The following day was Sunday. As usual, the old minister, Reverend Henry, came walking up the drive, followed by the estate workers, and they joined with the household for the customary service in the chapel above the great hall.

Sunday service in the chapel had been a Hall tradition from time immemorial.

Afterward, Jacqueline met with Mrs. Patrick to review the stores after the depredations of the unexpected celebration. They’d agreed on the items for an order to be placed with the merchant in West Pennard, the nearest village of any size, when one of the young footmen, Harold, arrived to inform her that Sir Peregrine Wallace had called and that Cruickshank had Sir Peregrine waiting in the great hall.

Jacqueline muttered an imprecation; she did not like Sir Peregrine. “Thank you, Harold. No need to go back to Cruickshank—I’ll go straightaway.”

She might not like Wallace, but the sooner she saw him, the sooner they could all be rid of him. Admittedly, Sir Peregrine hadn’t yet crossed her personal line—meaning he had yet to tout himself as an acceptable suitor and urge her to yield him her hand—but if she was any judge at all of men, it was only a matter of time.

She quit the morning room, but halted in the corridor before the door giving onto the great hall. She shook her skirts straight, checked her fichu was in place, then drew in a breath and pushed through the swinging door.

She turned toward the front door and had to fight to keep her lips straight. Cruickshank, bless him, had kept Wallace kicking his heels in the antechamber just inside the door. He hadn’t shown Sir Peregrine to the more comfortable chairs before the fireplace, much less into the drawing room. Instead, Wallace was perched on an uncomfortable bench set against the wall a yard inside the door.

Jacqueline clasped her hands at her waist and, head high, glided forward. “Sir Peregrine. How nice to see you.”

Wallace came to his feet and stalked to meet her, reaching her as she drew level with the central table.

She halted as he did, with less than a yard between them. Perforce, she had to offer him her hand.

He took it and bowed over it. “Miss Tregarth. I hope I see you well.”

“Indeed.” She retrieved her hand, reclasped it with the other at her waist, fixed a politely inquiring gaze on Sir Peregrine’s once-handsome but now-dissolute face, and waited for him to state his business.

He glanced frowningly at Cruickshank, but unperturbed, the butler remained standing by the front door, his gaze trained above Jacqueline’s head as if awaiting orders. Apparently accepting that he would not be left alone with her, Wallace returned his distinctly bloodshot gaze to her face.

Bloodshot, and it wasn’t even noon.

She was not going to invite him into the drawing room or even to sit. As far as she was concerned, the sooner Wallace left, the better.

Then he looked past her, and she heard the faint squeak of the door to the servants’ hall and the soft steps of a woman’s slippers. Reinforcements; she hid another smile. Mrs. Patrick had come in as if needing to speak with her or Cruickshank and, from the direction of Wallace’s narrow-eyed gaze, had taken up position at the rear of the hall.

A dark expression in his blue eyes, Wallace finally looked back at her and smiled.

The transformation was startling—as a young boy, he must have looked like a cherub with his perfect features, cerulean-blue eyes, and cap of golden curls—but Jacqueline had already glimpsed what lay beneath the faded beauty and had a shrewd suspicion of what, in the intervening years, Wallace had become. More, she was immune to charm, no matter how pretty.

“I have come, my dear Miss Tregarth, because I learned via the grapevine of the dreadful news that your stream is failing. As I heard it, your mill can no longer function and even your farms on the levels will soon face difficulties, what with the worst of summer still ahead of us. I imagine the loss of crops will be substantial. You and Mr. Tregarth must be quite beside yourselves as to how to come about.”

She kept her expression as uninformative as she could and wondered where Wallace was attempting to lead her.

He made to reach for her arm, but as she’d tucked her elbows into her sides—she’d adopted that pose for a reason—there was no opening for him to take her elbow without having to grab and pull. His arm lowered to his side. Fleetingly, his lips thinned, but then his smile returned. “Of course, the instant I heard of your difficulties, I came riding over to offer what assistance I can. As you know, I recently acquired Windmill Farm, beyond your north boundary, and the farm boasts a spring-fed stream that’s running strongly, and the lake there is full. If it would ease the Hall’s plight, I would be happy to arrange for my tenant there—Wilson—to cart water to your farmers and even to the millstream.”

