather that had begun blowing in from the southward sea.
By midday, they had passed through Surrey, with its sculpted gardens and prosperous estates. The temperature had climbed to its average in the low sixties for this time of year, and the skies then had been bright blue, full of big, puffy clouds overhead. He had heard some of their travelers entertaining themselves by saying what shapes they could find in them.
Moving ever southwestward, they’d spent the long afternoon pressing on through the fertile chalk lands of Hampshire, where sheep grazed on the downs and the farm fields burgeoned with the spring wheat and watercress.
But the cloud cover had gradually thickened, so that, as the day passed, the once-cheery sunshine could only squeeze through now in piercing silver shafts, and the golden light turned to a hard gray glare that forced them to squint and gave them all a headache.
The temperature had receded accordingly into the high fifties, and the wind had picked up, gusting up from the south, and the hint of sea salt it brought with it on the air reminded Connor of home.
Meadows eventually gave way to heaths, and in the waning light of day, they knew they had crossed the county line from Hampshire into Dorset when they spotted wild ponies grazing on the moors.
By then, even the silver glare of the overcast afternoon had faded to a warning pewter gray, and the temperature had dropped further. Rain was definitely on the way, and Connor feared what would become of these remote country roads if they did not reach their destination before it started.
Their pace was already slow enough without slogging through mud, and he was worried in particular about his old ladies.
Aunt Lucinda walked with a cane and did not move well on a good day due to her arthritis. Connor had realized that when the dragon stopped complaining altogether, her physical discomfort must have turned to agony.
He’d moved his horse alongside the coach and looked in on the Amberley womenfolk frequently throughout the eleven hours they’d been on the road so far, but without another coaching inn in sight in this remote stretch of Dorset, there was nothing he could do other than hurry their party along as best he could.
With every mile, he was feeling more and more like a hardhearted bastard for doing this to all of them. But it was for their own safety, and just one day of discomfort…
By the time Dartfield Manor came into view in the distance, standing out on its lonely moors, huge thunderheads had begun forming overhead, and the wind was now steady.
Connor put his own weariness aside and smiled over his shoulder as a cheer went up from all their travelers to spy their destination in the distance.
The only road left for them to travel now was the manor’s long, winding drive. He checked his annoyance when he saw the tall iron gates standing open, for the family of mother and daughters living here were not aware of the threat.
The old mansion had a gatehouse, too, but it was presently unmanned.
“That’ll be your post tonight,” he said to Rory, pointing at it.
His friend nodded.
“Pete, would you close the gates behind us?” Connor called.
His fellow veteran nodded and urged his horse to the side of the drive, letting everyone else pass.
As they all filed in through the gates, Connor checked his fob watch—at dusk, there was still enough light out to read its face.
Seven p.m. Not bad. They’d made it in just under twelve hours.
Now it was time to deal with Aunt Caroline. He hadn’t even warned her he was coming, bringing all these people. He wondered how she would react. He barely knew her, but he could guess that the Second Duchess would be about as thrilled as any woman who’d just had twenty unexpected houseguests show up on her doorstep.
Ah well. At least they’d brought their own supplies.
And, technically, the house did belong to Connor. He had let Uncle Rupert’s family continue living here because it was home to them, they’d already lost enough, and he certainly didn’t plan on living there. They were welcome to it, as far as he was concerned.
Urging his hired horse from the last livery stop into an easy canter, he rode ahead of the convoy to give the lady of the house at least a few minutes’ advance warning that they were here.
His excuse, at least in front of her two children, was that he had come to visit out of eagerness to introduce them all to the girl he had chosen for his bride.
Later tonight, he would take Aunt Caroline aside and tell her what was really going on. How she’d take the news that he suspected her son and husband had been murdered, he shuddered to think. He could only hope that, as a vicar’s wife, her faith would see her through.
For now, though, as he reined in before the front door, Connor’s lips quirked. Let’s just hope she remembers who the blazes I am.
* * *
When Maggie climbed out of the carriage, her bones aching after bumping along over the roads from London to Wessex all day, she could only imagine how much pain Aunt Lucinda was in by comparison.
It took three servants to help Her Grace lumber down from the traveling chariot. By the gray of twilight, Maggie saw the First Duchess stubbornly pressing her lips together as if to hold back a groan.
Maggie and Penelope got out of the way as Her Grace’s two footmen helped their mistress toward the house.
