Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
The Maid's Forbidden
Heart
Heart
First Chapters
Chapter 1
“I hate storms,” Peter muttered where he stood at the window of his study. The thunder rattled the windowpanes loudly, drowning out his words. Without warning, his mind filled with the memories of London on that terrible night.
“My lord?” Mr Preston, Peter’s butler, called from the doorway of his London study, his voice raised to carry across the sound of the rain and thunder. The lamplight flickered on the walls as the door opened.
“What is it?” Peter asked, his grey eyes widening to take in the tense, hunched figure of the man who waited outside with Preston.
“I apologise for interrupting you so late, my lord,” Preston demurred. “But this man has urgent news. He rode from Holway Manor post-haste.”
“Holway Manor?” Peter snapped. That was where his cousin and best friend, Charles, resided; a secluded estate around eight miles from London. “In this storm?” Rain lashed at the windows, and thunder rumbled outside. Peter’s heart thudded. He had expected to hear that his cousin had returned from the opera an hour ago. Charles had borrowed the Landau so that he and his wife, Eliza, might attend the theater in comfort. The coach had gone out to fetch them almost two hours previous, and, even with bad conditions on the road to Holway Manor, one would have expected that they would have arrived at home.
“Yes, my lord.” Mr Preston was fidgeting with his shirt-cuff, a habit when he was tense. Peter swallowed. Clearly, the butler had some knowledge of the matter at hand, and his unease was far from reassuring.
“Send him in,” Peter tried to say, but his voice came out almost as a whisper, tension tightening his throat too much for speech.
The butler nodded to the man and withdrew.
“Shut the door,” Peter commanded. His heart was thudding. Somehow, he knew without being told that something terrible had happened.
The man stood with his cap in his hands, clearly deeply distressed. Peter nodded to him.
“State your message,” he said as gently as he could. The man began speaking.
“My lord. I am sorry. So very sorry,” he began. His voice wavered, and he seemed on the verge of tears. A servant from Charles’ household, Peter surmised. His heart froze. He already knew before the man told him. “My lord, I am so sorry to have to tell you. Your cousin, Viscount Holway, was shot in a highway robbery. Her ladyship too.”
Peter gripped the desk. Unreality surged in. He could not believe it. The man was talking, and he was trying to listen, but he could not think. His mind was entirely blank. The words made no sense. Charles was his dearest friend, like a brother to him. A light in the darkness that had followed the death of his own parents. He could not be dead too. He could not.
“…and you will have charge of their son. Thomas.” The man concluded, voice shaking.
Peter stared at him. Without consciously trying, words poured out of him—commands and instructions were at his lips, delivering orders and organising meetings and coaches and all manner of necessities. He was barely present, diving into the world of bureaucracy and duty because it was something he understood, somewhere safe.
A crash from the hallway brought him sharply back to the moment. He blinked. His mind was still usually locked, after six months, in the world of bureaucracy and duty, his heart still achingly empty of any feelings at all. This was the first time in a long while that he had recalled that night.
“My lord?”
Peter turned to the door. His butler—not Preston, because Preston staffed the London house, where Peter had not returned since the accident—was there.
“Yes? What is it?” Peter asked a little sharply.
“My lord? The new maidservant has requested that a room in the east wing be prepared for young Master Thomas.” Mr Harris answered tensely.
“What?” Peter asked harshly. The new maidservant had arrived two days ago. Was she already causing trouble? He tensed. “To what purpose has she requested such an odd thing?” He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, feeling tense and weary.
“The roof in the nursery leaks, my lord. She fears it may be unwholesome for Master Thomas.” The butler sounded apologetic.
“Oh.” Peter bit his lip. The west side of the house was drafty. He could not argue with the young woman’s estimate—it probably was unhealthy. “Well? See that it is done.” He lifted his shoulder.
The butler, Mr Harris, bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
When the butler had departed, Peter ran a hand wearily down his face, allowing his rigid posture to slump. He was exhausted. His ten-day journey from London to his country home, his sister’s arrival at the family estate, and the need to find a replacement for Mrs Milnerton, who had cared for Thomas, had thrown him badly. He looked up, seeing his face reflected in the window pane against the dark sky outside.
He looked thinner than he recalled, his cheeks hollow, his eyes ringed with dark bags. His thick, dark brown hair was tousled from lack of sleep, and his skin seemed even paler in contrast to its darkness. His grey eyes stared back at him, blank and weary. His tall height was masked by his weary, stooping posture. He looked much older than his seven-and-twenty years.
“I need to go to bed,” he told himself firmly, stifling a yawn. It was only seven o’clock in the evening, and he had not yet eaten dinner, but already the need to sleep dragged at him. He had not yet recovered from the journey, though he had been at Brentdale Manor, his home and the country seat of the Earls of Brentdale, for three days. There had simply been too much to organize in that time.
He walked to the study door and paused there. There was noise in the hallway—the sound of servants moving something heavy. He wandered towards the sound.
“And pull! Oh! My lord!” Mr Samuel, the footman, tensed, shooting Peter a worried glance. “Men, that’ll do,” he added to the team of three men who were pushing a vast dresser, the legs wrapped in cloth, across the hallway.
“What is the meaning of this?” Peter demanded. His voice was cold. The sound brought instant silence to the hallway as four pairs of eyes gazed at him with fear.
