Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Blythe’s spies and correspondents in the various seaports and government offices had failed her.
Pulling herself together, she stood. “What an unexpected surprise,” she said truthfully, and added, “And most welcome.”
His frown said he didn’t believe her. As well he shouldn’t.
“Lady Chilcombe,” he said, bowing.
Before he’d left England, the serious boy had become a young man with a reputation for impeccable manners. Those manners she knew hid a contrary nature and an utter lack of charm and humor. A strange mix of traits for a diplomat.
He’d grown since then; filled out, matured, toughened. He was a stark contrast to his cousin, Archie.
It seemed she must drastically move up her date of departure from Chilcombe House.
And go where? Her friend, Lady Loughton, had a houseful of family descending on Loughton House and no room for a homeless countess.
She would ask there for shelter anyway.
Or she could gather her things and retreat to the country, except that she needed to be in town, active in the social swirl, close to her solicitor, close to the court handling the disputed will.
Shaking off her dithering, she went to greet the new earl, mustering her composure, groping for words, her senses muddled. They’d been friends once, many years earlier, and she wasn’t immune to a handsome, active, masculine man’s scents—cologne, horses, and fresh air.
Up close, the glint in his hazel eyes signaled… a challenge? That this was his home, not hers?
Or could it be humor.
“You have only just crossed the threshold?” she asked, her voice trembling. Despite the chaos of life with Archie, she’d never grown comfortable with sudden disruption, with careful plans gone awry, with watchfulness and danger.
Remembering the crowd waiting with bated breath to see what came next, she steadied herself. She had to win over society. Any hint of weakness might be her downfall with the ton, and eventually, with the court deciding the matter of Archie’s will.
The new earl reached for her hand, said “Excuse us,” to the crowd of visitors, and led her out. Adwick followed them, pulling the drawing room door closed.
Too startled to speak, she freed herself from the large, warm, masculine hand and composed herself yet again.
“I gather I have arrived earlier than expected,” he said. “You look well, cousin.”
Cousin? She supposed they were that now, but by marriage only. Warmth rose in her cheeks to match the heat she saw in his eyes.
Oh, this would not do.
“You will want to refresh yourself,” she said, mustering a bored tone. “Adwick, please show the earl to his chambers. And then, my lord, I will see this crowd out and meet with you at your earliest convenience.”
He studied her, his expression unreadable, said thank you, and left.
Blythe pressed a hand to her heart and slipped into the drawing room.
In the seconds it took to return to her guests, she’d prepared a task list in her head: tell her maid Radley to begin packing; send a servant to Mivart’s Hotel on Brook Street; and send a note to her estate agent telling him there was no longer any time to quibble over leases.
Getting rid of this lot in her drawing room—the new earl’s drawing room—would be easy.
Their call on the scandalous countess had harvested quite a juicy morsel of gossip.
By dinnertime, all of London would know that the impeccable Earl of Chilcombe had arrived to claim his home and found the old earl’s countess residing there.
By breakfast, they’d learn that Lady Chilcombe had departed said home. There would be much gossip about her departure, but staying under the same roof with the new earl alone would stir far more.
The butler, a ramrod straight, austerely handsome man with gray hair, led Graeme up a flight of stairs and down a hallway covered in carpeting.
The air of understated elegance matched that of the lady below.
Blythe.
The rich blue of her gown had turned her eyes, her changeable eyes, from gray to blue. She was more beautiful than ever she’d been as a girl. He’d wanted to take her in, all of her.
There’d be time for that. She’d been defensive, as well she might be given the possibility of that new will.
It was instinctive to take her side, and perhaps incautious until he knew more.
The butler stopped and opened an ornate painted door, and he stepped into a generously proportioned sitting room. Through an inside door, he caught the eye of a liveried male servant, who put aside a stack of shirts and hurried out to present himself.
“This is Clive, my lord,” Adwick said. “One of our footmen. I’ve assigned him to assist you until your, er, valet arrives. He is unpacking your trunk.”
“Thank you,” Graeme said. “That’s helpful. At present, I have no valet. Perhaps Clive could fulfill that duty in the interim.”
The butler blinked and then went on. “Your rooms have a bathing chamber. If you wish, Clive will draw your bath and assist you with shaving.”