Jacqueline stared at Wallace’s eager, smiling face and wondered what Farmer Wilson—who had only the previous evening been dancing in this very room—would say to such a proposal. As if he would have time to cart water to the Hall! Luckily…

Smiling entirely sincerely, she calmly said, “That’s a very kind offer, Sir Peregrine, although I do think Wilson would be hard pressed to comply. Fortunately, we won’t have to put him to the trouble. I’m happy to be able to inform you”—no lie, that—“that we’ve been successful in locating and reopening our own spring, the one that feeds the lake behind the house. The lake is, even now, steadily filling, and we’ll shortly be able to commence carting water to the farms and elsewhere as needed.”

Sir Peregrine’s expression fell. “Another spring? A lake?” He stared at her.

Jacqueline looked into a dissipated countenance that displayed weakness and willfulness in equal measure. This, she suspected, was much closer to Sir Peregrine’s true face, stripped of the mask of assumed politeness.

In his eyes, she detected frustration and something darker, more harsh. Emotions evoked by some train of thought she didn’t understand.

“Yes.” She felt obliged to respond even though she assumed his questions were rhetorical; hearing her own voice grounded her. “The old lake has been dry for years, but Hugh recalled that it was spring fed, so I called in the dowser…”

Upstairs, Richard stepped into the gallery. He’d broken his fast with Hugh and Miss Tregarth, then attended morning service with the rest of the household. After that, he’d gone out to the stable to check on Malcolm the Great, only to be informed by both Hopkins and Ostley that the big gelding wouldn’t be able to put weight on the affected hoof, at least not that day.

Not entirely surprised, he’d accepted their advice and returned to the house and spoken with Hugh and Miss Swinford, who he’d found in a rear parlor, Hugh reading, Miss Swinford—Elinor, as she’d suggested he call her—embroidering. Miss Tregarth had been meeting with the housekeeper, but both Hugh and Elinor had assured Richard that he was welcome to remain until Malcolm the Great recovered the use of his hoof. Both had been amused by the horse’s name, but then neither had yet seen him.

Richard had returned to his chamber via the rear stairs to put Malcolm the Great’s favorite curry comb, which he’d taken to the stable, back into his saddlebag. Deciding that, regardless of the assurances of Hugh and Elinor, he should seek Miss Tregarth’s permission to remain, he’d left his room with the intention of finding her.

He heard her voice floating up from the great hall below, smiled, and strode on. Then her words registered, and he slowed. Plainly, she was speaking to someone who had not known about her rediscovered spring and the refilling lake. Richard paused in the shadows of the gallery and looked over the balustrade.

The gentleman to whom his hostess was speaking looked vaguely familiar. Then Richard noticed that Cruickshank’s gaze was trained on the newcomer and realized that, if the man was a visitor, then it was odd he hadn’t been shown into the drawing room. Richard’s sharp ears registered a creak from below the gallery. Careful not to get too close to the balustrade and draw the stranger’s eyes, Richard shifted until he could look down… He could just see the edge of a woman’s reddish curls and the front of her plain gown. The housekeeper, Mrs. Patrick, was also present—standing guard.

His eyes narrowing, Richard returned his gaze to the man. Who was he? And why did Miss Tregarth’s experienced staff consider him a threat? A threat to her?

Then Miss Tregarth reached the end of her explanation, and the stranger shifted, straightening, and spoke.

“I see. Well, that’s…wonderful. Of course.” The stranger nodded; from where Richard stood, he couldn’t see the gentleman’s face. The man continued, “It’s good to know that your farms won’t run dry and will continue to prosper through the summer.”

The man’s tone suggested he was, at least metaphorically, speaking through clenched teeth.

Regardless, Richard recognized the voice of the gentleman he’d last seen deep in the wood, walking away from the diversion of the stream.

So this is what the diversion is about.

This, Richard realized, was the man’s purpose—the impact of the diversion on Nimway Hall and the estate’s farms. And thus, on Jacqueline Tregarth.

Clearly, Cruickshank’s and Mrs. Patrick’s instincts were sound. The effect on the estate hadn’t been any unintended consequence.