Mr Samuel looked down uncomfortably. “My lord, we are moving the furniture. Miss Matthews requested that we move it all from the nursery into the Green Room. So, we moved it.” He stepped in place, seeming awkward.
Peter blinked mildly. “If it is needed, then, pray, continue,” he said lightly. Mr Samuel nodded formally.
“Yes, my lord. Men! Keep moving,” he added, addressing the three men, who grunted with effort as they pushed the dresser across the floor.
The former nursery was in the west wing, the corridor that led to it opening off just after the drawing room. Peter walked in that direction. His ancestors had been adding to Brentdale since its original building two hundred years before, and the place was a warren of hallways. He could have found his way in the house blind, so it was easy enough even in the stormy darkness of the hallway where the butler had not yet lit the lamps.
“Hush. Hush, now,” a woman’s voice was saying as Peter approached the open door. A candle was flickering, casting shadows through the door and onto the hallway floor. He tensed, hearing the woman’s soft voice and the sound of fretful crying. He did not want to intrude. He stopped in the hallway, the need to remain out of the way warring with curiosity.
As he stood there, the shadow moved, and a woman stepped into view. Her long chocolate-brown hair was coming loose from its thick bun; some thick, wavy locks framing her pale face. She was slim and quite tall, her arms wrapped protectively around the bundled form of an infant in her arms. She wore a neat white uniform. Her thin face looked oddly calm, despite the fretting baby in her arms. He could see high cheekbones and a determined chin below a soft, generous mouth. Her nose was slender and well-formed, her face a longish oval shape. She was pretty. The thought filled him with surprise. It was the first time he had thought anything like that since the night his cousin was killed.
She looked up. Her eyes locked with his. They were green, a rich, dark green like emeralds. He froze in place, startled as much by the shock in her own gaze as by its riveting effect.
“My lord!” she gasped. “I apologise. I did not see you there.”
The baby in her arms wailed, seeming to sense her distress.
Peter tensed awkwardly. He avoided visiting the nursery, preferring to allow others—more capable than himself—to tend to the small child. Seeing that innocent, childish face with its hazel eyes and mop of honey-coloured hair was like being stabbed in the heart. He could see Charles in the baby’s squarish countenance and friendly smile and Charles’ wife, Eliza, in those hazel eyes. He could not bear the reminder.
“He’s fretting. It is because of the storm.”
Peter blinked. The young woman was talking to him again, and this time he listened more carefully and noticed something. Her speech was oddly unaccented, like his own. She had a cultured voice, neither low nor high-pitched. Somehow, it was not the voice he had expected, and he tensed, listening.
“Yes?” he asked after a moment when she looked up at him expectantly. Her green eyes were mesmerising, not just because of the colour but because of the strange calm in their depths. Even when he had startled her, that calm had shifted only for a moment, returning instantly.
“I just meant to say that when the storm settles, he will settle too.”
Her voice was calming, and he noticed again that peculiar lack of an accent. Everyone on their staff had a regional Devon accent, as far as he was aware. She had none.
“I suppose that you are correct,” he managed to say after tearing his focus from her eyes and the unusual quality of her voice. “I must confess that I do not know much of infants.” His lip lifted at the corner in an ironic smile. Her eyes brightened and, blushing, he schooled his face to neutrality.
“Infants are like weather-vanes, my grandmother used to say,” the young woman replied, her green eyes holding his. “And sometimes, the stormy weather that they respond to is in our own souls.”
The words intrigued him. The thought of stormy weather in his soul disturbed him. In some way, it was as though a terrible storm had been raging inside him since the time of his cousin’s death. His helplessness and fear, shock and pain, were like the raging thunder and rain of a wild summer downpour. He pushed the thought away. It was a silly notion.
“Perhaps that is so,” he managed stiffly.
The young maidservant said nothing. Her gaze held his. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, the noise filling his ears. Her eyes were so mesmerising, and their expression called to him, making him want to confess more. He looked away, his cheeks flushing awkwardly.
“You did a good job in moving the nursery,” he said, coughing to clear his throat and return to his formal tone. “I trust you will continue in the same diligent manner.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied.
Peter turned away and walked out into the hallway, his eyes focused on the wall outside. He drifted past where the men had been pushing the dresser. There was noise from the Green Room, where they were clearly still working. He did not stop to look in. He walked down the cold hallway to the drawing room.
When he got there, he sighed in relief. A fire was burning in the grate, and someone—Mr Harris, he presumed—had drawn the velvet curtains over the windows. It was warm and comforting, and he breathed out. He felt in need of refuge.
The new maidservant had discomforted him. He could not get those green eyes out of his thoughts. Her slender form, her long, oval face, and her thick, glossy hair played through his mind. Altogether, in combination with that strange, neutral voice, she captivated him in ways that nobody else had for a long time. Even before his cousin’s death, he had found high society repellant—overly formal, restrictive and uninteresting—and had socialised with few others outside his immediate family.
He walked across the room to the fireplace, staring into the flames. He had been only briefly into the nursery where Thomas was accommodated in the Devon house—this was the first time he had really looked at him since their arrival. It always unsettled him.
It is just that, he told himself firmly. Just seeing the baby again. It couldn’t have been the maidservant and her enchanting green eyes. He could not be so interested in someone on his own staff.
