Falling in Love Again (10 page)

“You don't?” Mallory said with genuine surprise. She took his hand and led him back across the ditch to the road. “I've never grown tired of life in the country. Mother would like to move to London, but not me. The two days I spent in London were enough.”

“This was your first trip to London?” John asked.

“My first and only time…and I didn't like it. It's too smelly and crowded.”

“Oh, but you didn't really see London. You should visit the theaters, the parks, the opera—”

“Instead of the home of your mistress?” she asked innocently.

He ignored her. “I can't believe your parents never took you there.”

“My parents had planned on
you
taking me there after our wedding.”

John stopped, his hand pulling her back. “Mal
lory,” he started, then stopped as if words failed him. A myriad of emotions—regret, anger, uncertainty—flickered in his eyes.

And suddenly, Mallory wasn't sure she wanted him to explain himself. She didn't
want
to hear the truth. “It's passed, John. It no longer matters.”

He lightly touched the braid lying over her shoulder. “It still matters to
you
.”

She conceded his point. “All right, I've been a bit snippy.” A cloud passed over the sun, softening the bright sunlight. “Would it help if I confessed that I'm no longer quite so angry as I was when we first met at Lady Ramsgate's?”

“I'm not certain I should be let off the proverbial hook so easily. I truly am sorry for all you went through because of my own neglect.”

“I realize now it wasn't all your fault.”

“It was my responsibility.” He took her hand and turned it over, palm up. He ran his hand over hers. “I never dreamed a wife of mine would ever have to work so hard as to form calluses.”

Mallory drew her hand back and hid it in the folds of her dress. “It's in the past, John.”

“Aye. It's in the past.” But neither believed it.

They stood side by side, lost in their own thoughts. Mallory discovered she actually liked him. He was more easygoing than Hal and therefore a more tolerant companion. Hal could never admit he'd been wrong—not even once in his life. It was a quality that irritated her.

She started walking and John fell in step beside her.

Neither touched the other.

At the stone gateposts leading to Cardiff Hall, John said, “We need to ensure that our stories are the same.”

“I'm Mrs. Dawson, you are Mr. Dawson.”

John brought his brows together in an expression of great concentration. “Good. I think we're ready to fool anyone now.”

Mallory smiled up at him, pleased he understood her dry humor. Hal didn't always understand her small jokes and often answered her literally.

John led them through the gates. Huge, ancient oaks lined the dirt drive, creating a canopy of boughs overhead. “Where did we last work?”

“In East Anglia?” she offered. “We can pretend you are a soldier home from the war and I am the patient wife who waited seven years for you.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. That will be our story, then. It's always good to weave a touch of the truth into a lie. Makes it more believable.”

“And do you lie often?”

“Obviously not as often as you do,” he shot back, and she laughed.

They followed a bend in the drive and came upon the house. Cardiff Hall was a lovely, sprawling country manor, two stories high, surrounded by lush, blooming flowerbeds. Roses climbed the brick around the heavy oak front door. Trellises of sweet peas separated beds of daisies, roses, and lilies.

John began tying his neck cloth. “Are you ready?” he asked her.

Mallory nodded with an assurance she was far
from feeling. John took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “Should we go to the servant's entrance?” he asked. “I've never been one so I don't know how one goes about it.”

Mallory shook her head. “You use the servant's entrance after you've been hired.”

“Well, then,” he said, “let's raise the curtain on the second act of our little farce. Come.” He led her to the front step and rang the bell.

A second later, the door was opened by a tall, slim woman in dark clothes, a white apron, and an unwelcoming face beneath her mob cap. “Yes?” she asked abruptly, and then her expression softened, color coming to her cheeks, as the full impact of John's handsome appearance registered.

“My name is John Dawson,” John said, with just the right touch of courteous respect. He pulled from his pocket the letter Peterson had penned. “My wife and I are here to see Lord Woodruff.”

She drew back with a frown. “Lord Woodruff doesn't like unexpected visitors,” she told him, and made no move to let them in.

“He'll like us,” John said, putting his foot in the door to prevent her from closing it.

