The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (20 page)

All his complaints could have easily been borne, however, if his destination was not
Petworth. Even with the blazing sunset and gloriously fresh air, Nicholas had already
begun to count the hours until he could leave.

His reluctance to remain in Sussex could be managed, of course. He simply needed to
stay on task and not allow himself to be distracted by memories—fond or otherwise.

Difficult to do when the very sight of the pub catapulted him backward in time to
his childhood, when Langdon, Dash, and he would creep from the manor house and run
for their very lives across the shadowed grounds to the pub. They could not go in,
being so young. Still, they did steal longing looks through the leaded windows, desperate
for their chance to join the laughing patrons inside.

Two men, looking fresh from the fields, dusty and thirsty, walked around Nicholas
and into the pub, the bells on the front door ringing merrily as they pushed it open.
He caught a bit of raucous conversation and a burst of the tantalizing aroma of simmering
beef and potatoes before the door thudded closed behind the two.

He looked in the direction of the manor house but it wasn’t visible from where he
stood. The sprawling grounds that surrounded it kept the estate separated from the
town and its inhabitants. He could feel its
presence, though. The almost overwhelming awareness threatened to send him riding
back to London.

Nicholas felt like a coward. And a fool. If Sophia’s assumptions were incorrect, they’d
have both made the trip to Petworth for no gain and a very high emotional cost.

A couple emerged from the door of the Star, both smiling kindly at Nicholas as they
turned and strolled arm in arm up the high street.

He was even more of a fool for standing in the middle of the street, Nicholas realized,
swearing under his breath.

He raked his fingers through his windblown hair and strode quickly to the pub’s door.
Turning the brass knob, he stepped inside. The mouthwatering smell of hearty food
once again teased his nostrils as he entered, and he looked about for an available
table. Finding none, Nicholas continued on to the bar at the back of the low-ceilinged
room and settled in next to an elderly man. The man’s dog, a handsome black and white
border collie, lay dozing at his feet, his paws muddy from what had probably been
a good, long walk.

“What’ll you have, sir?” the barkeep asked as he refilled the farmer’s tankard. The
thick, foamy ale poured into the glass and nearly spilled over the rim.

“I’ll have what he’s having and a plate of whatever your cook has prepared,” Nicholas
replied.

The barkeep nodded and reached for a tankard, filling it to the brim and setting it
down on the polished bar in front of Nicholas. “I’ll be right back with your stew.”

He disappeared through a door, presumably where the kitchen and fragrant stew were
kept.

“The best stew you’ll have in all of Sussex,” the man beside him offered in a gravelly
voice, turning stiffly to face Nicholas. He winced and rubbed at his right shoulder,
letting out a soft grunt of pain.

The dog sat up and nosed his master with concern. “Ah, it’s all right now, Pilot.
Only my achy bones.”

“Pilot, is it?” Nicholas asked, holding out his hand for the dog to sniff. “He’s a
handsome one, your Pilot.”

The dog sniffed warily at Nicholas’s hand, then licked his palm, tail wagging.

“Sweet talk always works with good ol’ Pilot,” the man remarked, smiling widely and
revealing a mouthful of chipped and worn teeth.

Nicholas returned the smile, glad to be distracted. “I’m Nicholas. Nicholas Bourne.”
He held out his hand and waited.

The man stopped rubbing his shoulder and gripped Nicholas’s hand with surprising strength
in his gnarled, calloused hand. “Joseph Wends. And ’tis a pleasure to meet you.”

The barkeep returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a plate holding a crusty round
of fresh brown bread.

“Join me, Joseph,” Nicholas suggested.

The man waved his hand dismissively. “I better not. Pilot would have nothing to do
with me if I ate stew and he didn’t.”

“Barkeep,” Nicholas said to the young man just as he started to turn away. “Bring
us two more bowls of stew, won’t you? One for my friend Joseph, and one for Pilot.”

“Perfectly good stew for a dog?” the barkeep protested. “Well, it’s your money, I
suppose.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to suggest Nicholas was mad, and then returned
to the kitchen.

Joseph clapped Nicholas on the back. “Aye, you’ll have a friend for life now—and not
just the dog.”

Nicholas laughed and saluted the old man with his tankard. “I should hope so.”

The barkeep returned with the bowls of stew and
plates of bread, setting them in front of Joseph. “I’ll not be serving your dog, Joseph
Wends. And that’s that.”

Nicholas chuckled, joined this time by Joseph.

“I suppose he wouldn’t like it if I gave Pilot a stool to sit on and let him eat at
the bar, then?” Joseph asked, grinning.

The nagging unease that had plagued Nicholas since he left London calmed with the
easy banter and he took a pull of ale. “No, I suppose not.” He reached for the third
steaming bowl and bent down, setting the stew in front of Pilot.

“Here’s to ye,” Joseph said, picking up his tankard and raising it in salute.

Nicholas joined him and the two tossed down a healthy amount of ale, wiping the foam
from their upper lips with the back of their hands before moving on to their stew.

“Now, seeing as you’ve done me the kindness of buying me a meal, I feel it’s only
proper that you tell me about yourself, Mr. Bourne.”

The unease returned as Nicholas scrambled to compose a suitable story. “I’m afraid
there’s little to tell, really. I’m just up from London and passing through Petworth
on my way to visit a great-aunt in Fernhurst.”

“So you’ve never visited our fine part of the country, then?” Joseph asked as he forked
a chunk of beef covered with gravy into his mouth.

