Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1) Page 2

  In the kitchen, the smell of frying bacon, warm bread, and coffee filled the air as Mrs Hepple prepared breakfast.

  “I’m to go to the vicarage,” Connie said. “Do you need anything while I’m in the village?”

  Mrs Hepple looked up from the butter she was shaping into curls. “You’re missing your breakfast?”

  “He wants me to go now.”

  The cook’s eyes rolled heavenwards.

  Connie took a roll from the plate. “I’ll eat this on the way. Mrs Fancott will give me something.”

  “Can’t think of anything urgent, Miss. I can send the girl later, if need be.”

  Leaving the cook to her preparations, Connie walked out through the scullery into the sunlit garden. Their house stood half a mile from the village, along a narrow tree-lined lane with mud dried into ankle-turning ruts by the hot weather. She crossed the lane, and took her habitual path across the fields.

  The main street of Nether Minster was almost deserted; the few shops had their doors standing open, and only the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer broke the sleepy silence. Connie pitied the poor man having to toil over his forge in such weather.

  At the vicarage, Martha Fancott was cutting flowers in the front garden, and straightened as Connie came through the gate. “Hello, Connie. I wasn’t expecting you today.” She tucked one greying curl back under her cap.

  “Papa has run out of snuff.”

  “Ah. And all your fault, I suppose.” She shook her head, glancing with a smile at the book beneath Connie’s arm. “Come in, I’m sure Joseph can spare some. Have you breakfasted?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ten minutes later the two women sat beneath the shade of a large apple tree, the table before them spread with rolls, butter, jam, and a pot of tea.

  “How are things with you?” Martha asked, pouring the tea.

  Connie shrugged. “Papa is as irascible as usual.” She reached for her book of sermons and undid the ribbon. Opening it, she removed the small novel that had been concealed in a cavity in the pages and set it on the table.

  “Did you enjoy it?” Martha asked.

  “Very much, yes.” Connie smiled. “Although more because Papa would disapprove than due to its own merits. I still prefer Mr Fancott’s books, though, they give me more to think about.” History and geography and languages—all interesting, but also knowledge she might need if she ever had to earn a living as a governess.

  Martha nodded. “It is unfortunate that most of them are too large to hide in your sermons. I’ve had letters from the girls,” she went on. “If your father will permit you to help me with the church flowers later this week, I can give you all their news, and you can catch up on some reading as well.”

  “That sounds an acceptable way for a pious daughter to spend her time.” Connie smiled as they rose, and she helped to carry the dishes back into the kitchen. “Thank you for breakfast. May I take some flowers?”

  “Help yourself.” Martha waved a hand at the border full of blooms.

  Connie gathered a small handful of cornflowers and columbines, and headed for the churchyard.

  Her mother’s grave was next to that of the first Mrs Charters and her stillborn son. The headstone was smaller, but at least it was next to the other family grave. Connie wondered if that still rankled with her father, but she suspected he had forgotten about both his wives.

  She replaced last week’s wilted blooms and sat down on the grass, spreading her skirts to cover her legs. Her father would have an apoplexy if he saw her, but she’d never known him pay the slightest attention to this part of the churchyard. It was a long time since Connie had been in the habit of talking out loud to her mother here, but she still enjoyed sitting for a while in peace where her father would not find her.

  She traced the lettering on the headstone with her fingers.

  Henrietta Charters

  1733-1759

  That was all, but something like Beloved wife would have been an outright lie, from what Martha had told her.

  Such a short life.

  “Did you just give up?” she asked the headstone. “What you did was a sin, but Mr Fancott says that God would forgive you, even if your husband did not.”

  She couldn’t remember much of Mama, only the scent of roses, and the security of having someone to look after her and love her. Martha had taken over that role to some extent, but had her own children to care for.

  Would she ever have children of her own? She hoped so, but there was little prospect of that at the moment. Her two half-sisters were married to close relatives of titled families but were not, she thought, particularly happy in their marriages. She wasn’t interested in rank or wealth in a husband. The Fancotts were happy together, both loving and respecting each other, and helping those around them. That was the kind of marriage she wanted.

  If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  With a sigh, she stood. Her father would be impatient for his snuff, and she had almost forgotten about it.

  Chapter 3

  The mist had cleared, and the sun warmed the side of Will’s face. A gentle westerly breeze brought the scent of early hay and the sound of birdsong.

  He stood side-on again, the pistol cocked, his right arm ready to raise it and fire. His honour demanded he do this, but there was no need to make it too easy for his opponent. The handkerchief fluttered, and he fired above his opponent once more. As before, he felt nothing, and heard only his own shot, but this time there was a different explanation.

  Lord Elberton remained in position, his pistol raised; Will could see the small black circle made by the end of the barrel pointing directly at him. He swallowed hard as his opponent squinted along the barrel.

  If I’m going to die, I hope it’s quick.

