THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1750 - JACQUELINE Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Bloodshot, and it wasn’t even noon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  So this is what the diversion is about.

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

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

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

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

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

  Hmm.

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

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

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

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

  Two steps farther on, Jacqueline stopped and turned back.

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

  In a flurry of skirts, Jacqueline rushed after him.

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

  From the orb?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Surprisingly meekly, Sir Peregrine kept pace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Regardless, he was definitely a person to guard against.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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