Lord of the Manor

When the owner of ramshackle Blackcliff Hall arrives, the locals have high hopes that Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam will set things to rights. Especially Gwen Allbridge, the estate manager’s daughter who has single-handedly kept Blackcliff Hall going. Now she must convince Trevor to stay and make the hall—and the village depending on it—prosperous again.

The decaying estate is just another reminder to Trevor of his noble father’s rejection. Abandoning it for London could restore his cheer…but how can he disappoint Gwen? Her faith in him makes him yearn to live up to the ideals she holds dear. As disturbing, unexplained events encroach on the pair, Gwen’s steadfast courage will rise to meet Trevor’s newfound honor as they learn that there’s no dream like home.

“Just how badly,” Trevor said, “do you wish me to stay?”

“I’ve told you how important Blackcliff is to the village, sir.”

“Indeed. The last lifeblood it seems. You’ve gone to great lengths to prove to me how well I’ll like it here. Are you setting me a mystery to sweeten the pie?”

A mystery? Gwen had been right—some part of him relished this challenge with the statue.

“I have no part in this, Trevor. Or do you think I’m the one moving the statue?”

“The idea had crossed my mind.”

For some reason, the accusation hurt. “Do you truly think me so devious?”

“Not devious,” he replied. “But determined. You admit you’d do anything to make me stay,” he said.

“I admit I wanted you to stay,” Gwen replied, “but this presumptuous attitude is not endearing you to me, sir.”

“Forgive me, Gwen. I should know there’s no guile in you. You have been nothing but kindness itself to me since the day I arrived.”

Well, that was better. She could only hope that he truly had decided she was innocent. And that maybe, maybe, this puzzle would give him a reason to stay for a while longer.

REGINA SCOTT

started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she had learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian and Portuguese.

She and her husband of more than twenty years reside in southeast Washington state. Regina Scott is a decent fencer, owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet and she is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene. Her friends and church family know that if you want something organized, you call Regina. You can find her online blogging at www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com. Learn more about her at www.reginascott.com.

An Honorable Gentleman

Regina Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.

—Jeremiah 29:11

To Nonie, who never fails to encourage me; to Linda, who never fails to enlighten; and most of all to my heavenly Father, who never fails to inspire.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Blackcliff Hall, Cumberland, England, 1811

Someone else was in the house.

Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam stopped in the center of the bedchamber he had been considering making his own and listened, head cocked. Blackcliff Hall muttered the usual creaks and groans of a house built nearly two hundred years ago and left for the past two months to itself. He’d already determined the cavernous place to be empty of servants save for an elderly fellow who’d taken his horse at the stables. And servants were generally silent in any regard.

From downstairs came the sound of a door closing. Trevor’s head snapped up. He slipped across the Oriental carpet and flattened himself against the heavy oak paneling of the wall. Over the past few years he’d made enemies helping his father and aristocratic friends solve personal problems like blackmail and bribery. Any one of a number of vengeful men could have followed him as he made his way north and east into Cumberland. Any one of them could be searching for him even now.

But if it was a choice of hunt or be hunted, he’d far prefer to hunt.

He glanced out the door, but nothing moved along the wide, oak-paneled corridor that crossed the chamber floor of the gray stone manor house. He knew the main stairs squeaked; he’d frowned at the noise on the way up. From the dust-covered furniture to the cobwebs dulling the brass chandeliers, the place reeked of neglect. The only lamp that was lit was the one he’d set on the bedside table.

How kind of his father to hand the godforsaken place over to him.

Another door closed, and footsteps echoed a moment as the intruder crossed a space of bare wood. From the drawing room to the entry hall, perhaps? He seemed to remember a span of dark wood floor separating the ruby-patterned carpets in the two rooms. If his enemy was anywhere near the entry hall, Trevor would be a fool to take the main stairs down.

Instead, he followed the upstairs corridor for the servants’ stair at the end. His footfalls on the thick carpet were silent. The suits of armor that stood sentry in recesses along the corridor watched his passage. He paused only long enough to relieve one of its swords. The blade was long and heavy in his grip, the steel icy. The sword was also dull as ditch water, he had no doubt, but his adversary wouldn’t know that. At the very least, it would serve as a club. Trevor slid into the servants’ stair and closed the door quietly behind him.

The whitewashed stair was circular, winding up to the schoolroom and down to the main floor, he knew. A window high above let in enough of the fading twilight to allow him to pick his way down. But even as he made the first turn, something moved below. He pulled back before he could be sighted.

There was more than one of them, then.

Hand tight on the sword, breath tight in his chest, he rushed down the final turn, ready to fight for his life. The only thing that moved was the side door, swinging in the cool evening breeze. Outside, a covered walkway swept down to the laundry outbuilding. In the autumn gloom the path stood as empty as the rest of the house had been when he had arrived an hour ago.

He’d known it was chancy at best to show up unannounced for the first time at the estate he’d been given when he’d been made a baronet. He’d expected a flurry of activity to greet his arrival—grooms running to stable his horse, maids hurrying to make up a bed with fresh linens, a chef bustling to prepare him a feast.

But no one had answered his pull of the bell at the gatehouse, and in the end, he had decided to push open the tall wrought-iron gates on his own and ride up the graveled drive. The house was imposing enough, a long block of gray stone, solid and strong, with a separate laundry room a little distance away on one side and kitchen on the other. Trees clustered to the left and right, and gardens lay front and back, but the most visible feature was the black mountain from which the house took its name, rising swiftly in the background.

He had no doubt Blackcliff Hall commanded the west end of the Evendale Valley. Yet, as guardian of the area, it stood unlocked, unlit and unoccupied. Trevor hadn’t been expected; he certainly hadn’t been welcomed. Now he had to make sure he didn’t pay the price for his unheralded arrival with his life.

He shut the side door and shot the bolt, then stood listening a moment. The house was silent around him, as if holding its breath. Where were they?

He eased open the door to the main floor. He knew from his exploration on arrival that the corridor ran past a reception hall on one side and a library and music room on the other to end at the entry hall and the withdrawing room beyond. With the doors closed and the lamps out, the corridor was a black tunnel with a faint gleam of light at the end from the windows flanking the front door. He’d have to pick his way carefully, but right now the shadows were his friends.

Trevor slipped down the corridor, ears straining for a noise to locate his enemy. He hadn’t crossed half the space before footsteps thundered up the main stairs. He pulled up short, heart pounding along with the noise.

How many of them were there?

For a moment, he considered leaving. Surely the little village a stone’s throw away from the manor boasted a constable. If Trevor could get to the stables, no horse could catch Icarus. He glanced back at the door to the servants’ stair and the outdoors.

All your life you’ve wanted something of your own. Will you let them steal this from you, as well?

He wasn’t sure where the thoughts came from; he didn’t think to ask. He knew in his heart they were right. He squared his shoulders and faced front again. Derelict or not, this was his home now. He had plans for it. He would leave only when he was ready.

He crept down the corridor for the entryway, debating his choices. He could follow them up the stairs, but they’d hear him coming. He could wait at the bottom, but they’d have momentum on their side. He needed something to stop them, to trip them up so he could gain the upper hand.

He reached the entry hall and darted across, careful to keep his boot heels from touching the parquet floor. The furniture in all the rooms was of massive mahogany. Moving it would take time he didn’t have, and even in the dim light he thought they’d see it on the stair.

But, if he remembered correctly, a stone statue of a shepherd, about knee high, rested in the corner. Placed partway up the stairs, the cheery lad would make an excellent stumbling block. Trevor slid into the corner and frowned. The space was empty, and he thought he could make out a bare spot in the dust of the floor. The shepherd, it seemed, had seen fit to move since Trevor had passed him an hour ago.

What would anyone want with a stone shepherd?

Nearby, wood scraped on wood. At least one of them was on the main floor then, but doing what, Trevor couldn’t know. Why didn’t they come for him? Had he mistaken their purpose? Was it Trevor they wanted or the house’s treasures? Either way, he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

He backed into the withdrawing room and looked around. Someone had left a lantern, partially hooded, near the bow window. The glow bathed the settee, sturdy armchairs, wood-wrapped hearth and sundry side tables in gold, and left the back of the room draped in shadow. He hadn’t done more than glance in here when he’d arrived, but he didn’t think anything was missing.

