Oh My Laird!: A Risqué Regency Romance Page 4

  After one night inside Natherbury Fell, she knew without a doubt that it was indeed the equivalent of a prison sentence.

  The two servants who resided there were dour and silent, speaking only in response to a question and even then in words of one syllable. They’d dragged in her trunks and boxes, left them in the front hall and showed her up the stairs to what was supposed to be the master’s bedchamber. Then the woman, Mrs. Treadway, appeared with a cup of tea, put it next to the ewer and bid her an abrupt “Goodnight.” Followed by a little bob of the head.

  Too miserable and exhausted to do anything but drink the tea—it was awful—and lie down, Amelia had fallen asleep in her traveling gown, waking now as dim light filled the room. And the plink-plink-plink continued.

  Her temper rose. She was mistress of this disaster, for God’s sake. It was time the Treadways understood that. Today would be the day she took control of her own domain.

  There was water in the ewer, thank God, but no mirror, so Amelia had to tend to her own needs as best she could, brushing and smoothing her hair and pulling it back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her gown was a different matter, but again she managed, surprising herself by coping with the buttons quite quickly. She choked down a shriek at the ancient and cracked chamber pot, tucked out of sight behind a cupboard door. Perhaps it was temper that drove her, or perhaps the pervasive damp mustiness of the air in the room. But whatever it was, she was soon ready to start making a few changes.

  Opening her door, she nearly tripped as the plink-plink of a leak in the roof dripped into fine porcelain.

  “Damn. That’s where the real chamber pot went to.” She looked upward, noting the ever-enlarging rings of stains on the ceiling. Given that she believed this to be at least a three story residence, the fact that the drip had penetrated this far was not encouraging.

  Side-stepping the impromptu rain-collector, she found her way along a dim corridor to the top of the staircase. Everything seemed dull and dark, whether because of the rain or the state of the windows, she wasn’t sure.

  But there was light coming from beneath a door, so she followed that and found herself heading down to the kitchens.

  Here, there was a fire. A small maid was just removing fresh bread from the oven and Amelia’s mouth watered as the fragrance spread throughout the room. She noted a very decent china set on the table, and some nice crystal glasses.

  All the pieces fell together quite rapidly, and when the surprised Treadways entered the room together, laughing at something, she found something upon which to unleash her wrath.

  “Good morning.” Ice dripped from her words.

  Mrs. Treadway did that odd little bob again. “Ma’am.” Mr. Treadway dipped his head.

  “As you probably know, this house is now mine. If you are in any doubt, I can refer you to the legal firm handling the disposition of this particular DeVere property. In my capacity as owner and mistress here, it is correct for you to address me as Lady DeVere.”

  She walked calmly to the table and picked up a plate. “I would like my china back sometime today, and also the crystal. I hesitate to even enquire about some of this house’s other possessions. I can only hope you have not thought about selling them.”

  “My Lady.” Mrs. Treadway clasped a hand to her bosom. “We ain’t thieves…”

  “Really?” Amelia lifted her eyebrow just so, and the couple crumpled.

  “Ma’am—my Lady—we lives here. Have done since we was married. Barely enough in wages to live on at the best of times, so when the last Master left us, we did what we had to do an’ kept the house going as best we could.”

  Treadway nodded, agreeing with his wife’s words. “It wasn’t easy, my Lady. We couldn’t keep the fields going, but there’s still chickens and a good vegetable patch. But the house…well, we couldn’t fix what age and weather did to it.”

  She paused. “How long have you been without a master?”

  They glanced at each other. “I’d say going on fifteen years?” Treadway looked at his wife.

  She nodded. “Fifteen years come Michaelmas. Which is comin’ right up too. Yes, fifteen years.”

  Fifteen years? If Rigsby had been there at that moment, Amelia would have cheerfully slit his throat.

