Regina Scott (5 page)

Will hadn’t paid the decor all that much attention growing up. Peg had hated the room, particularly the snowy carpet in the center with its red silk fringe. She’d been afraid to walk on it lest she soil it. He had to agree it was rather impractical. He should have removed it years ago, but it reminded him of Peg.

Today Jamie refused to sit on any of the elegant white, curved-back chairs or sofa. He paced from the windows overlooking the fells to the doorway into the corridor, peering out each and pausing only long enough to tug at various articles of clothing. Already his cravat was wilting, his blue patterned waistcoat was rumpled, and his tasseled boots had lost their shine. Will felt for him.

“You’ll be fine,” he offered, stretching out his own tooled leather boots where he sat near the hearth. He hadn’t dressed the part of the earl today, choosing instead a tweed coat and chamois trousers. But the boots had been with him too many years to forego. Far more elaborate than the ones his contemporaries generally favored, they were as soft as butter and as comfortable as old slippers. He’d had them made his first week in Constantinople, and they’d been with him ever since.

When Jamie didn’t respond, Will glanced up. His son was frozen on the carpet, and their guests were at the door.

“Lady Everard and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott,” said their butler, a relict as formal as the room.

Will could understand why his son was gaping. He was hard-pressed not to gape himself. Samantha, Lady Everard, had been a vision in her cerulean ball gown. Now it seemed as if joy had entered the room. Her pale muslin gown was covered in a fitted blue jacket that brought out the gold of her hair. The collar was a frivolous affair with multiple points edged in lace; it was as whimsical as her smile.

He found himself smiling back and forced a more serious look. He’d met women from every part of the Ottoman Empire and places in between, from dusky-skinned princesses to platinum-haired grand duchesses. Why did this woman make them all fade in comparison?

“Samantha.” Jamie rushed forward to take her arm and lead her into the room. “Thank you for coming.”

“Well, it seems I promised,” she said with a sidelong glance at her companion.

Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, resplendent in royal purple as if she planned to take tea with the Regent, swept up to Will and curtseyed. “Lord Kendrick, how kind of you to invite us to your lovely home.”

Will bowed. “It is only lovely because you grace us with your presence, dear lady.”

She batted her lashes at him as she rose and tapped his arm with one finger. “I spoke with the Widow Trent yesterday. She was utterly charmed by your attentions at the party the other night.”

He could not think who she meant. The only woman he remembered meeting was gazing at him from across the room in obvious amusement. “She is kind to think of me,” he replied.

Mrs. Dallsten Walcott tittered. “It isn’t kindness that makes a lady remember a handsome gentleman, my lord.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Samantha put in. “Any lady would remember a kindness after a sudden mishap. Such an act is unlooked for and most welcome, like a breeze on a hot day.”

It was not the day but his face that felt hot at that reference to their ride the previous day. No, he couldn’t be blushing! He waved to the chair closest to the tea cart, and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott took it while he made sure to sit the farthest from Lady Everard. He told himself it was his duty to keep an eye on things, but some part of him warned it was self-preservation.

Still, the tableau would have been amusing under other circumstances. Their staff had set up a cart with the dainty silver tea urn his mother had preferred and her favorite rose-covered china cups and saucers. A plate of delicate tea cakes, frosted in a creamy yellow, lay ready for the passing. Normally his son would have been the first to reach for them.

But Jamie was watching Samantha as if she was the tea cake and he was starving. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was studying the pair of them with narrowed eyes that seemed to hold more speculation than censorship. And Samantha was eying Will, mouth turned up at one corner, twinkle in her dark eyes as if she was in complete agreement with him that the situation was ridiculous.

Even as he fought the urge to adjust his cravat or waistcoat, she turned her smile on Jamie.

“Everything looks marvelous. Would you like me to pour?”

“Of course,” Jamie said as if waking from a dream.

She set about pouring the steaming brew into the cups, her movements sure and easy. She’d probably poured tea a hundred times since she’d made her debut in Society, yet the smiles she bestowed on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott and Jamie said they were the most important people she had ever served. Will was on his feet and moving toward her before she even held out his cup.

His fingers brushed hers as he reached for the china, and he heard the sharp intake of her breath. Her gaze met his. He could not seem to look away. As if from a long distance he heard the soft thud of a cup and saucer hitting the carpet.

“Oh, gracious!” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott cried. “Samantha, how could you!”