Indeed, something had been added. The stone shepherd was standing in the center of the bloodred pattern of the carpet.

A chill ran up Trevor. But he didn’t believe in ghosts, or statues that moved by themselves. Some days he wasn’t even sure he believed in God, at least not a god who cared for humankind. His life was proof that a gentleman only had himself to rely on.

But what would his enemies want with a statue, and why had they abandoned it? Keeping an eye out for movement, he crossed to the statue and picked it up with his free hand.

The piece was heavier than he expected, the stone cold in his grip. He jiggled it up and down, but nothing rattled to indicate a secret compartment. He turned it front to back, but in the dim light he couldn’t even be sure of the stone used to carve it, let alone any distinguishing marks.

“Put that down.”

Fool! Why had he looked down, even for an instant? Trevor turned slowly toward the voice, ready for anything. What he’d taken as a solid wall across the back of the withdrawing room was clearly a pocket door allowing access to the dining room beyond. Framed in the doorway was a cloaked figure, shorter and slighter than him, a lad by the timbre of his voice. Trevor could have taken him easily, if it weren’t for the pistol extending from the shadows in his gloved hand.

“Is it valuable, then?” Trevor asked, making a show of eyeing the statue even as he eased closer across the carpet toward the fellow.

“You wouldn’t have come to steal it if you didn’t think so,” the lad countered.

Trevor cocked a smile and took another step closer. “Takes one to know one, eh? What are you after?”

The pistol was lifted to aim at his heart. “Anyone who dares disturb this house. Now— Put. That. Down.”

“Certainly,” Trevor said. “Catch.” He hurled the statue at the fellow and dove into its wake. The statue fell with a thud against the carpet, and Trevor and the intruder went down in a tangle of arms and legs, sword snared in the cloak.

The pistol roared, the flash blinding him for a moment. His heart jerked, but he felt no wrenching pain, no blow from a lead ball.

“Now look what you’ve done!” his captive cried, obviously unhurt, as well. “Dolly! Dolly, here!”

In that second, Trevor realized two things. Something very large was thundering back down the stairs.

And the person he held pinned to the floor was a woman.

Gwendolyn Allbridge glared up at the man who held her flattened to the carpet. With the lantern across the room and behind him, all she could make out was height and strength. The arms that pushed on her shoulders were like pillars of polished oak. She wiggled against the pressure but only managed to press herself deeper into the pile of the carpet.

“Let me up!” she demanded. “Dolly!”

To her surprise, he immediately released her and rose. She scrambled to her feet, breath coming in gasps. Taking a step back, she nearly tripped over the useless pistol, its single ball spent. She should have brought both her father’s pistols. She should have woken her father and made him come up to the house to investigate the strange lights himself. She was unarmed and alone with a looter in an empty house, and no one would hear her if she screamed.

Well, no human, perhaps. Dolly bounded through the door, a dappled mountain that only looked larger with the shadows thrown by the lantern. The mastiff took one look at the intruder and bared her teeth. Her growl reverberated through the room.

“What on earth?” he said. “You have a trained bear?”

She smiled at his confusion. Dolly was the largest mastiff ever bred in the Evendale Valley. Her massive head reached above Gwen’s waist, and, at nearly two hundred pounds, she outweighed her mistress by over sixty.

“She doesn’t like strangers,” Gwen said. “I’d leave now if I were you.”

Dolly let out a bark, deep and demanding, and he took a step back.

“I fear I have two problems with leaving,” he said, and she was a little disappointed he didn’t sound more terrified. In fact, he didn’t sound like the vagrant she’d expected. His voice was educated, cultivated. And, if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was amused.

“And what would those be?” she asked sweetly while Dolly growled and prowled closer to him.

“Your bear is standing between me and the door,” he replied. Then he turned his head to look at her. “And I own this house.”

The owner?

Gwen’s breath left her lungs in a rush. But it couldn’t be. They’d received no word, seen no one at the gate. Two months had gone by since Colonel Umbrey, the previous owner, had passed on, and they’d only just heard the estate had been sold.

“Prove it,” she challenged.

He sketched her a bow that made Dolly pull up with a grunt of surprise.

“Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam, baronet, of Blackcliff Hall,” he said, “at your service. And you would be?”

“Unconvinced,” Gwen said. “Dolly, come!”

The mastiff edged around him and pressed herself against Gwen’s side. Now that her pulse was calming, Gwen felt every bruise along her backside. She’d have to use some of her mother’s liniment tonight. Leaning into the dog’s strength, Gwen crossed to the table in front of the bow window, where she’d set and hooded her lantern on arrival to avoid detection. As she opened the hood, she turned and let light flood the space.

Oh, but he was a handsome one! Raven-haired, square-jawed, with features clean and firm. She couldn’t be sure of the color of his eyes—blue like her father’s? Brown like hers? Green?—but they were deep set and narrowed now as he considered her.

What did he see? A slip of a woman with untamable auburn curls and a pert nose? She was certain she didn’t look like the respectable daughter of the estate’s former steward. The brown cloak was slipping off the shoulders of her green wool gown, and both were wrinkled from her collision with the floor.

On the other hand, she could well believe he was the master of the house. His navy coat was cut to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders, and his fawn trousers hugged muscular thighs. The lantern light glinted off the gold filigree buttons on his satin-striped waistcoat, and a gemstone winked from the hopelessly rumpled folds of his snowy cravat.

Oh, Lord, what have I done!

“If you could provide proof of your identity, sir,” she said, knowing her voice sounded decidedly fainter, “I would be pleased to welcome you properly to Blackcliff Hall.”

Sir Trevor’s mouth curved up in a smile that was perilously close to a smirk. “My papers are upstairs. Do you trust me to fetch them, or would you and your bear like to accompany me?”

She probably should, just in case he was lying and had friends or a pistol waiting. After all, she had seen a light moving in the house earlier. That’s why she’d come up to investigate with Dolly.

The house had been broken into three times in the past two months. Her father would find a door left swinging or a window wide open on his rounds about the estate. She’d helped him inventory the rooms each time, but they’d never been able to determine that anything had been taken or even disturbed.

Vagrants, Mr. Casperson the constable was sure, although the look he directed toward her father was knowing. He suspected Horace Allbridge of neglecting his duty, either by failing to protect the property he currently served as caretaker or by siphoning off its treasures, selling them himself and blaming mysterious others.

Gwen bristled just thinking about the unfair accusation. Help me, Lord. Help me show them how wrong they are.

“I’d be delighted to wait here,” she said.

He snapped her a bow and strode from the room. Gwen followed him to the door and watched as he started up the stairs, which squeaked at the fall of his high black boots.

It seemed the master of Blackcliff had arrived at last. But would he be the man Gwen had prayed for?

Chapter Two

The moment Sir Trevor turned the corner for the upper floor, Gwen burst into action. She tugged the carpet back into place where their struggle had creased it, then pulled off her cloak and used it to wipe the dust from the side tables and mantel. She shook out the dust in the dining room (time later to clean that) and left the cloak out of sight on the embroidered seat of one of the mahogany chairs.

Returning to the withdrawing room, she picked up the sword he’d left lying on the carpet and was surprised to find that it looked familiar. Had he taken it from the ancient armor upstairs? Wrinkling her nose, she tucked it into a corner to return later.

But the sword wasn’t the only thing that needed returning. She located the shepherd statue rolled against the wall and went to right it. The soft white marble glowed with life; she could feel the shepherd’s vigilance in guarding his sheep, his eyes narrowed into the distance, one hand against his brow, the other gripping his staff.

I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep and am known of mine.

She smiled at the familiar verse, but her smile quickly faded into a frown. Why had Sir Trevor moved it to the center of the withdrawing room, where she’d seen it when she’d arrived earlier? He could hardly be redecorating so soon. And if he was, he wasn’t very practical. Why would he want to trip over a statue every time he crossed the room?

She picked it up and nearly tripped herself. Sir Trevor must be as strong as he looked, for she had trouble carrying it back to the entry hall. Dolly padded alongside her, pink tongue lolling out crookedly from her heavy jowls, her breath coming in huffs of delight to be up and moving.

“We must make a better impression on him,” Gwen told her as she returned to the withdrawing room. She snatched the tinderbox from the mantel and set about lighting the brass lamps that rested here and there among the tables. The light gleamed off the heavy oak paneling that ran through the house and veined the ceilings and stairwells. Blackcliff Hall could be warm and welcoming, solid and safe. She had to show him that.