Aunt Florence also required some assistance. Maggie had been helping her, but the little baroness’s own maid scrambled out of the servant coach back by Nestor’s supply wagon and hurried over to her side, then helped her go limping toward the house.
Maggie stood with her hands planted in the small of her back, stretching her body a bit. She was just glad to have escaped the coach. After nearly twelve aggravating hours confined with the others, she was ready to part ways even from Penelope’s company.
Now she faced the prospect of trying to seem charming when she was introduced shortly to her soon-to-be relatives. Never mind that she was cringing at the rudeness of this imposition, the lot of them descending on the Second Duchess without warning.
The worst part was knowing that Maggie herself was being portrayed as the cause of why they were here—so that Connor could introduce his aunt and cousins to his future bride without delay, the sooner that they could be married.
As a result, the Second Duchess was probably going to despise Maggie for this as much as the first one did. She sighed and scrounged up a smile, though, as the front door opened and an army of the manor’s servants came pouring out into the graveled courtyard to assist.
In moments, the whole front entrance of the house bustled with activity as everyone—servants, soldiers, and passengers alike—fled the vehicles in which they’d been imprisoned all day.
Lanterns were brought out, instructions were shouted to and fro about where the luggage should be brought, where their servants would be quartered, and how quickly the stable could be made ready for a herd of uninvited horses. Half a dozen people had to use the loo. In short, the whole place was in an uproar.
The butler had rushed out and put himself at Aunt Lucinda’s disposal. For her part, Her Grace was already making detailed, specific requests about what sort of accommodations she required. Aunt Florence was insisting she did not wish to be a bother as the two old ladies hobbled toward the house.
Maggie stayed behind, trying to prepare herself to meet the people they were imposing on so dreadfully. She could not deny that she was nervous. Meanwhile, her maddening fiancé had disappeared, leaving her standing there feeling like an interloper.
His horse was there; a dazed-looking footman who apparently worked here stood holding the reins. But the Fourth Duke himself was nowhere in sight. Maybe Aunt Caroline had murdered him inside for this inexcusable bout of rudeness.
Maggie and Penelope exchanged a dire glance, merely trying to stay out of the way amid all the hubbub. Her maid still looked a bit green around the gills, for while Maggie was merely sore, Penelope had grown a bit motion sick, especially after the last leg of their journey.
It seemed today that the farther they went from London, the rougher grew the roads. But at least the weather had held. The wind flapped through Maggie’s wrinkled blue skirts and tugged at her pelisse. Its brisk caress, however, helped to wake her up after the lull of endless travel.
Judging by her maid’s improving color, Maggie gathered that the fresh breeze with a faint hint of ocean in it was making Penelope feel better, too—although her newfound friendship forged on the road today with a certain sergeant might have something to do with that.
Rory was doing a fine job of directing the men and the servants who’d made up their party, and Penelope watched him admiringly.
Still waiting for Connor to reappear, Maggie stretched her neck and glanced down at her hand again to make sure she still had the ring. She knew full well she was walking around with a fortune in jewelry on her person, and it gave her a strange feeling.
But all of this did.
The one thing clearest in her mind was that she still needed to find an opportunity alone with Connor to relate Aunt Florence’s vital information, never mind the tension between the two of them. She doubted she would get the chance tonight, though, for she fully expected to spend the entire evening under intense scrutiny from the Second Duchess and her children.
Maybe by tomorrow the novelty of her as the soon-to-be bride would begin to wear off, and then she could take a turn with him in the garden or a discreet stroll upon these intriguing moors.
They had a haunting beauty, she thought, gazing at the lonely landscape under the lowering clouds. In this remote place, London and all the dangers they had left behind there seemed a world away.
Maggie caught sight of Connor just then through the front door.
He stepped into view within the open doorway, the light from the foyer casting a halo over his black hair and shining down on his broad shoulders.
She caught her breath at the sight of him, oblivious for a moment to the servants scurrying about in all directions. It was no easy feat staying angry at such a beautiful man.
Her heart beat faster as she saw him gesture to a plump, blondish woman in perhaps her early fifties, inviting her to go ahead of him. Maggie gathered that this was Aunt Caroline, and concluded in a glance that the woman looked far more like a vicar’s wife than any sort of duchess she had ever seen.