His gaze locked on the unknown gentleman, Richard studied the man—what little he could make out from his elevated angle—while Jacqueline thanked the gentleman, Sir Peregrine, for his kind offer of assistance, plainly building toward a dismissal.

Even from where he stood, Richard could read Sir Peregrine’s frustration—his fists had clenched, and the tension in his frame suggested he was on the brink of some violent eruption—yet from Jacqueline’s calm if controlled expression, it seemed Sir Peregrine was endeavoring to hide his reaction behind a passably polite mask.

Richard hailed from a family steeped in social and political power; his instincts regarding people had been honed from the cradle. He did not doubt that Jacqueline Tregarth herself was Sir Peregrine’s immediate target, yet nothing in what Richard saw or sensed in the tableau before him suggested any degree of amorous or romantic inclination on the gentleman’s part.

Hmm.

Jacqueline reached the end of her expressions of gratitude, inclined her head, and gracefully stepped toward the front door—forcing Sir Peregrine to accept her implied dismissal and swing around to keep pace with her.

Richard eyed Sir Peregrine’s back. He wasn’t wearing a hat or greatcoat as he had been in the wood. While on sight alone, Richard had to admit he could not have sworn it was the same man, there was also nothing to make him revise his conviction, based on Sir Peregrine’s voice and his interest in the estate’s water supply, that this was the man responsible for the stream’s diversion.

Cloaked in the gallery’s shadows, Richard watched with approval as Jacqueline, head high, glided toward the front door, all but towing Sir Peregrine in her wake. Cruickshank stepped up in support to stand beside the already-open door.

Then Sir Peregrine—glancing almost scowlingly sidelong at Jacqueline—halted. He raised his head and stared over Jacqueline’s—through the open doorway and into the drawing room. “I say! What’s that?”

Two steps farther on, Jacqueline stopped and turned back.

Before she could prevent him, Sir Peregrine strode across the hall and into the drawing room.

In a flurry of skirts, Jacqueline rushed after him.

Richard tensed—to go down or not? But Cruickshank was already striding for the drawing room. The butler halted in the doorway, then stepped back as Jacqueline reappeared, literally dragging Sir Peregrine away…

From the orb?

That had to be what Sir Peregrine had seen—the orb sitting on the top shelf of the dresser directly opposite the drawing room door.

As Jacqueline, both hands gripping one of Sir Peregrine’s arms, drew him back into the great hall, even as his feet reluctantly complied, Sir Peregrine’s head remained turned, his gaze locked on what had seized his attention. “You found it buried above the spring, you say?”

“Yes.” Jacqueline’s tone suggested she’d reached the end of her patience.

Sir Peregrine lost sight of the orb and refocused on her. “Actually, I’m something of an authority on arcane objects. Would you like me to—”

“No.” Jacqueline’s jaw was set, her tone definite. “It’s just an old thing from the house, but given where we found it, the household and the estate workers now view it as our good luck charm. But it’s nothing more than an old ornament.”

Sir Peregrine was in no way convinced of that; Richard read as much in the man’s shifting gaze and his calculating expression as he glanced over his shoulder, back toward the drawing room. But then Sir Peregrine, who Jacqueline had continued to urge toward the front door, dropped his resistance, turned, and went willingly.

He patted Jacqueline’s hand, wrapped about his arm—as if about to grasp her hand.

Abruptly, Jacqueline released him and drew back her hands. She hauled in a breath, recomposed her expression, and briskly led her unwelcome visitor to the front door.

Surprisingly meekly, Sir Peregrine kept pace.

Cruickshank had gone ahead and now waited to one side of the open doorway. She halted on the other side and turned to Sir Peregrine.

He met her gaze, then glanced toward the drawing room. “If you’re sure…?”

“Quite.” Tipping up her chin, she held out her hand. “Thank you for calling, Sir Peregrine.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she added, “I really must get on, sir.”

Sir Peregrine’s gaze returned to her face, a frown fleetingly visible in the blue of his eyes. For a moment, he regarded her with that harsh, hard stare that she couldn’t interpret, then finally, he grasped her fingers and, rather perfunctorily, bowed over them. Straightening, he inclined his head. “Until next we meet, Miss Tregarth.”

