The Soldier (4 page)

“
Every
confidence?” Emmie arched an eyebrow and met his gaze squarely.

“I got her into the house.” The earl started counting off on his fingers. “I inculcated basic table manners, I engaged her in civil discussion when she was intent only on repelling boarders, and”—he arched an eyebrow right back at her—“I got her into the bathtub, where she was soaped and scrubbed into something resembling a lovely little girl.”

“You did.” Emmie scowled in thought. “May I inquire how?”

“Nelson at Trafalgar. One can only demonstrate sea battles under appropriate circumstances.”

“
You
gave her a bath?” Emmie’s eyes went wide.

“Soap and water are not complicated, but the tweeny is hardly likely to comprehend naval strategy. I’ll provide the child the right bath toys, and my direct involvement shouldn’t be necessary from this point out. You do, I assume, have a grasp of naval history?”

“Naval history?” Emmie all but gasped in dismay.

“Well, no matter. I can teach you a few major battles, and any self-respecting child will take it from there. So are we agreed?”

“On what?” Emmie felt bewildered and overwhelmed, perhaps as if a cavalry regiment had just appeared, charging over the nearest hill, and her all unsuspecting in their path.

“You will be her temporary governess until we find somebody we both approve to serve in that capacity. I shall compensate you, of course.”

“I will not take money for looking after family.”

“And how will you support yourself if you do not take money for services rendered?”

“That’s the other reason I cannot agree to this scheme.” Emmie all but snapped her fingers, so great was her relief. “I cannot let my customers down. If I stop providing goods for any length of time, they’ll take their business elsewhere, and I’ll get a reputation for being unreliable. It won’t serve, your lordship. You’ll have to think of some other compromise.”

“What is your business that your customers would be so fickle?”

Emmie smiled with pride. “I am a baker, my lord. I make all manner of goods… breads and sweets especially.”

“I see. There is no impediment, then.”

“Of course there is.” Emmie gave him a version of the local art-thee-daft look. “I cannot abandon my business, my lord, else I will have no income when we find a permanent governess for Bronwyn.”

“You don’t abandon your business,” the earl informed her. “You merely see to it here. The kitchens are extensive, there is help on hand, and you were obviously prepared to look after your cousin and your commercial obligations at the same time, so you should be able to do it easily at Rosecroft.”

“You would have me turn Rosecroft into a bakery?” Emmie all but squeaked. “This is an old and lovely manor, my lord, not some…”

“Yes?”

“My customers would not be comfortable coming here to pick up their orders. Helmsley was not on good terms with most of his neighbors, and you are a stranger.”

“Then we’ll have your goods delivered. Really, Miss Farnum, the measures are temporary, and I should hope the good folk hereabouts would understand Winnie has lost both father and mother. As her family, we must put her welfare before somebody’s tea cakes and crumpets.”

She met his gaze and sighed a sigh of defeat, because he was, damn and blast him, right. Nobody’s tea cakes, crumpets, or even daily bread could be as important as Bronwyn’s future. And he was also right that Bronwyn did so have family—powerful, wealthy family—who could offer her much more than a cousin eking out a living baking pies in Yorkshire.

“I’ll want your apple tart recipe,” she said, chin up. If she was to allow this man to take from her the child she loved most in the world, then she was owed that much compensation at least.

The earl’s lips quirked. “Dear lady, why wouldn’t I give out such a thing to everybody at whose table I might someday sit? I’ve never understood the business of hoarding recipes. Now, how quickly can we arrange for you to start?”

He was gracious in victory. She had to give him that. He’d also gotten Bronwyn into the tub, and he had the best apple tart recipe she had ever tasted. The picture wasn’t entirely bleak. Moreover, the Rosecroft kitchens might need a thorough scrubbing, but as he led her on a brief tour, she saw the ovens were huge, the counter space endless, and the appointments surprisingly modern and well kept.

“My inventory will have to be moved, and I will need storage for it, as well.”

“Details, and ones I’m sure you’ll manage easily.” The earl put her hand on his arm as they left the kitchen. “As we’ve lost the light, Miss Farnum, I must conclude the hour has grown late. Will you allow me to call the carriage for you?”

“I am not but a half mile up the lane. It will not serve to bother the stables for so paltry a journey. I walked here; I’ll enjoy the walk home.”

“As you wish.” He led her through the house to the front door, where her frayed gloves and ugly bonnet were waiting on a table. “Shall I carry it for you?” He held the bonnet up by its ribbons, her gloves folded in the crown. “It’s not as if you need to protect your complexion at this hour.”

“I can carry it.” She grabbed for the bonnet, but his blasted eyebrow was arching again.

“I do not comprehend yet all the local nuances of manners and etiquette, Miss Farnum, but I am not about to let a young lady walk home alone in the dark.” He angled his free elbow out to her and gestured toward the door held open by the footman.

Barbarian. She wanted to stomp her foot hard—on his—and march off into the darkness. She’d capitulated—albeit grudgingly and perhaps only temporarily—to his idea of sharing responsibility for Bronwyn. She’d put up with his sniping and probing and serving her tea. She’d agreed to move her business activities to his kitchens, but she would not be bullied.

“I know the way, my lord,” she said, glaring at him. “There is no need for this display.”

“You are going to be responsible for Winnie’s first efforts to acquire a sense of decorum and reserve, Miss Farnum.” He picked up her hand and deposited it back on his forearm, then led her down the steps. “You must begin as you intend to go on and set a sincere example for the child. She’ll spot fraud at fifty paces, and even my authority won’t be able to salvage your efforts then. A lady graciously accepts appropriate escort.”

“Is this how you trained recruits when you were soldiering?” She stomped along beside him, ignoring the beauty of the full moon and the fragrances of the summer night. “You box them in, reason with them, tease, argue, taunt, and twist until you get what you want?”

