Chapter 23
Just after breakfast two days later, Charlotte shivered in the cold, misty air as she headed toward Wrotham Hall. It was only the beginning of October. What on earth would it be like by Christmas? She’d be surprised if they didn’t have to move the date of the festival yet again. This nasty weather must be delaying the harvest even further.
She scrutinized the road, all too aware of the target she made for the gang. The robbers might be desperate enough that the cold would not deter them. She would take no more chances, however. Glancing left and right, she made sure her armed escort—James, her groom, and Jeffers, her coachman—still flanked her, easily keeping pace. Their faces, set in determined lines, turned back and forth as they also scanned the land along the road for trouble.
Her journey today had been prompted by Nash’s silence on Will Courtland’s progress. She’d heard nothing in two days, which might not bode well for her estate manager. Would Nash keep it from her if his health had begun to decline? She couldn’t be sure, even though he’d agreed to keep her informed. So she’d decided to go see for herself. She might have sent a note, but it would be better to go in person in case she could do something to add to her manager’s comfort. And, deny it though she would, she wanted to see Nash as well.
Why the devil did her father have to spoil everything again? She tried to stay strong, to remain steadfast in her determination not to bend to her father’s will in this. If he wanted her married to Nash, he’d wait an eternity. It irritated Charlotte to no end, however, that despite his involvement with her father’s schemes, Nash occupied her thoughts much more often than he should.
Acres showed Charlotte into the rather masculine reception room with pictures of naval battle scenes gracing the walls, where she’d waited before. She always forgot Nash had served in the Navy, although he’d never had command of a ship. He seemed so at home on his estate, it amazed her he had not been born to the life. She was peering at a rather gruesome painting of the Battle of Trafalgar when Nash walked in.
“Charlotte. I am delighted and surprised to see you out on such a chilly day.” He grasped her hand and kissed it, lingering just a second too long. Her pulse leaped and she withdrew her hand before he made her forget her purpose.
“It’s nice to see you too, Nash. I was admiring your paintings. This one is a bit shocking, however.” She stared again at the mayhem depicted on board the Victory. “It must have seemed like Dante’s Inferno.”
“Trust me, it did.” His smile had gone, replaced by a hardness she had rarely seen in him.
“You were there?” She glanced back at the painting, at the fallen men, and shuddered. He had been so close to death...
“Not on Nelson’s ship, but on the Minotaur. Not the first battle I’d ever been in either, but one of the hottest.” He in turn stared at the painting, a distant look in his eyes.
“But isn’t Minotaur the name of your horse?” Such an odd name for an animal.
He grinned at her, his mood lightening. “Yes, I confess to that. Minotaur was my first ship and I did well by her. First in the Egypt campaign in 1801, when I was still wet behind the ears. Then Trafalgar in 1805. After that, the Naval Office reassigned me to the Temeraire, and we saw a bit of action off the coasts of Spain and France.” He motioned her to the sofa and they sat.
“Sad to say, the Temeraire came back to Britain for repairs in 1813 and instead of re-fitting her for war, they turned her into a prison ship. I was about to take another assignment, as captain of my own ship, when news of my uncle’s and cousin’s deaths reached me and I had to resign.” Nash shook his head and sighed.
“So why didn’t you name your horse Temeraire?”
Nash chuckled. “As I said, Minotaur was my first ship.” That devilish twinkle came into his eyes. “And I thought the name sounded a good deal more dashing and less French than Temeraire, even though it means bold.” His gaze softened as it took her in. “But I doubt you have braved the cold just to ask me about my war service. Shall I order tea to warm you up, Charlotte?” His voice dropped to a low purr.
How did he manage to make tea sound sinful? As if he’d rather warm her up in other ways instead? Despite the cold, her cheeks heated.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Charlotte smiled pleasantly, determined to carry on, despite his flirting. Was he flirting? Or had she misconstrued his words because she wanted to? She closed her eyes to keep her thoughts from spinning out of control. Her purpose was to ask about her estate manager and she needed to focus on that.