With that, he walked out, across the porch, and down the steps to where Billy Brakes held the reins of a showy hack. Jacqueline noted that Hopkins and Ned Ostley had also come to the forecourt and were loitering within easy reach of the front door.

With Cruickshank at her elbow, she stood on the threshold of the Hall and watched Sir Peregrine mount, viciously wrench his horse’s head around, and ride away down the drive.

The instant the trees hid Sir Peregrine from sight, Jacqueline felt a weight lift from her shoulders—and indeed, she sensed the same nebulous pressure lifting from the staff around her and from the Hall itself. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one to take against Sir Peregrine; just having to grip his arm had made her skin crawl.

She took a moment to consider what her instincts were telling her. Outwardly, Sir Peregrine was personable enough, but there was something nasty lurking behind his glamor. She’d also got the impression he was intent on something—that he knew some secret and was keen to seize some advantage.

She suspected he was or could become a threat, but she wasn’t as yet sure in what way.

Regardless, he was definitely a person to guard against.

With a nod to Hopkins, Ned, and Billy, she turned back into the hall. As was customary on such glorious summer days, they left the front door propped wide. Cruickshank followed her into the body of the great hall.

She’d reached the central table when footsteps on the stairs drew her attention.

She halted and watched as Richard Montague descended the stairs, step by step. Unhurriedly yet purposefully. A faint frown tangled his dark brows, and his gaze was fixed unwaveringly on her.

It was impossible to stop her senses from leaping, her lungs from seizing, then constricting. She might consider such reactions to the mere sight of a man ludicrous, the hallmark of a silly girl rather than the lady she was, yet when it came to Richard Montague, she was helpless to prevent them; he triggered her senses.

It was also impossible to prevent her conscious mind from making the comparison between him and Sir Peregrine, from cataloguing the differences. While they were of similar height and not much different in build, Montague was the heavier, the more physically powerful. Also, beneath his undeniable social polish, which held a significantly higher gloss than Sir Peregrine had ever displayed, Montague possessed a hard-edged intelligence combined with eyes that saw and a mind that assessed with experience and knowledge, all tempered by an innate understanding of how their world worked.

While her inner sight had already labeled him a warrior, it now also saw him as embodying justice. As standing for justice. She had a fleeting vision of him wielding a sword in Justice’s name.

He stepped onto the hall tiles and walked to meet her.

As Montague halted a yard before her, Cruickshank stepped past. With nothing more than a deferential nod to Montague, Cruickshank continued down the hall, following Mrs. Patrick, who, after one glance at Montague, had already turned and walked back through the door to the servant’s hall.

Her staff’s assessment of Richard Montague could not have been clearer. Hiding a smile—no matter how serious he appeared, she, too, did not see Montague as any sort of threat—Jacqueline met his hazel gaze and arched her brows in question; he was plainly dwelling on something.

He held her gaze, his own direct and open, for several seconds, then said, “I was in the gallery, coming to see you—my horse’s hoof is not yet healed, and I wanted to request your permission to remain for at least another day.”

“Yes, of course. You’re welcome to stay until your horse is fit to ride again.”

He inclined his head, then his gaze moved past her to the open front door. “I couldn’t help overhearing the latter part of your conversation with your recent visitor.”

“Sir Peregrine Wallace. He’s…a neighbor of sorts. He hails from Lydford, to the southeast, but he recently took possession of the farm that adjoins our northern boundary.”

“Indeed?” Richard paused, trying to place Wallace in London society and failing; presumably, he and Wallace moved in different circles. He refocused on Jacqueline Tregarth’s delicate features and, feeling his way, ventured, “I didn’t hear all of your conversation with Wallace, but if I understood correctly, he came with an offer of help to ease the water shortage caused by your stream drying up.”

She nodded. “The lake on the farm to the north fills from a different, spring-fed stream. He offered us water from that, although how poor Farmer Wilson would cope with having to cart water over to our farms, I do not know. Luckily, now we have our spring running again, we won’t need to bother him.”

