“I feel he has just the right air of self-importance for the position.”
He raised an eyebrow at her description of the former pugilist. “Yes, no unwanted guests would scurry past him.”
“Indeed,” she primly responded.
“Should I decide to dismiss any of the staff, they may have the option of continuing on in your household, provided they do work, of course. I will not support the indolent. And I would not have them take advantage of your generosity.”
Her fists curled at her sides. As if she needed him telling her how to run a household. She had managed without a man these last years.
“Be assured, I am an excellent judge of character.” Except for Edmund, a small voice in her head reminded. But that was long ago, when she had been a naive girl. Dreams of love no longer clogged her vision.
“Then all is settled?” Grimley asked. “For now at least?”
How she wished she could warn Caulfield not to get too comfortable with his temporary power over her. Yet she couldn’t very well inform him that she was guaranteed to deliver a son. Instead, she said, “You are too generous, my lord. Might I inquire of your plans for the interim?”
“I should like to stay here a fortnight—speak with the steward and see that the estate runs smoothly while in my possession, however shortlived that may be. You should not worry over its management in your delicate condition.”
Grimley bobbed his head in agreement. “Splendid, every gentleman should take his responsibilities so gravely.”
It took all her will not to pound both men over the head. Delicate condition, hah! What did men think was so delicate about childbirth? More than likely Caulfield wanted her out of the way so he could manage her life and her household to his heart’s content. He was probably one of those men who had to control everything within his sphere. The gall. To think he needed to oversee matters for her when she had managed the estate for years without any man directing her.
Forcing a smile, she said, “As you wish. But I think you’ll find things well in hand. I’ve managed Oak Run in my husband’s frequent absences.”
“But not too frequent?” He inclined his dark head toward her middle.
Her cheeks burned. Heavens. Was he suspicious or simply bold with his words? Either way, she quickly defended—perhaps too quickly, “I last saw my husband in Bath. My aunt and I stayed a fortnight there shortly before he… expired.” She had worked over the details. It seemed wise, especially considering that she had not seen Edmund in three years, when he last brought a hunting party to Oak Run. Fortunately, she and her aunt had been in Bath at that time to corroborate the story. It was highly unlikely that anyone could contradict that Edmund had visited her at least once while she was there. “Edmund did not care for the country. He left the management of Oak Run to me.”
“Oak Run does not have a steward, my lord,” Aunt Eleanor chimed, blinking owlishly over the rim of her teacup. “My niece handles all estate matters, and quite ably. Edmund had every confidence in her,” she fibbed, making it appear that Meredith and Edmund enjoyed an agreeable relationship.
“Yes,” Meredith added. “I would not want to prevail upon your time. You undoubtedly wish to return to London.”
“Just the same, I should like to stay for a while.”
Stung by his rebuff, she tried for a demure air. “Of course, I did not wish to imply you were not welcome to do so. This is your home too.” She rose to her feet. “Would you like to see your room and settle in before dinner?”
Before he could respond, the drawing room door burst open and her father strode into the room.
They all froze in a surprised tableau. With his white hair wild about his head, her father looked fresh out of the asylum. The blood pounded in her temples and she braced herself, instantly recognizing he was having one of his bad days.
His flashing eyes settled on Caulfield with deadly intent. For a man of seventy years who had spent almost every one of them behind a pulpit, he was amazingly spry. Before anyone could react, he launched himself against Caulfield’s chest. Meredith heard a faint popping and hoped it was her father’s creaking joints and not Caulfield’s ribs.
“Swine,” he cried, grabbing Caulfield by the cravat. “Papist swine!”
Then pandemonium broke out.
Chapter 4
Aunt Eleanor screamed. Someone turned over the tea service. China shattered on the carpet and Meredith gave the broken pieces a brief, mournful cringe. Grimley hollered for help. Servants poured into the drawing room like a small invading army, adding to the chaos by pure presence if not volume. And throughout it all Caulfield remained calm, an amazing feat considering her father strangled him with his cravat.
“Please, don’t hurt him!” Meredith beseeched above the din.
“He’s got a bad back!” Aunt Eleanor screeched, her hands fluttering helplessly in the air. “Watch his back!”
“He’s trying to bloody choke me.” Caulfield shot her a look of pure incredulity as he worked to carefully disengage himself from her father. It all happened in the span of a few moments, but time seemed to stretch endlessly before her father was restrained. Nels held her father tightly, yet gently, in his great bear of a frame.
“Daughter, do not be beguiled by that one!” Her father wagged a gnarly, arthritic finger at Caulfield as Nels escorted him from the drawing room. “He’s a Papist, I tell you! They’re all about the place. He’ll kill the Queen.” The rest of her father’s deprecations faded as he was led upstairs.
“My sincerest apologies. My father is not himself these days.” Meredith was helpless to suppress her embarrassment, which only angered her. Her father had once been a great man—pious, quick-witted, admired by many. True, he had been stern and not the most affectionate of fathers, but he was the only one she would ever have, and his condition was no fault of his.
“No need to apologize, my lady,” Caulfield said as he straightened his cravat, his lips twisting with a wry smile. “I don’t expect your father really meant to kill me.”
