Duels & Deception Read online

  And as those thoughts passed through her mind, Lydia hit upon another possibility—a reasonable and nonapocalyptic reason for his visit. It was just a seed at first, but it grew until it blossomed in the form of a smile and brought out the sun again. “My letter about Mr. Drury—the new land agent. Mr. Lynch sent you in response to my letter.”

  “In part, yes.”

  The sense of relief was such that Mr. Newton’s hesitation barely registered.

  “Oh, excellent. Most excellent. Come, Mr. Newton, let us wend our way to Roseberry.”

  With a quick step back to the gig, Mr. Newton grabbed his satchel, pulling it free. Joining her by the estate entrance, he half-raised his arm toward her and then, likely realizing they were too newly acquainted to offer such an intimacy, he dropped it back to his side.

  However, Lydia found that she was not disinclined to take his arm; in fact, the prospect was rather exciting, in a daring sort of way. Feeling somewhat roguish, she stepped to his side and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. He smiled down at her in a manner that caused a strange flutter in her belly, and then he led them through the gates.

  Chapter 2

  In which Miss Whitfield must fob off a dandy before dealing with the merits of pineapples

  Robert Newton, third son of the Earl of Wissett, was visiting Roseberry Hall at the request of Mr. Lynch, as he had stated. It had been hinted that well-executed duties such as these would lead directly to the start of his apprenticeship. Still, Robert had not been keen on rushing into the country—an absence from Bath didn’t seem necessary. Nor, when Mr. Lynch had described the child at the center of the … complications had he been drawn to the character that was supposed to be Miss Whitfield.

  Clever, yes, that had been part of the description—but not used in a flattering sense. “Too clever for her own good” was how it had been put. Mr. Lynch had then gone on, at some length, to complain of Miss Whitfield’s interference—a tendency whose fault was laid at the feet of her deceased father, who had overeducated his elder daughter.

  And yet here Robert was walking down a pleasant, elm-lined drive with an elegant young woman whom Mr. Lynch would not have recognized. It was clear that Lynch had thought Miss Lydia Whitfield to still be the fourteen-year-old child he knew three years earlier. But he couldn’t have been more mistaken. Gone were the braids, the pinafores, the awkward scuffling gait, the red face, and the watery eyes—tears most likely—that were part of Lynch’s description.

  The Lydia Whitfield that Robert had just met was a completely different young lady—in countenance and temperament. Tall, for a woman, and willowy, she walked with the loping grace of a deer—without the skittishness. Rich black curls spilled out from under her green bonnet with enough haphazard profusion to indicate a thick head of hair, and her features were soft and fine. Although some might say her nose was overlong and her chin a trifle sharp, Robert found both features appealing. Swaying, their gait in harmony, he quite enjoyed her proximity. Quite.

  As to her character, Robert was pleased with her readiness to laugh, her compassion toward a stranger, and her barely disguised impatience with his boring observance of the passing storm clouds. As to the other facets of her personality, well, Robert was surprised to discover that he was looking forward to getting to know them.

  “Well, here we are, at last, Mr. Newton.”

  Robert looked up, for despite Miss Whitfield’s words, they had only just come in sight of the house. It was the typical hodgepodge of a sixteenth-century manor, with irregular additions, mullioned windows, and timber beams. The moss-covered tile roof was dotted with chimney pots and embellished with a chapel tower. Everything about Roseberry shouted antiquity saturated with grandeur. This was, of course, no great surprise as Miss Whitfield was the heiress of a large fortune made in the sugar industry over the past two generations of Whitfields.

  “Very nice,” he said, nodding with approval and noting her smile of pride.

  However, Miss Whitfield’s smile suddenly disappeared, and she came to an abrupt halt, frowning as she stared at her boots.

  The reason for her frown became quite clear—well, muddy.

  Miss Whitfield set about stamping her feet—knocking off a significant amount of caked, dry mud. “Oh dear, this will not do.” She dropped into a squat to wipe away the last of it, and as she did, she glanced down the tree-lined drive. Her frown deepened.