“I hadn’t heard from you about Mr. Courtland’s condition. You promised to keep me informed of his progress. After two days I feared the worst.” Charlotte tried to put a touch of reproach into her voice, but her genuine concern for the man overrode it.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. I did not realize you meant to be so closely informed about your manager.” His eyes glowed with warmth. “Would you like to see him for yourself? I’ll tell Acres to hold the tea until we return.” He pulled the bell and gave the order, then took her hand and assisted her to rise. “This way, my dear.”
Nash led her up a grand staircase, all gleaming oak, to the next floor. “I have hired a nurse specifically to tend to Mr. Courtland. That way he gets thorough care and my servants’ routine isn’t interrupted, although,” he leaned toward her, “he’s become something of a hero below-stairs.” Nash chuckled. “I don’t think any of the maids would have complained of extra work had they been assigned to his care.”
His eyes sparkled with merriment. “I believed it prudent, in that circumstance, to insist that his wife attend him as well in his suite.” He grew grave again. “I also thought it best that Mrs. Courtland not remain alone in their house. Her husband thwarted the gang’s plan. I did not want them to retaliate against his family while he was unable to defend it.”
Another thoughtful, prudent move. The man certainly thought of everything he could to keep people safe.
Nash stopped before the door to what looked to be a guest chamber, his face etched in long lines of tension. “I didn’t want to alarm you unduly, but I have also taken the precaution of sending patrols around both our properties. I don’t know if it will act as a deterrent, but my hope is to keep the robbers off balance long enough for me to catch them.”
“Do you have a plan yet, Nash?” Charlotte’s heart beat faster at the memory of the men who had accosted her. The sooner they could be apprehended, the sooner she would sleep soundly in her bed.
“Why don’t you see Mr. Courtland first? Then we can retire to my study to have our tea and I’ll explain the plan.” He opened the door and Charlotte entered, immediately aware of the elegant if somewhat outdated style of the chamber. The furnishings were solid pieces that could be kept, though the hangings and wall coverings were sorely in need of changing. With a few simple alterations this could be a stunning room.
A stirring in the bed brought her attention to the figure lying there and the young woman sitting beside him.
Courtland lay motionless with his head resting against a multitude of white pillows, the blue satin coverlet pulled up to his neck. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, in stark contrast to his pale face.
It might have been her lying thus if not for the grace of God and William Courtland. Charlotte shuddered to think of what might have befallen her had this man not been at her side.
The woman who sat at his head occupied herself with a small embroidery hoop. Every couple of stitches she glanced over at her charge, then resumed her work. So intent was she that Charlotte and Nash had approached the bed before she became aware of them. When she realized they were in the room she arose, put her hoop down, and came toward them.
“Lady Cavendish, have you made the acquaintance of Mrs. Courtland?” Nash spoke softly and glanced at the figure on the bed.
“No, I am afraid I have not had the pleasure.” Charlotte inclined her head toward the petite blonde. She had a soft prettiness about her that Charlotte found charming.
“My lady, it is an honor. Mr. Courtland has spoken of you often, with great admiration.” Her hushed voice had a high sweet tone.
“How is he this morning, Mrs. Courtland?” Nash again looked at the sick man, who now stirred beneath the covers.
“Another uncomfortable night. And his fever is back, my lord.” The woman pressed her hands together, her worry almost palpable.
Nash went to the bed and felt the patient’s forehead and cheek. “Did you give him another dose of Putnam’s elixir?”
“Yes, my lord. Early this morning. We’ve finished the last of the vial.”
Nash sighed. “Do not be distressed. Putnam said the fever and discomfort would last for about three or four more days. But I will send for him and ask him to bring more of the medicine.” He put his hand on Mrs. Courtland’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I believe he will recover.”
“I pray so, Lord Wrotham.” She turned to look at her husband, concern etched in the lines around her eyes.