A bath. The third in four days and much needed. A bath would rid him of the smell of horse and ease a few persistent aches in his posterior.
“I do wish. Thank you, Adwick.”
“I’ll send up a tray while you wait.” Adwick excused himself and left.
“A bathing chamber,” Graeme mused, looking around at the mahogany furnishings.
“The chamber is straight through here, my lord.” Clive motioned toward the room where he’d been working. “The water is heating.”
He’d seen some elaborate bathing suites in his travels but had seldom had a chance to avail himself of them, especially during his last assignment.
“By all means, lead on.” He entered another elegantly furnished room, the bedchamber. The carpets and curtains looked new. The furniture, if not new, had been reupholstered and the wood polished to a reflective gleam.
“I didn’t realize the accommodations of Chilcombe House would be so modern,” he said.
“Her ladyship had the bathing chamber put in when the structural repairs were starting, before the old earl’s death, and then she refurbished this suite for good measure.”
“Refurbished? What? Everything is new?”
Clive paused, expressionless. His tone had been approving; now he looked as though he thought he might have said too much.
“It’s nicely done,” Graeme said. “Do go on.”
“Yes, well, my lord, her ladyship took great care with the repairs and the decorating. Everything is new—that is, the carpets and curtains and upholstery. The furniture is original.” He paused for a breath. “Except for the bed. This one is new. She ordered the old one to be carried out and burned.”
“Did she indeed,” Graeme said.
Clive sent him a look, nodded, then dropped his gaze.
There’d been admiration for the countess in that description of the refurbishing and more than a note of approval about the bed.
“By your leave, my lord, I’ll go and check that the water is hot.”
At the writing table in her bedchamber, Blythe sealed the letter to Mr. Stockwell, the land steward at Risley Manor, and rang for a servant.
Adwick appeared carrying a salver piled with letters. “The footman has returned with notes from Mivart’s and the estate agent,” he said. “And some other mail has arrived for you.”
“That is quite a lot of letters.”
“Most of these are for his lordship. Two are for you,” he added, handing them over.
“Indeed.” Blythe choked back a laugh. Word had traveled fast. Invitations were pouring in from the curious and the mamas with marriageable daughters. Or perhaps the responsible papas. They would want to make sure the new earl was not as disreputable as the old one.
She accepted her correspondence and glanced quickly at the note from Mivart’s—yes, they could accommodate her ladyship. The estate agent’s note was equally short. He would see her the following morning.
She recognized the careful penmanship of one of her two letters and cracked the seal on it, smiling.
Coralie wanted to know if Blythe would be at Bluebelle Lodge in June for her fourteenth birthday, which Mr. and Mrs. Stockwell promised would be a grand celebration.
The tenants’ children would come, if no one else would, and Mr. Stockwell would play his fiddle, and they’d have games and dancing.
Nicholas was over his latest cold and reading all the books he could get his hands on.
Blythe sighed. Despite being shunned by the better society of Hampshire, Coralie made the best of life.
An earl’s vivacious daughter ought to have at least the company of the local gentry’s children.
Blythe would find a way to visit in June, even if she had to take the public coach and walk the seven miles from Whitchurch to Bluebelle Lodge.
Nicholas’s future was another concern. Small and prone to chest colds, she’d like to bring him to London to see a proper physician.
If his health improved, then what? The grandson of a marquess, especially a child as hungry to learn as Nicholas, ought to have a proper education.
Not that she’d want the marquess in question to have anything to do with the boy.
She would find a way. If she could keep Bluebelle Lodge.
The next part of the letter brought a frown. A gate had been torn from its hinges and several escaped sheep hadn’t been found.
Mr. Stockwell senior, the steward at Risley Manor, and his son Samuel Stockwell, who managed Bluebelle Lodge, had reported similar incidents over the last year. They’d speculated the problems were caused by travelers or vagabond ex-soldiers. No one wanted to accuse a marquess or his son.
The loopy handwriting of the second letter was unfamiliar. Blythe broke the seal and skimmed to the signature.
Her pulse pounded, excitement mixing with apprehension and growing to outrage... And more than a little fear.
My dear Contessa,