  “Miss Whitfield? Is anything amiss?”

  “No … not really. It’s odd more than anything else. Shadows that seem out of place. It has happened several times this past week.” She continued to focus on one particular bush.

  “Really?” He squinted toward the object of her concentration, noticing only that it had been trimmed recently.

  “Indeed. I know the grounds down to the last blade of grass.… And yet the shape of that silhouette is somewhat odd—as if a person is lingering and watching from behind the greenery.”

  “That will not do,” Robert said as he stepped forward, marching on the shrubbery in question. However, upon gaining said bush, he found nothing untoward. “All is well,” he called as he circled around and then returned to her side. “Not to worry, Miss Whitfield. Merely a trick of light.”

  Laughing, somewhat weakly, she stood and then shook her head. “My imagination is running amok. I shall endeavor to keep it in check.”

  Robert found Miss Whitfield’s flight of fancy as charming as it was surprising. They lapsed into silence until reaching the arched front entrance.

  There, the wide door opened, seemingly of its own accord. Miss Whitfield glanced over her shoulder toward the elm trees, shrugged, and stepped across the threshold. Thanking her butler, by the name of Shodster, she then arranged for the rescue of Robert’s horse and gig before stepping farther into the great hall. Partway across the marble floor, she stopped abruptly. And so, of course, did Robert.

  “Mr. Chilton, what are you doing here?”

  Miss Whitfield’s tone was so frosty that Robert expected the object of her disgust to freeze on the spot. Instead, the man, who had been seated on a narrow chair beneath the balcony of the upper hall, leaped to his feet and minced toward them. He was a fleshy fellow in his midthirties, dressed with the eye-popping flair of a fop. His waistcoat was an exotic, beaded bright orange with a clashing cerulean blue jacket. Worse still, the man’s overly starched neckcloth pushed his chin up and his jaw out, forcing him to drop his shoulder to see forward.

  “Miss Whitfield, what a wonderful coincidence. I was just on my way to Spelding when my—”

  “Mr. Chilton,” Miss Whitfield interrupted, “I believe I asked you not to darken my doorstep again.”

  “No, no, my dear. You asked me not to visit … which I am not doing. I was on my way to Spelding when my horse threw a shoe.”

  “How is it, then, that I find you cluttering up my hallway?”

  Robert glanced uncomfortably around the cavernous hall, taking in its impressive fireplace and abundance of dark paneling, preferring to be elsewhere for what was turning into a heated discussion. He spied an alcove off to the right with a collection of small landscapes and decided art appreciation might be a worthwhile enterprise for a lawyer’s apprentice. Still, with only fifteen feet separating him from the confrontation, Robert could hear the conversation without any effort.

  “Why, the shoe came off just outside your gates, my dear Miss Whitfield. If it had been anywhere else—”

  “Is your horse being taken care of?”

  Robert thought the painting of a flower garden was nicely rendered—the light shining through the trees added an ethereal atmosphere.

  “Oh, yes, my dear. The hospitality of Roseberry Hall is renown. Your dearest mama arranged for—”

  “Have you been offered any refreshment while you wait?”

  It was a shame that the varnish of the seascape had darkened. It required a squint and a closer look to make out the crashing waves and jagged rocks.

  “Oh dear me,
no, my dear. That is most kind of you to—”

  “Shodster, could you have Hugh show Mr. Chilton to the kitchen. I’m sure Cook can find him a glass of beer—”

  “Kitchen? Beer?” Mr. Chilton squeaked, clearly astonished by the offer of such an unrefined libation and made worse by being relegated to the back of the house.

  “And a bite of cheese and bread. There you are, Mr. Chilton, the staff will have you back on the road in no time. But on the next occasion that your horse loses a shoe in front of my gate, please find your way to the servants’ door, because you will not be granted entrance here.”

  Hugh arrived before Shodster could do anything as demeaning as seek the liveried footman, and soon the hall echoed with the steps of the two men as they vacated the grand entrance. Shodster quietly disappeared, too. Miss Whitfield joined Robert in the alcove, where he was, for want of a better word, hiding.