“This is what Father needs,” she said to Dolly, “to serve a respectable master in a respectable position. That ought to get his mind off his troubles.”

Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if she looked a bit more respectable herself, she realized. She paused to pin back her wayward curls into the bun at the top of her head, straighten her white lace collar and smooth the wrinkles in her green wool gown.

Goodness, were her fingers trembling? She mustn’t show how much Sir Trevor’s arrival meant to her and her father. From this moment forward, she vowed, the new master of Blackcliff would be met with nothing but pleasantries. She was standing by the hearth with a smile on her face, Dolly lying calmly at her feet, when Sir Trevor strode back in a moment later.

He pulled up short and gaped at her. She knew admiration when she saw it, and she couldn’t help the satisfaction that shot through her.

“Pardon me, madam,” he said, quirking a smile, “but there was a miscreant here with a pet bear a few moments ago. Do you know where they went?”

“La, but I’m sure they’re miles away,” Gwen answered, grin forming at his teasing tone. Then she dipped a curtsy. “Miss Gwendolyn Allbridge, sir. My father and I reside in your gatehouse. And this is Dolly.”

The mastiff’s tail thumped twice, and Dolly raised her dark head to gaze at him, jowls widening in a grin.

He bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dolly, Miss Allbridge. May I ask how you came to be in my house this fine evening?”

His voice was more curious than accusing. “My father has been acting as caretaker while the house went through Probate and was sold,” she explained. “Dolly and I spied your light when we were walking and came to investigate.”

He raised a brow. “Your father must be infirm, then.”

Gwen stiffened. “Not at all! Who told you that?”

“No one.” He crossed to her side and stood towering over her. Her head fit under his arm. She ought to feel menaced, but, with him smiling down at her, she felt as protected as when Dolly pressed close to her side.

“I stopped at the gatehouse when I arrived this evening,” he said. “No one answered the bell. And your father saw fit to send you when there was a stranger in the house. Naturally I assumed he must be ill.”

“My father was…unavailable earlier,” Gwen replied, hoping he wouldn’t ask the reason. It had only been a few cups tonight, far less than the bottles he’d downed shortly after Mother had died. “I was out with Dolly checking the grounds for the night, or I would have answered the bell myself.”

He frowned. “You serve as night watchman, as well?”

Night watchman, nurse, gardener and cook, but she could hardly tell him all that without making her father sound like a laggard. “Only when my father is unavailable, I assure you.”

He glanced around the room. “And who serves as maid?”

Not her, and for that he should be thankful. With the lamps lit, she could see streaks of dust crossing the fine grain of the wood where she’d missed spots in her hurry. “The staff were all let go when Colonel Umbrey, the previous owner, died. His heir chose to sell the estate, and we couldn’t know when someone would purchase it.”

His gaze speared her. His eyes were green, a light shade like the creamy jade Colonel Umbrey had brought back from his travels in India and the Orient. “And you’ve never heard of Holland covers?”

“Certainly we’ve heard of covering the furniture when it’s unused,” Gwen said, trying not to sound defensive. Pleasantries, remember? It wouldn’t do to snap at her father’s new employer.

But he couldn’t know how hard she had to work to get anything done around here, the hours spent cajoling and encouraging for the least task. Ever since her mother had died a year ago, her father had lost all will to live. And losing the respect of the villagers hadn’t helped. Far too many things had changed at Blackcliff. What they needed was a little order.

“We were waiting to hear from the new master before giving the place a good cleaning,” she explained at his frown. “The solicitor only just reported that Blackcliff had been sold. We certainly didn’t expect you to arrive unannounced.”

“A gentleman shouldn’t need to announce his arrival when returning home,” he said, not unkindly, and handed her a leather-bound packet.

“Well, it is a new home for you,” Gwen pointed out, untying the ribbon that held the packet shut. “And we thought if you were going to make Blackcliff your home, you would arrive with more ceremony. Do you have a carriage somewhere? Luggage?”

“I rode,” he said, and nothing in his tone gave her any clue as to why or how long he intended to stay.

Did he live in the Evendale Valley, then, and it had been merely a short ride to reach the house? No, that voice belonged in a more sophisticated setting. Or was this only one of the many properties he must inspect over the course of a year?

Gwen glanced down at the parchment, hoping for a few answers to the questions she could not ask without seeming even more impertinent. She’d seen enough legal papers as she’d helped her father act as steward for the colonel to be able to locate the important details in the close-written document. She glanced up at him, blinking.

“You were awarded the estate for services to the Crown? Were you a soldier like Colonel Umbrey?”

He smiled, but the light didn’t reach his cool green eyes. “Nothing so dashing. I settled a thorny administrative matter, and the chief beneficiary saw fit to recommend me to the Prince and purchase an estate in thanks. I take it you’re satisfied that I’m the new owner.”

She could not see him sitting behind a desk, shuffling papers, fingers smeared with ink. Those large hands looked like they should be wielding a sword as they had been earlier or clutching the reins of a team of horses. Despite his title of baronet, Sir Trevor seemed far too healthy, too vital, to have spent his life either clerking or in idle pursuit of pleasure.

But the papers looked as legal as any she’d seen. She slipped them back into the leather covering.

“This all appears to be in order,” she replied, handing the packet to him. She squared her shoulders and gave him her most charming smile. “Welcome to Blackcliff Hall, Sir Trevor. I hope you will consider it your home and wish to spend your life here. Now let’s get you down to the George and see you settled.”

In the act of accepting the packet from her, Trevor paused. A singular woman. Energy glowed from her fiery hair to her creamy skin to the fluttering of her gloved hands. Her topics moved as rapidly as she did. “The George?” he asked.

“The George Inn. Fine establishment. Excellent cook. You’ll love it.” She slapped her thigh, and Dolly scrambled to her feet, nails clattering against the stone of the hearth.

Now that the lamps had been properly lit he could see the mastiff more clearly. Her body, dappled in streaks of dun and black, was thick and powerful, with a barrel chest and a solid column of a neck. Her muzzle was coal-black, and her jowls quivered in her eagerness to move. Intelligence sat in those big brown eyes, and he was certain loyalty filled her massive heart. He could only be thankful she was so well trained, for even his dull club of a sword would have been of little use against her had she chosen to attack him.

“There’s no need to go to an inn,” he said to Gwen, but she was already bustling about the room, retrieving her lantern, extinguishing the other lamps. Everything about her said determination, from the set of her pointed chin to the quick movements of her lithe body. She looked to be a few years younger than his thirty years, and he wondered why such a beautiful woman wasn’t married and instead prowling around his estate in the dark with only a great beast of a dog for company.

“There’s every need,” she assured him, retrieving her cloak and throwing it around her shoulders. He hadn’t noticed the streaks mottling the soft brown wool of the garment. Had he caused that when he’d knocked her down?

“You may not have had time to visit every room in the house,” she said, returning to his side, “but few are livable. The beds need airing, the lamps trimming and the pantry stocking.” She smiled at him. “I’ll have everything ready by the time you return tomorrow.”

From anyone else, the statement would have been laughable. He had looked in every room in the house earlier, and he knew how much work had to be done to make it a home. But, with the light shining in her deep brown eyes, her face turned up to his, he thought this woman could very well work miracles.

“I’d prefer to stay here,” he said, and even he could hear how stubborn he sounded.

Her smile turned kind. “Now, now,” she said, laying her free hand on his arm with a grip that was firmer than he would have guessed from the size of her, “we must make sure you have a pleasant evening. I’m certain you’d prefer a good bed tonight and a nice warm dinner. You cannot possibly get that here. Why should you settle for less than the best? Where’s your horse?”

She was tugging him toward the entryway, and Trevor followed, feeling as if he’d been snatched up in the middle of a storm. “He’s in the stable.”

She tsked. “I’m surprised we had feed for him. I’ll see to that, as well. Or rather, my father will. He’s very good at making sure all the master’s needs are met.” She cast him a glance out of the corners of her eyes. “He was the steward before Colonel Umbrey died. Did they tell you that when they awarded you the place?”

“No,” Trevor said as she released him to hustle to the front door, the dog trotting obediently at her side. “I assumed the estate came adequately staffed. But I’m used to roughing it. I assure you I’ll be fine here tonight.”