Richard’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening. He held Jacqueline’s questioning, now-curious gaze. “Yesterday, when I was lost in your wood, I heard two men talking. I was unsure what manner of men they were and what they were up to, so despite wanting help finding my way, I approached cautiously, and neither saw me. I found them in a narrow valley—one man was clearly a gentleman while the other was a much rougher sort, a laborer, perhaps. The pair were discussing a series of tunnels the laborer had constructed that cunningly siphoned water from the stream running along the bottom of the valley.”

Jacqueline Tregarth wasn’t lacking in wits. Her face, her whole bearing, stiffened.

Still holding her gaze, Richard continued, “By the time I saw them, the men were already moving away—I saw only their backs. I can’t be certain of identifying either by sight. But their voices had reached me clearly, and I’m perfectly certain that the gentleman I heard in the wood discussing the diversion of that stream was the gentleman who recently stood in this hall, speaking with you. Sir Peregrine Wallace.”

Jacqueline blinked, then her gaze grew distant.

“I didn’t speak last night,” Richard said, wanting to clear up that point, “because at that time, I wasn’t sure what was going on and who was connected to whom. I didn’t know Sir Peregrine’s purpose. Now, I do.”

Jacqueline refocused on his face; her blue-green eyes were flinty, and her chin had firmed. “These tunnels that divert the waters of the stream—they’re still there?”

“Yes. I heard Wallace tell his man—the laborer—to leave all in place. They knew no one had discovered the diversion, and it wasn’t easy to find. I stood over it, searching the ground for several minutes, before I realized what had been done.”

She tipped up her chin. Her eyes flashed. “Are you willing to lead me and my men to this diversion?”

Holding her challenging stare, he raised his brows. “Yes, of course.” He paused, then added, “Assuming your wood cooperates.”

* * *

Immediately after luncheon, they rode into the wood.

Half an hour later, Jacqueline sat atop her mare and watched Crawley and his lads, assisted by Fred Penn, the Hall’s old groundsman, work to collapse the tunnels that had been bleeding the lifeblood from the Hall’s stream.

Without the slightest tension, the estate’s men had accepted Richard Montague’s direction. He now stood alongside them, hands on his narrow hips, his head bent as he assessed their endeavors. Occasionally, he pointed to this or that and made a suggestion, with which her men instantly moved to comply.

Jacqueline might have lived a relatively sheltered life, but she recognized leadership when she saw it, and Richard Montague was born to the role. Not once had he had to push to get his way; he guided and led by example and with sound common sense, and the men followed.

She also recognized the vengeful animosity with which her men attacked the tunnels, their spades and picks striking with force. They were furious. She was more so.

How dare Wallace try such a trick?

This was her wood—Nimway Hall’s wood—and as with the Hall itself, the wood was hers to protect.

Sensing her flaring anger, her mare shifted beneath her.

Reining in her ire, Jacqueline patted the silky neck and crooned soothingly. She and the horse were on the opposite bank of the stream, a few yards from the area in which the men were working, yet close enough to hear all that passed between them. The other horses were tethered some way to her right, in the clearing beyond the entrance to the narrow valley.

If Richard Montague hadn’t stumbled upon Sir Peregrine’s scheme and thought to investigate, she was convinced they would never have found the diversion; it was too well concealed.

Once the mare had settled again, Jacqueline determinedly turned her thoughts to practical matters—to whether they would be able to patch the holes in the stream bed well enough to completely halt the trickle of water over the escarpment, and if they managed to do so, how long it might take for the stream to resume its customary flow. They would need the mill in action within a month or so to grind the early grain.

She mentally listed her questions, but her eyes remained trained on the men—more specifically, on Richard Montague.

He was fast becoming a lodestone for her senses.

Unbidden, her gaze drew in, focusing solely on him, as the old tales of those who got lost in Balesboro Wood floated through her mind. His story of getting inexplicably lost—completely lost when normally he was assured of finding his way through forests far more extensive—resonated with one set of the long-told tales. The ones of people snared by the wood for a purpose, that purpose being to aid the Hall and, most especially, the Hall’s guardian.