A voice, middle-pitched and authoritative, echoed in the hallway. Peter tensed.
“… Anna? Bring my things to the drawing room, please. I will sew here.”
He recognised the voice at once. His elder sister, Millicent, had arrived at the manor a day after he had, along with her husband Edmund. He had not seen Millicent in several years—outside brief exchanges in London—and it felt strange to be sharing a house with her. She was five years his senior, and she seemed to assume instant control wherever she went, including at the family’s ancestral home, which felt wrong because he was the earl.
“Yes, my lady,” a woman’s voice replied to Millicent’s request.
“And if you could…Oh! Peter!” Millicent had stepped through the door, and her hazel-eyed gaze fixed on him. “I thought you were occupied in your study.”
“My business is concluded for the day,” Peter said a trifle formally. He did not feel comfortable with his sister dictating anything about him, including where she did and did not expect him to be.
“Ah! Well! How grand! Then I can discuss matters about the house-party with you. I am so glad you have time.”
“Millicent…” Peter began a little desperately. He did not want to think about the house-party. It was Millicent’s terrible idea. Designed to bring him out of himself—her words—and keep him aware of what was happening in society, Millicent’s house-party consisted of more than twenty guests and was planned to take place over three weeks. He did not like the idea of twenty strangers lodged at the Brentdale estate. He did not like the idea of a three-week house-party. And he especially did not like the fact that his sister was planning all of it without consulting him.
Though I expect that is all my own fault, he thought with some irony. He was the one who evaded discussing it whenever he could.
“You have time now. You just said so,” Millicent said insistently. Her hazel eyes narrowed just a little. She had a squarish face, like his own, with the same high cheekbones and chiseled nose and with their father’s dark brown hair. Her mouth was a little fuller than his own, and her eyes were entirely their father’s. She had a firm chin and somehow altogether more intensity about her. She was also quite short, whereas he was tall. She drew herself up to her full height, which was not particularly imposing but nevertheless had the desired effect.
“What is it, Millicent?” he asked wearily. He gestured her to a chair, and she sat down. He took a seat opposite her.
“We will be housing the guests in the west wing,” Millicent said instantly. “I believe there are enough rooms between the west wing and the three in the east quarters.”
“Millicent…” Peter began. Until recently, Thomas had been housed in the west wing, and he did not like the thought of the poor baby being disturbed at night when the guests returned late from balls and parties. But, with the baby safely moved, he realised slowly, there was nothing to stop her.
“What, brother?” Millicent asked firmly. “If you have an objection, inform me.”
Peter sighed. “The roof leaks, Millicent,” he said, feeling exhausted. “In at least two of the rooms.”
“What? Well, then! We shall have it fixed. How long have you let this place fall into neglect, Peter?” She chided.
Peter made a face. “I have been in London for a year, sister,” he said slowly. “The house has not fallen into neglect. Two rooms have slightly leaky roofs. Given the fact that they face the side where the storms come from, that is unsurprising. They were built two hundred years ago,” he added, feeling the need to support his argument. Only his sister could make him feel so defenseless.
Millicent shrugged. “We have the means to hire the best craftsmen. They will be hired, and by the time the guests arrive the day after tomorrow, the house will be fit for them. All the rooms,” she added, one brow raised.
“The day after… sister!” Peter gaped at her. She had not once hinted that the party would commence so soon. “Is it truly supposed to be then?”
Millicent looked surprised. “The day after tomorrow is Friday,” she reminded him, as though that made it all make sense. “I thought that it would be pleasant to have the ball on Friday, so that the guests have two days to recover and spend on lighter entertainments before our next event.”
“Which is what?” Peter asked a little nervously.
“A garden party, of course. It’s summer. Do try to enjoy it?” Millicent asked, her eyes wide.
Peter sighed. “I commend your effort,” he added, not sure what else to say. There was somewhere within him a box of pleasantries that seemed to open whenever there was nothing left to say. When he reached the point where he was talking with meaningless polite phrases, he knew that he was too tired to express anything else.
“Thank you!” Millicent smiled, as though the words were genuinely pleasing. “I am so glad to hear it.”
Peter sighed again. “I think I will retire to bed, sister,” he said after a moment. “I feel unwell. The storm,” he added, waving a vague hand at the window as if the state of the weather explained his sudden sickness.
“Oh! Of course, Peter. Of course, we will miss your presence in the dining room,” she added politely.
“Thank you, sister,” he managed to say. He stood and went to the door.
In his chamber, he sat down heavily on the bed. He truly was exhausted, and, though he had made up the sickness as an excuse, he really did feel unwell. He shut his eyes, relaxing for the first time all day.
As he lay there, an image of the maidservant in the nursery drifted into his thoughts. Her green eyes watched him thoughtfully, that strange calm anchoring him despite all the uncertainty and upheaval around him. He pushed the thought away, his mind drifting. As he fell into an exhausted sleep, the tempests within his soul merged with the rhythm of the falling rain and that watchful green gaze. His last thought before dreams claimed him was that he had not seen someone so unusual, so intriguing, in a long time.
Chapter 2
“Shh, little one. Rest, now,” Penelope murmured softly. She felt abandoned and afraid herself—unsure of what she was doing and very alone. It did no good to let fear take hold, knowing it would only seep into her manner and unsettle the little child.
