Page 46 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“Of course you did,” Tristan said bitterly. They’d been at Blackburn Priory for two weeks and all Musgrove had done was write reports. Reports on the state of the crops. Reports on the state of the furnishings. Reports on the roof. Reports on the plumbing.

Tristan had no doubt that, in the past two years, Musgrove had sent just such reports about him to his father. Reports on how he’d parted from his last mistress and made no effort to obtain another. Reports on the days he’d spent drinking at home. Reports on how he’d fallen into a melancholy as black and bottomless as this cursed mud puddle appeared to be.

“One day, Musgrove,” he said, “I shall quite happily write a report on how I gave you the sack.”

“Yes, my lord,” Musgrove said, unperturbed. He flipped open a page of the infernal little notebook he always carried with him. “As to the drainage…”

Tristan retrieved his handkerchief from the pocket of his greatcoat. “Go on.”

“The former steward, Mr. Pope, recommended something be done last year. Trenches dug, tiled, and so forth. Alas, he was taken away with fever in the spring. I would have seen to the matter myself, but things had by that point reached—”

“Quite.” Tristan gave his muddy boots another wholly inadequate swipe with his handkerchief. Higgins was going to strangle him. Two pairs of boots destroyed in two weeks. Not to mention the countless shirts, waistcoats, and trousers that had been soiled with mud, animal dung, and foul substances of every description.

“I’m treating stains from dawn ’til dusk,” Higgins had complained only that morning. “I accept we are in the country now and a certain amount of filth is to be expected, but a valet can only take so much abuse, my lord.”

At this rate, Tristan reflected, before the month was out, he would be obliged to order a new wardrobe from his tailor. Either that or hire a new valet. Good God, was there nothing about Blackburn Priory that came cheaply?

“You had better add drains to your list.” He balled up his mud-splattered handkerchief and thrust it into the pocket of his greatcoat. “Better yet, add a new steward. You can hire him along with the rest of the servants on market day.”

“A steward is not the sort of fellow one finds at a Mop Fair.” Musgrove turned another page of his notebook. “However, I do have a recommendation from Lord Lynden. It seems his steward at Lyndwood Hall has a younger brother who’s anxious to—”

“Brilliant. Another spy. By all means hire him.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll send for him without delay.”

Tristan resumed his thankless trudge through the pasture. The old water mill was just over the next rise, or so Musgrove had said. They might have ridden there, but he had no desire to see his riding horses subjected to the elements. One of them was already suffering from thrush and another had lost a shoe in the mud on the day of his arrival. They were town horses. Meant for Rotten Row, not rotten weather.

“What I need,” he muttered, “is a pair of drays.”

“Shall I add them to the list, my lord?”

Tristan supposed he could afford them. He still had what was left of his quarterly allowance. Not to mention those portions of his allowance he’d managed to save over the past two years. It was amazing how little coin a man expended once he grew tired of debauchery. Instead, that coin had sat in the bank, untouched, accumulating a tidy sum of interest.

But it couldn’t last forever. And, though he might still be heir to one of the greatest fortunes in England, he’d be damned if he’d spend another year dependent on an allowance from his father.

“No,” he said. “There are to be no unnecessary expenses.”

“As you say, my lord.”

He stopped at the top of the rise and looked out across the wet rolling hills. Down another slope he could see the stone façade of the dilapidated water mill. Situated on a bend of the River Coquet, it had once been the primary source of wealth and prosperity for the thriving market town of Harbury Morton.

“It’s a shame it’s fallen into such disrepair,” Musgrove remarked. “The monks at the Priory charged a pretty penny for its use in their day.”

“Their day being the year 1379.”

“Somewhere thereabouts. If you’d like an exact date, my lord, I could consult—”

“It’s no longer the fourteenth century, Musgrove. It’s the nineteenth. And, lest you forget, Blackburn Priory is no longer a monastery.” Tristan set off down the slope of the hill, his boots squelching in the mud. “Though, considering the circumstances,” he said under his breath, “you may be forgiven for thinking so.”

It was certainly not for lack of opportunity. Within his first two days in residence, the local squire had come calling with his unmarried daughter in tow. The next day, a neighboring widow had contrived to cross his path when he was driving into town. And then there was the matter of the hastily planned assembly ball to which St. Ashton had not only been invited, but urged to attend by the vicar, the village doctor, and no less than five meddling mamas who had had the temerity to appear on the doorstep of the Priory with baskets of cakes, biscuits, and preserves.

He hadn’t attended the assembly. Nor had he succumbed to the advances of willing widows or marriage-minded squire’s daughters. He’d gone to sleep alone each night in a cold bed, exhausted from the day’s exertions.

His father had written at the end of the first week and informed him that Valentine was settled at Lady Hermione Caddington’s townhouse in London. She was learning about her family, the letter had said. She was becoming better acquainted with her cousin. She was safe and comfortable and showing signs of growing contentment.

It was all so much nonsense.

As if he couldn’t comprehend the real purpose of his father’s letter. The old devil’s true message was implicit in every line: Stay Away. Leave her be. Give her a chance to know her family. To find her footing. Give her a chance to meet someone better.