  “Very well. Let us see if we can work out this situation. I have a stipend for household maintenance. I shall speak with you about the house itself later this morning, and also the possibility of acquiring a maid. I can’t possibly manage by myself. In the meantime…” she looked at the table. “I would like breakfast. A decent cup of tea, some of that fresh bread, and whatever else you have that is edible.” She turned toward the stairs. “Treadway, if you would show me something resembling a morning parlor and get a fire started to shake off the chill, I’ll take my breakfast there.”

  She walked away, trusting that Treadway would take the lead. Her instincts didn’t fail her…he was already several respectful steps ahead and ready to hold the door for her.

  For the next few weeks, Amelia left her Society persona in her trunk and became Lady Amelia DeVere, owner of Natherbury Fell. She managed to hire a new maid—a youngster with more enthusiasm than skill—but the girl had potential.

  With that done, she turned her focus to the house. The third floor was almost a total disaster. What rats and rodents hadn’t damaged, the weather and the leaky roof had finished off.

  The second floor wasn’t much better. There were no leaks in her room, but two of the five guest rooms were untenable, and the Treadways had taken the only one with a functioning fireplace. Given the cold winds and incessant rain, she couldn’t blame them. The one in her room also worked, but tended to belch smoke if the wind blew from the southeast. Which it was prone to do. A lot.

  There were two “comfortable” rooms on the ground floor and she took one for her office. The other she used in the evenings, but found herself unusually exhausted at the end of the day. London would have been astounded and disbelieving at the news that the Incomparable Amelia would actually be going to bed early every night.

  Alone.

  Did she miss her town gaiety?

  She asked herself that question one night after her new maid had left and she was about to slide beneath the laundered covers of her almost-comfortable bed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the stained mirror that Treadway had salvaged and brought to her room.

  She looked…tired. Which she was, since she’d spent the day trying to clear out one of the perhaps-usable guest rooms. She needed help with the furniture, of course, but she was quite capable of sorting through old linens, several hundred years of utter junk and one or two usable pieces. Although the fur tippet she’d uncovered turned out to be inhabited and Mrs. Mouse did not take kindly to having her home upended.

  There was a minor brawl but Amelia won, thanks to a long handled broom which she used to push the fur all the way to the back of the deepest closet she could find.

  The time had passed at least. She wasn’t bored—yet. But it became increasingly obvious that she was working with no true goal. She had no friends, nor did she have plans for inviting anyone to Natherbury.

  So why am I doing all this?

  The reflection in the distorted glass had no answer.

  But as she fell asleep, one came to Amelia. Because you have nothing else left to do with your life. And you brought it on yourself.

  *~~*~~*

  Ian McPherson headed north from London at about the same time Amelia was struggling with the perils of owning a tumbledown estate.

  He’d not given up on the DeVere ruby, but managed to push its owner to the back of his mind for several weeks, focusing on other matters. But every now and again, the damned woman would intrude. He’d spy someone with hair like hers, or hear a laugh that might have been hers.

  In spite of the tiny jolt such occasions caused him, he managed to exist quite well without any contact. He was, he told himself, not in the least bit affected by the lady’s beauty or her wiles. Of
which she had more than he could name.

  His research and line of investigation into the theft had brought him into contact with many of Amelia’s friends. And a few of her lovers.

  Yes, she had been indiscreet to the point of scandal, and was lucky to have survived the Ton’s censure as long as she had. Her parentage was an asset, but now that her brother was assuming the DeVere reins, Amelia’s life had changed.

  Banished to the north, they said. Even as sympathetic faces and regretful smiles answered his questions, Ian could sense an underlying glee that the one-time Queen of London Society had been brought so low. Gossip was the life-blood of the upper classes and Amelia was once again the topic uppermost on their minds.

  She had stolen too many eligible bachelors, attracted too many roving-eyed husbands, and probably destroyed more than a few lives while doing so.