“Nonsense. We can’t have the new master living in anything less than comfort.” She paused to smile back at him, and the look tugged at his heart as surely as her hand had tugged at his arm. Was this how Greek sailors felt in the myth of the siren? Her beauty and enthusiasm called to him, but he had a feeling they’d lead him far from his intended course.

“You’re not going to give me a moment’s peace until I’ve agreed to this, are you?” he asked, certain he knew the answer.

Her dark eyes crinkled up as if she was laughing inside. “Why, Sir Trevor, I simply want to make sure you are well taken care of. My father would insist on nothing less.”

He was beginning to think her father was at home, hiding from her determination. If anyone insisted on anything in that house, he was certain he was looking at her.

“And will your father be here to greet me in the morning?” he countered.

Her smile widened. “I guarantee it. I’m certain once you see the estate in the morning light, you’ll be pleased to call it yours. Would you prefer to ride to the village or shall we walk? It isn’t far.”

He didn’t like losing, even an argument, but he had to agree with her that the house needed work before it would be comfortable.

He wasn’t sure why that so disappointed him. He’d decided on the way north that he would only use the place for the income it could provide. He’d never intended to make it home. Home was London, the social whirl, the acquaintances he’d made in school and afterward. The sooner he could settle his affairs in Blackcliff Hall, the sooner he could return.

“I’ll ride,” he said, striding for the door. “That is, if the groom can be bothered to saddle my horse.”

“I’m afraid the groom gave notice ages ago,” she said in that calm, conciliatory voice. She followed him out the door, the mastiff bounding down the stone steps ahead of them while she turned to lock the door. “Colonel Umbrey decided he was too old to move from the Hall and sold his carriage and horses.”

Was that what would become of him if he stayed? Would he grow to be a fat, complacent old man with no interest in even making the short ride into town?

“Then the fellow who’s staying in the stables,” Trevor all but snapped.

She handed him the ornate brass key, which weighed more heavily than it should in his hand. “No one lives at the estate except me and my father, Sir Trevor.”

He stared at her, feeling as if her great bear of a dog had sat on his chest. “Then who on earth took charge of my horse?”

Chapter Three

Lord, please protect his horse!

Gwen threw up the prayer as she led Sir Trevor around the side of the house and through a door in the stone wall for the stables. She could tell the animal meant a great deal to him. In the light of her lantern, his face was tight, his jaw hard. His long legs ate up the ground as they crossed the garden at the back of the house. She had to scurry to keep up.

Dolly obviously thought it was as great game, this rush through the growing dark, the garden silent around them. She bounded alongside Sir Trevor, veering off from time to time into the shadows to snuff at something under the weed-choked plants. Sir Trevor, on the other hand, had his eyes narrowed in such a fierce look that Gwen could only pray the person who’d taken charge of his horse was either a highly competent stranger looking for work, or was miles away by now.

“We’ve had a little trouble with vagrants,” she offered as they approached the long, two-story building of dark stone at the back of the garden. “Nothing’s been stolen, mind you. I’m sure it’s just men out of work, on their way to the next village and needing a place to stay the night.”

“And a horse to ride,” he said, voice as tight as his look.

Lord, not his horse! She needed Sir Trevor to love the place; she needed him to want to stay. It was the only way to save the village.

She hadn’t done more than check the stables for vagrants in the past two months, so she wasn’t surprised to find it dark as they approached. Her lantern’s light glinted off the half-moon windows that topped the arches in the stone. More weeds poked up among the gravel of the yard.

The big wooden door blocking the entrance protested as she tried to pull it open. With a grimace of impatience, he took the tarnished brass handle from her grip and tugged. The door moved out of the way with an unearthly screech that made Dolly yelp in protest.

“A little oil will fix that right up,” she assured him as he pushed past her into the stables. The scent of decaying hay and dried manure tickled her nose, and she sneezed. Oh, what must he think of them!

Even as Gwen raised her lantern, Dolly trotted down the wide breezeway between the rows of stalls. It had been an elegant stable once, the boxes lacquered black and the curving screen separating the tops of the stalls a pristine white. Now everything looked a dingy gray. When had she allowed things to get away from her?

Something whinnied in the darkness beyond the light. Sir Trevor let out a breath of obvious relief and stalked toward the sound. Gwen followed him, then pulled up with a gasp.

In truth, she’d wondered why he had been quite so worked up about a horse. She knew they could cost a pretty penny, but, in her experience, they were great hawking beasts like as not to step on your foot as to pull your coach.

The animal standing in the middle stall, however, wasn’t a horse any more than a diamond was a rock. This animal had a jet-black coat that gleamed like satin and warm, liquid brown eyes that demanded loyalty. Every line of muscle and tendon said power.

“Dolly, no!” Gwen ordered as the mastiff approached the rope that closed off the stall. But the magnificent horse merely lowered its head and blew a breath at the dog. Dolly’s tail wagged so happily her whole rump wiggled.

Sir Trevor strode up to his horse and stroked the long muzzle. “Good lad, easy now. Everything all right here?”

She wouldn’t have been surprised if the horse had answered him. The beast tossed his head with a jingle, and she realized he still wore his bridle.

“Never even removed the saddle,” Sir Trevor said, and his tone indicated he felt the lapse worthy of eternal punishment. “Still, I suppose I should just be thankful he didn’t make off with you.”

“I’m very sorry,” Gwen felt compelled to say. “I can’t imagine who met you out here.”

“Neither can I,” he replied, gently nudging Dolly aside with his knee so he could release the rope. “But I assure you I had better not see him again.”

Please, Lord, let it be someone besides Father!

“Certainly not,” she agreed, moving forward to latch her free hand on Dolly’s collar and pull the mastiff out of the way. The dog came reluctantly, clearly wanting to sniff about this fascinating creature they’d found in the stables. “Is your horse all right?”

He’d stepped into the stall and was running his hands over the animal as if to make sure, his movements gentle, soothing. Why had she thought he was meant for battle? She could imagine those hands playing a sonata or painting a masterpiece just as passionately.

“He seems to be unharmed,” he murmured, and she could feel his relief.

Gwen ventured closer, peering through the spindles of the upper screen on the box. The golden light from her lantern warmed horse and master alike, glowing in their dark hair. “What’s his name?”

“Icarus.” The word brought a smile to his lips, and Gwen felt her lips turning up in response. He patted the horse on its glossy flank. “He likes to fly higher than he should.”

She wondered if the same could be said of his master. “He’s beautiful.”

“That he is. A descendant from the Byerley Turk.” He dropped his hand and turned. His face was solemn, troubled, and she stood a little taller to hear his concerns.

“Tell me the truth, Miss Allbridge. Can this estate provide anyone a living?”

She hoped so; she prayed so. Everything she’d ever dreamed of depended on it. “Certainly!” she told him, putting every ounce of faith into the word. “It was the finest estate in the upper valley before the colonel took ill. All it needs is a little attention.”

Trevor glanced around the stable. Stalls just like the one in which he stood stretched away on either side. The place would hold a dozen horses and several carriages when full, with room for coachman and grooms in the quarters upstairs. Now the darkness surrounded them like smoke, and she thought she could hear the scurrying of tiny feet not far away.

“I suspect,” he said with a sigh, “that it also needs an influx of cash.”

She dimpled at him. “Well, that goes without saying.”

He closed his eyes a moment. Was he praying? Did it truly look so awful to him that he had to reach to God for help? She wanted to touch him, stroke away the worried lines from his eyes and mouth. But that was not her place. All she could offer was encouragement.

“It will look brighter in the morning,” she murmured. “I promise.”

He opened his eyes and regarded her. Perhaps it was a trick of the lantern light, but his jade eyes seemed to have warmed. She felt warm just gazing into them. The vast stable was suddenly too small, too intimate. She swallowed and turned for the door. “I’ll just show you to the George now, shall I?”

She took a deep breath to steady herself and glanced back in time to see him swing himself easily into the saddle. “If it’s in your village, I’ll find it. Have your father send down my shaving kit. And tell him I expect a full report tomorrow morning in the library at ten.”

With a cluck of encouragement, the magnificent Sir Trevor and his equally magnificent horse disappeared into the night.