She rocked the little baby in her arms, trying to still his wails. He was eleven months old—quite able to sit up, crawl about and play with the few playthings she had found in the nursery. He babbled freely—when he was not wailing in distress—and said a few words, and she knew that he could understand a great deal more of what she said, even if he could not respond verbally to everything. She had also noticed that he was uncomfortable, frightened and uneasy far more than he was calm. She stroked his soft, downy blond hair.
“I wish I knew more about you, little one,” she said gently.
Something had upset the child a great deal—that was plain from the moment that Penelope had arrived, just two days before. After receiving a letter inviting her to the manor, she had spoken to Mrs Harwell, the housekeeper, and had been advised to move in the very next day. She had done so. After the terrible lies that her former employer had spread about her; she had been amazed to be offered a position. She had not asked any questions, and nobody, in all that time, had told her anything about the child, other than his name and age. His origins were a mystery. Was he the earl’s son? If he was, she had no idea of his story.
“He’s a strange fellow, the earl. Isn’t he, little baby?” she murmured, tucking a strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear. The baby gazed up at her, momentarily distracted from his distraught yells by some tone that he heard in her voice. She smiled.
Thomas gazed up at her, seeming to notice her for the first time. She grinned wider, and he gazed back, his eyes lighting with interest for the first time rather than with fear. She could not hide her genuine relief and delight. He chuckled.
“There now, little fellow,” she cooed. “Now you feel better. Isn’t that grand?”
He giggled again, and she beamed at him, then went to sit down in the upholstered chair by the fire. He was much calmer, and she reached for the glass nursing bottle that she had prepared for him. She had placed it in a bowl of warm water, hoping that the milk would be helped to stay warm, and her heart lifted to see that it was, indeed, still able to be used. She placed the glass spout of the blown-glass object into his mouth and tipped it gently, allowing a slow trickle to enter his mouth. She had already learned to do it slowly and carefully, so as not to provoke a fit of coughing from the poor baby as the milk flowed too quickly down his throat. The nursing bottle was a strange invention, Penelope mused—far from ideal—though Thomas ate porridge and other mashed foods as well, he still needed to nurse and she was grateful for the contraption’s presence in the house.
“You poor little fellow,” she murmured, stroking his silky hair again. Her mind wandered to thoughts of where he might have come from. Having seen the earl for the first time, she could not help but think that he could not be Thomas’s father. The little baby looked nothing like the earl. The earl’s hair was very dark brown. Thomas was blond and had hazel eyes, and the earl’s eyes were grey. She blushed as she recalled how he had stared at her with that clear-eyed grey stare. She had stared back, her heart thudding in her chest. Her cheeks warmed further as she recalled his face. He was rather handsome with those high cheekbones and that firm chin.
She blushed, chiding herself inwardly, amused by her own inappropriate thoughts. He was her employer, and he seemed a grumpy, distant sort of man. There was certainly nothing appealing about his personality.
All the same, he was handsome, she thought with a smile. Emily would laugh at me if she knew what I was thinking.
Her heart ached at the thought. Her younger sister, Emily, just eighteen years old, was employed at Sterling House as a lady’s maid. Sterling House was twenty miles away, and Penelope’s brow furrowed. She doubted that she would be able to see Emily very often—maybe on important feast days, like Christmas and Easter, they would be given a day off, or at least a few hours, so that they might visit one another.
“Shh. Hush, now,” she murmured, looking down at Thomas. Her thoughts of the earl had been replaced by worried ones, and Thomas clearly perceived her distress. He shifted in her arms, turning his head away from the bottle, and his little face crinkled in discomfort.
“Hush, now, little fellow.”
He thrashed and turned his head, and Penelope drew a breath, trying to compose herself. She pushed away her thoughts of home, her distress at not seeing Emily, and her worry for her father and for her own future. It was upsetting Thomas. She focused on the sounds around her—the crackle of the fire, the patter of the rain. The storm was less severe than it had been, the thunder rumbling occasionally from far away. As she focused on the room and the present moment, Thomas seemed to relax a little, ceasing to turn or wriggle in her arms.
“Sleep, little baby,” she began, singing a song that she recalled her own grandmother singing when Emily was a baby. Emily was born when Penelope was already five years old. It seemed strange to think, sometimes, that Emily was eighteen and she herself three-and-twenty. She pushed the thoughts away again, not wanting to unsettle Thomas.
She sang, rocking back and forth with Thomas clutched in her arms. He began to quieten, his belly full of warm milk and her heartbeat under his ear.
“Sleep, little baby…”
She did not know how long she sat and rocked him, but she noticed, as she stood and tiptoed across the room to settle him in his cradle, that the storm was silent. Not so much as a drop of rain pattered down. She walked to the window and drew back the curtains, staring out.
The night sky was pitch black. It was impossible, through the thick panes, to discern if there were any stars visible, or if it was still overcast. There was a tree close to the window, the boughs glistening in the candlelight that shone through the panes. It was impossible to see anything on the ground below, just absolute blackness.
It was a strange sensation, staring out into the dark—as if she was the only person in the world, or as if she and Thomas were afloat on a vast, black ocean cut off from the mainland.