If one believed in the old tales…it was easy to cast Montague’s entrapment as being necessary to protect the Hall. He—specifically he, with his particular character and traits—had had to be there, to surreptitiously overhear Sir Peregrine discussing his diversion, to be curious enough to investigate further and find the tunnels, then to carry the tale of the diversion to the Hall, to Jacqueline, the present guardian, and subsequently, to lead her and her men to the valley in which they now worked, so they could put right a man-wrought wrong.

Sir Peregrine Wallace’s diversion had been a calculated crime against her and her people, one she would neither forgive nor forget.

Richard worked with the men, directing them in shifting stone, rocks, and clay to block the holes in the stream bed, then collapse the tunnels that had drained the water away.

Finally, he deemed the work around the stream done. As a trial of the effectiveness of their repairs, he had the young lads drag a pick through the rubble just before the edge of the escarpment, parallel to the drop. Along with the men, he stood and watched as the long slash in the earth at first filled and overflowed…but then the water in the groove stood, then slowly sank into the earth, and the incoming flow eased, then ceased altogether.

The ancient groundsman grunted. “Good enough. With the amount of clay in the soils here and with the spring flush over and done, the bank will have time to dry and bind and seal up our work. It’ll hold.”

Along with the other men, Richard was happy to accept that assurance.

They hoisted their tools and trudged back to the horses. As they walked along the now merrily gurgling stream, they were all pleased to see that the level of water was already rising along that stretch, returning to its correct level.

Richard walked to the horse he’d been given to ride—an aging but still powerful chestnut gelding that had been Jacqueline’s late father’s horse. She came trotting up on her mare as he swung up and settled in the saddle.

“All done?” she asked, holding the spirited mare in.

He nodded. “As your old groundsman says, it should hold, and I’m sure he’ll be back to check in a week.”

She smiled faintly, the gesture lightening her until-then-serious expression. “Indeed. We can rely on Fred Penn to keep an eye on it.”

With a dip of her head, she led the way forward, on and across the clearing. Richard tapped his heels to the chestnut’s sides, then reined in its resulting surge and brought it to pace alongside the mare.

As they left the clearing, he glanced back. The men had come on a range of beasts, some two to a back. They were sorting themselves out and preparing to follow. Richard faced forward. As he settled into the saddle, he gave voice to a puzzle. “Yesterday, I couldn’t find my way through this wood, not even to the Hall. Yet this afternoon, I led you and the others directly to this valley. I didn’t have to think. I knew which way I needed to go to return here, just as I normally would when in any other forest.” He glanced at Jacqueline.

Briefly, she met his gaze, then shrugged. “I can’t explain that any more than you can.”

He humphed, but let the confounding matter rest.

As they ambled beneath the trees, the air warmed by the slanting sunbeams, he debated, then deciding that his assistance with the stream gave him a certain license, he surrendered to what he recognized as a protective impulse and inquired, “Do you have any insights into Wallace’s motives in diverting the stream?”

She let the question lie between them for a full minute before replying, “I’ve been wondering about that.”

After several seconds, to Richard’s satisfaction, she went on, “From his visit this morning, it seems clear that he’d hoped to bring about a situation whereby I would accept his help, thereby placing me and the estate in his debt. Not monetarily but morally. Although he has yet to allude to the prospect, I strongly suspect that he—as with so many others—has it in mind to offer for my hand. I assume he believed that by assisting the estate in such a way—indeed, in stepping in as a savior of sorts—he would ingratiate himself with me and make me subsequently more amenable to entertaining his suit.”

Judging by her flat tone, Wallace had severely miscalculated, a realization that warmed Richard’s heart. But in delivering her answer, his pretty hostess had made no effort to conceal her antipathy toward gentlemen who wished to marry her. Such cynicism in a gently bred lady, especially an attractive one in her mid-twenties, seemed strange. Recalling all he’d overheard the night before, although he sensed he was straying onto thin ice, he couldn’t resist prompting, “I heard that you’ve turned away a good few suitors.”

She snorted. “Indeed.” She shot him a sidelong glance, a rather sharp one he made a point of not meeting. “I daresay,” she said, looking forward, “you heard that from the older ladies. There are several in the neighborhood who view my position as an unmarried lady in possession of considerable lands and an established manor house as a situation to be deplored. More, as one in urgent need of rectification.”

“Clearly, you don’t agree with that assessment.”