An influx of cash. Trevor shook his head as Icarus picked his way down the graveled drive. Gwen Allbridge smiled as if finding money was an easy matter. He supposed it would be for many a gentleman. But she couldn’t know that he was a gentleman in title only.

It had ever been this way. He had been born outside of wedlock, to a mother who was considered no lady. Yet his mother, his father, the accountants who arranged for him to attend the best schools, to wear the finest clothes, expected him to act the gentleman. Nay, they demanded it of him.

Gentlemen did not sully their hands with work; gentlemen lived off the income from their estates or their shrewd investments in the ’Change. But when you were born to neither estate nor investment, when the money was provided merely to educate, clothe and feed you while you were a lad, how were you supposed to get on?

He’d found a way, but few respected it. If the determined Miss Allbridge knew how he’d earned his meager income and his baronetcy, he had little doubt she would be far less eager to welcome him to her village.

But she wasn’t the only one so eager, he quickly learned. He located the George easily enough: a two-story, whitewashed building with black shutters and the picture of the king swinging merrily from the sign over the red front door. The inn was located in the heart of the little village, surrounded by tile-roofed cottages and two glass-fronted shops, all dark for the night.

The tall, long-nosed innkeeper was all politeness as he made sure Icarus was rubbed down and stabled. He easily agreed to have Trevor take a room for the night on the upper floor. That is, until he read Trevor’s entry in the great register book lying open on a high table near the entry.

“Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam of Blackcliff?” He squinted down at the words in black ink on the wide-lined book, then jerked up his head on his long neck like a stork checking for foxes. “Mrs. Billings—do you hear that? We are housing the new master of Blackcliff!”

Only three men lounged in the public room behind Trevor, but he could hear them muttering, the scrape of a chair as someone rose as if to get a better look at him. The pudgy innkeeper’s wife waddled from the steaming kitchen, wiping her hands on her wrinkled apron. Her brown eyes were bright as sugared raisins. “The master himself? Oh, an honor, sir, to be sure!”

In short order, he’d been installed in what he was assured was the best room in the house, jacket taken to be cleaned and pressed, pan warming the huge bed while a dinner of spiced mutton, soft pudding and buttered squash warmed his insides. Now that was more like it, that was what he’d hoped to find at Blackcliff—diffidence, competence, respect.

The morning was even better, with a breakfast of eggs and country ham, sharp cheddar, grilled tomatoes fresh from the vine and applesauce loaded with cinnamon, all with a week-old London Times to keep him company.

And there was the announcement: “Trevor Fitzwilliam, elevated to the rank of baronet. It appears that nepotism is still alive and well in our fair empire.” He crushed the paper with his fist.

So he wasn’t the only one to see his father’s hand in all this. Could the duke have found a more out-of-the-way place to send the son he refused to acknowledge publicly? There wasn’t an estate in Devon or Lincolnshire he could have purchased? No, Trevor must be sent about as far north as possible, into the Evendale Valley to the west of Carlisle, well into the peaks and lakes of Cumberland.

But, as always, Trevor had acted as a gentleman. He’d come to look at his estate, assess its ability to provide him an income. He would see that all assets of his land were producing, make sure his tenants were cared for and capable.

But nothing said he had to stay.

He had asked that Icarus be ready for him by half past nine, but he hadn’t expected the crowd waiting for him when he exited the George. Nearly two dozen men, women and children crowded expectantly in the coaching yard behind the inn. They wore rough cottons and dark wools, patched and frayed but generally clean. Their faces were pinched, their eyes wide. He couldn’t think what they wanted from him, but the moment he stepped out, a cheer went up.

Trevor raised his brows.

Then Gwen Allbridge shouldered her way to the front. Today she looked every inch the lady, her coppery curls barely visible inside a white satin-lined straw bonnet, her slender body wrapped in a dark green coat with a ruffled collar and lace at the cuffs, tied under her bosom with a rose-colored ribbon. He felt himself smiling at the sight of her and knew it wasn’t just because she was the most friendly face in the crowd.

“Good morning, Sir Trevor,” she said with a bob of a curtsy that set her pink bow to fluttering. “I hope you don’t mind, but a few of the villagers asked permission to accompany you to the Hall this morning.”

Trevor felt like standing a little taller. He offered them all a polite smile, in keeping with his new role of lord of the manor. “I am the one honored, I assure you.”

An approving murmur ran through the crowd. Gwen stepped aside, and an aisle opened between him and Icarus, who stood, head high, as if deigning to receive the attention bestowed upon him.

Trevor rather felt the same. He strolled down the center, nodding to this person and that, all the while keeping an eye out for the man who’d taken Icarus from him the night before or any of the men he had crossed in London. No one looked the least familiar. In fact, they were thin-faced and weary, as if living this close to the fells sapped their strength.

An older woman in a faded skirt curtsied to him. “Welcome to Blackcliff, sir. If you’ve need of a maid, my Becky’s a hard worker.” The plain-faced young woman next to her stared at him with worshipful eyes.

Gwen laid a hand on the woman’s arm as if in encouragement. “Sir Trevor will be making decisions on staffing soon, I promise. Send Becky up to me tomorrow, Mrs. Dennison, and I’ll find work for her.”

The woman’s blue eyes filled with tears. “Oh, thank you, Miss Allbridge.”

Trevor suddenly felt as if fine threads were being woven around him, tying him to this place. He wanted to shake them off, demand his independence. He had come north to learn what Blackcliff Hall could do for him, not what he could do for it.

Mrs. Dennison licked her lips. “And while you’re making plans for the place, sir, I hope you’ll see fit to reopen the mine.”

Silence fell, stretched. They were all watching him. He wouldn’t have been surprised had they been holding their breaths. But this was one question he felt perfectly comfortable answering.

He smiled at the woman. “If there’s a producing mine on my land, you can be sure I’ll have it opened.”

Another cheer went up. Hats were launched into the air. Couples embraced. Mrs. Dennison was openly crying now.

Gwen Allbridge grabbed his arm and yanked him toward Icarus.

“Now you’ve done it,” she said, dark eyes narrowed. “If I were you, I’d ride hard for the Hall and not look back.”

Chapter Four

Of course, Sir Trevor ignored her advice. In fact, Gwen was beginning to think the baronet was not going to be an easy gentleman to manage.

He kept his head high as his horse stepped away from the inn, the crowd cavorting along behind him as he made his stately way up the winding, tree-shaded lane. He must know the hope he’d given them—their faces glowed and their praises rang to the fells. Walking beside him, she could look up at his face—calm, dignified, with the barest hint of a smile lingering about the curve of his lips. He obviously had no idea that what he’d promised was impossible.

Oh, Lord, please keep them from hating him when he has to tell them the truth!

At least he wasn’t gloating, she thought as they approached the wrought-iron gates of Blackcliff Hall. However much of a challenge he offered her in keeping the estate going, he had to be a better owner than Colonel Umbrey. The colonel had always been capricious—the house too warm one day, too cold the next; salmon his favorite and least favorite meal by turns. He’d only grown more strange as the years had passed. Look at how he’d cast off his faithful valet, discharged her father and holed up in his bedchamber.

But even he had understood that the mine was closed.

The villagers stopped respectfully outside the gates, their rousing cheers following Gwen and Trevor up the curving gravel drive. The trees edging the estate boundary quickly hid them from view. From the direction of the gatehouse came a single, questioning bark: Dolly, protesting being left behind. She hated it when Gwen locked her in the kennel behind the stone gatehouse. Gwen would have liked nothing better than to lean against Dolly’s warm side, particularly as Gwen was a bit sore from the night’s exertions.

But she knew the mastiff had no place in the morning’s activities. This morning was all for Sir Trevor.

As they continued up the drive, other noises faded until the loudest sound was the crunch of Icarus’s hooves against rough gravel. The autumn breeze brushed Gwen’s cheek, set the trees along the drive to rustling. Leaves of bright red and deep russet drifted down across the emerald lawn.

“How long has Blackcliff been sitting?” Sir Trevor asked.

Did it look so terrible to him, even in the daylight? True, the stone fountain below the sweep of the drive stood empty and clogged with fallen leaves, but that was easily fixed. “About six months,” Gwen replied. “Colonel Umbrey refused all callers the last three months of his life, and he wouldn’t allow any changes to the estate. But the mine’s been closed for over a year. The surveyors said it was too dangerous to work.”