I feel a bit like that, she thought, leaning on the windowsill. She felt isolated, living in the manor, surrounded by strange, silent servants and the stranger, more silent earl. Nobody seemed to speak, as if the earl’s own solemn reserve had cast a hush over them all.
She gazed out. On the road, a light flickered. A coach, she guessed, the lanterns lighting the way to some distant manor or village. Perhaps it was the mail coach, heading to the place where it would stop for the night.
“Miss Matthews?”
Penelope tensed, turning and gesturing sharply to the sleeping baby. The young woman in the door made an apologetic face, hazel eyes squeezing shut for a moment.
“Sorry,” she whispered in a loud whisper that would have graced a stage. “I came to see how you fared. You did not dine downstairs with us.”
“Thomas was fretting,” Penelope explained, smiling at the young woman, who she guessed must be around her own age, perhaps a few years her senior. “Thank you for coming to ask after me,” she added warmly. Nobody on the staff had paid her any particular heed since her arrival, though nobody had been unkind, either. It was a relief to talk to someone who seemed friendly and open.
“It was no trouble,” the young woman replied, her slim face lit with a sudden, bright grin that transformed her long, angular countenance into something of real beauty. Her hair glowed with coppery highlights in the candlelight. Penelope recalled seeing her in the kitchen for the first time the previous day, at luncheon. Penelope had liked the look of her instantly, but she had hurried through her meal and departed so fast that Penelope had not had a moment to talk to her.
“Thank you,” Penelope repeated with genuine appreciation. “He is sleeping soundly now,” she added, glancing over at the cot where Thomas slept peacefully for the first time in several hours.
“Good. You did well. Funny little fellow,” the young woman replied. She gazed at the cot with real warmth in her hazel eyes.
“He is a funny fellow.” Penelope paused. Perhaps the young woman knew something about the boy. “Is he the son of the earl?”
“No. No, I do not think so,” her visitor answered, brow lining with a brief frown. “Though, I must admit, I would not know. I only arrived at Brentdale recently myself. I am with Lady Penrith’s household.”
“Oh?” Penelope smiled, feeling intrigued. “Well, then, we have both been at Brentdale only a short while.” That was very comforting, though her heart sank. Perhaps Lady Penrith would stay only for a week.
“That is the case,” the young woman replied. “I am afraid I did not introduce myself. I am Anna Peterham. I am pleased to meet you.”
“I am pleased to meet you too,” Penelope replied, inclining her head politely. “I am Penelope Matthews. Please call me Penelope,” she added, recalling that Anna had called her Miss Matthews earlier.
“Thank you, Penelope. And, of course, you may call me Anna.”
Penelope smiled warmly at her. The manor did not seem so lonely anymore. She had found someone who could be a friend.
“Thank you, Anna. I hope you will be visiting at Brentdale for many weeks?” she inquired, heart lifting. Having a companion would make it much easier to forget her worries.
“I believe so,” Anna said with a dazzling grin. “Lady Penrith will stay for the length of the house-party, which is three weeks long. And I expect that she will remain for at least a week afterwards too, meaning we will remain almost five weeks here. Almost,” she added with a small frown.
“House party?” Penelope inquired.
“Yes. Twenty or so guests and three weeks filled with balls, parties and soirees. Lucky things,” Anna added, smiling brightly again.
Penelope chuckled. “You would truly enjoy such a thing?” she asked in real surprise. She had never attended a ball—the village where she had grown up held an annual dance, and she and Emily had attended that several times, but she had not particularly enjoyed it. The crowded space, the loud music and the men asking her and Emily to dance had all felt terribly uncomfortable. Her home had been quiet and remote—set outside the village by a hundred yards or so, they hardly ever had visitors at the cottage, except people from the village seeking to talk to her father, who was the local vicar. Being in an enclosed space with many people felt frightening, since she was so unused to it.
Anna nodded. “Oh, most certainly! Who would not love such a thing? Fine music, fine food and the chance to wear a fine dress! Bliss!” She whirled round, letting her skirt billow as she turned. Penelope smiled.
“When you say that, I begin to find it almost appealing,” she replied.
Anna giggled. “There! We shall have to attend a ball. Even if we go in disguise. It would not be too difficult,” she added with a grin. “You also don’t have an accent.”
Penelope blushed. She had wondered if anyone in the household had noticed that. Some people had looked at her almost resentfully, and she understood why. Only the gentry and nobility spoke like she did. It was not her fault. Her father, while being the village vicar, was also the Honourable Mr Matthews, the younger son of Baron Alforth. Since he was the younger son, he had not inherited anything at all, and his passion had always been the church, so he had never complained. But, then, father always accepted whatever state he was in with equanimity and grace; his faith too strong to allow him to doubt that all was as it was supposed to be.
“I do not have an accent, no,” Penelope admitted, her eyes on the floor. She thought Anna might laugh or make a snide comment, but instead, when she looked up, she found Anna beaming at her.
“Nor do I,” Anna replied. “Will you laugh if I tell you a secret?” Her expression was serious again.
“No. Of course not,” Penelope replied instantly. The thought of laughing at anything told to her in trust was appalling.
“Mayhap you won’t believe me. Not many do,” Anna replied quickly. “But my father was the grandson of a viscount. A real viscount! A very poor and obscure one, of course. And Father was the son of the fourth son, so he got not so much as a piece of wood from the floorboards.” She smiled. “But, of course, you don’t have to believe me.” Her hazel gaze was almost challenging.