  The idea of lingering for a week or more while an infected wound gradually killed him was more frightening than death itself. On that thought, he turned to face Lord Elberton directly, providing a larger target. He was tense, but felt only a sense of regret—all he had to show for his twenty-five years on this earth was a string of mistresses and a bastard child.

  “Fire, Lord Elberton,” Jaston called.

  Elberton stood as if frozen, then gradually lowered his arm and started to walk towards Will, his pistol pointed at the ground. He came to a halt a couple of feet away, his mouth turned down. Their seconds hurried across, stopping behind him.

  “You said my wife approached you?” Elberton’s tone was clipped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought you lied to try to save your own skin.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You were not the first?”

  Probably best to be honest.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Will said, “but I doubt that I was.”

  Elberton’s eyes met his, and Will had to suppress a desire to look away. As he watched, Elberton’s head drooped until he was looking at the ground, his shoulders slumped. He pointed his pistol to one side and pulled the trigger. Then he looked up, one hand rubbing his face.

  “I’m glad it misfired the first time, Wingrave,” he said. “It seems your greatest fault, and mine, was believing what my wife said.” He handed the pistol to his second, and walked off towards the waiting coach, defeat evident in his dragging pace.

  The two seconds glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, and turned to watch him go.

  “Better go after him, Jaston,” Tregarth said. “I’ll tidy up here, and bring the pistols round when I’ve cleaned them.”

  “Highly irregular,” Jaston muttered, handing over the pistol and setting off after Elberton.

  “And no hope of it not being the subject of gossip,” Tregarth added, waving his hand towards groups of spectators gathered a safe distance away.

  Will shrugged. Ferris would give his father all the details he knew—and by the time the valet had finished asking around the local area and listening to servants’ gossip, he’d probably know as much as Will himself.

 
“Come, I’ll help you clean them,” he said to Tregarth. “Then we can have a second breakfast. Perhaps go on to Angelo’s?”

  “Very well.”

  Good—a practice session with swords would help to dissipate the remaining tension in his body.

  Will turned into Pall Mall heading for his club, his brisk pace an attempt to work off his bad mood. He’d returned from his fencing session to find a letter from his father summoning him to Marstone Park immediately, and Ferris already packing. Will had tersely instructed him to unpack again, and left as soon as he’d donned a fresh shirt.

  Once inside the club, he was accosted by a group of acquaintances, men he normally only saw across a card table.

  “Unscathed, eh, Wingrave?”

  “Lucky dog. Was she worth the risk?”

  “Did you wing him?”

  Will took several paces beyond them before stopping and turning. He’d have to say something, or he’d get no peace. “My apology was accepted, gentlemen.”

  “Damme, Wingrave, last time I saw Elberton he was after your death. You’ve the luck of the devil.”

  You have no idea!

  “Indeed. If you will excuse me?” Will headed for the small library, hoping to avoid further inquisition. The usual group were still discussing Meredith’s speech in the Commons the month before. Reducing the number of offences for which a man could be hanged was important, no doubt, but he didn’t see the sense in endlessly going over the details. He picked up a pile of newspapers and settled himself in a wing chair in one corner, ordering brandy when the waiter came. It was time he caught up with the events of the past week or so.

  The war in the colonies—the dispatches from the Americas reported only small, inconclusive actions. It was now summer, and so little achieved this year, what were they doing? Two leaders of a smuggling gang tried, and acquitted for lack of evidence. Announcements—betrothals, marriages, deaths. A new journal about the campaigns in North America in the 1750s—that might be worth reading, with Uncle Jack having fought there. Corn prices, lists of bankruptcies…

  He threw the paper down—he’d survived the day unscathed, against all expectation, and wasn’t in the mood for such mundane matters. There’d be someone in the card room to give him a game, although conscious of that pile of bills and IOUs in his rooms, he’d do it sober and for small stakes. He’d taken enough risks for one day.

  Wednesday 18th June

  Will sprawled back against the padded side of the carriage, gazing morosely out of the opposite window as they passed through the grounds of Marston Park. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed the view of gently rolling land, with deer grazing beneath artfully placed clumps of trees and the afternoon sun glittering on the ornamental lake.

  The carriage came to a halt by the pillared facade of the building, rocking slightly as his escorts descended from the roof. Will opened the door before one of them could do it for him, and stepped down. Benning waited at the top of the steps, wearing his usual dour expression.

  “His lordship will see you in the blue parlour, my lord,” the butler announced.

  “Very well, Benning.” Will was tempted to find some excuse to delay the coming interview, but decided against it. Doing so would only make the situation worse.

  Despite the high ceiling and the bright weather, dark blue walls gave the parlour a gloomy air. A small fire burned in the grate, making the room too hot and stuffy for Will’s taste. The earl sat in a chair near the fire, his stick leaning against the arm and one bandaged foot resting on a low stool. He did not look up from the book he was reading when Will was announced.

  The usual games.

  Will crossed to the tray of decanters and glasses and poured himself a large glass of port. Sipping the sweet liquid, he looked up at the portrait of his older brother. Once they reached school age, Alfred had developed the same reverence as their father for family lineage and prestige, not to mention the sense of his own superiority as the older son. The only image of Will in the room was in the family portrait over the fireplace, which had been painted over ten years ago, not long before his mother died.