Her laugh was harsh. “If you knew of my suitors—those who have presented themselves to date—you wouldn’t, either. Every one has come to me with only one thought in his head—to gain control of the Hall’s farms, along with the right to supply wood to the bishopric of Bath and Wells, which right is attached to the Hall’s title. Both farms and right are valuable in that they generate significant income. At present, however, most of that income is plowed back into the farms and the Hall, spent in supporting the fabric of the estate and the people who work on it and care for it.”

The glance she threw him then—one he felt forced to meet—was steady and held palpable feminine power. “Nimway Hall does not exist for the benefit of any man. It’s here to support those who labor in its fields, all those who care for its wood and who maintain the Hall itself. Those who are its keepers.”

She paused, then looked ahead. “The tradition of the Hall is one that reaches back through the mists of time. Unlike the case with most other estates, the Hall and its lands pass in the female line, usually from eldest daughter to eldest daughter. Each daughter who becomes the lady of the Hall accepts the role of guardian. Consequently, any man who aspires to be her husband must understand and accept that the reins of the estate remain in the lady’s hands, and that the preservation of the Hall, of this wood, and the lower fields is the guardian’s duty—a duty that takes precedence over any other she might undertake.”

Richard couldn’t hold back a wry smile. “I can see how that might not align with the views of gentlemen looking for a bride.”

“Indeed,” she scoffed. “To date, deciding how to respond to my would-be suitors has required little thought.” She paused, then in a more even tone amended, “I should make clear that my disgust is not leveled at the institution of marriage, but at the gentlemen wishing to secure my lands via securing my hand.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment, struck by the thought that her situation was, in many ways, the female version of his. More, that her distinction between marriage and suitors was a valid one, one he hadn’t considered overmuch with regard to his own situation.

That was something to ponder, perhaps when he finally reached the safety of his uncle’s hearth.

For now, however, in the matter of Sir Peregrine Wallace and his interest in the lady of Nimway Hall, Jacqueline Tregarth had her feet firmly on the ground and appeared well armored against any attack, especially from any man aspiring to her hand.

She tapped her heels to her mare’s sides, and Richard urged his gelding to keep pace alongside. He glanced at her, took in the fetching sight she made in her green velvet riding habit, and facing forward, smiled to himself. Pretty she might be, of the caliber to draw eyes and focus predatory senses, but one look into those wide, blue-green eyes and one glance at her determined chin ought to be enough to warn any man against taking the lady for granted.

Given how attractive he found her, it was lucky he wasn’t on the lookout for a wife. Conversely, he knew very well that she was attracted in much the same way to him, which made her disinterest in suitors something of a relief.

They were mirror images, it seemed. Just as he was being hunted for his wealth and his name, she, too, was being courted for her possessions rather than the person she was.

As Nimway Hall appeared before them and, side by side, they cantered up the drive, he acknowledged there was a certain comfort in knowing that the lady in whose company he was shared his aversion to being pursued.

* * *

They returned to the Hall in time for afternoon tea. After partaking of scones and cakes as well as a dish of the fragrant brew, with the shadows lengthening, Richard walked out to the stable to check on Malcolm the Great.

Having contributed to the well-being of the estate by assisting with the repair of their stream, Richard felt more comfortable over making use of the house’s amenities. Consequently, when he inquired of Hopkins as to the state of Malcolm’s hoof and Hopkins shook his head direfully and informed him it would be days yet before the horse was fit to ride, he didn’t feel compelled to search for alternatives to continuing at the Hall.

“Come.” Hopkins beckoned. “Ned has the beast with him. Let’s see what he thinks.”

Richard followed the bow-legged man with his rolling gait through the stable and into the farrier’s domain at the rear of the building.

When appealed to for his opinion on Malcolm the Great, who was hitched to a railing nearby, Ostley, too, shook his head. “I’d thought he’d be right as rain by now but…here.” He crossed to the big gelding and picked up the hoof in question. Angling it so Richard could see, Ostley pointed to a pinkish section on the pad, next to the spot where the large sliver of wood had been wedged. “There’s no cut and it’s not infected, but I’ve seen that sort of thing before. He’s not taken to the wood—the type of wood, see?—at all. If you try to ride him, especially given his weight”—Ostley set down the hoof and glanced at Richard—“aye, and yours, too, then odds are that’ll open up, and then it will get infected.”