Samantha turned red and dropped her gaze, now empty hands falling into the lap of her pale gown. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”

“My fault entirely,” Will said, squatting to pick up the unbroken china. The stain of the spilled tea was spreading across the pristine carpet. He couldn’t help grimacing, but the act had more to do with his own behavior than hers.

What was he thinking, mooning about, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick schoolboy? He had thought he’d learned something in the nearly twenty years since he’d fallen in love the first time. At the moment he felt no wiser than his son.

He had to be wiser. He had to protect Jamie. And now it appeared he had to protect himself as well. For if he wasn’t careful, Samantha, Lady Everard, might wedge her way into his heart, and that would be a mistake.

Chapter Five

S
amantha sat quietly, trying not to bite her lip, as Mrs. Dallsten Walcott poured another cup of tea for Lord Kendrick and chatted about commonplaces. Why had she dropped that cup? She’d served tea dozens of times, once to His Highness the Duke of York! Her hands had never so much as trembled. But one look in those deep green eyes and she’d lost all sense of place, aware only of the pounding of her heart.

Lord, please, not like this. You know the danger of trusting feelings that come so quickly. Help me!

“It’s nothing,” Jamie whispered beside her. “Please don’t concern yourself. My father says my mother hated that carpet. I don’t know why he kept it.”

She nodded, but she focused her gaze on the ugly brown stain. Likely William Wentworth, Lord Kendrick, kept the carpet for the same reason she kept the iron canopy over her mother’s bed—so he would never forget. She could not allow these fleeting feelings to overpower her resolve.

“Cake?” Lord Kendrick asked, holding out the silver-rimmed plate to her. “They used to be Lord Wentworth’s favorite.”

Lord Wentworth? The image of his brother, cleft chin, blue eyes, superior air, came to mind despite her best efforts. She hadn’t known the schemes that were about to endanger her family then. Certainly she hadn’t suspected Lord Wentworth had been anything but sincere in his courtship. Did Lord Kendrick understand she’d once hoped his brother might offer for her? That he had in fact offered the day before his murder?

She searched Lord Kendrick’s face for judgment, for blame. But he was merely smiling at her, all encouragement, as if trying to allay her concerns after the tea contretemps.

“They’re still my favorites,” Jamie proclaimed, reaching past her to take the tray from his father. He held it before her. “Try one, Samantha. They’re delicious.”

Oh, of course. She had to remember Jamie was Lord Wentworth now. The former Lord Wentworth was dead, and if she were wise she would not mention the reasons to his brother. She managed a smile for Jamie’s sake and selected one of the little iced cakes. The taste was a perfect blend of tart and sweet, much like her life of late.

“Delicious,” she assured Jamie, who was watching her. By his smile, she would have thought she’d offered him the moon.

As he returned the plate to the tea cart, she picked up her spoon to stir her tea and was surprised to find that the implement was made of rosewood. Something glimmered at the tip. Looking closer, she saw amber inlaid into the end.

“Something to remember my travels,” Lord Kendrick said, as if he’d been watching her.

“A gift from the sultan of the Ottoman Empire,” Jamie said with some pride. “You recall how Father served in Constantinople.”

“And Egypt,” Samantha replied, fingering the satiny wood of the spoon. She shot Jamie a grin. “You always hoped he’d bring back a mummy.”

“No mummies, alas,” Lord Kendrick said with a smile.

Jamie laughed, eyes bright. “But he has a whole room full of wonders. Would you like to see them?”

“I’m sure Lady Everard has better things to do than look at a moldery bunch of keepsakes,” his father said.

She doubted they could be moldery. “I’d love to see them,” she told Jamie, hopping to her feet. Jamie rose just as eagerly, with Lord Kendrick only a few seconds behind.

Mrs. Dallsten Walcott heaved a martyred sigh as she set aside her tea and rose to follow them from the withdrawing room.

Samantha had visited Kendrick Hall many times growing up. It was much grander than Dallsten Manor, with easily twice as many rooms. Each room she’d seen was paneled in silk or fine woods, the hearths all varying types of marble, with liberal use of gilding on every conceivable surface. In short, it was elegant, imposing and far too formal for her tastes.

She could not say the same for the room Jamie showed her now, located just down the corridor from the withdrawing room. The moment she stepped past the paneled door, she felt as if she’d been transported to another land.