“Mrs. Courtland.” Charlotte took both of the woman’s hands. “If there is anything at all I may do to see to your comfort or that of your husband, you must send for me at once. He saved my life. If I can do him a like service, I would be most grateful.”
“You are kindness itself, my lady. Will . . . Mr. Courtland will be so pleased when I tell him of your visit.” A fleeting smile gave way to a grimly clenched jaw that betrayed her distress.
The figure on the bed began to moan and thrash about. Mrs. Courtland released Charlotte’s hands and flew to her husband’s side. She grabbed a cup from the bedside table and deftly held it to his lips. “Here, Will. Drink this down.”
He sipped it avidly, then shook his head.
“No, my dear. All of it, if you please.” She succeeded in getting him to drink the whole cup, then eased his head back onto the pillows.
“I’ll send Putnam up as soon as he arrives,” Nash said and Mrs. Courtland nodded absently, her attention fully taken up by her husband.
Nash motioned to Charlotte and they left the room as quietly as they had entered. “I do believe he will recover,” he said as he steered her toward the staircase. “With such a pretty and devoted wife to live for, I suspect he will fight valiantly.”
Startled, Charlotte stopped and gave him a quizzical look. “Do you think such things make a difference?”
“I know if it were me, it would make all the difference in the world.” His eyes flickered briefly with desire; then he took her arm and once again led her toward the stairs.
Flustered by that look, Charlotte cast about for another topic—any other topic—to distract him. “I want to thank you again, Nash, for taking such good care of him.”
Nash shrugged. “It was the least I could do for the man. I’d have put him in the countess’s apartment, though it’s in sad need of renovation. I need a countess to take it in hand.”
Charlotte halted at the top of the staircase. Her heartbeat stuttered. She glanced at Nash, who looked back with hopeful eyes. She burst into laughter. “Then you need to find a wife. You have offered for someone?”
“I have.” He motioned for her to precede him down the steps, but Charlotte stopped, stunned.
Dread stole into her heart. “Do I know the bride-tobe?” Perhaps he spoke of his proposal to Georgina.
“Yes, you do.” He smiled. “Intimately.”
“Who—”
Nash held up a hand. “I offered, and she very eagerly accepted me.” He touched her hair, smoothing a stray tendril into place. “Then treacherously reneged.”
Her heart gave a great thump and she grabbed the banister. “I’m sure she had an excellent reason for jilting you.” She started down the staircase, determination in each step. He’d not win her over with kind words and a touch. Even if that touch set her aflame.
“According to her, I had betrayed her trust.” Nash trailed her down the stairs. “But she gave me little chance to explain or apologize.”
Charlotte reached the bottom step, at a loss to know what to do. Her first thought was to flee home rather than continue this conversation, but he’d offered to talk about the robbers. Drat. She needed to know what plans he had made.
“This way,” he said, and led her around the stairs and down a hall to a door on the left.
They entered the study and Charlotte stopped just over the threshold, amazement dismissing their disconcerting banter.
Chaos reigned here.
The room seemed a depository for every book, paper, or ledger in the whole of Kent, none of them in any discernible order. Stacks of books created myriad pathways throughout the room. Piles of papers lay strewn over every flat surface. Maps peeped out from between books on the shelves.
Stunned at this completely new side to Lord Wrotham, Charlotte edged carefully into the disarray. “How on earth do you ever find anything in here?”
He chuckled and nonchalantly strode to the bell and rang it. “I have a method to my madness.” He grinned and tapped his head. “It’s all locked safe in here. I can put my hand on anything you’ve a mind to ask for. Unless Acres has been in.”
The butler must have seen them come downstairs, for he appeared with a tea tray in hand. Nash nodded for him to come in. “For the first two months, I couldn’t find a thing because each night Acres would enter and tidy the room. After that we came to an accord. I would hold dominion over the study. Acres would be in charge of everything else in the house.”