Richard pulled a face, but nodded in acceptance. “He’s too valuable to risk. It seems I’ll have to wait for a few days yet.”

Ostley nodded. “That’d be my recommendation. The times I’ve seen this before, it’s been maybe five more days before the swelling’s gone down.”

“Five days?” That was longer than Richard had imagined. He looked inward, expecting to find impatience if not frustration, only to discover that, instead, the prospect of having the time to further investigate the curious behavior of Sir Peregrine Wallace and, if possible, thrust a more definite and permanent spoke in the man’s wheel vis-à-vis Jacqueline Tregarth was distinctly appealing.

He wasn’t, indeed, averse to spending more time at Nimway Hall. It was a pleasant and peaceful place, with pleasant, accommodating, and undemanding people—a place in which he didn’t need to fear being set upon and trapped into matrimony. Quite the opposite. And with Wallace to deal with, he wouldn’t be bored.

He was on the verge of inwardly smiling and accepting Fate’s decree when Hopkins, regarding him earnestly, said, “If you was in a hurry to get on to your business in Wells, we could loan you that gelding you rode today. He’d carry you there, easy enough, then I could send one of the lads with your beast once he’s recovered.”

Richard paused and thought again, but… Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t have business, as such, to attend to in Wells—my visit was purely social and unplanned at that. No one there is expecting me, so no one will be concerned that I haven’t yet arrived.” And now that he was here, in the relative safety of Nimway Hall, there was no urgent need for him to race for the protection of his uncle’s bachelor household; those who wished to pursue him could have no notion of where he’d found refuge.

He met Hopkins’s gaze and smiled. “Thank you for the offer, but I would simply be sitting idle in the bishop’s household, and truth to tell, I would rather be here, where I can at least ride and enjoy the countryside. After months in London, that’s a welcome relief.”

If he continued to Wells, he would have to remain indoors; venturing forth, even there, would be too dangerous. It was too soon after his near escape in town, and his connection to His Grace of Bath and Wells was no secret, after all.

He would also rather not leave Malcolm the Great wholly in others’ hands; he was the only person the huge gelding allowed on his back. That thought settled the matter. With a brisk nod, Richard glanced from Hopkins to Ostley. “I’ll stay.”

They both smiled, clearly of the opinion that he’d made the right decision.

“Presuming,” he added, “that my remaining won’t inconvenience the household in any way.”

Both Hopkins and Ostley exchanged a meaning-laden look, then both waved aside Richard’s concern with the dismissiveness they plainly felt it deserved.

“Can’t see why anyone would mind you hanging about,” Hopkins stated.

“Aye—and it’s the right decision an’ all.” Ned Ostley nodded to where Malcolm the Great had shifted to rest his huge head on Richard’s shoulder. “Attached as the great beast is to you.”

Richard chuckled and stroked Malcolm’s long nose, then stepped away. With a wave to Ostley, Richard headed back to the stable with Hopkins.

Leaving the stableman issuing orders to his lads, Richard strode on, back toward the house.

Far from feeling obstructed by not being able to continue his journey, he felt…lighthearted. Strangely free.

Looking ahead, he studied the house, its gray stone burnished by the sun’s waning light. He had to admit it was a welcoming sight. He mentally looked ahead to the coming days…and that welling sense of freedom nearly made him giddy. How long had it been since he’d felt so unencumbered—so free of social expectations and constraints?

Obviously, it had been too long if the mere prospect of freedom for a few days could affect him like this.

Recalling the meaningful look Hopkins and Ostley had shared, Richard wondered what had been behind the exchange. Perhaps it was simply that, with gentlemen like Wallace sniffing about their lady’s skirts, the men—devoted to a fault, Richard had no doubt—considered that having a gentleman like him, younger and more able than Hugh Tregarth, on hand about the place wasn’t a bad thing.

Richard reached the side door, opened it, stepped inside, and inwardly admitted that, in that regard, he, too, thought him remaining at Nimway Hall for a few more days was an excellent—nay, inspired—idea.