Penelope gaped. It barely seemed possible. “Your father was the grandson of a viscount?” she asked.
“See? I told you that you would not believe it,” Anna said, sounding a little defensive.
“I do. I do,” Penelope replied at once. “But may I tell you a secret too?” she asked swiftly. Her heart pounded. Here was someone who might truly understand her.
“Of course. Anything,” Anna said at once. “Only not, perhaps, where the buried treasure is. I might go and look.” She grinned.
Penelope laughed. “If I had treasure, I would share it with you,” she said instantly, knowing it was true. “The secret is that my father is the son of a baron. The second son, like your father was the son of the fourth son. My father also inherited nothing at all. He works as the vicar in the village where I grew up,” she added quickly. She glanced at Anna, who beamed.
“I knew straight away that we would be friends,” she replied warmly.
Penelope chuckled. “I am so glad,” she said at once. Anna held her gaze steadily, and she looked back, her heart lifting. In a house of coldness and isolation, she had found real warmth.
“As am I. You have no idea how much,” Anna said at once, grinning her big, warm smile. “Apart from Mrs Harwell, everybody is so serious.” She made a disapproving face. Penelope laughed.
“I am glad I met you,” she said at once.
“As am I,” Anna replied. “Now, if Master Thomas is sleeping, perhaps you can take a moment to enjoy some dinner?”
Penelope glanced at the baby. “I cannot leave him in here by himself,” she said swiftly. He was sleeping, but anything might wake him, and she would feel guilty if he awoke to find nobody beside him. “It would be cruel to him if he awoke unattended.”
“Nobody said that someone cannot fetch you some cold food,” Anna replied firmly. “The kitchen is just down there,” she added, gesturing at the door in the wall that led to the servants’ corridor. “And I would not mind having a second supper with a friend up here.”
Penelope beamed. “That is so kind of you!” she exclaimed, delighted. Her stomach grumbled at the thought of food. It was long past when she would usually have dined.
“I shall not be a moment,” Anna replied, going to the door.
“Thank you,” Penelope called back, heart lifting.
Anna smiled and disappeared through the door, shutting it behind her. Penelope went to the upholstered chair and sank into it, letting out a slow breath as she closed her eyes. A quiet sense of relief settled over her.
She leaned back, her heart full of appreciation and warmth. As she looked around, her gaze paused on little Thomas, his angelic face aglow in the firelight. She loved the child already. And even the earl was not terrible, she recalled. She blushed again, her heart lifting at the thought of him. Life at Brentdale might not be so bad, after all.
Chapter 3
Peter gazed out of the window of the breakfast room. The sky was a clear-washed blue after the storm, brief puffs of cloud dusting the horizon. It was a beautiful summer’s day. He drew in a long, slow breath, feeling relieved. He had lain awake until the storm had settled, and then fallen into a surprisingly deep, restorative sleep. He felt energised for the first time since arriving at the manor.
He folded the newspaper, setting it aside. He read it because he ought to, not because the doleful news that it always seemed to carry actually interested him. His gaze fell on an article about an outbreak of cholera in London, mentioning several infant deaths.
“Poor things,” he murmured under his breath. His thoughts wandered to Master Thomas in the nursery. He frowned as, along with the little baby’s face, the face of the new maid—with those striking green eyes—drifted into his imagination. He pushed the memory away, annoyed with himself. She was a member of his staff. He should not be thinking about her with any sort of interest. And yet, that green-eyed gaze refused to budge from his thoughts.
“My lord?”
Peter looked up, frowning. The butler was in the doorway. Peter did not like to be disturbed at breakfast; a fact everyone on his staff knew. Mr Harris looked up, his long, dignified face a grimace of discomfort.
“Yes?” Peter demanded briskly.
“Beg your pardon for the disturbance, my lord,” Mr Harris said awkwardly. “But Lord Chelmsford is here. He requested to be shown to the billiards room.”
“George!” Peter exclaimed happily. He smiled. George—or more formally known as Lord Chelmsford—was his cousin on his mother’s side and a dear friend as well. He was not like Charles, who had been more of an elder brother to Peter than anything else; but he was a welcome, cheerful presence who had kept Peter sane during the months following the death of his cousin.
“Please show him upstairs, Mr Harris. I will join him directly,” Peter replied.
“Very good, my lord,” the butler murmured and withdrew.
Peter gulped his tea, dabbing at his lips with the linen napkin by his plate. He had expected George to arrive at some time during the day, but it was a pleasure to have the opportunity to talk to him.
He stood up and strolled down to the billiards room.
George was just preparing his cue when Peter walked in. He turned and grinned.
“Peter! Good morning, old fellow! Delighted to see you.” He held out his big, squarish hand for Peter to shake.
“George! Grand to see you.” Peter shook his hand, smiling into his cousin’s dark brown eyes with real warmth. “How do you fare? I trust the journey was pleasant?” he asked, his gaze scanning George’s gentle face. His cousin was tall—the same height as himself—with thick chestnut-coloured hair and dark brown eyes. He had a square face, slightly softened, and his eyes were merry and gentle. One could see straight away that he was kind and friendly. He also looked a little weary; dark rings around his eyes.
“It was good enough. I slept badly last night. I think the weather here was as bad as fifty miles away?” he raised a brow.