Crimson and azure tapestries woven with gold hung from the walls; carpets patterned in fanciful flowers and bright-plumed birds graced the parquet floor. Tall bronze vases with fluted mouths held feathers from peacocks and ostriches. Tables inlaid with ivory and ebony supported delicate statuary and finely wrought boxes of gold and silver. The very air was scented with sandalwood and incense. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott turned up her aristocratic nose.

But Samantha wandered deeper into the room, gaze darting from one piece to another. Here was the William Wentworth the valley legends proclaimed—the world traveler, the mysterious adventurer. This room she thought, unlike any other in Kendrick Hall, truly reflected its master. That he was well aware of it was evident by the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he too gazed about fondly. These were not just mementos; this was his life on display.

“Look here,” Jamie urged, taking her hand and pulling her to where several curved sheaths of beaten gold hung from mahogany arms on the wall. He lifted one down and drew on the jeweled hilt until the sword flashed in the light from the far window. “Father won this from a Janissary by defeating him in combat.”

“How interesting,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said, but she gravitated to a set of jeweled pins shaped like butterflies.

Samantha was far more interested in the swords. It wasn’t hard to picture Lord Kendrick, blade raised like a knight of old, ready to protect England. “A Janissary?” she asked, rubbing a finger along the metal sheath.

Lord Kendrick’s hands passed over hers and took the sword from Jamie. “A soldier hired to protect the Ottoman Empire and those who serve her,” he explained. “Janissaries are assigned to the foreign embassies and envoys as guards. They can be your best source of help in trouble. And I didn’t defeat one. The swords were a gift, like much of what you see here.” He returned the sword to its place on the wall.

“A gift for valor,” Jamie assured Samantha even as she wondered why Lord Kendrick didn’t seem to like his son touching his things. “Father fought to keep the French out of Egypt. Here, I’ll show you.” He hurried off to the leather-bound trunk along the opposite wall.

“You are too humble, I think,” Samantha teased Lord Kendrick, her hand falling to rest on a carved chest.

His mouth turned up at one corner. He had a nice mouth—firm lips above a firmer chin. She could imagine him ordering a battalion to action as easily as he called for tea.

“It isn’t humility to know one’s place in history,” he countered. “That’s one thing I learned in the diplomatic corps. No matter how important the ruler, there’s always someone else who fancies himself more important. And sometimes he’s right.”

“And just as often he’s wrong,” Samantha replied, thinking back to her family’s struggles against the powerful nobleman who had thought to help Napoleon conquer England. That man had intended to rule England himself one day, even if he had to kill a few Englishmen like Lord Kendrick’s brother along the way. Of course she couldn’t tell Lord Kendrick or Jamie about that. Everyone involved had been sworn to secrecy.

“You needn’t worry, Lady Everard,” Lord Kendrick murmured, hand covering hers on the chest. “We will beat Napoleon. It’s only a matter of time.”

He thought she’d meant the current war. She should find a way to explain or agree, but everything in her seemed to be focused on his gentle touch. The warmth seeped into her skin, relaxed muscles she hadn’t realized she’d held tight. Would his embrace be just as warm?

“Here you are,” Jamie declared, and Samantha sprang away from Lord Kendrick, her face heating. There she went again! She had to master these emotions. She’d thought she’d become more skilled at it, but after spending her whole life acting on her feelings, shutting them off now wasn’t easy, even understanding their danger.

She was merely thankful that Jamie didn’t seem to notice her lapse. Neither did her chaperone. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, returning to join them, was obviously more interested in the scroll Jamie was unrolling. Samantha could only hope her host was as oblivious. She chanced a glance at him, but his gaze was on the scroll.

And what a sight it was, nearly two feet high and bound on golden rods. Gold and crimson figures ran along each margin and the top. Across the page danced fanciful writing in bold brown ink. She had never seen its like.

“What does it say?” she asked, peering closer.

“To Lord William,” Lord Kendrick read, long finger gliding along the words as he translated. “You have my everlasting gratitude for your help in settling the Egyptian question and my deepest affections for your friendship.”

“It’s from the ruler of the Ottoman Empire,” Jamie explained as Lord Kendrick’s hand fell to his side.

“The sultan, until he lost his place and life to a rebellion,” Lord Kendrick murmured, straightening. Samantha could hear the sorrow in his voice.

“Father was gone from there by then,” Jamie said as if the entire culture had ceased to be of interest once his father had departed. He carefully rolled up the scroll. “All the English left when the Turks started supporting the French. We even sent in the Navy.”

