“But…”
She sighed.“But now, nothing keeps him occupied except tending the gardens and doing good by others.”
“Hetends the gardens?”Rollo spluttered.“His lordship?”
“As much as anyone else,” she confirmed with a note of pride.“Best blooms in the county, I reckon.Born to work the soil, he was.”
“But…but…” Rollo shook his head.Was the fabled Ashington wealth built on a lie?“Doesn’t Lord Lyndon employ people for that sort of thing?”
“He does, but it’s him that decides what goes where.And he’s always happy to get his hands dirty.It gets him away from that desk and out of that drawing room.”
“Oh.”
Now Rollo’s opinion of the man was even more confused.Reconciling the oaf who pissed in the fireplace as the architect behind the design of those wonderful flowerbeds, never minddoing good by folksand once being a sweet, innocent boy was headache-inducing.
“Why…why does he spend so much time alone in the drawing room?Why…why—” He searched for the correct diplomatic phrase.“Why is he so…so solitary?”
Cook’s gaze flicked across to the girl who had ceased all pretence that she wasn’t listening, and her face turned stony.“Since he came back here for good, there are all sorts of stories.Some folks reckon he fell in love and had his suit rejected.Or got too fond of the liquor.His father, bless his soul, liked a tipple too.Or maybe him and his brother fell out.You know what twins be like.”
“I do,” Rollo exclaimed.“I’m one myself.But…” He and Willoughby had never quarrelled.They’d wrestled each other, built forts, hunted pirates, and kept each other’s secrets as if cast from stone, but never quarrelled.Aside from penning execrable poetry, Willoughby was the finest twin brother a chap could ever wish for.
“And what do you believe, Cook?”
Again, her eyes shifted to the girl.“It’s not my business to say.”
Rollo waited.In his experience, that phrase usually heralded the opinion of someone who had very much decided somethingwastheir business.
Nodding to herself, Cook wiped her hands on a towel.“I think the poor soul never recovered from what happened down at the lake.”
Chapter Four
LYNDON LEANED AGAINSTthe window frame, watching the young man map out the perimeter of the gardens, on foot, for the second time that day.Slight of build and fair as a wisp of barley, from this distance the Honourable Rollo Duchamps-Avery cut an insubstantial figure.He plodded with his head down, occasionally brushing at the sedge on either side of him with a stick.If he sought exercise, and if Lyndon was more inclined to graciousness, then he’d have informed him there was an excellent, circular route leading from the stables over to Beccles Ridge and back.But the youth seemed reluctant to wander too far.Goodness knew why; the marshland didn’t fight back.And Goule was a far cry from London.There were no pickpockets or doxy’s lying in wait to catch the unwary.Loitering about the house and gardens, occasionally prodding at the undergrowth with a stick, he was about as much use as a square wheel on a curricle.
Pup.The lad hadn’t liked being called that one bit, and had told Lyndon so, for all he was frit.He’d stamped his prettily booted foot and flashed his prettily coloured eyes.The spirited Earl of Rossingley’s son, through and through.A force to be reckoned with a few years from now, once his soft edges had been filed away.
His visitor stooped to smell a summer bloom, the movement efficient and elegant.He had a pretty nose too.In fact, now he thought about it, Duchamps-Avery was far too extravagantly pretty all round.Like a damned chit.
And then he disappeared out of sight, behind a hedge.A sudden thought curdled Lyndon’s belly.“He doesn’t ever wander as far as the lake, does he?”
“No, my lord,” answered Berridge, tidying away the shaving things.Lyndon didn’t care for a valet; in London he hadn’t the funds, and now, even though his brother, Benedict, had restored the entirety of his generous income, he’d since discovered he valued his privacy too much.
“Greaves says he rarely strays from the gardens.”
“Good.If he enquires, suggest to our visitor that he takes a stroll somewhere else.”
“Yes, my lord.”Berridge hesitated.“The gentleman guest doesn’t know the area at all.He seems a bit fearful of the marshes.Perhaps…perhaps you might accompany him sometime?”
“So that he can interrogate me?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment, my lord.”
Lyndon smiled at his wily old butler.They had both guessed the real reason behind Benedict prompting this boy’s visit.Two years had elapsed since Lyndon’s banishment to Goule, and he had not encouraged visitors.Once Benedict had restored his allowance, Lyndon could have returned to thetonwhenever he liked.But that would have required courage—courage to look his brother in the eye, to apologise, and admit they shared the same inclinations.Inclinations he’d used against Benedict, to torment and shame him, to almost bring down the Fitzsimmons name.
How could Lyndon acknowledge all that, when he hardly had the courage to admit it to himself?
Nonetheless, kindly, forgiving Benedict and their younger brother, Francis, would be fretting.
“This fresh-faced Rollo Duchamps-Avery makes a perfect, innocent spy, don’t you think?”