  “A most interesting collection,” he said, staring at a depiction of four cows in a field by a stream, with a boy fishing and a lady on a black stallion riding through the background; a busy place, this pastoral landscape.

  “Yes, indeed, in a very pedantic way.”

  Robert turned to see that Miss Whitfield’s color was higher than it had been. It was most becoming, but as it was caused by either anger or embarrassment, he was sorry to see it.

  “I should not have subjected you to such a scene. I do apologize.”

  “Think nothing of it. A solicitor, if possessing no other qualities, should have selective hearing. Excellent practice.”

  “Still, I should have seen you settled first before dealing with…”

  As Miss Whitfield labored to find a polite description of the scene he had just witnessed, Robert replied as if it were already stated. “Yes, but if you had done so, I would not have had the pleasure of casting my eyes upon a waistcoat of which I am sure never to forget.”

  In a superlative attempt to hide her levity, Miss Whitfield gestured Robert out of the alcove with a serious expression, only the twitching corners of her mouth offering up her true reaction to his words. “Yes, indeed. Such a superior example of … beadwork … I have yet to see.”

  Back in the center of the hall, Miss Whitfield looked to the first floor and then toward a door off the main entrance. “Were you hoping to see the family in an informal setting, such as the drawing room…?” She paused, obvious in her attempt to have Robert explain more fully.

  He wished that he could put her out of her misery, but again Mr. Lynch interfered. Robert had been instructed that impartiality was most important in dealing with this situation. He could not explain until all involved parties were gathered together.

  “Actually, I would prefer a more secluded location, if you don’t mind. And just the presence of Mr. Kemble and Eric Drury.”

  With a nod, Miss Whitfield turned and reached for the bellpull hanging next to the ornate mantel. However, before she could give the bell a tug, a voice floated down from the upper balcony.

  “Is that you, Lydia?”

  Robert could not see the questioning person, but the tonal range assured him that it was, in fact, a she.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Oh, I am so glad. I quite expected you back a full ten minutes ago. It doesn’t serve my nerves well when you do something irregular. You are usually as timely as clockworks.”

  “There was no need to worry—” Miss Whitfield lifted her hand in Robert’s direction. It seemed to be an indication that he should step forward and provide the excuse needed to calm her mother’s poor nerves, but her hand stopped moving as soon as her mother interrupted.

  Unsure of his role, Robert hesitated as well.

  “Oh, I was not worried, no, I was anxious … anxious that you would miss Mr. Chilton. No, perhaps I mean excited. Yes, that’s it. Did you see him?”

  “I did, Mama. I wish you wouldn’t encourage Chilton.”

  “Oh, Lydia, how can you be so unromantic? He is smitten, can think of no one else but you.” This was stated in a slightly different voice quality, telling Robert that it was a quote rather than an original thought.

  “As I have told you before, Mama, Chilton’s pockets are to let. His interest in me is financial, not romantic. Besides, you know that I am already betrothed.”

  Robert frowned. Lynch had not mentioned an engagement.

  “Don’t talk like that, Lydia. It is not official. You are not obligated—”

  With a flick of her hand, Miss Whitfield indicated that she wished Robert’s presence to be known, and he stepped into the open part of the hallway.

  “Could we talk about it at another time, Mama?” The request sounded suspiciously like an order. “I have business to discuss with Mr. Newton.”

  “Mr. Who? Oh my, why did you not say that you were not alone, Lydia? Hello, Mr. Elton. I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

  The situation was a little awkward as Miss Whitfield seemed disinclined to take Robert up the stairs for a proper introduction and Mrs. Whitfield seemed disinclined to come down. However, both ladies overlooked this and merely adjusted the level of their voices. Miss Whitfield enunciated Robert’s last name clearly while performing the honors, and Robert bowed neatly to the woman leaning over the rail.

  There was no doubting the relationship; Mrs. Whitfield was very much like her daughter but without the bright smile, slim figure, thick hair, and intelligent eyes. On second thought, perhaps the family resemblance was encapsulated only in the shape of her chin and the length of her nose.