Lord Kendrick stepped back, jaw tightening. “The sultan was the most progressive ruler in that part of the world in the past hundred years. He would have seen reason without shoving a frigate down his throat. As it was, the Navy had to retreat in defeat from the Ottoman shore batteries after losing more than forty men. And the ambassador and his staff were forced to flee the country.”

He must have been one of those staff. Small wonder he hesitated to relive those days. His usual diplomacy had all but deserted him, and it was clear he was not a man willing to concede defeat.

It was a trait she unfortunately shared with him. She could only hope the two of them would never have cause to oppose each other, for the results could be devastating.

* * *

Will was glad to shut the door on his memories and chivvy his son and guests back to the more traditional surroundings of the withdrawing room. The way Samantha Everard’s eyes had brightened as she’d gazed around his room had made him want to stand straighter, point out his triumphs as proudly as Jamie.

And he knew he had reason to be pleased with his accomplishments. His work had built friendships between high-ranking members of the Ottoman Empire and Britain, safeguarded British citizens and protected antiquities from French conquest. His encouragement of the sultan’s reforms, however, had also resulted in rebellion and the deaths of friends and colleagues. He could never fully celebrate the good without being drawn into regret over the bad.

So he returned to the safety of his withdrawing room, which held far more benign memories. His efficient staff had refreshed the tea and replaced the stained carpet with one from a guest bedchamber. While the gold-and-brown pattern did not match the rest of the decor, it warmed the room, and he found he liked it better.

Mrs. Dallsten Walcott seemed to think she should rise to the position of his hostess again, for she poured everyone another cup of tea the moment they had settled into seats and promptly began quizzing Jamie as if he were the visitor in her home and not the other way around.

“And what are your plans now, Lord Wentworth?” she asked, fingers curled around the handle of the flowered cup. “Do you plan to enter the diplomatic corps like your father?”

Jamie smiled, but his gaze was on Lady Everard. “Oh no, ma’am. I’m here at Kendrick Hall to stay. This is my home.”

Samantha kept her gaze on her tea, and her look was not nearly as bright as it had been in the other room. By now, Will was certain she was not one to shrink away from conflict. Was she trying to discourage his son, or draw him out with her silence?

“I imagine you will make a very fine earl one day,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said with a nod to confirm her opinion. “Once you have set up your nursery, of course.” She tittered like a young girl.

Samantha shot her a narrow-eyed glance. “I’m sure James has other plans at the moment.”

Mrs. Dallsten Walcott took a sip of her tea and said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her arched brows spoke for her.

“Lord Wentworth is planning to help me manage our holdings,” Will felt compelled to put in. “He also intends to reacquaint himself with his neighbors. Isn’t that right, James?”

“Exactly right, Father,” Jamie agreed. “I have a lot of catching up to do, with friends, with family. And I think I’ve nearly forgotten how to fish. Remember how Grandfather used to take us up to the Evendale, Samantha?”

That brought her head up. “Oh, yes,” she said with a grin to Jamie. “And I remember how many times you fell in.”

Will nearly winced as his son colored. “I still caught my fish, didn’t I?” Jamie challenged.

“Always,” she assured him. “And they were delicious cooked for dinner. I remember that, too!”

He set down his cup and saucer on the little ornamental table beside him. “Count on it, then. I’ll catch you a dozen of the biggest fish in the Evendale so you can have them every night for a week.”

Samantha’s spine straightened so quickly the points of her collar stuck out. Jamie had clearly overstepped himself, and Will thought he knew why.

“Perhaps Lady Everard would prefer to catch her own fish,” he offered and hoped his son would take the hint.

Samantha beamed at him, obviously pleased he’d understood. He refused to preen.

Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was less willing to agree. “Of course she doesn’t!” she all but scolded and threw in a shudder for good measure. “You catch those horrid smelly creatures, Lord Wentworth, as a gentleman should. Lady Everard and I will stay safely in the manor.”

Jamie, unfortunately, did not have the sense to hide his pride at her words. He visibly brightened, chin coming up.

Samantha scowled at him. “Do not look so pleased, sir. You should know I’m not one to let others have all the fun or make all the effort.”

His son must have realized his error, for he lowered his head. “Of course. Forgive me. I’d be delighted to take you fishing. And if you don’t care to fish, perhaps there’s something else we might do together.”