  There was no doubt in Ian’s mind that the lady had been—was even now—a siren of impeccably honed seductive skills, even though he was beginning to understand that the actual number of her affairs had been exaggerated. Perhaps even by the woman herself. After all, notoriety was to be desired amongst her set, and she certainly had the beauty to back up her implications.

  The picture that had been painted was of a vain and selfish woman, eager to take any man she chose and then cast him aside for another. She had a temper, would not take advice from anyone, and telling Amelia DeVere “no” had been likened to lightning striking a dry, hay-filled barn.

  So, Ian asked himself, what the devil was so appealing about a woman who was held by all to be a dyed-in-the-wool bitch with a thirst for men.

  Yes, she was beautiful beyond words. That fact was obvious and he couldn’t argue it at all.

  But he was trained to observe, and preferred to assess people in his own way, not relying on appearance or gossip. His observations didn’t quite match up with the prevalent bitch theory. There was more there, something behind the attitude, the raised chin and the looks of disdain she had perfected. Something lurking, far beneath her brilliant and stunning façade.

  Was there a frightened woman hiding there? He had often observed that people’s best and most-worn masks hid an abiding fear. The cause of that fear differed from person to person, but the emotion was always the same.

  Fear of loss, of desolation, of pain. Fear of abandonment, fear of loneliness, fear of aging. Fear of poverty, disease…it could be any or all of these things. Or none.

  Amelia was indeed an enigma, and Ian had been puzzled enough to take an unobtrusive peek into the DeVere background, in case there was a clue of some sort lying around waiting for him to trip over it.

  At least that’s what he told himself as he pored over the chapters on the DeVere family in his club’s copy of Debrett’s. The Mitra Club was one of his favorite haunts in London; a quietly exclusive and elegant mansion with many different rooms set aside for its members.

  One could chat, read, relax, join a group of like-minded fellows in jovial discussions, or sit silently with a book—whatever one chose. The fact that Ian was a member had raised an eyebrow or two until the membership committee had personally vouched for his credentials.

  He was grateful they had done so without revealing them. He liked his job too much to put it at risk.

  But this evening, as dusk fell and the fires were lit, he turned to the DeVere lineage and his private inquiries into the background of one Amelia DeVere.

  The name went back to the time of the Normans, originating somewhere in Northern France. Lands had been deeded, and all the associated titles bestowed for whatever reasons…Ian could only begin to guess. There were Fitz-DeVere’s, accidental DeVere’s, and DeVere’s by arranged marriages.

  In other words, they were a traditional English family, full of secrets, politics, criminals and the occasional whore, all dressed up and with enough financial power to buy their way into, or out of, anything.

  He riffled through the Middle Ages with barely a glance and skipped the Restoration altogether. The DeVeres were gaining in power, though, as the line continued to thrive well into the early 1700s, when it truly exploded into prominence.

  DeVeres were cited for bravery, or received commendations, in more than a few wars, and one earned high praise for his performance in the Seven Year War. There was a DeVere at the side of Sir William Howe during his successful campaigns for New York against the rebels, and another mentioned during the formation of the Second Coalition in 1798.

  It was, therefore, unsurprising that the current Lord DeVere was revered as a great politician, diplomat and stalwart pillar of the British Empire. It also ignored the fact that he had pretty much retired from public activities and his son Rigsby was now acting as Lord DeVere in all but name.

  Ian wondered about that. Rigsby was well-qualified and carried the cachet of his family name. But his father was still alive. Perhaps the old gentleman was in poor health—not an unlikely scenario.

  So he narrowed down his focus to the two generations…father and son.

  Marshall DeVere had married young, and chosen the perfect bride. Miss Marguerite Spencer was one of the Spencers, although from a very minor branch. However, the association was sufficient to make her an eligible mate for a DeVere and the marriage took place over forty years ago at DeVere Chase in Hertfordshire.

  Children followed; six were listed, three had survived to adulthood. Amelia was the youngest by some five or six years.

  Lady Marguerite had passed away, cause unlisted, when Amelia was about to enter her teenage years.

