The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

“What does the little bitch have to say?”

“She wants you to return to Honeymead Manor and manage the property for her. She wants you to live there, if you wish. She also mentioned—and she did smile a bit—that Mrs. Tailstrop thought you were a grand fine gentleman.”

“The old bag.”

“Old!” Owen said, aghast. “Caroline said she was younger than you are, sir.”

“There are differences in old when it’s a man and when it’s a woman.”

“Well, there it is. You may go to Honeymead Manor or you may do as you please. I, sir, I will remain here and live at Scrilady Hall. I am now Caroline’s manager. Soon I will be her partner, in fact.”

Mr. Ffalkes cursed roundly. “You’re nothing but a foolish, weak little boy.”

Owen drew himself up. It was difficult with the scorn his father was heaping in bucketfuls on his head, but he did try. “I’m better, Father. Caroline and North both said so. I am very nearly my own man. Other men depend on me. Ladies depend on me. What I do counts for something. I rather like it.”

Mr. Ffalkes roundly consigned his son to hell, picked up his valise, and without a backward look, took his leave.

“He’s gone,” Owen said.

“Yes,” North said. “We saw him leave.”

“I don’t know what he’ll do, Caroline.”

“As long as he leaves the area I’ll be content,” Caroline said. “North has a man following him just so we can be certain he does leave Cornwall. Now, husband, it is nearly time to adjourn to the dining room. Polgrain says he and his staff have prepared a repast to bring tears to the most jaded eyes, of which there weren’t many, he said, at least in this backwater group. I rather think it won’t be possible for me to produce a stomach gripe. Your male minions would shoot me. Polgrain informed me, without really looking me in the eye, you understand, that no effort would be spared for the event.”

Over a very grand luncheon of turkey and chestnut pasty, stuffed shoulder of lamb, pork with apples and sage, a delicious red-currant fool that was a lovely pink color—for the bride, Polgrain had muttered within her hearing—the talkative Mrs. Freely tendered an opinion on everything from Lady Carstairs’s appetite, which wasn’t enough to keep a bird alive, much less a poor little babe, to Mr. Brogan’s glasses, which were, she pronounced, quite a handsome addition to his face, which, she fancied, would become even more handsome were he to procure himself a wife.

North looked at his wife and grinned. “What can one do?”

She drank more of her champagne.

21

WHERE WAS NORTH?

Caroline stood there, her hands stroking over the fine lawn of her new nightgown—a soft peach with a row of Valenciennes Lace sewn at the bodice and at the sleeves, all in all a wicked confection that she was certain would have North ogling over her with a good deal of interest. It was cut low over her breasts, and the band beneath pushed her breasts upward, giving them, she thought, a more arresting presentation.

Where the devil was he?

She wanted him to look at her and shake. Where his shaking would lead, she didn’t know, but it was bound to bring infinite satisfaction to her. Perhaps she’d end up holding up her nightgown for him. She shook herself at the flood of quite interesting sensations that memory brought her. She moved to the small mirror and brushed her hair again, smoothing down the waves as best she could. Then she turned toward the door and frowned. This surely wasn’t right.

Where was North?

This bedchamber, he’d told her, was the viscountess’s bedchamber and adjoined the master’s bedchamber through the single door she’d stared at on and off for the past hour. He had sounded uncertain about it being the viscountess’s bedchamber, and she could see why. It was a dingy room, the paint a dull green that was faded and peeling; the cherubs that festooned the ceiling molding looked decidedly limp in the wings. The only furnishings were a narrow bed with a bleak gold brocade counterpane covering it that must have been at least fifty years old, a single chair that had unpadded wooden slats for the back—strongly resembling a painting of a punishment chair she’d seen at Chudleigh’s Young Ladies’ Academy—and a stool in front of the dressing table that looked older than the bed, which was saying something. There was antiquity in this bedchamber and it was very depressing.

Where the devil was her groom?

She frowned at herself in the mirror, tossed down the brush, and walked to the bank of narrow windows, five of them all set in thick lead, and stared out into the darkness. There was only a sliver of moon and a sprinkling of stars. The night was black, the only sound was the rustle of trees that were next to the house. She started to turn away, but something odd caught her eye and she turned back to the window.

She screamed at the top of her lungs, jumped back, tripped on her nightgown, and went down hard on her bottom.

North came flying through the adjoining door, nearly tripping himself. “My God, are you all right? What the hell is wrong?”

Her heart was pounding, she felt hysteria bubble inside her. She couldn’t bring words out of her mouth, she was panting too hard, her throat was too constricted with sheer terror. She managed to point at the middle window as she picked herself up off the floor.

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North ran to the window, unfastened the rusty latch, and after a few moments of frustration, managed to push the window outward. He leaned over, staring into the night. He didn’t move, just looked and looked. Finally, he turned back to face her. “What did you see?”