Page 22 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

Chapter Four

It was late afternoon, and raining hard, when Graydon tossed his hat and gloves on the rickety side table in the Blackdown entry hall.

He removed his redingote, grimacing at the puddle forming on the floor. Where the hell was Mrs Spragg when he needed her?

His visit to his man of business had been fruitless. And, while his mother had been delighted to see him when he’d made his way back by way of Bath, she hadn’t been of much help in his quest either. And she had been very curious about Miss Dearing, even though he had only mentioned her in passing.

A couple of good things had come out of his journey, however: his membership of White’s, for one. A close friend of Uncle’s Robert’s, Lord Fallon, had put his name forward and he’d been accepted. It had been touch and go, his friend had said, with some recalling his father’s misdeeds, but in the end no one had blackballed him.

Fallon had advised him to be very wary of his own reputation, because there were a few members who had initially been opposed to his admission. If he so much as put one foot wrong… He hadn’t needed to say more.

Curse Father. Why did Graydon have to pay the price for his sins?

The other possibly good thing was tucked away in his inner pocket. The Archbishop had been most accommodating. Whether or not the document he carried home would be needed, was another matter.

He glanced upwards through the scaffolding at the ceiling—still unpainted. He tried to rein in his impatience.

Mrs Spragg emerged through the baize door off to the side of the hall. ‘My lord, welcome home.’ She took his coat.

It didn’t feel like home. Not yet. He was beginning to wonder if it ever would. Somehow, it still echoed with unpleasant scenes between his mother and father that he wasn’t sure he really remembered. They were impressions, rather than specific memories. His recent conversations with his mother had brought unpleasant feelings rushing back.

He pushed the thoughts aside. His memories didn’t matter.

‘Miss Dearing is in the library, my lord.’ Mrs Spragg slanted a glance at his face, as if to judge his reaction. ‘She has been here every day since you left.’

So, she had been keeping her side of their bargain. He hadn’t been sure she would. ‘Thank you, Mrs Spragg. I will rid myself of the dirt of travel and then speak with her. Can you send up some hot water, please?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He bounded up the stairs. He was actually looking forward to seeing Miss Dearing.

No, no; he was looking forward to seeing what progress she had made in his absence.

In his room, he began laying out his clothes. At his London house he had a valet to perform such duties. It was expected, thought he honestly didn’t mind doing for himself. It reminded him of when he had travelled out to the logging camps in Canada. There had been cooks and grooms, but he’d always done without a personal servant—one less person to worry about.

A knock at the door announced the hot water and one of the grooms, a spry young man whom Mrs Spragg roped into help out in the house from time to time, carried in a bucket, some of which he poured into the basin on the wash stand.

‘Will there be anything else, my lord?’

‘No, thank you, Dan.’

Alone again, Graydon stripped off and washed down, using the what remained in the bucket to rinse off. Feeling thoroughly refreshed, he pulled his shirt over his head and began the task of making himself look respectable. He glanced at the waistcoat he had selected, a rather bright turquoise with little pale-yellow flowers all over it…daisies, maybe? Far too gaudy for a country gentleman during the day. Why on earth had he selected such a peacock colour? He wasn’t a dandy. He replaced it with a muted grey with a discreetly embroidered pattern in the same colour.

He opened the box on the dresser where he kept his cufflinks. He paused and picked up the handkerchief nestled inside and inhaled. Yes, it still carried her scent. All his impatience left him. He felt calmer. Ready to face what the rest of the day would bring.

Nonsense. He picked out a pair of cufflinks and shoved the handkerchief back in the box. Having shrugged into his coat, he headed downstairs, hoping that Miss Dearing hadn’t left in the time it had taken him to change.

At the library door, he hesitated. Had Mrs Spragg warned her of his arrival? Was she indeed still here? It had taken him a good half hour to change and she could easily have departed in that time.

He straightened his cravat. Devil take it! What was he doing? This was his house. He marched in.

At first glance he didn’t see her. Then there she was, rising from the floor like some artist’s rendition of a mermaid rising from the surf, clutching a red-bound volume to her chest. Only, instead of waves, she was surrounded by leather-bound tomes, some with gilt edges, others yellowed with age. And the mermaid was a prim young woman wearing a kerchief around a mob cap and grubby apron.

She blinked. ‘Oh! It is you.’

For a moment the hint of a smile made him think she would come to greet him. Instead, her eyes widened and the smile became a frown. She glanced around her. ‘I did not expect you so soon.’

Who had she thought it was? He was not disappointed by her diffidence. Was he? Why would he be? ‘I have been gone two weeks. Shall I leave again?’