Her clothes were unpretentious, her manner that of an ordinary country gentlewoman. Trailing after her came two bounding girls, not yet out of the schoolroom. Maggie was surprised to notice they were twins; they looked to be about fourteen.
The two chubby youngsters seemed fascinated by all the chaos, but hung back shyly together, while the vicar-duke’s widow proceeded with caution toward Maggie.
For a moment, the woman glanced from Maggie to Penelope, as though uncertain which one was the bride.
Maggie was instantly mortified, and Penelope seemed appalled to have been mistaken for her mistress. She bowed her head and quickly backed away.
Do I look that rumpled? Maggie pressed her lips together in what she hoped passed for a smile and lifted her chin as the woman approached.
“Aunt Caroline,” Connor said with a warm, mellow timbre in his brogue-tinged voice, “allow me to present Lady Margaret Winthrop, the daughter of Lord and Lady Halford, my future wife.”
“Lady Margaret,” Caroline echoed, flicking a tentative glance over her, while the gawky girls stared.
“My dear”—Connor turned to Maggie—“it is my honor to introduce you to Grandaunt Caroline, the Second Duchess of Amberley.”
Maggie ignored her body’s stiffness to offer a curtsy of the utmost respect, bowing her head. “Your Grace.”
When she lifted her gaze to meet that of their reluctant hostess, the woman’s brown eyes blinked, as though she were still a little in shock about all of this. But then she seemed to click back into the expected reaction. “Lady Margaret, I congratulate you on your betrothal and wish you both every happiness.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I am so sorry for this imposition,” Maggie said.
“Not at all.” The Second Duchess gestured toward the house. “Do come in. You all are most welcome.”
The words sounded rather forced—not that Maggie could blame her.
“Lucinda,” their hostess said coolly, glancing at her scowling sister-in-law.
“Caroline,” the dragon lady answered.
“Florence,” Caroline said with far more warmth, turning next to the frail baroness.
“Oh, Caroline, it’s so good to see you again!” Florence said.
Lucinda rolled her eyes as her companion gingerly embraced the lady of the house.
While the twins curtsied to the dragon lady with trepidation and were largely ignored, then sprang over to Florence and hugged her till she winced, Maggie and their hostess exchanged another glance, sizing each other up.
Maggie offered a tentative smile, and Caroline blinked. “Oh! My daughters. Allow me to present them,” she said, turning to the pair. “Girls?”
The chubby twins went over to their mother, one sidling up shyly to her, the other galumphing over with a wide, self-certain grin. They both glanced at Connor in awe along the way, then peered eagerly at Maggie.
She instantly found them very dear, these callow country girls, raised in seclusion. Oh, they were at that age when everything a person did was awkward, no matter how hard one tried, she thought with an affectionate tug at her heart. She remembered those days well. She liked the children right away, at least. The mother she still wasn’t sure about.
“Lady Margaret, these are my daughters, Hope and Faith.”
“Twins,” Maggie said with a smile.
“Oh yes, and quite inseparable. Girls, this is Lady Margaret Winthrop, who will become the Fourth Duchess of Amberley when she marries Cousin Connor. Isn’t that happy news?”
While the twins managed breathless curtsies without falling over, which was something for creatures their age, Maggie noted a faint gulp from the Second Duchess, as though she had a lump in her throat.
The briefest shine of tears appeared in her dark eyes by the light of the lanterns, and in an instant, Maggie realized why. She must have been thinking of her late son, who ought to have been the duke now if he hadn’t been murdered. His mother must have surely expected it would be Richard bringing home a bride to meet his family one day.
Of course, Cousin Richard would have rather brought home Bryce, by the sound of it. But Maggie doubted the duchess had known anything about her son’s proclivities in Town.
“Well!” Caroline said. “Do please come in and let us make you welcome. No doubt it has been a long, trying day for you all.”
“If you ladies will excuse me,” Connor said, after standing there in silence all this while, “I must decline, but I’ll be in to join you shortly. First, I must see to matters out here and get my staff settled in before the storm brewing over there hits.” He pointed to the south, where the thunderclouds had been amassing.
Maggie sent him a discreet, imploring stare, begging him not to leave her alone so soon with people she barely knew and a hostess whom she feared was entirely annoyed. It was his idea coming here, after all.
But while the older women all headed inside, the furrowed-brow look he gave her made Maggie realize he had no choice. There were too many things he had to make sure were sorted out by what light still remained of the day.