“Never,” Nicholas confirmed effortlessly, glancing down at Pilot.

“Well, you must stay a few days before traveling on,” Joseph said, taking a quick
swig of ale. “If only to see the manor house.”

Nicholas nearly choked on a bite of carrot and coughed, swallowing hard. “Is that
right?”

“Oh yes. It’s a grand house, it is. And the estate has the biggest herd of red deer
in all of England,” Joseph explained,
poking about the stew with his fork. “I worked at the manor house from the time I
was a boy until ten years ago when I retired. Still live on the property. Well, the
edge of the property, anyway.”

Nicholas did not have to do the calculations to know that Joseph would have been employed
by the Aftons at the time of her ladyship’s death. “Surely the family would rather
be left alone than have a bachelor poking about their home.”

Joseph set down his fork and reached for a piece of bread, his infectious smile replaced
by a somber frown. “Oh, Mr. Bourne, the family hasn’t been in residence for more years
than I can count. A tragedy, there was, at the manor. The lady of the house was murdered—right
under her own roof, if you can believe it. After that, well,” he paused, slathering
creamy butter on a thick slice of bread, “I suppose her husband and the girl couldn’t
bear to stay there.”

“That is a tragedy,” Nicholas replied truthfully. “And the murderer?”

“Never caught,” Joseph said with finality, then ripped the bread in half and threw
a chunk to Pilot. “And now some say the lady of the house haunts Petworth Manor, on
account of never being avenged. I’ve not seen her myself, but if it were me, I’d be
raising a ruckus. She was a fair and decent woman, her ladyship—more than I can say
for some of the people who visited the manor. She always treated the help with kindness;
made us feel appreciated, you see.”

Nicholas watched Pilot devour the bread in one bite then wait expectantly for his
master to throw more. “I do, Joseph. That I do.”

15

June 3
P
ETWORTH
M
ANOR

The Afton traveling coach rolled along the bumpy lane leading to Petworth Manor, and
with each revolution of the wheels, Sophia grew increasingly apprehensive.

She’d been able to dismiss her nerves up until the coachman turned the four gray horses
down the Petworth high street. Long rides in a carriage on country roads were notorious
for causing fatigue. Nights spent in posting inns could hardly be considered restful.
And eating at odd times wreaked havoc with one’s system. It was all perfectly understandable.

And perfectly false.

She stared out the window at the familiar grounds. It looked exactly as she remembered
from childhood. Ancient chestnut trees dotted the land, their trunks so thick that
even her father’s land steward could not stretch his long, brawny arms around their
girth and make his hands meet. Nonetheless, Sophia had never tired of begging him
to try.

The Afton estate’s renowned herd of red deer was grazing on the grassy expanse just
in front of the classic Greek folly. Their numbers seemed to have grown since she’d
last seen them, their distinctive reddish-brown
coats and delicate features duplicated until she could hardly distinguish one from
the other.

As a child, Sophia had tried time and time again to befriend the deer. She’d even
managed to coax a doe into the house with carrots pulled from cook’s kitchen garden,
only to have Mr. Reynolds, their horrid butler, shoo the animal away.

The boys would have been so impressed with her pet, as would her mother.

Sophia now watched the deer feed. A mature stag looked up and turned its head toward
the carriage. Sophia felt as if the big male was looking straight at her, though she
could not decide if he was welcoming her home or warning her away.

The carriage dipped slightly as the wheels jolted over a rut, and Sophia jerked with
surprise.

“Are you all right?” Lettie inquired, reaching across the coach to steady her.

Sophia wished she could tell her companion yes. That she continued to feel convinced
their trip was necessary.

To do so would be lying. “Lettie, I believe I will walk from here.”

“We’re still some distance from the house, my lady. And it looks as if we’ll have
rain soon enough. I don’t know that setting out on foot to the manor house would be
wise.”

Sophia tapped the roof of the carriage and called to the driver to stop. The horses
slowed to a walk then came to a full halt. “It would be entirely unwise if I did not.
I need to stretch my legs and work the uneasiness from my bones.”

Lettie dropped the book that she’d been reading onto her lap and fixed her gaze on
the younger woman. “Apprehension is to be expected. Still, in light of the long journey,
wouldn’t a bath and a properly cooked meal do more good than a walk?”

“I cannot go inside the house—not yet,” Sophia whispered, fearful that she would start
to cry. “I need a bit more time.”

After a moment, Lettie nodded with wordless understanding and gestured for the coachman
to open the door. “I will be waiting for you at the house, my lady. Whenever you’re
ready. I’ll be waiting,” she repeated.

“Thank you, Lettie,” Sophia managed to say to the dear woman before taking the coachman’s
hand and stepping down from the carriage. “Go on, John. Take Mrs. Kirk up to the house.
I’ll be along in a bit.”

To his credit, the coachman only nodded, uttered “Yes, Lady Sophia” with unflappable
calm, then resumed his post and urged the horses into motion.

Sophia watched the carriage roll forward and lumber down the sunlit drive until it
swayed around a bend in the lane and disappeared from sight.

The lake was visible just to the east and Sophia set out for its banks, relieved to
have her feet moving and her mind less engaged.

She concentrated on the beauty of the land around her and the quiet calm of the lake
ahead. She’d forgotten how peaceful Sussex was. Even in the relatively quiet part
of London where she resided, there were still city sounds to be heard at nearly every
hour.