“I don't think so,” the woman said. “I've been with him going on five years now, and I've never seen him happy to receive guests.”

“This letter is from the Duke of Tyndale's son,” John said, with more steel in his voice. “He's acting on his father's behalf.”

The woman whispered, “Tyndale,” her eyes
widening in surprise, and she held the door open. “Perhaps you'd best come in and wait while I deliver the letter to Lord Woodruff.”

“Perhaps,” John echoed softly. He and Mallory entered the huge foyer. It was a welcoming room done up in green and rose. Family portraits and gilt-framed mirrors lined the walls. A staircase and three rooms led off the foyer. A huge, carved walnut table stood in the middle of the room for guests' hats and the like. At the moment it boasted a dramatic arrangement of flowers.

John handed the letter to the woman, who said, “I'm Mrs. Irongate, Lord Woodruff's housekeeper.” She fluffed the edges of her mob cap with her fingers, a girlish gesture Mallory was certain was for John's benefit. “I don't mean to appear rude, but Lord Woodruff is a touch funny about guests.” She leaned toward John and confided in a low voice, “He's artistic, you know.”

“Yes, we've heard,” John answered.

Satisfied, Mrs. Irongate bustled over to the closed door on the far right of the foyer. “Stay here,” she ordered, before rapping three times on the door, waiting a beat, and then rapping a fourth time.

“What the devil do you want, Mrs. Irongate?” a man's voice boomed from beyond the door.

Mrs. Irongate flashed them an apologetic smile, turned the handle, and went in, shutting the door behind her. They heard the sound of muffled shouting followed by Mrs. Irongate's calm, unruffled voice. Mallory moved closer to John. “What is it he does again?”

“Peterson said he is a poet. A bad one.”

A second later, the door opened and Mrs. Irongate said, “Lord Woodruff will see you now.” She batted her eyelashes at John as he entered, his hand protectively on Mallory's elbow.

Lord Woodruff's study was a stark contrast to the neat, tidy appearance of the rest of the house. It was obviously a man's room, with leather chairs and walls lined from floor to ceiling with books. A huge desk placed before a large window dominated the room.

There all semblance of order ended. The room looked as if it had been ransacked. Balls of wadded paper littered the floor so that Mallory and John had to kick them out of the way as they crossed to the desk. Books spilled from the shelves and covered every available surface. Many were open and stacked one on top of the other. On the desk, the piles of open books were six to seven deep. Lord Woodruff sat behind the desk, a huge stack of blank paper before him. He held Major Peterson's letter.

Lord Woodruff looked like a bird—a raven, to be exact—with a great hooked nose, a balding pate he covered with hair combed from the back of his head to the front, and black, burning eyes. He stood up. “How am I supposed to work with all these interruptions?”

He came around the desk and marched over to a tray of liquor set on a side table. He wore an overlong purple robe, black breeches and socks, and slippers. A yellow silk scarf was wrapped around his neck, the ends trailing down his back.

“You're from Tyndale, you say?” he asked, as if
not expecting an answer. He shot them a malevolent glance as he poured a generous drink from one of the decanters. “I don't give a damn for Tyndale. I have only one goal in my life, and that is to finish my book.” He honed his black gaze on John. “Do you realize how difficult it is to write a book?”

“No, sir,” John replied respectfully, “but I imagine it is a prodigious feat.”

“Prodigious?” Lord Woodruff raised an eyebrow. “Prodigious. I'd forgotten that word.” He drained his glass in one gulp and crossed to the desk. “I have to remember it,” he whispered. Tossing Major Peterson's letter to the floor, he picked up a pen, dipped it in ink, and began scribbling. He muttered as he wrote, his pen scratching back and forth across the page.

Mallory looked to John, who shrugged. They stood before Lord Woodruff's desk for a good three minutes before John cleared his throat.

Lord Woodruff looked up, his eyes bulging in surprise. He fired out questions in rapid succession. “What are you doing here? Why are you bothering me?” His arm came down protectively over his writing. “What is it you want?”

John gently pushed Mallory behind him. “I'm your new steward, John Dawson, and this woman is my wife.”

