The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

“I am not in the habit of giving out free advice on my specialty, Lord Beecham. Now,” she said, turning away from him, “go about your business, Nettle, and don’t smile at Teeny. It is possible that Lord Prith, not Flock, might challenge you to a duel. He is very fond of Flock.

“Look beyond Teeny’s left shoulder, not at her face. Save yourself from my father, who could smash you if he simply decided to sit on you.”

“He won’t be a broken man for long,” Lord Beecham said as he cynically watched his valet wander away into the taproom of the Wet Sexton’s Inn in the middle of Henchly, a small town not far from Court Hammering. They were stopping, Lord Prith had shouted out his window to Helen, because he wished to taste the ale that the inn’s owner, Mr. Clappe, had made just three months ago, a new recipe that might please his lordship exceedingly.

“My father also likes ale,” Helen said, following her sire into the inn.

As the three entered the low-beamed taproom, Lord Beecham wasn’t surprised to find Flock already against the wall with his arms crossed over his scrawny chest, making certain that no one dared treat them with less than boot-licking respect.

“It is not a badly run inn,” Helen said as she sipped

the new ale that Mr. Clappe, all good humor and fat belly, carefully and respectfully placed in her hands. “There’s a bit too much grease ground into the tabletops, but men seem to feel comfortable with a certain amount of filth. Mr. Clappe is attentive, but perhaps he is a bit too effusive with you, Father.”

“You mean as in he toadies, Nell?”

“Yes, Father. Mr. Clappe toadies.”

“He can toady all he likes,” Lord Prith said, wiping his hand across his mouth, “so long as he keeps this ale coming. Clappe! I want a cask of this excellent ale. Two casks. See to it.” He turned back to his daughter and Lord Beecham and beamed. “Best inn in England other than my dear daughter’s. Only thing, though, Nell, you don’t let men drink as much as they’d like to. You turn off the spigot just when they’re beginning to shuck off their worries.”

“Nonsense, Father. If I let them, the men would drink until they dropped dead on the floor.”

“You shouldn’t try to change men’s habits, Nell.”

“I’d rather haul them outside into the inn yard rather than watch them retch in my taproom. Also, I don’t want them to spend all their shillings on ale. Most of them have families, you know.”

“If they keep coming back, sir,” Lord Beecham said, “then whatever she is doing must surely work.”

“There is no other inn in Court Hammering that serves such excellent victuals,” Lord Prith said.

“Indeed,” Helen said. “I feed them well and don’t let their innards corrode with too much drink. I do a favor to all the wives in Court Hammering. Come to think of it, perhaps you could consider me something in the manner of the patroness saint of food and drink in Court Hammering.”

Once two huge casks of Mr. Clappe’s ale were firmly secured atop Lord Prith’s carriage, they were off for the final seven miles to Court Hammering.

“Actually, we live at Shugborough Hall, just east of Court Hammering.”

“I have never heard that name before.”

“My great-grandfather built Shugborough Hall back in the early part of the last century. It is really quite beautiful, particularly with the sun bright behind it. You see, it is all creamy brick quarried over at Pelton Abbott. It just softens more and more as time passes. What with all the wildly growing ivy climbing over the walls, it is probably the most charming manor house in the area.

“The grounds are quite spectacular, since my father enjoys flowers and gardens and thick hedges everywhere. The various lawns stretch from the hall a good fifty yards in every direction, lush green.”

“How many gardeners does your father employ?”

“At last count, I believe it was thirteen. There is a head gardener, of course, and four under-gardeners. There are three men who do nothing else but scythe the lawns. Oh, yes, there are even two peacocks strolling around the grounds. Father calls them, originally, Peacock and Peahen, or, when they’re making too much racket, he just yells out, ‘Pea and Pea, shut your beaks!’ ”

Lord Beecham’s first view of Shugborough Hall fulfilled what she had said. Not only was it a graceful manor house, it was also set atop a gently rolling hill that sloped down on all sides, the incredible green lawn ending only at the edge of a fast-flowing stream that ran east to west. Massive old willow trees framed the stream, with oak and lime trees dotted over the rest of the lawn. The home wood beyond was a thick collection of maple trees. The carriage drive was narrow, an afterthought, Lord Beecham suspected—that, or no owner had ever wanted a graveled drive to cut into the beautiful flowing green lawn. The ivy on the cream brick walls was kept neatly trimmed. No danger of it overwhelming the house.

“It is very nice,” he said to Lord Prith when they were both standing in front of the manor.

“Thank you, my boy. A snug little property, if I do say so myself. Been happy here. So was my Matilda, God bless her beautiful soul.” He gave a lusty sigh, then yelled, “Hinkel! Get your scrawny buttocks out here to help with the luggage.”

“Our long-suffering footman,” Helen said close to Lord Beecham’s ear. “The thing is, he is very skinny, especially from behind.”

“Sort of like a windowpane?” He turned to smile at her. It still made him start that he didn’t have to look down at the sound of a woman’s voice. No, she was right there, her mouth on a level with his, not more than five inches away.

“Exactly.”

He did not realize he had been staring at her, but she did, and leaned even a bit closer. “Shall I tell you about what I fantasize you to be doing while I am pulling off your right boot?”