There—she’d said it. She cast him a quick glance to see how he might be taking it. The smile on his handsome face was even more noticeable.

“Surveyors can be mistaken,” he said.

So could he, but Gwen was suddenly very glad his education was one thing she could leave to her father.

Rob Winslow was waiting in front of the gray stone manor to take Icarus. She’d picked Rob purposely. He was tall, his strapping frame showed well in the brown coat and breeches that had been the livery of the previous master, he knew something about horses being the son of the village blacksmith and he’d play the role for no other pay than her thanks. He touched his brown forelock as Sir Trevor reined in, then quickly took charge of the horse.

Sir Trevor watched him, green eyes narrowed, until he’d disappeared around the house for the stables.

Gwen swallowed, feeling the chill in the air. “He’s not the one who took your horse yesterday, is he?”

“No. That man was much older and considerably thinner. That was my impression, at least. He was wearing a cloak.” Sir Trevor shook himself and started up the stairs. “I thought you said the groom had been discharged.”

“He was,” Gwen said, pacing him to the door. “Rob, that is Mr. Winslow, is merely filling in until you settle on your staff.”

He raised his dark brows over his aristocratic nose. He’d taken out his key, but she reached around him for the door. “No need. My father’s already opened the house. You did ask to meet with him this morning.”

He cast her a look. She could not tell what he was thinking, but she found herself holding her breath as he pushed open the door and strode inside.

Margaret Bentley was waiting to take his coat. She was the one person Gwen had qualms about. Oh, she looked the part of housekeeper with her snowy hair bound in a coronet about her round face and her motherly girth swathed in black bombazine covered by a pristine white apron. But she had no experience as a cook for anyone other than her six children and husband, all of whom had passed on.

“Welcome home, sir,” she said in her gentle voice as she reached up to help Sir Trevor with his multi-caped greatcoat. She had to stand on her tiptoes to pull it off. As she dropped back down, she peered at Gwen around his waist, brows up and mouth pursed in an O of awe.

“This is Mrs. Bentley,” Gwen said. The little woman straightened as Sir Trevor turned to eye her. “She’s acting as housekeeper and cook.”

Mrs. Bentley bobbed a curtsy, puddling Sir Trevor’s coat against the floor as she did so. “A pleasure, sir. Mr. Allbridge is waiting in the library, and I’ve started the teakettle on the boil. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you,” Trevor replied. “And tea would be most welcome.”

Gwen let out her breath.

“Have it right out, dearie,” Mrs. Bentley said with a grin, then she blinked and swallowed. “That is, very good, sir.” She ducked her head and hurried off.

Trevor turned to Gwen. “So I have a groom and a housekeeper. How many more?”

“A maid of all work, and I’m working on a footman,” Gwen replied, feeling rather proud of herself. It hadn’t been easy finding people willing to volunteer with such short notice. “And several other men will be by this afternoon to set the gardens to rights.”

She waited for his praise, his amazement over her skills at managing a house. She was certain she’d be just as humble accepting them.

Instead, his mouth tightened. “You are kind to think of my needs, but in the future, I’d prefer to be consulted before you spend my money.”

Gwen felt as if he’d slapped her. She recoiled, but only for a moment. How dare he assume she’d spend his money without asking!

She squared her shoulders and looked up into his icy green gaze. “I will have you know, sir, that not one of these people asked a penny. Blackcliff Hall is the life of this village, and we’re all so glad to see it occupied again that we were delighted to stay up last night and make it presentable. And if you were any kind of gentleman, you’d appreciate that!”

Trevor raised his brows at her vehemence. Every inch of her straightened spine and high head said righteous indignation. Her chest rose and fell in her green coat, pink ribbon fluttering, as if she were taking deep breaths to try to steady her emotions. She truly thought these people would serve him with no expectation of reward.

He couldn’t believe that. In his experience, everyone had a reason for offering help; everyone expected something in return. Nor could he believe they’d worked all night for no other purpose than to pretty up Blackcliff Hall. They knew nothing about him. Why put themselves out on his behalf?

And despite what she’d said about Blackcliff being vital to the village, he was certain they must have more important things to do. Determined to prove himself right, he strode into the withdrawing room.

And stopped. And stared.

Every wood surface glowed; every inch of brass from the candlesticks on the mantel to the lamps on the tables gleamed. A fire was crackling in the hearth, and a bunch of russet chrysanthemums filled a crystal vase on one of the decorative tables. He could smell the lemon polish.

He whirled to find Gwen watching him. “Is the whole house like this?” he demanded.

A becoming shade of pink darkened her cheeks. “Most of it. We didn’t quite get to the cellar, but we hoped you wouldn’t get to it, either.”

He glanced around the room again, noting the quilted lap robe draping the sofa and the silhouette framed on the wall. Neither had been there last night, he was certain. “Did you sleep at all?” he marveled.

She smiled. “Who could sleep with a new master at Blackcliff?”

Trevor shook his head. It seemed he was wrong. They truly had stayed up all night, for him. What kind of people were these? What land had his father sent him to? There had to be some reason for their kindness, but if not expectation of repayment, then what?

Still, he knew what his response must be. He offered her a deep bow. “You have my thanks, Miss Allbridge, and my apology. I’m not used to people so generous with their time and talents.”

“You’ve never met the people of Blackcliff,” she said, smile deepening as he straightened. A dimple danced at the corner of her mouth. Trevor found himself unable to look away.

The grandfather clock in the entryway chimed ten. “Oh, goodness! I’ve kept you from your appointment!” She seized Trevor’s hand. “This way to the library. I’m sure my father has everything laid out to explain the estate to you.”

Trevor didn’t resist as she tugged him out of the withdrawing room and down the corridor. She had strong hands for a woman, sturdy, unlike his mother’s long, elegant fingers. She was also the busiest woman he’d ever met. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of her handiwork.

Windows that had been grimy with dust now sparkled in the golden light of autumn. Every last cobweb had been obliterated. She must have enlisted each man, woman and child in the village to clean the place and stood as their captain. And she didn’t even look tired!

She threw open the door to the library with a flourish and stepped aside for him to enter. He thought surely she’d wait outside, perhaps even go straight to attack the cellar, but she followed him inside and shut the door behind her.

He had the oddest sense of a trap being sprung.

He glanced around the library, trying to determine what was wrong. Every wall was hidden by tall oak bookcases with leaded glass fronts. The only open space was for the paneled door by which he’d entered, the wide window opposite it overlooking the grounds and the black marble fireplace to his right. Candles in the brass chandelier cast down a glow on the stout leather-bound chairs scattered about the ruby-patterned carpet and the massive, claw-foot desk across the room.

This was where a gentleman conducted business—thoughtful, logical, impressive. For the first time, he began to feel at home.

An older man stood with his back to the desk, hands braced behind him on its surface as if he needed its strength. Where Gwen Allbridge was an all-consuming fire, her father looked more like a burned-out husk. His gray hair was thinning and receding, his cheeks hollowed. His body was too narrow for the plaid wool coat and brown breeches that hung from it.

He pushed off from the desk and managed a bow, his voice creaking out of him as if even breathing was a struggle. “Sir Trevor, an honor to meet you. Horace Allbridge at your service.”

“Allbridge,” Trevor greeted him, moving into the room. “I understand I have you to thank for keeping my estate safe.”

His steward immediately dropped his gaze to his scuffed brown boots and shuffled them against the carpet. “Only doing my duty, sir.”

Trevor swung around him and seated himself at the desk. The black leather-bound armchair didn’t offer a protest as he sank into it, fitting his frame as if it had been made for him. He rubbed his hands over the smooth desktop, saw his reflection gazing thoughtfully back at him in the polished surface. If he turned his head, he could gaze out at his garden and the black fell rising behind the house.

Something drifted over him, strong, sure. If he’d had to name it, he would have called it peace.

He took a breath and raised his head. Gwendolyn Allbridge was watching him from her place near the door. He’d seen similar smiles on the faces of new mothers, excessively proud of their babbling infants. But was it her father or him she found so adorable?

Not a little discomposed by the thought, he waved toward another of the leather-bound chairs on the other side of the desk. “Have a seat,” he told her father. “I’d like a full report.”

Allbridge perched on the edge of the chair, spine inches away from the back of it. He blinked bleary blue eyes as if trying in vain to gather his thoughts.

