One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“Milord?”

“Please have a light supper sent to the White Room for Lord Gainsborough and inform him I shall be in for our chess match momentarily.”

“Of course,” the young man answered with a bow.

He would project good cheer, offer a happy evening for a man still grieving his dead wife, and pretend not to notice the darkness writhing inside his own soul

. His smile slipped as Beeks turned away. The buzzing was only growing louder. “Wait.”

“Milord?”

“I believe…” Lancaster started, the idea forming as he spoke. “I’ve received word…” The buzzing began to recede, so he rushed on. “A neighbor has died. I’ll need to travel to Yorkshire to pay respects. It’s only right.”

Beeks nodded.

“You’ll need to pack, of course, and make my excuses to Miss Brandiss’s family.” Eager as he was, Beeks was not predictably knowledgeable.

“How long do you expect to be gone, milord?”

The sound rushed back into his ears, louder than before. He shook his head, looked at the letter. The weight pulled him down, pressing him into his seat. The beast writhed against the pressure. How long? He’d say his wedding vows to an unwanted wife in only two months.

“Six weeks, I’d think.”

“As you say, sir. And you’ll leave…?”

Now, he wanted to bark, but he didn’t, of course. He only squinted thoughtfully and tried to tamp down the need to flee. “Tomorrow morning, I suppose.”

“Yes, milord.” Once Beeks had departed to start the frantic packing, Lancaster gave the letter one last glance, allowing himself the luxury of a few more deep breaths. He only needed a little time. Marriage would not be the worst thing he’d ever done for his family, after all. Not by far.

Once the surface of his soul was calm, Lancaster walked from the study and stepped into the White Room with a grin. The broad-faced man standing in front of the fireplace raised his head and his sad mouth broke into a smile. “Lancaster! It’s bloody good to see you.”

“And you as well, of course. Have you prepared for our match?”

“Prepared?” the older man snorted. “By dulling my wits with whisky? ’Tis the only preparation I need for a chess match with you.”

Lancaster inclined his head. “Then I have you exactly where I want you, Gainsborough. I shall strike when you least expect it, pounce upon you like a doxy on a drunkard. Or a debutante on a duke, I suppose.”

“Oh!” the old widower chortled, holding his gut against the laughter. “Oh, by God. You do cheer me up, young man. Every single time.”

Lancaster chuckled and glanced toward the mantel clock. Twelve hours more and he would make his brief escape.

Chapter 2

Spring may have begun its arrival in London, but it hadn’t yet touched the coast of Yorkshire. Freezing rain drummed against the carriage roof and tinged the air with ice, despite the brazier hidden beneath the seat. Lancaster watched his breath form mist before him, and marveled that he’d planned to stay here for six weeks.

They’d just passed the village of Neely, where he’d spent so many hours of his youth, so they were nearing Cantry Manor.

His family had abandoned their smallest estate when they’d moved to London ten years before. He’d never returned, had never even thought much about it, despite all the years spent here during his adolescence. It was cared for by Mrs. Pell, the housekeeper, and the rents were just enough to support the nominal upkeep. No thought required.

But of course, it was deeper than that. He did not like to think about his time here because that led to other memories, other histories…. It was a testimony to just how desperate he’d been to escape London that he’d given no thought to the demons that might be exhumed here.

I am a man now, he told himself as he shifted in the hard seat. Not a boy to run from nightmares.

Just as anger began to rise like bile in Lancaster’s throat, the coachman shouted something and the carriage began to slow. They’d arrived. Old Mrs. Pell would be out to greet him in a matter of moments.

For the first time since he’d departed, it occurred to him that Mrs. Pell would be grieving. Cynthia Merrithorpe had spent hours in her kitchen every day. Sometimes it had seemed as if she’d spent more time in his family’s home than her own. If she hadn’t been following Lancaster around the estate, then she’d been in the servants’ quarters, trailing after Mrs. Pell like a shadow. Poor woman probably felt as if she’d lost a daughter.

The carriage slowed to a stop, sliding a little before the coachman controlled it. Within seconds, the door opened to a blast of rain; clearly Jackson didn’t want to remain in the sleet any longer than necessary.