Peter nodded, smiling. “I trust it was every bit as bad,” he agreed. “We had quite a storm last night.”
“Difficult to find rest during a storm,” George commented lightly. His gaze scanned Peter’s face, as if asking a question.
Peter nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Quite so,” he agreed. He did not wish to worry his cousin, who knew that Peter hated storms, and why. Millicent was concerned enough about his welfare—she said that often as her reason for organising a house-party. He did not want to worry George, whose gentle nature meant that he would take it to heart.
“How fares your sister?” George asked, putting his cue back in its place on the wall.
“Well, I believe,” Peter commented, wandering with George towards the door. “I have barely seen her since her arrival—she seems always to be busy somewhere in the house, organising the house-party.” He made a wry face. George was included on the guest-list, which was why he was at Brentdale Manor rather than at his own estate fifty miles away.
“It is planned to be quite the event, I think,” George replied lightly.
Peter inclined his head. “I believe so. I fully expect half the ton to descend on Brentdale Manor on the morrow.” He made a disapproving moue.
George chuckled. “Only half? Would that not be remiss?” he asked playfully.
“Believe me, it probably would,” Peter answered. “Which is why I intend to say nothing about it.”
George laughed. They reached the drawing room and sat down. A fire burned low in the grate—not for warmth, but to keep the room dry and fresh. Sunlight streamed through the tall south- and east-facing windows, quickly warming the space.
The upholstered chair by the hearth was inviting, and Peter sank into it, only to rise reluctantly a moment later to ring the bell for tea.
“And yourself?” George asked as Peter sank back into the comfortable chair.
“Me?” Peter blinked, confused.
“How do you fare?” George asked gently.
Peter lifted a shoulder, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Well,” he said awkwardly. “I suppose,” he added.
George smiled. “I do not believe there is a right or wrong answer to that question,” he said lightly. “I am glad to hear you fare well.”
Peter looked down, reaching for the newspaper. He always felt uneasy when people pried into his business, no matter how pleasant and good-natured the inquiry was.
“My lord?” Mr Harris was in the doorway. Peter looked up, relieved.
“Please bring tea for my guest, Mr Harris. And something light to eat,” he added, glancing at George’s pale, tired appearance. He suspected that his friend had set out early from whichever inn had housed him the night before. He would have had to in order to arrive at Brentdale by nine o’clock in the morning. And that meant he had likely gone without breakfast.
“At once, my lord,” the butler replied and withdrew.
“I believe that Thomas is settling in?” George asked as they waited for the tea.
Peter tensed. He did not like it when people raised the topic of Thomas. Any discussion about the boy was always, in his mind, tinged with a shadow of his terrible guilt. He did not understand it himself, but he felt responsible for the death of the child’s parents. Talking about him always darkened his mood. This time, however, it brought with it a picture of the new maid, standing with Thomas tight in her arms. That made it easier to bear. He shrugged.
“He seems well enough,” he said lightly. “He has settled in to the Green Room, I believe. Or at least, I have not heard anything to the contrary.”
“The Green Room?” George asked, sounding surprised.
“Yes. The new maid suggested that the west wing was too drafty and damp for a baby.” Peter kept his voice level. He could not help recalling that wide, green gaze as he thought of the new maid, and imagining her giving orders to the rest of the staff to move the dresser and other things. He wanted to chuckle. She was certainly different.
“Oh?” George blinked. “Well, she is likely not wrong. The bad weather usually comes from there.” He shrugged.
“Just so,” Peter agreed lightly. He looked up as Mr Harris wheeled the tea-trolley into the room, distracting himself from the uncomfortable conversation.
“She must be quite competent, then,” George said as Mr Harris put the teapot on the table. “The new maid, I mean. That shows dedication, moving the baby from unfavourable conditions into better ones. To say nothing of taking some courage on her part,” he added, nodding in thanks to the butler as he placed a porcelain teacup on the table.
“I suppose,” Peter said awkwardly. He did not want to think about, or discuss, the new maid. His reaction had been confusing, and he did not want to think about it too much.
The butler gave Peter a teacup and saucer as well, then placed a porcelain plate containing slices of raisin loaf, pound cake and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off on the table. He straightened up and wheeled the trolley out.
“It’s fine weather, eh?” George asked, reaching for a small sandwich. He bit into it contentedly, shutting his eyes for a moment. Peter smiled to himself. One thing that had remained true of George since their Cambridge days was that he had an admirable appetite. He must have been suffering terribly without his breakfast.
“It is very fine weather,” Peter replied, selecting a slice of pound cake. He was not particularly hungry, but it seemed rude to let his guest eat in isolation. Not that George would have minded, he thought wryly. His friend was clearly hungry enough to set etiquette aside for the moment.
“Fine sunshine. Not a cloud up there, eh?” George commented, helping himself to another sandwich. Peter bit back a smile. His sister would probably have been scandalised by George’s unashamed appetite. Peter himself merely enjoyed being able to provide his friend with some much-needed victuals.
“Indeed,” Peter agreed. “Perhaps going for a ride later would be acceptable?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.
“Most acceptable, old fellow. Most acceptable,” George agreed, taking a slice of pound cake.
