Chapter 6
The morning after the assembly, Beau spent the first hour of the day pacing the length of his room, wondering what had possessed him to declare himself Miss Doubleday’s shadow and knowing himself to be in foreign territory where she was concerned.
At one-and-thirty and having lived several lives already, Beau was a man in possession of himself. She would not be his undoing. No matter how many men clamoured for her attention. No matter how he yearned to feel the soft skin beneath her glove. No matter the authority and elegance she had exuded standing behind his desk.
He had lingered in the doorway of the study longer than she’d realised with her head bowed over the ledger and a scatter of papers. Her intelligence, and her unwillingness to hide it, was as surprising as it was attractive. Anyone of middling intellect could be taught the fundamental elements of running an estate and keep it afloat with a bit of application. But Miss Doubleday was sharp. Since returning, he’d begun an exhaustive review of the estate’s books, including her observations on changes she’d implemented and her ideas for future projects, some nascent, some more fully formed with diagrams and data. If he hadn’t already established a firm opinion on her acuity, the careful praise doled out by both Mr Sims and the housekeeper, Mrs Marshall, would have done away with any indecision.
She was no threat to him where Oakmoss was concerned. He had absolute power over the estate. For more than a decade, he’d also believed himself to have absolute power over his feelings. Every moment he’d spent in her company forewarned him to set a strong guard over his emotions, so rather than seek out her company as he wished to do, he removed himself from Oakmoss, and his ward, for the better part of the morning.
He was overdue to have his elbow examined, particularly after a long period of travel, and took himself off to Broadstairs, where he visited the home of a physician prized for being discreet. The gentleman, after a brief inspection and a few probing questions, sent Beau on to the apothecary with a prescription for something to help with the lingering inflammation and occasional pain. One of the required medicines necessitated half an hour to prepare, and so Beau wandered in and out of the other shops on the high street, not having visited the village in years and more than willing to find things to distract himself from wondering what Miss Doubleday was doing at the very same moment.
Drawn to a small bookshop, he was standing in the alcove of its entry about to walk in when a man came out of the Silver Swan at the end of the lane. Beau could only see the man’s profile at a distance, but something stirred in his memory. The look of the well-dressed gentleman was at odds with the shabby inn, a known haunt for smugglers. Such operations, Beau knew, were alive and well in this part of the county. Tea and brandy, perhaps cigars, leather, and silk, all hauled in for dispatch to London and further afield. Most often, large smuggling cutters would drop barrels into the water and men would take smaller fishing boats out to retrieve them.
Lingering for a moment, Beau watched as another man, short, stocky, and rough around the edges, ran out, caught the gentleman by the arm, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other while speaking. There was no chance he could make out what was being said, but the coarse man’s face was exposed. Beau committed it to memory as best he could and pushed into the bookshop.
He’d selected several interesting texts and was returning to the counter at the front of the store to complete his purchase when the bell over the door dinged and the gentleman from down the lane came in, pausing on the threshold when he discovered Beau within.
‘Your lordship.’ The man bowed.
Up close, Beau recognised the man, having met him several times, although it had been many years since. Knowing the questionable reputation of the establishment from which the gentleman had just come, Beau planned to use this encounter to glean information. He tipped his head to acknowledge the greeting, but said with false confusion, ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the advantage, Mr?—’
‘Babin, Samuel Babin, of Ivy Hall near Tideford. It’s no Oakmoss, to be sure.’
‘Ah, right,’ Beau said, holding up a staying hand. There was a subtle thread of offence, or perhaps bitterness, woven through Babin’s words. ‘A fine estate.’
Quite fine if it afforded the cut and quality of clothes the man was wearing—a touch above for a country squire.
‘How does it go on? Ivy Hall produces wool, I think.’ He knew. ‘And…’ Beau paused, pretending to consider what other crops or goods might be cultivated in the area, then added, aware he was wrong, ‘…straw?’
Babin did an admirable job withholding the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth but seemed to stand a little taller. ‘Permanent pasture for the livestock.’
‘Of course. I’m afraid I’ve left my estate duties with the steward for too long.’ A half-truth, or a whole lie if using a half-truth to conceal one’s depth of knowledge could be considered prevarication.
‘Yes, what a charming life you lead. My understanding is you’ve been on the continent a considerable while.’
Beau cocked an eyebrow. ‘There is a world beyond England, although some would disagree.’
‘Perhaps one day I’ll be fortunate enough to travel further than the metropolis. Ivy Hall, for its modest size, demands a significant portion of my attention.’
The dig wasn’t subtle.
‘You have my sympathy, Babin. It’s always a shame when the previous generation leaves the property worse off for the next.’ Beau was beginning to suspect how Babin’s father had supported a family when the man had been an indolent owner at best. ‘My condolences, too, on your father’s passing. Despite anticipating our parents predeceasing us, we are never truly ready for the void opened by their absence.’
In front of him, Beau noticed colour flare in the younger Mr Babin’s cheeks. Tension gathered around the man’s mouth, and his eyes narrowed and shifted—tiny little movements side to side—as if puzzling something out.
‘How kind of you to say so.’
There was something sinister under the false gratitude Mr Babin employed in his response.
‘Not at all. You’ll excuse me,’ replied Beau, holding up the books still in his hand for which he had not yet paid. Babin tipped his head and retreated further into the shop as Beau turned towards the counter. When he left, he hid himself away to be sure Babin went in a direction other than towards the apothecary. After waiting above half an hour, the man had not yet reappeared.
Beau re-entered the bookshop. When the man at the counter looked up, surprise plain on his face, Beau said, ‘I seem to have misplaced my snuff box,’ and wandered to the shelves under the pretence of searching for the missing item.
The shop was small, only one room with shelves lining the wall, the counter, a door at the back labelled Office, and not a soul besides Beau and the proprietor inside.
‘No luck,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Should it turn up, you may enjoy its contents with my compliments.’
Beau left and walked towards the apothecary, his demeanour composed, his face settled into its natural state of haughty indifference, and nothing to betray the disturbing implications of the scene that had just unfolded.