Nash swept away a pile of papers and Charlotte gingerly sat on what turned out to be a rather delightful Chippendale sofa in the Chinese style. With a long-suffering look, Acres set the oval tray down precariously on a stack of papers and left.
“Would you mind pouring, Charlotte? Then you can come over here and I’ll acquaint you with the map and see what you find.”
She grasped the teapot, and the whole tray wobbled. Teacups swayed alarmingly in their saucers. A glance at Nash showed him absorbed in the papers on his desk, not the hot beverage that would soon be in her lap. Charlotte grabbed a cup for Nash and rose. She set it on a bare spot at the edge of the desk and poured a generous cup for him. The fragrance was familiar, but she and Georgie had sampled so many teas since her return from London she couldn’t be sure which one it might be.
“Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Sugar only.”
Charlotte handed him the sugar bowl and he dropped in three large lumps. The man must have a sweet tooth.
She then carefully poured her own cup, added a modest two small lumps and milk, and tasted it. “Your tea reminds me of the blend I just brought from London.”
“Yes,” he said absentmindedly, his eyes still on the map. He looked up. “I quite prefer yours, however. It has a delicious smoky flavor.”
Charlotte smiled, unaccountably pleased that he liked her blend. “The base is lapsang souchang, with hints of Assam and Ceylon. From Jacksons of Piccadilly.”
His eyes never left hers. “I shall have to get some when I am next in London. If you do not mind, that is.”
Flustered, Charlotte shook her head. “No, of course not.”
He flashed a smile that quickened her pulse before bending his head to the map again.
She sipped her tea, hoping it would soothe her, then took it behind the desk to stand beside him.
The map spread out over various other papers showing the county of Kent. Their properties were outlined in dark lines. From this bird’s-eye view, Wrotham Hall resembled a large rectangle to the north of Wrotham Village. Lyttlefield Park looked more like a wedge with a blunt instead of pointed top to the south of the village. There were clusters of red and blue dots and swaths of green.
Charlotte sipped as she studied the map. “What are the red dots?”
“They represent our tenant cottages.” He pointed here and there on the map.
“And the blue ones?”
“The attacks by the gang so far.”
The frequency of those marks appalled Charlotte. Eight blue dots, all but one sitting beside a red one. A lone blue dot sat next to a small patch of green. She placed her finger next to that site. “This was the attack on Mr. Courtland and me?” A shiver ran down her back and she clutched the warm cup.
Nash nodded, still absorbed in the map.
Determined to show him her mettle, she shook off her fear and concentrated on the dots. “What have you found out so far?”
His lips stretched thin and hard. “Precious little, and I’ve been working on the problem since late June. The gang must be receiving help from a local resident, for I have eliminated every other possibility. I’ve taken men and traced them through my woodlands and yours. We found traces of camps in both woods, but each time they had moved on.”
“Do you know how many are in the gang?”
“How many did you see when you were attacked?”
Charlotte closed her eyes, trying to remember. Her impression at the time had been of a swarm of bees, but she supposed that had been prompted by her fear. “I would say no more than eight. If the entire gang attacked us.”
Nash nodded and smiled grimly. “Good. That number tallies with what we found in the woods. Not too big for us to handle, I think.” His smile broadened. “With a little help from some friends.”
Charlotte cocked her head. “You are up to something, Nash.” He seemed suddenly very pleased with himself.
“Indeed I am.” He swallowed the last of his tea and set the cup down on the edge of the map. “I suspect another attack will occur during the Harvest Home festival. All the tenant families will be in attendance. You and I will be there. It’s a day-long festivity that takes place out in the fields, away from the houses. How tempting a prize would that be to such a bold gang.”
Charlotte stared at him, appalled at the logic of his words. Even her house at Lyttlefield or the very manor house in which she stood could be attacked and destroyed. Her face must have drained of color, for he ran his thumb and finger down her jaw as if to warm it.
“Do not be afraid, Charlotte. I will hire men when I go to London next week—some strong workmen, some Bow Street Runners—to stand guard during the Harvest Home. They will be discreetly placed and will be instructed to take the gang should they appear.”