  He passed on to the portraits of previous earls, sipping his port as he gazed at their frozen visages, and finally picked up a book lying on a side table. He flicked through it, grimacing as he noted that it was a book of sermons. One of his sisters must have recently been summoned to read aloud from it, and probably questioned on her obedience to its precepts. Not that his father read such things himself.

  “Well, what have you to say for yourself, sir?” The earl’s voice was sharp.

  Will suppressed a smile—it was petty, no doubt, but he had won the first minor skirmish with his father.

  “About what?” He sat in a chair facing his father, slouching to one side with one leg hooked over the arm; he wasn’t going to stand before the earl like a small boy awaiting punishment.

  Marstone’s scowl deepened. “Your idiocy yesterday. Not only fighting a duel, but allowing that cuckold a second shot after a misfire!”

  “You appear to be well-informed, sir. Do I have Ferris to thank for that?” Of course he did, but he didn’t expect his father to admit to spying on him.

  “That is immaterial. The point is that your profligate ways nearly got you killed yesterday. I have had enough of you flouting my authority as the head of this family. You have…”

  Will stopped listening as the volume of his father’s voice rose. The earl’s face, ruddy at the best of times, began to assume an unhealthy darker hue. Was he about to have an apoplexy?

  “…if your brother were still alive…”

  Instead of driving his carriage off the road while drunk.

  “… married, with children of his own by now…”

  If only he had, perhaps you would leave me alone.

  “…arranged several advantageous matches for you…”

  Chosen for their lineage, not their personality or looks.

  “…managed to alienate three separate families enough to withdraw their agreements…”

  Flirting with the mother works well, or pretending to admire the son of the house to an inappropriate degree.

  “…ignoring my wishes too long. This time you will do as you are bid.”

  Will brought his attention back. Instead of the anger he expected to see, his father was smiling—no, sneering. That did not bode well.

  “You will stay here at the Park until I have arranged your future.”

  Will took a deep breath, working to keep his own expression neutral as his earlier amusement vanished.

  “Am I to have no say in this?” he asked, pleased at how calm his words sounded. He would not give his father the satisfaction of seeing his irritation.

  “You have had three years since Alfred died, and several before that. Had you wished to choose your own bride, you could have done so, instead of seducing married women.”

  “Not seduce, father. I assure you they were all perfectly willing.”

  “Do not interrupt me, boy!” The earl slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. “You will stay here. I have sent to London to terminate the agreement on your lodgings.”

  “You had no right to do that,” Will protested, sitting up straight, his anger growing.

  “The rent was paid with your allowance, provided by me.” The earl jabbed a finger in his direction. “That gives me the right. If you go to London, you will be returned here as you were this morning. Now get out of my sight!”

  “With pleasure.” Will placed his glass on a side table with a snap and got to his feet, not even looking in the old man’s direction as he left the room.

  Exercise, he decided. That might calm him down sufficiently to let him think.

  Chapter 4

  Riding attire donned, Will headed for the stables. He’d ordered a horse saddled, and he was pleased to see it was Mercury, one of his father’s best hunters and his own favourite mount. What he hadn’t expected to see were three more horses saddled and waiting,
a groom holding each one. Will took Mercury’s reins and mounted; the men holding the other three horses mounted as well.

  Will glared—he’d wanted a solitary ride. “I do not require an escort.”

  “We have orders, my lord.” The one who’d spoken looked to be in his forties, signs of grey in his hair and his body running to fat. His eyes met Will’s briefly, then slid away. The two behind looked determinedly down at their horses.

  “What, precisely, are your orders?” Will asked through stiff lips. While he was changing, he’d toyed with the idea of riding to London and inviting himself to stay with Tregarth. His father—damn him—seemed to have anticipated that.

  “Well? Morris, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, my lord. You’re to go no further than five miles.” Morris shifted in his saddle.

  “You do realise you will be working for me one day, Morris?” Will kept his voice quiet.

  “Yes, my lord. But I don’t want to lose my job now.”

  Will glared at him for a moment and, to his credit, Morris met his gaze. This was not the man’s fault.

  Damn my father!

  “If I give you my word I will not exceed that limit, will you ride some distance behind me?” His father would never attempt to bargain with a servant like this, but he was not his father.

  The men exchanged glances. “Orders was not to let ’im out of our sight,” one of the others said. Will dredged his memory for the men’s names. Noakes had just spoken; the youngest was Archer, looking little more than nineteen or twenty.

  “I can see a long way,” Archer added.

  “Very well. If you do happen to, er, mislay me, I will end up at the inn at Over Minster.”

  He waited for their nods, then wheeled his horse and set off at a canter. Hooves clattered on the cobbled yard as the grooms started after him. Their mounts were capable of keeping up with his own, but were the men? Exercising the earl’s horses did not necessarily involve jumping hedges.