Gwen seemed to sense it. Her smile faded, and she hurried closer. “I’m sure you have a great deal to report, Father,” she said, for all the world like a teacher coaxing a student to answer a difficult question.

Did the man need such help? What kind of steward was he that he required his daughter’s prompting to do his duty? Trevor had assumed the man had been working at her side all night; now he could only wonder.

“Miss Allbridge,” he said, giving her his most charming smile. “Forgive us for taking up your time. I’m certain you have other matters on your mind this fine day.”

She came forward eagerly, face alight. “Not at all! I love hearing how well Blackcliff is doing!”

Her father cleared his throat with a phlegmy rattle. “Could take some time. Best you see to Sir Trevor’s tea. Wouldn’t want him to perish of thirst, now, would we?”

Her face fell, but she nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right back.” She hurried from the room.

“Your daughter is a credit to you, sir,” Trevor said.

“That she is,” Gwen’s father agreed. “She’s been managing Blackcliff for years.” He glanced after her as if to make sure she’d shut the door behind her, then scooted forward on his chair until Trevor thought he’d surely fall flat on the floor.

He raised his gaze to meet Trevor’s. “Unfortunately, I have no good news to tell you about Blackcliff, sir, and that’s the truth of it.”

Trevor felt as if the room had darkened. “As bad as all that?”

Allbridge nodded solemnly. “The estate has no income to speak of and any attempt to rectify that will incur a princely sum. Unless you’ve a pretty penny in your pocket, you might as well ride for London this very afternoon and thank the good Lord that no more of the place rubbed off on you.”

Chapter Five

Trevor stood at the library window, staring out at the estate. A shelf of green lawn led up to the base of Blackcliff Fell. Rob Winslow walked past, leading Icarus, who dropped his head to nibble at the grass. Clouds floated serenely in the blue sky. It was as bucolic a scene as he might have wished for as the new lord of the manor. But it was a lie.

After his steward’s pessimistic assessment, Trevor had pressed him for details. All had been bleak. Most estates Trevor knew had a thousand acres or more, much of them good pastureland for sheep or cattle, or fields for crops of one kind or another. All those lands needed was a set of tenants with half Miss Allbridge’s energy to bring in a handsome income that allowed their owners to live in luxury, most often in London.

The Blackcliff estate had only a few hundred acres, the vast majority taken up by that hulking rocky mountain. Blackcliff Fell didn’t offer enough pasture for more than the most hardy of sheep. There were no tenant farmers; there was nowhere for them to farm. As the owner of the land on which the village and church sat, Trevor received rent from each cottage and shop, based on the yearly income. Unfortunately, with the mine closed, there was precious little income to be had.

“But you claim the mine was prosperous,” Trevor had said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. “Why shut it down?”

“It wore out,” Allbridge had said in his rusty voice. Trevor wasn’t sure if his accompanying sigh was for the situation or Trevor’s question. “We even had a man killed from falling rock. That fall buried the biggest vein of wad.”

Trevor frowned. Why couldn’t it have been gold or silver? “Wad? Is that what we mine?”

“Aye, sir. Was used to cast His Majesty’s cannons, I hear. Now they use it to fill pencils.”

The fellow must mean graphite. Trevor had heard it came principally from Cumberland. “What’s the market?”

“Generally good. The mines at Borrowdale can only produce so much. Seems there’s always more demand.”

A demand he couldn’t meet with a mine too dangerous to work. “Why did the villagers act as if it were my decision to reopen the mine?” he pressed.

“People will do most anything to feed their families,” his steward had replied. “They didn’t want to believe the surveyors the colonel had in.” He’d cast Trevor a sidelong look that made Trevor think of his daughter. “I suppose the villagers were hoping you were the type of gentleman who was willing to invest in his mine.”

He’d have been more than happy to invest, if he’d had a penny to spare. He had plans for the income this estate should have produced—a house, a carriage, a wife of noble birth and decent marriage settlements, a place among good Society, respected, admired.

“I’d like to read the surveyor’s report,” he’d told his steward, but it had not been among the records Allbridge had brought for Trevor’s perusal. His steward had promised to locate it as soon as possible.

Until then, Gwen’s father had recommended that Trevor look over his estate. Allbridge made it sound as if Trevor might discover something worthwhile, something valuable that would make him wish to stay. What man in his right mind stayed on a lifeless rock?

“You haven’t tasted your tea.”

He turned at the sound of Gwen Allbridge’s warm voice. She was standing in the doorway, her fiery hair the one spot of brightness in the room. She’d taken off her green coat and wore a white apron over her green-checked cotton gown. She looked industrious and competent. He felt neither. His feelings must have shown on his face, despite his best intentions, for her brows rose, and she hurried into the room.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded. “Was the tea not to your liking? Mrs. Bentley thought you’d favor the souchong but that smoky smell isn’t for everyone. Or did we miss a spot when we were cleaning?”

Trevor forced a smile for her sake. “I wasn’t thirsty, after all, and the house seems immaculate. You almost make me believe in miracles.”

“Almost?” she teased, cocking her head and endangering the pile of curls on top.

He felt his smile slipping and returned his gaze to the black, unforgiving mountain. “I had hoped for better news from your father.”

He heard her suck in a breath, then the rustle of skirts as she hurried around in front of him.

Her brown eyes were imploring. “He hasn’t had to give a report in months. I’m sure if you allow him a little time, he’ll do better.”

She seemed to take it personally that anything might not be to his liking. “You mistake me,” he assured her. “I find no fault in your father. He came straight to the point, a trait I admire.”

“Then what?” she begged.

He could not stop looking at that mountain. It dwarfed the house; it blighted his hopes. “I simply could not like the truth.”

She angled her head to look up into his eyes. “The truth? That the village is overjoyed you’re here? That you have a venerable home you can be proud of? That you will make an excellent master for Blackcliff? How can you not like those truths?”

“They were not truths I expected,” he replied. In the face of her optimism he was beginning to feel like a spoiled child. Yet she could not know how important wealth and consequence were in his world. “There is nothing for me here.”

Her eyes widened as if in shock, and she drew herself up, once more all righteousness. “Nothing? What nonsense! You, sir, are coming with me.” She strode for the door, and he turned to watch her, surprised by the sudden change.

“I’ll ask Mrs. Bentley to fetch your coat,” she threw back over her shoulder. “We’re going for a walk, and then, sir, we will see about this nothing!”

She was out the door before he could argue. But then, he doubted she’d have listened if he’d tried.

Nothing? How could he call Blackcliff nothing? Blackcliff was her home; Blackcliff was her world. More, it was the world of every man, woman and child in the village, and it had been for generations. He should be happy to be welcomed, stranger that he was. He should be overjoyed to learn what he’d been given here.

“But wasn’t he pleased?” Mrs. Bentley asked, following Gwen back to the library with Sir Trevor’s coat bundled in her arms. Gwen had found her in the butler’s pantry, a small room just off the dining room that held the china and silver service and served as a place to keep the food warm after it had been carried from the kitchen in the outbuilding. “Does he approve of what we’ve done with the house?”

“He will,” Gwen promised, pulling on her own green coat and cinching the ribbon under her breast. “Just give me a day.”

“I’ll be happy to give you all the time you need, dearie,” the little housekeeper replied with a sad smile. “I really have nowhere else to go.”

Neither did Gwen and her father. She’d lived her entire life in that gatehouse. Her mother had married, given birth and died there. Her father was only now beginning to find himself again after her death. Blackcliff Hall, Blackcliff village, St. Martin’s Church—they were all Gwen had ever known. Leaving was unthinkable. The very idea robbed her of speech, set her stomach to cramping.

Oh, but Sir Trevor had to be made to see reason! This house was their last chance to keep the village together in the coming years. A great house had hunting parties in the autumn, Christmas parties in the winter and house parties in the spring and summer. Visitors toured the area, ordered food from the George, bought laces and writing paper and gloves from the village shops, left money to thank the servants.

A great house had gardens that needed tending, horses to care for, carriages to manage. It needed maids and footmen and cooks, perhaps even a governess and nursemaid if the master’s family was increasing. Blackcliff would keep them all together.

But only if Sir Trevor was happy enough with the place to make it his home.