Charlotte sighed, a smidgeon of relief countering the fear that had seized her. “I do hope that works, Nash.” She worried her lips as another thought occurred. “Drat! The house party will be here. Will they be quite safe, do you think?”
Nash dropped his hand and nodded, his face blank. “I don’t believe the gang would be so foolish as to attack a house with four or five grown men inside, plus your servants. They only chose you because you were isolated, with just one man.” He shrugged. “And your party will also be at the festival, so there should be little danger to them.”
He picked up his cup, found it empty, and set it down again. “The company is fixed, then? Your guests have responded?”
“Yes, I believe I received the final response just yesterday.” Charlotte grasped her cup and sipped, though she grimaced to find the tea grown cold.
Nash assumed a relaxed stance that did not fool Charlotte. Her own stomach had clenched, knowing what he would ask and dreading it.
“And everyone you invited has accepted? You were unsure when last we met whether Lord Kersey would be in attendance.”
Charlotte let out a breath, glad to get the question over with. “Yes. I received the earl’s note yesterday, informing me that he is indeed looking forward to attending once again. Especially as his time was cut so short at the last party.” Her voice wavered. “He still regrets having to leave when he did.”
Nash’s face resembled the carved stone statues of warriors she’d seen at the museum in London. He pursed his lips, as though he longed to say something. Charlotte cringed, expecting some scathing comment.
But he paused, seeming to gather himself, and simply said, “Indeed. Then I am pleased everything is as you wish, Charlotte.”
“Humpf. I would not say it is exactly as I wished.” She hesitated, in two minds about confessing to him, then plunged on. “Lord Kersey rather trapped me into inviting him, much as he did with that first dance at the ball in June.”
Nash gave her a piercing look and said, “Then let us hope it is the last time he is able to do so.” He opened the desk drawer and removed a small oval, the exact size and shape of the one that now hung on the wall to the side of the fireplace in the drawing room at Lyttlefield Park. This one depicted The Bull Inn in pen and ink. He handed it to her.
“I thought you might like this one as a companion to the drawing of St. George’s.”
“Oh, Nash.” Tears sprang to her eyes. Drat the man. Just when she’d settled her mind against him, he had to go and do something like this. “I can’t accept it.”
He smiled, warming her as the tea could not. “Of course you can. A friendly gift is always appropriate. Besides, they should be together.” He put the miniature into her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Let me insist upon this if I cannot insist upon anything else.”
Knowing she had been beaten, Charlotte nodded and clutched the ivory disc. She settled it in the left pocket of her riding habit and patted it securely. “Thank you, Nash.” She tried to avoid looking into his eyes, afraid of what she might find there. Instead, she moved from behind the desk.
“I must go. Georgie will be wondering what has become of me, although with an armed escort, I daresay I’m as protected as she is at home.” Charlotte found her gloves in her other pocket and struggled to pull them on.
“Allow me.” Nash took the black leather glove and held it open for her hand. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Charlotte slid her fingers smoothly into the glove. This was torture. She stole a glance at him. He seemed absorbed in the task.
“Thank you, N—”
“The other one, please.” He held his hand out, and she hesitated before dropping the other glove into it. “You say your escort is armed? Two men or one?”
“Two.” Charlotte stared defiantly into his eyes, only to find them shining with approval.
“An excellent move.” Nash pulled the other glove down over her hand, smoothing the fingers one by one. When he’d finished, Charlotte could barely breathe. She longed for escape from him and the fire he’d started in her belly.
He grasped her hand, raised it for a kiss that seared her through the leather, and said, “I hope all your decisions are as wise.” Then he ushered her into the corridor, calling for Acres.
Charlotte couldn’t take her gaze from him as he gave orders for her men to be fetched and the horses brought round. It had finally happened. She had declared her independence and won the grudging acceptance of this wonderful, stubborn man. She should be elated. Why, then, did she suspect she’d made the wrong choice?