Inspiration struck, however.
“You know,” Maggie said suddenly, addressing their hostess, “I wonder if Your Grace would mind if I took a brief walk around the grounds with my maid for a bit before we come in—so we might stretch our limbs after that very long ride.”
Certain that Caroline must be craving a little time to organize her household to receive this invasion, Maggie gestured at Penelope. “We’re both a little motion sick, as well, I’m afraid,” she lied with a self-deprecating laugh. “This cool breeze is so refreshing. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, of course.”
“Oh, no, by all means,” Caroline said with relief, looking ready to go rushing off in ten directions at once. This way, she could at least see that the battered old ladies were made comfortable first. “Girls,” she said to her daughters, “why don’t you show Lady Margaret your father’s old walking path? That’s a pleasant stroll—but not too far!” she warned. “If you feel a raindrop, come in at once. I don’t want you catching colds.”
“Yes, Mama,” the twins said, then whipped around to face Maggie.
Caroline seemed to be warming to her task. Obviously, hospitality would have been a chief virtue required of her in her role as vicar’s wife.
Whatever dark cloud of lonely grieving had hung over her life since the deaths of her husband and son, she suddenly seemed to gather herself, for she launched into action with admirable skill.
Amid the influx of strangers arriving, Maggie heard Caroline give orders to one of her servants to take the wagon and hurry into town to buy more bread from the bakery, hampers of prepared foods from either the inn or the coffeehouse—a baked ham and roasted turkey, if he could come by them—a barrel of ale from the brewer at the pub for the men, and anything else they might need in the larder to feed their guests tonight and over the next few days.
“Aunt Caroline, that is not necessary,” Connor said. “We brought our own supplies. We don’t wish to be a burden to your household.”
“Nonsense, Your Grace,” she said with a smile. “You are the Duke of Amberley and deserve a proper welcome, you and your future duchess. Besides, all of your people must be starving by now, and cooking you all a proper supper could take hours. The village isn’t far, and, after all, whatever we don’t eat tonight, we’ll have for tomorrow.”
With that, she bustled off. Maggie saw Connor bite his lip, as though tempted to argue. But perhaps he, too, realized that their arrival seemed to have given the bereaved woman a much-needed new topic to occupy her mind.
“This is most generous of you, Aunt Caroline. Thank you!” he called after her, but Maggie wasn’t sure the duchess heard him.
She was already marching back over the threshold of her domain, directing the porters in the entrance hall toward the rooms for the two old ladies, and ordering hot water for baths with mineral salts to ease the travelers’ aches and pains.
Connor called to Peter and Rory to come with him, while Nestor and Will took over the process of moving horses and servants into their respective quarters.
As the major strode off with his cohorts, Maggie turned to smile at the twins in the waning half-light. She surmised that their mother was glad to shoo them away for the time being, for the pair were standing around getting underfoot, and watching everything, agog.
For her part, Maggie mainly planned on following Connor, observing what he was up to—she loved watching him in commander mode—but the girls were welcome to come along. “Shall we, ladies?”
“Sarge, you forgot this!” Will shouted after the men, holding up the knapsack that Rory had carried over his shoulder for most of the day. He must’ve left it on the driver’s box of the traveling chariot, since that had been his main post throughout their journey.
But the men had already gone out through the garden beside the house, heading for the fields, so Penelope dashed over to fetch it for him.
“I’ll take it to him, Will!” She quickly retrieved Rory’s knapsack from the skinny lad before the traveling chariot was whisked off to the stables.
They had to wait briefly for her return, as the servant carriage leaving Dartfield Manor rolled past in between them, heading off to bring supplies from the village, as ordered.
Off it went down the drive, but the gates had been closed, thanks to Major Carvel—a fact that probably annoyed the driver.
If she were in his shoes, Maggie thought, she’d be cursing her bad luck for being chosen for the task, heading out onto the roads with foul weather bearing down on them.
Hunkered down on the seat, the man clapped the reins over the team’s backs to hurry them along, no doubt nervous about making it there and back before the storm hit.
This seemed unlikely, however. The wind was gaining speed while the skies continued to darken.
Maggie turned her gaze from the roiling clouds overhead to the two young girls. “I do love storms, don’t you? So exciting.”