Mallory bobbed a quick curtsey. Lord Woodruff frowned, as if seeing them for the first time. “Steward? I don't remember hiring a steward.”

“You didn't. Major Peterson, the Duke of Tyndale's son, hired me,” John told him.

Lord Woodruff's great bushy brows came to
gether. “Why do I need more hired help? I have Terrell. I have the dairy maids. What do I need with more interruptions?”

“I'm here to ensure you are not interrupted,” John explained, his voice reasonable even as he began backing toward the door, taking Mallory with him. “Tyndale wants me to run the farm. He thought you would appreciate my help.”

Lord Woodruff pressed his lips together until his face looked like a dried apple with black eyes. “I can't think about the farm now. I have a book to write. I have work to do. I can't take time for anything else!”

John pushed Mallory out the door into the foyer as he said, “I understand that, Lord Woodruff. Please, continue with your work. I'll see to everything else.” He shut the door and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Do you really think he's working on a book?” she asked, picking up several of the balls of paper they'd kicked on their way out of the room. Tiny, cramped writing covered both sides of the sheets. She smoothed the papers out and laid them on the foyer table. “Or is he just mad as a hatter?”

“Who knows?” John answered. “Since I've been back to London, I've met a score of people who claim to be writers and, I have to admit, they are a very odd lot. The question is, is he like this all the time, or only when he's preparing a book for his publisher? Because if this is his usual state, I understand why Tyndale is so worried—and why he'd like to keep Woodruff as far away from him as possible.”

At that moment, Mrs. Irongate entered the
foyer from the opposite direction. “Is everything settled with Lord Woodruff?”

John straightened. “Yes, he's very pleased to have us on the staff.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Irongate said, and again batted her wispy eyelashes at John. “Did he tell you where you would sleep?”

Mallory stepped forward. “Isn't there a house for the steward?”

“Yes, there is,” Mrs. Irongate said. “But it was let to one of the tenants by his grace's land manager.”

“Where else can we sleep?” Mallory asked.

“You could stay here in the house with us,” Mrs. Irongate offered, her gaze sliding toward John.

John and Mallory both said, “No,” at the same time. Their eyes met, and she couldn't help smiling at him. For once, they were in perfect accord.

“I didn't think so,” Mrs. Irongate said with a sad sigh. “There is a small cottage beyond the barn. I don't know what shape it is in, but I imagine we could make it homey quick enough.”

“I'd love to see it,” Mallory said, anxious to get settled.

“Then follow me,” Mrs. Irongate said. She led them through the back of the house, stopping to introduce them to Mrs. Watkins, the cook, and Lucy, the serving girl. Both the servants preened with girlish delight upon meeting John, especially when he gallantly bowed over their hands.

Mrs. Irongate led them out of the house. “That's all the help we have in the house and all we need,” she said proudly. They crossed the
back lawn to a carriage path. Flowers bloomed in glorious display from several beds. “Lord Woodruff loves his flowers. Takes care of them himself, he does. Says they help him think. Did he tell you about Terrell?”

“He didn't have an opportunity to say much beyond mentioning the name,” John said dryly.

“Terrell comes from the village and helps around the barn. He's a wee bit slow, but a nice lad. We don't actually do much farming here. Two village lasses help him out with the dairy, but I think you'll see there is a good deal of work that isn't getting done.” She led them down a stone path that turned to dirt. “This path takes us to the barn. Lord Woodruff won't bother you much,” she assured them. “He rarely goes out. He's working on a book, you know.”

“He told us,” Mallory said.

“He's been working on it ever since I arrived here five years ago. He calls it his ‘epic.' ‘Course, I don't know what an ‘epic' is. I don't read myself. Seems a waste of time to me for a man to spend all his time writing something most people can't read, but it keeps Lord Woodruff busy. One thing I should tell you—he will insist on using the coach every Sunday to take him to church. Ten thirty sharp. And he expects us to go with him too. We sit in the pew behind his. Whatever you do, don't be late. He hates to be late. Our Lord Woodruff is a creature of habit, that he is. Do you know the seams on your sleeves are torn, Mr. Dawson?”