Peter smiled and looked out of the window. A ride in the afternoon would be very pleasant. It would help to clear his mind. It would also get him out of the house, which was becoming increasingly oppressive as the preparations for the house-party accelerated.
“Brother? Oh! George! What a surprise,” Millicent said from the doorway. “You arrived very early.” She smiled at George with real warmth in her hazel eyes, inclining her head in greeting as both George and Peter stood up.
“Millicent. Grand to see you,” George replied. He inclined his head, a brief bow.
“I am so glad to find you here,” Millicent added, turning to Peter. “I was busy overseeing the preparations for the ball tomorrow evening. We will need seating set out for the musicians. I have requested a quintet.”
“So many?” Peter asked. Usually, three or four men with stringed instruments were enough to provide the music for a ball.
“I intend this ball to be talked of in London,” Millicent said lightly. “Our family has become decidedly provincial in the last years, and we have a need to regain our standing.”
“Millicent…” Peter began warningly. He tried to indicate George’s presence. He did not want to argue in front of their cousin. He had only just arrived.
“It is no less than the truth. I want to place us right at the top of society. Where we belong. And I also want you to enjoy yourself and become cheerful again.” She gave him a firm glance. “So, we need to have a grand ball.”
“Millicent,” Peter began. How little did she know her own younger brother, if she thought a ball would lift his spirits? He hated balls.
“I will request that Mr Harris help me. He ought to have the capacity to find some seats and oversee the staff to move them,” she said swiftly.
“Of course,” Peter replied. “Will you not join us for tea?” he added, feeling a little uncomfortable. He should have suggested that earlier.
“Yes. That is very kind of you, Peter.”
Peter rang the bell, summoning Mr Harris to bring an extra cup and saucer for Millicent. He arrived almost at once, and Peter instructed him, relieved to have something else to do besides arguing with his sister. Millicent took a seat at the table.
“This is pleasant,” she sighed, leaning back. “I have barely sat down all week.”
“You are working too hard,” Peter told her firmly. “You can trust the household to oversee things.”
“This household?” Millicent raised a brow. “They have not been supervised by a countess for a long time. They have become positively lazy. I do not know when Harwell last saw that the silverware got a good polishing.” She made a disapproving face.
“The silverware…” Peter began. He could barely believe it. Had his sister truly noticed such a thing? She had barely been there for four days yet! He was perfectly happy with the staff—simply glad to be away from London.
“It’s a disgrace! You need to find a countess, Peter. This place will fall apart if you do not do so soon.”
“Sister…” Peter said angrily. That was a step too far. He was the earl. She might be his elder sister, but she was not his father. What he chose to do in his personal life was none of her business.
“It is nothing less than the truth, brother,” Millicent said firmly. The butler arrived and placed a cup before her. She did not even look up to acknowledge him, but poured her tea and continued talking as though nobody was there. “This estate is going to rack and ruin. Leaks in the roof. Spots on the cutlery. What next?”
Peter said nothing. George was sitting quite still, not speaking. He seemed to be trying to act as though he was not there.
“The estate has been maintained without anybody besides the staff being present for the last six months,” Peter reminded his sister firmly. “If certain matters have not been maintained, like the cutlery, that is to be expected. Who would have been using it in all that time?” He held her gaze.
“It does not matter,” his sister said airily. “Such things should be maintained. Now, I have invited Lord and Lady Winthrop to the ball. Their daughter Adeline is going to be there as well, of course. I want you to pay special attention to her. She was a shining diamond at the balls of London this year.” She held his stare.
“Lady Adeline has just debuted,” he reminded his sister, his voice almost a growl. “I would not like to impose on such a young lady.” There was not such a great disparity between their ages, just eight years, but that might be the only objection Millicent would be willing to hear.
“Oh, Peter! It’s hardly as though you are an old man,” Millicent said scornfully. “She is barely younger than you. And she is quite absolutely a paragon.”
Peter did not say anything. He had met Lady Adeline, since Lord and Lady Winthrop had been friends of the family while Papa still lived. In his opinion, she was shallow and uninteresting, but he had to admit that he had not seen her in many years. Perhaps he was being unfair.
“I must insist that you dance with her tomorrow at the ball,” Millicent continued. “It would be very rude to old friends of the family were you not to,” she added, head tilted as though she was chiding a child.
“Millicent…” Peter began. His right hand clenched the arm of the chair, his left hand closing into a fist around the cuff of his jacket. He was fighting his growing rage. She had no right whatsoever to demand anything of him, especially nothing that would, ultimately, affect only himself, such as who became the next countess. “I regret that I have business I must attend to. Pray excuse me,” he murmured. He stood up.
“Brother…” Millicent began. Peter walked to the door. He turned, checking to see if George was offended by his abrupt statement. George caught his eye. He looked sad, but not offended.
Peter stalked down the hallway. It felt as though his cheeks were burning, rage flaring up inside him, incandescent and unable to be suppressed. He had to go riding. It was the only thing that he knew of that would calm him.
He hurried around the corner towards his chamber. He had to get out before he lost his temper.
A cry of rage escaped him as he collided, quite forcefully, with someone hurrying the other way. He staggered forwards, just as the person staggered back and fell, hard, onto the hallway floor on their back.
Peter stared in shock. Long brown hair tumbled around the person’s face, which was pale and slim. Green eyes, round and frightened, stared up at him from the slender face. It was the new maid.