  Which, mused Ian, must have been damned hard on a budding beauty. Who took her in hand? Who advised her? He doubted her father would have the knowledge or the interest, her older sister would have already made her debut—he checked—yes, Miss Georgina had already married, so was doubtless involved in setting up her own family with little time for Amelia.

  She would have been left to her own devices, discounting a governess or two…perhaps that explained a little of the woman’s consequent behavior.

  He thought about that at length, staring into the fire with a snifter of fine brandy at his elbow.

  But his period of introspection came to an end with the delivery of a missive from one of his many obscure contacts.

  It was a message, scrawled hurriedly on the back of an old advertising poster. “Ruby for sale. Scottish border. Early next month.”

  Ian’s senses leaped to attention. Perhaps this was the very clue he’d been waiting for…

  Chapter Five

  Things had gone from bad to worse at Natherbury Fell.

  Amelia had done her best. She knew she wasn’t an idiot, and had more than a passing ability to deal with financial matters, no matter what her brother thought. She might have been an Incomparable, but that didn’t mean she was also an imbecile.

  There were now more fires in the fireplaces, thanks to a diligent chimney-sweep, and another maid in the kitchen lightened the Treadways’ load.

  However, when it came to repairing some of the actual structures, the trouble had started.

  Mr. Burnley, the widowed owner of the local carpenter’s business, had decided to make Amelia his wife. After all, he told her, she was still young enough to breed fine sons and she needed a lot of work done on her house. Why not kill two birds with one stone?

  She would have preferred to kill one carpenter with a large hammer at that moment, but her upbringing helped her politely turn away his rather blunt offer.

  Not long after, she wished she’d followed her first inclination, because the man did not give up his quest. It seemed that he’d heard how ladies always refused marriage proposals the first few times, out of a desire to appear modest.

  Amelia looked longingly at a large pitchfork resting against the wall of the barn as she tried to explain that she wanted the barn roof fixed before the east side of the house. She intended to stable a real horse soon, and in addition to the elderly job horse that pulled the small wagon, they required dry stalls, especially wit
h the winter drawing ever closer.

  Mr. Burnley listened, stared at her bosom—well-hidden beneath a warm wool day dress—and renewed his offer once more.

  “C’mon, Miss Amelia. We’ll be very happy together. Good sons and a lot of fun makin’ ‘em, eh?” He came close enough to nudge her in the ribs, catching her between a trough and the wall of the barn.

  “Here now, Arthur. Give the lady some room.”

  A new voice cut through the Burnley bonhomie, which gave Amelia the chance to slip to a safer spot in the middle of the room. While she was grateful to the newcomer for the reprieve, it really didn’t improve matters.

  The Very Reverend Josiah Masterson, Vicar of Natherbury, was also determined to wed Amelia. His courtship was more genteel, but his goal the same.

  It was rapidly dawning on her that beauty was a useful weapon in London among the Ton where the rules were clearly delineated. Here in the country, however, there existed an entirely different set of rules and she was not finding any of them to be of use. “No” apparently meant “perhaps, but I have to think about it carefully.” “You are very kind, but I must decline your offer” apparently meant “Yes, but let me think about it carefully before agreeing.”

  Within a week of meeting these two men in Natherbury Village, Amelia had learned to gnash her teeth, something which—up to now—had not been part of her repertoire of gestures.

  “Good morning, Vicar.” She edged toward the barn door. “How kind of you to call. Unfortunately, I am not receiving this morning.”

  He chuckled. “Everyone’s door is always open to God’s word, my dear Miss DeVere. And who am I but God’s humble messenger?” He extended a bunch of chrysanthemums to her. “From the vicarage gardens. To brighten your day.”

  “How thoughtful.” She accepted the bouquet. And sneezed.

  Two God bless you’s rang out, and the men glared at each other like a pair of fighting cocks ready to battle for the prize. Which, in this case, was her. It had to stop.