One friendly question was all it took to open the floodgates of their enthusiasm.
“Once I saw lightning strike a tree and it nearly exploded!” said the slightly taller twin.
“Really?” Maggie said, but dashed if she could tell the two apart.
Once they had moved from their original positions, she had no idea which was which, but they both were delightful.
From that moment, the youngsters did not stop talking, chattering away on a dozen random topics as they strolled along. Maggie and Penelope exchanged an amused glance as the girls led them first through the garden on one side of the house, and then out onto the windy moors.
The pair seemed thrilled to have new people to talk to—Londoners, no less—out here in the middle of nowhere.
As they took their refreshing post-travel constitutional, hawks wheeled high overhead, riding the unsettled currents of air.
The wind shook the clumps of thorny yellow gorse, making their nettles rattle like old dried bones. It whispered in the rugged Scots pines that grew here and there, and rippled through the mounds of pink and purple heathers that stretched on seemingly for miles, covering hill and dale.
When the walking path climbed to the crest of a gentle rise, Maggie spotted the men in the distance once more. They seemed to be taking the lay of the land. Connor was pointing toward the deep, narrow chine that nature had cut through the chalk hills on the edge of the property.
A swift stream ran along the bottom of its steep, pale sides; they could hear its babbling current rushing along on its way to the sea.
While the talkative twin told them all about their local village and their studies and how boring it was there, the quieter one gave up trying to get a word in edgewise. Instead, she took it upon herself to act as their guide, running farther up the footpath, then pausing to beckon to them.
“Here, come this way!”
“Hope, I don’t want to take them that way! It’s depressing!” said the talker—apparently this was Faith.
Maggie looked at her in question.
“It’s where our father died. He tripped. It’s very high up,” Faith said. “Overlooking the stream.”
“It’s a nice view!” Hope said. “I’ll bet they want to see it.”
“Is it dangerous footing there?” Penelope asked.
“Not really. It was just muddy that day, and I’m sure he wasn’t watching where he was going. That’s just how he was,” Faith said with a sigh. “He was probably holed up in his Thinkery for hours with his books, and walked out with his head still in the clouds.”
“What’s a Thinkery?” Penelope asked with a blink.
“That.” Faith pointed. “See? That little castle sort of building on the rise? It was Father’s favorite place.”
They followed the direction of her pointing finger, and there, tucked in a fold in the heather-clad landscape near a copse of trees, they could just make out a gothic folly in the distance: a miniature castle, complete with two dainty spires.
“It’s filled with boring stuff. Books.” Faith shrugged. “He had his study there and his prayer closet.”
“It was his one luxury,” Hope chimed in, rejoining them. “You should see it. It’s cozy.”
“I don’t want to go there,” Faith mumbled, turning away. “But I’ll walk to the cliff with you, if you really want to see it.”
“There’s no need to go there for our sakes,” Maggie said gently. Orphaned herself, but by illness, not by foul play, her heart went out to the twins. “I’m so sorry, girls. Please know, both of you, that Connor would much rather not be the duke, if only your father or brother could still be here with you.”
“We know,” the twins mumbled, lowering their heads.
Penelope sent Maggie a pensive frown.
“Thank you, Lady Margaret,” Faith added.
“Please, call me Maggie. And this is my maid, Penelope, by the way. She is a genius at hair.”
“Are you?” the girls asked eagerly, cheering up again.
And while Penelope answered their questions about braids and topknots and the newest styles in London, Maggie scanned the gloomy landscape up by the whimsical Thinkery.
Walking up over the rise, she now saw the men in the distance not far from the sturdy little folly.
As she watched them, Connor sent Peter riding north, probably to scout out the grounds, keeping an eye out for danger.
He pointed Rory back toward the gates, which the exiting carriage driver had left open behind him again.
As for himself, Connor went to stand on the rocky promontory where his uncle had fallen.
With the wind riffling his hair, making his long coat billow around him, he faced the coming storm as though he welcomed it, as though it called to his very nature…
Just as he called to hers.
Riveted, Maggie found him magnificent—proud, brooding, temperamental as he was. She could not tear her gaze away from him, and when he turned, sweeping a glance over the moors, he found her watching him, and from the distance, he captured her stare.
What passed between them in that moment in the twilight was like nothing she had ever felt before. A certainty. A knowing, deep in her belly.
And a hunger that she could no longer deny.