Why had her father emphasized the negative? A shame she couldn’t have stayed while he had made his report. She could have corrected mistakes, shown Blackcliff in a better light. She knew how to manage the estate; she’d followed her father about his duties since she was a child, taking on more of a role each year as her father and Colonel Umbrey aged.

But even if she had stayed with her father this morning, she knew she had to be careful how much she helped him. He needed to feel useful; he needed to take back his place in the community. Surely that would get him over this depression he continued to fight. Right now, though, she just had to make sure his dismal report didn’t affect her plans for Blackcliff.

She marched into the library, prepared to counter any argument Sir Trevor might mount, but he came around the desk to meet her and Mrs. Bentley with a polite smile. He even bent over backward to allow the little housekeeper to shrug him into his greatcoat.

“Is there something special I can cook you for dinner, then, sir?” she asked as he straightened, her big brown eyes looking up into his.

He adjusted his coat across his broad shoulders. “I’m sure whatever you have will be fine, Mrs. Bentley.”

She nodded, then leaned toward Gwen. “The salmon, I think,” she whispered. “And pudding. I don’t know a man who doesn’t like pudding.”

Gwen could only hope the housekeeper was right. At the moment, it seemed that Sir Trevor liked little about Blackcliff. But she was about to change all that.

Please, Lord, let me change all that!

“If you’d be so kind as to follow me, Sir Trevor,” she said, then held her breath.

But he nodded, motioning her out the door ahead of him.

Emboldened, Gwen led him through the manor and onto the lawn before the fell.

How could he fail to appreciate the view? Gwen loved autumn at Blackcliff. The cool air was moist and tangy. The black rock made the fiery rowans and oaks and the russet ash stand out in sharp relief. With so much color, the ugly charcoal-colored piles of wad tailings around the mouth of the mine halfway up the slope were barely noticeable.

She paused, turning to him. “You like to ride, don’t you?”

He raised a brow as if he hadn’t expected the question. “Indeed.”

She pointed along the foot of the fell. “There’s an excellent path along there. If you head west, it will take you to the top of the dale. East will lead you down the dale into the Lockhart estate. The squire and his son are bruising riders, too. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you jumping a few fences.”

“At least they have fences,” he replied.

So much for riding. Lord, guide my words! Show me what he’d find good here!

Then a verse came to her mind: Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord.

The mountain! Of course. “And you have Blackcliff,” she replied, turning to head for the well-worn footpath up the fell. “This way.”

“This isn’t necessary,” he said, though she felt him behind her.

“It is entirely necessary,” she insisted, lifting her skirts to clamber up the rocky path. Behind her came a thud and a grunt, and she turned to find him on one knee, sliding backward on the rocks. She reached out a hand and grabbed his coat, slowing him. Oh, but he was a solid fellow! She teetered on the rock, perilously close to falling herself. Lord, help me!

Her gaze met his and, for a moment, she thought her panic had infected him, as well. Then his eyes narrowed as if in determination, and he surged upward, caught her and pulled her into the safety of his arms. Gwen stood, wrapped in his embrace, her chest against his ribs, blinking up at him.

“I can see why you thought this would improve my perception of Blackcliff,” he said, gazing down at her. His mouth curved up in a smile.

Heat flushed up her, and she disengaged from him. “Actually, you’ll find the view from the top is much better.”

His smile turned sad. “You’re wasting your time, I fear.”

“Then I shall apologize sweetly for taking you out of your way,” Gwen replied. But she started resolutely upward once more and heard the rocks rattle under his boots as he followed.

They climbed in silence for a while, the sounds of their footfalls quieted by the still air. The brambles along the path were turning a peachy orange, their berries almost as dark as the ground. Did he appreciate the show? A falcon soared by, nearly eye level with them. Did he see its majesty?

Apparently not, for he asked, “Why do you stay? Why do any of you stay?”

A simple enough question, for Gwen. “It’s home,” she told him, breath starting to come in pants. “My father’s here. My friends are here. But there’s more to it than that. You’ll see in a moment.”

With a last push, she reached the top. Sharp slabs of shale lay piled on the ground like dirty dishes on a footman’s tray. The air was cool and just as sharp, stinging her cheeks, tugging at her curls, whistling as it passed. Trevor drew up beside her, standing tall into the blue, blue sky.

Gwen spread her arms and turned in a circle. “Look around you, Sir Trevor. Everything you see is yours.”

He turned slowly, eyes widening. The crimson of autumn gave way to the white of new snow on the upper peaks in the distance. They had only a dusting now, like sugar on cinnamon loaves, but they’d be all white before winter’s end. Their forested sides ran down to clear brooks and wide fields. Gwen linked one arm with his and pointed with the other.

“Your land extends to the top of the next peak. See that stream in the valley between the two? It’s filled with salmon. You’ll have some for dinner tonight.”

He nodded as if the idea had merit.

Encouraged, she tugged him to the north. “See that copse of trees? That’s yours, too. You’ll find deer and fox and ermine and plenty of wood for your fire.”

One corner of his mouth curved upward. Ah, perhaps he liked to hunt. She could use that to her advantage.

She turned him east, and the whole of the Evendale Valley spread out, the village a set of small white squares against the green. “You see those cottages, those shops? Those are your people, your neighbors. They rely on you to provide opportunities for income and advancement. You can rely on them for friendship and service in good times and comfort in bad.”

His half smile disappeared.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he see what Blackcliff had to offer?

She released his arm and put both hands on her hips. “Come now, Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam of Blackcliff. How can you call this nothing?”

Chapter Six

How could Trevor explain? He could see the beauty of the place—wild, untrammeled. He could imagine riding Icarus along those narrow paths, hunting in the shaded woods, fishing in the crystal streams. If he’d wanted no more than a warm fire, good food and loyal companions, Blackcliff would have satisfied. But he wanted more. Blackcliff might be Gwen Allbridge’s world, but his was bigger and hundreds of miles away.

Still, she regarded him, feathery brows up, slender body poised, waiting for him to agree with her assessment, to offer praise.

The best he could do was smile. “I never meant to denigrate your home. It’s a fine estate and a lovely village. It’s simply not what I planned.”

She cocked her head, and the cold mountain air whipped a coppery strand of hair across her face. “What did you plan?”

He gazed off over the fells, shadows against the blue sky. “Farmland, tenants.” He snorted. “At the very least an orchard or two.”

She straightened and shrugged as if those did not seem so important to her. “You’ll find some of that in the lower valley, but it’s too rocky here for more than a small garden.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She waved her hand, sweeping away his concerns. “There are far more interesting things here in any event.”

Trevor eyed her. “Such as?”

She raised her chin. “We have a fine church. St. Martin’s was built in the thirteenth century, you know.”

So even his church was old and no doubt needed work. “A venerable establishment, to be sure.”

She laughed. “Your words are praising, sir, but I see the look in your eyes. Very well. I suppose St. Martin’s may not be all that interesting to someone of your sophistication. So, tell me, where would you prefer to live?”

“London,” he readily replied.

This time he was the one expecting a quick agreement. London was the capital, the seat of government, the hub of commerce. Anyone who was anyone spent at least part of the year in London.

To his surprise, she wrinkled her nose. “London? Why? You must see that Blackcliff is far and away superior.”

Trevor raised a brow. “And on what do you base such a sweeping statement? Have you ever visited London?”

“Once,” she admitted with a shudder that set the pink ribbon on her long green coat to shaking. “Mother went up to see a cousin who was being presented, and I accompanied her. And that was quite enough, I assure you. The air is filled with that nasty soot, carriages clog the roads, street vendors wake you in the wee hours to shout about milk and posies. No, thank you!”

With the exception of the soot from the coal fires, he found those things more interesting than irksome. “And were you given no opportunity to experience the culture? London boasts lofty architecture, galleries of fine art and sculpture, exceptional dressmakers and expert tailors.”

“Ah, shopping,” she said wisely. “Come with me to Blackcliff village, sir, and see if you don’t find it equally diverting.”

He’d seen enough of the little village riding through it last night and today. The entire collection of buildings could be hidden in one corner of London, and no one would notice. Instead of looking at aged churches, he should be in the library, reading documents, checking calculations. He had to decide what to do about Blackcliff, determine how soon he could head back to London. “I’m sure the village is delightful, but I’m certain your father would prefer that I return to the manor.”

He thought surely she’d agree with that. She’d been quick to support her father on every other occasion. Instead, she shook her head doggedly.

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