  Once it had been established that Robert was not at Roseberry Hall to visit the family but as a representative of Mr. Lynch, Mrs. Whitfield lost interest and shrugged, returning—one had to assume since it was not visible from where he was standing—to the drawing room.

  In quick succession, Miss Whitfield’s bell summoned the butler, the housekeeper, and the returning footman, Hugh. Shodster was sent in search of Uncle Arthur and Eric Drury with a request to meet in the study. Hugh, after being laden with their outdoor clothing, was sent to ensure that Robert’s horse and gig had arrived safely—the doll was not mentioned. And, despite Robert’s protest, Mrs. Buttle was asked to prepare a room for their guest.

  “If I need to stay longer, Miss Whitfield, I will take a room at the inn in Spelding. That was my intention from the outset.” While Robert had prepared for the possibility that his quest would require an overnight stay, he did prefer to return to Bath at day’s end.

  “Please, Mr. Newton, there is no need. Mr. Lynch has stayed at the house—since you are here as his representative, it only stands to reason that if our meeting goes longer than expected, you will not have to travel in the dark—not to Spelding or Bath. A precaution, nothing more. We have the room.”

  Robert was given little opportunity to protest, although he retained his satchel as a token of resistance. Miss Whitfield led him down a smaller windowed hallway that ran along the front of the house. A few twists and turns later, they entered what was called the study: a book-lined room that looked suspiciously like a library except for the desk and the chairs grouped at both ends. The study was of such proportions that it possessed not one but two huge fireplaces. There was a sense of grandeur to it all, but it was the books that impressed Robert the most, for he was a great reader. With a smile, he noted that there was no whiff of mustiness. The room had the atmosphere of a well-used and well-loved haven, despite its size.

  They did not have to wait long for the others to arrive; Robert had only just set down his satchel and made himself comfortable behind the desk, as Miss Whitfield had indicated, when the irritated and irritating Arthur Kemble stormed into the room. Robert jumped to his feet, offering a polite nod, but it was of no consequence as the man didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

  “What is all this? I will not be summoned like a dog, Lydia.” Although clearly he could. “You should have come to me. I am your elder and your guardian, and I will be treated with respect.” Kemble shook his head with such v
igor that Robert, standing quietly to the side, suddenly came into view. “Who are you?”

  Robert was a little taken aback, as their encounter on the road could not have been more than half an hour earlier. The man was either woefully thick or purposefully antagonistic.

  Miss Whitfield provided the official introduction. The formality didn’t go as smoothly as one would suppose. Kemble would not be persuaded to accept a gentleman who could only claim an association with Mr. Lynch. The protest was quickly cast aside on the strength of Lynch’s letter and one of Robert’s printed calling cards. They were presented and studied carefully, and then Kemble turned his attention to Robert, now ignoring Miss Whitfield.

  “Glad you’re here, Newton. Been arguing with Missy here for days. But will she listen? No. Will she let it be? No. Needs to be put straight—told her place.”

  “Uncle. Please.” The “she” and “her” protested quite loudly.

  “That’s why you are here, right? To tell her to stick to ribbons and frills and all those gewgaws that females adore. Leave the estate to me.”

  Even Robert felt nonplussed by Kemble’s attitude. There was a proprietary air to his words and stance that were out of kilter with the true state of affairs. This man was not Oliver Whitfield’s heir. No, indeed not. He was Mrs. Joan Whitfield’s brother.

  Oliver Whitfield’s will had provided Kemble with a healthy allowance should he agree to uproot his family and move to Roseberry as Lydia’s guardian. The Kembles were to live at Roseberry Hall until Miss Whitfield reached the age of majority, when she could take up the running of the estate. Had Oliver Whitfield any closer male relatives, Arthur Kemble would still be living in his small, financially strained manor two counties away.

  “As you have surmised, sir, I am here to clear up the misunderstanding that has put the estate at odds.”

  “Tell her she’s wrong and then be on your way. Mr. Lynch has not interfered before, and I don’t expect him to interfere now. I have the right to manage the estate as I see fit.”