“Oh, my lord,” Aunt Eleanor gushed, clapping her hands. “You are all that is kind and good. Not everyone possesses such patience and understanding.” She nudged Meredith sharply. “Is he not kind, Meredith?”
“Yes, most kind,” Meredith echoed, shocked by her aunt’s sudden change of sentiment. Only hours ago she was cursing Caulfield as the lowest sort of scoundrel.
“I say, my lady, I am concerned. I had not realized your father had succumbed to such a low state.” The solicitor’s appalled tones rang out in the drawing room. “I am most grievously concerned for your ladies’ safety. And you must think to your child now. Having one given to violence under your very roof is an unnecessary risk. Perhaps you should consider an asylum—”
Anger spiked through Meredith at the suggestion. “Have you any idea the deplorable conditions of asylums? It is worse than Newgate prison, I am told. Besides, my father is not a threat. Age and disease have made a victim of him. God willing, should such a fate befall you, I hope your relations are compassionate enough not to lock you away.”
Caulfield’s eyes raked her with something akin to approval. Grimley opened his mouth, no doubt to put forth further unwanted opinions, but Caulfield smoothly intervened, his voice matter-of-fact as he said, “This is a family matter, Grimley. Trust that I’ll see to the safety of those under my protection.”
Seemingly mollified, the solicitor nodded and made no further comment. Meredith bristled indignantly at such high-handedness, even if it did appease Grimley and put an end to his badgering. When exactly had she become subject to Nicholas Caulfield? Especially when her sole goal had been independence?
A flicker of apprehension coursed through her… and something else, something she could not put her finger on. It had been years since she relied on anyone. Not since she was a little girl and her father had been hearty and whole. Nicholas Caulfield’s words echoed in her mind. Under my protection. What would it feel like for a man to protect her, look out for her, claim her as his own—
Meredith veered sharply from such unsettling thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. She’d had thoughts like those before. When she married Edmund. And what a colossal mistake that had been. No, better she maintain control of her own life than be cast to the whim of another Brookshire.
Glancing at a maid cleaning the broken china, she asked with forced lightness, “Shall I send for more tea?”
* * *
He couldn’t sleep. Not in this house. Funny that he had not considered what it would feel like to be back here again. He had not anticipated the resurgence of memories—memories that still occupied the nether regions of his mind. Apparently, the past wasn’t dead. Not as he’d told himself all these years. He paced his room still dressed, tempted to march downstairs, saddle his horse, and depart from this place. Nick sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly. That would be too easy… and too cowardly. He had to see this through. If luck was on his side, Lady Brookshire would deliver a healthy son and he could return to his own life.
On the surface, the house appeared unchanged.
But there were small changes. Subtle differences. It seemed cleaner, the air fresher, and the rooms brimmed with light. He suspected these were Lady Brookshire’s efforts. No doubt such an ice princess would demand order and cleanliness. Not like his mother, who had been content to while away her time in leisurely pursuits and neglect the running of the household.
As a boy, he had enjoyed his life here, not suspecting that it could be snatched away. His memories were fond… until that long ago day. Another lifetime. Another boy. That pampered child had died a thousand deaths since he last stood in this house. His father had been a distant figure, but in no way had he viewed him as an enemy. Yet what else would one call a man who tossed away both wife and child? Nick did not know if his mother had been the adulterer his father accused. He would never know that particular truth. More than likely his father had grown tired of his foreign wife, embarrassed at the public life she had led as an opera singer, and wanted to break all ties once his desire for her had been slaked. His father was a gentleman, rich and titled. A divorce would hardly ruin him. But his mother? A female? A common performer?
Not only was she incapable of showing her face in Society, but she had been unable to make her living on the stage as before. No, only one profession had been left to her.
Nick left his room and walked slowly down the dimly lit corridor, the muffled fall of his feet on the carpet merging with the whispers of yesterday. He stopped before the nursery. The door stood ajar. The darkened room suddenly became alive with the past. He could still hear his nurse, Connie, pleading with his father, begging him to keep Nick. He could see his father’s face so clearly, could feel that wintry blue gaze looking right through him as he pronounced those fateful words. He goes too.
Edmund had been there, leaning nonchalantly on the doorjamb, unaffected, indifferent to the impending exile of his stepmother and half brother.
Stepping back from the threshold of his old nursery, Nick detached himself from the memories, hating to consider what others might surface during his stay.
“My lord?” a voice queried softly, conveniently shattering his troubling reveries.
Nick turned to face Lady Brookshire, prim in a heavy cotton robe that doubtlessly hid an equally prim nightgown. Hugging a book to her chest like a makeshift shield, she bore no resemblance to the pale-faced, black-clad widow from earlier. Gone was the severity of hairstyle and dress. A long plait of auburn hair hung loosely over her shoulder. She looked young, like a virgin schoolgirl, yet he knew her to be a widow, past the first blush of youth,
“Are you lost?” Her wide, intelligent brow furrowed in concern.
Lost? No, unfortunately he knew exactly where he stood. Nodding toward the room, he stepped away from the door. “My old nursery.”