“You are upset. If I have given offense, I apologize.” His voice was even, not the snippy, non-apology of a man humoring a woman’s snit. She hauled him through the darkness for another twenty yards or so before she stopped and heaved a sigh.

“I am sorry,” Emmie said, dropping his arm. “I suppose I am jealous.”

He made no move to recapture her hand but put his own on the small of her back and guided her steps forward again. “You are jealous of what?”

“Of your ease with Bronwyn. Of the wealth allowing you to provide so easily for her. Of your connections, enabling you to present her a much better future than I could. Of your ability to wave a hand and order all as you wish it.”

“Are we being pursued by bandits, Miss Farnum?” the earl asked, his voice a velvety baritone in the soft, summery darkness.

“We are not.”

“Then perhaps we could proceed at less than forced march? It is a beautiful night, the air is lovely, and I’ve always found darkness soothing when I took the time to appreciate it.”

“And from what would the Earl of Rosecroft need soothing?” She nearly snorted at the very notion.

“I’ve felt how you feel,” he said simply. “As if another had all I needed and lacked, and he didn’t even appreciate what he had.”

“You?” She expostulated in disbelief but walked more slowly and made no objection to his hand lightly touching her back. “What could you possibly want for? You’re the firstborn of a duke, titled, wealthy; you’ve survived battles, and you can charm little girls. How could you long for more than that?”

“My brother will succeed Moreland, if the duke ever condescends to expire. This harum-scarum earldom is a sop thrown to my younger brother’s conscience, and his wife’s, I suppose. He and my father had considerable influence with the Regent, and Westhaven’s wife may well be carrying the Moreland heir. Anna made the suggestion to see Rosecroft passed along to me, and Westhaven would not rest until that plan had been fulfilled.”

“How can that be?” Emmie watched their moon shadows float along the ground as they walked. “A duke cannot choose which of his offspring inherits his title.”

“He cannot. According to the Moreland letters patent, it goes to the oldest legitimate son surviving at the time of the duke’s death.”

“Well, you aren’t going to die soon, are you?” She glanced over at his obviously robust frame, puzzled and concerned for some reason to think of him expiring of a pernicious illness.

“No, Miss Farnum, the impediment is not death, but rather the circumstances of my birth.” There was a slight, half-beat pause in the darkness, a hitch in her gait he would not have seen.

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. I have a sister similarly situated, though Maggie and I do not share even the same mother. The duke was a busy fellow in his youth.”

“Busy and selfish. What is it with men that they must strut and carry on, heedless of the consequences to any save themselves?”

“What is it with women,” he replied, humor lacing his tone, “that they must indulge our selfish impulses without regard to the consequences even to themselves?”

“Point taken.” For a barbarian, he reasoned quickly and well, and he was a pleasant enough escort. His scent blended with the night fragrances, and it occurred to her he’d already admitted to being comfortable with darkness.

And in his eyes, in odd moments, she’d seen hints of darkness. He referred casually to serving King and Country, and he admitted now to being a ducal bastard. Well, what would that matter? By local standards, he would be much in demand socially, and the squire’s daughters would toss themselves at him just as they did at Helmsley once long ago—poor things.

She was so lost in her thoughts she stumbled over a gnarled old tree root and would have gone down but for the earl’s arm around her waist.

“Steady on.” He eased her up to find her balance but hesitated before dropping his arm. In that instant, Emmie gained a small insight into why women behaved as foolishly as her mother and aunt and countless others had done.

“My thanks,” she said, walking more slowly yet. The heat and strength of him had felt good, reassuring in some inconvenient way. For twenty-five years, Emmaline Farnum had negotiated life without much in the way of male protection or affection, and she’d been at a loss to understand what,
exactly
, men offered that would make a woman suffer their company, much less their authority.

And she still didn’t know, exactly, what that something was, but the earl had it in abundance. The sooner they found Bronwyn a real governess, the better for them all.

“Why do you still wear black?” the earl asked as he ambled along beside her. “Your aunt died several years ago, and one doesn’t observe full mourning for years for an aunt.”

“One doesn’t have to, but my aunt was like a mother to me, so I dyed my most presentable wardrobe black and haven’t had the coin to replace it since—nor much need to. Then, too, wearing black made me less conspicuous to Helmsley and his cronies.”

“You did not respect my predecessor. I suppose you don’t respect many men, given your aunt raised you alone.”

Another pause, but again his hand was lightly at her back, steadying her.

“My mother told me my father tried hard, but he became restless, and she could not find it in her heart to force him to stay.”

“She did not care for him?”

“She did. I never want to fathom a love like that, a love that puts a loved one aside and says it’s for the best.”

“Did she know she carried his child when she wished him on his way?”

“No.” Emmie sighed, feeling his hand at her back as she did. “She was not… she did not have clear indications of her predicament, early on, and by the time she was convinced the unthinkable had happened, her fellow had shipped out for India.”

“Be very, very glad she didn’t follow the drum,” the earl said, something in his voice taking on the darkness. “It is no life whatsoever for a woman.”

“Particularly not when the man ends up dying in battle, and there you are—no man, no means, no home and hearth to retreat to, and babies clinging to your skirts.”

“This is an abiding theme with you, isn’t it?” The earl’s voice was merely curious now, but he was identifying a pattern accurately.

“I have avoided the Rosecroft grounds as much as possible,” Emmie said, her steps dragging. “Helmsley was an eloquent reminder of how dishonorable a titled, supposed gentleman can be.”

“He was a thoroughly disagreeable cad,” the earl agreed. “A more disgusting excuse for a man, much less a gentleman, I have yet to meet, unless it was that porcine embarrassment colluding with him, the Baron Stull.”