Chapter Nineteen #2
That cold answer, coupled with the sharp tone of Agnes’s voice, was all the justification Damien needed.
Bending at the knees, he squatted down and hoisted the trunk on his left shoulder.
Grunting loudly, he stood up, rocking back on his heels slightly until he regained his balance.
Using his right hand to steady the burden on his shoulder, he headed for the open door.
“What are you doing? Where are you going with my trunk? I want you to open it here and tell me if you see anything of significance.” Agnes pounded her cane on the floor. “Put down that trunk, young man! I will not allow you to take it from this room.”
“Try and stop me,” Damien said, glancing down at Agnes’s horrified face. He stomped out the door, kicking it shut with his booted foot. Turning around, he leaned against the wall, a look of triumph on his handsome face. Fingers fumbling, he located the brass key and gleefully turned the lock.
Deliberately ignoring the sharp noises and indelicate language emanating from the other side of the door, Damien carried his booty through the house.
He reached the main landing and smiled broadly, experiencing a sense of profound pleasure when he remembered the astonished expression on Agnes’s face.
He entered the great hall and encountered several footmen, but no one questioned him. Damien was grateful the earl ran such a rigid household; these properly trained servants would never think to interfere with the behavior of any member of the nobility, even if he was a stranger to them.
An expressionless flunky obligingly opened the front door, and as Damien exited he took great delight in dropping Agnes’s door key into the large potted plant by the entrance.
Damien found his horse tethered in the stables, and upon his command a young groom willingly saddled the animal.
Damien mounted his stead and with the lad’s assistance positioned the heavy trunk in front of him, resting it awkwardly on the saddle.
He would need to hire a carriage for the journey back to Whatley Grange, but Damien felt it prudent to put himself a fair distance away first.
Fishing into his pocket, he retrieved a coin. He flipped the crown in a high arc, and the groom caught the glittering silver piece in midair.
“By the way, Lady Agnes is locked in a second-story bedchamber. Please be sure to inform the household of her unfortunate predicament.” After a slight hesitation, Damien added with a sly wink, “In about three hours.”
Precariously balancing the heavy trunk in front of him, Damien rode down the sweeping drive, feeling an enormous sense of relief at leaving the mansion and its occupants behind him.
Damien leaned out the carriage window and smiled. After four days of traveling in a hired coach, Whatley Grange at last loomed in the foreground, a towering fortress of gray stone. It was a marvelous sight.
When the coach drew nearer, however, Damien was struck by the unmistakable air of dignified neglect.
Conditions that had existed for years without drawing his attention were suddenly brought to the forefront.
The formal flower beds were choked with weeds, the waters of the lily pond murky and gray, the arbors and shrubberies wild and overgrown.
Yet in Damien’s mind nothing could detract from the splendor of The Grange. He remembered the strict, expensive elegance of Isabella’s grandfather’s estate and realized he much preferred the reckless disorder of his own lands.
At least they still were his lands. Damien’s mouth curled grimly.
He did not regret his trip to York, but concentrating on Isabella’s dilemma had relegated his own considerable problems to the background.
Damien had no doubt that Lord Poole would make good on his threats and take control of The Grange if Damien was unable to secure the necessary funds to reclaim the mortgages.
The coach hit a deep rut and listed to one side. Damien braced his feet on the floorboards as the carriage righted itself and glanced at the trunk perched opposite him on the cushioned seat. It did not budge.
Damien was sure the driver he hired thought him addle-brained for keeping the thing inside the coach instead of lashing it to the back, but Damien felt a strange reluctance to let the trunk out of his sight.
He had not opened it, first because he was in haste to be away, but later because he felt he had no right.
The trunk belonged to Isabella, and he intended to present it to her intact.
The coach slowed and drew to a halt at the front door of The Grange. Damien jumped down from the vehicle, then reached in to haul out the trunk. Cradling it in his arms like a child, the earl turned to the driver.
“You are welcome to spend the night. The stables are around back. Joe will assist you with the horses, get you some dinner, and show you where to bed down.”
The driver accepted the invitation with a gap-toothed grin. Flicking the reins sharply, he drove the tired team toward the stables.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Amberly,” Damien said when the housekeeper finally answered his persistent knocking.
He set the trunk down and removed his gloves and greatcoat.
“It is good to be home. Be sure that someone brings this trunk into my study immediately. I trust that all is well with the children? And Miss Browning? Are they in the schoolroom having lessons?”
“Everyone’s in the drawing room,” Mrs. Amberly answered. She gave the earl a sidelong glance. “Having tea.”
Damien was in too much of a hurry to take interest in the housekeeper’s sullen tone, so he left without further inquiry.
As he entered the drawing room, he immediately noticed the changes.
The room was sparkling clean and smelled like roses and beeswax.
Yet that was hardly the only difference.
Isabella, Lord Poole, and the children were enjoying an elegant tea.
The silver gleamed, the napkins were snowy white, and the china unchipped.
There were platters of small sandwiches, delicate pastries, flakey scones, fresh fruit tarts, and other elaborate confections that could not possibly have come from Mrs. Amberly’s kitchen.
Ian spotted the earl and jumped up, nearly knocking over his overflowing plate of treats.
“Father! Catherine, look, Father is back!”
The children rushed to embrace him, and Damien felt his heart swell. It was good to be home.
“Ah, the master has returned,” Lord Poole drawled in a censorious voice. “How delightful.”
His tone was like the prick of a needle, but Damien refused to be baited. However, one look at Isabella, fashionably garbed in a charming gown of light green muslin trimmed with ribbons, sent all his good intentions flying out the window.
“Hell’s teeth, what’s going on here? And where the devil did you get that dress, Isabella?” The words were out before Damien could stop himself, and he hated how harsh and jealous he sounded.
“I gave Isabella these garments, Saunders,” Lord Poole said. “Not that it is any of your business.”
“Anything that concerns Isabella is my business, Poole.” Damien’s gray eyes were smoldering as he captured Isabella’s eyes across the room.
The color washed into her cheeks. She lowered her lashes, picked up a light green lace-edged fan that matched her gown, and began moving it vigorously.
Damien saw Lord Poole reach for Isabella’s free hand and squeeze it in a gesture of comfort and reassurance.
Then Lord Poole turned his eyes to Damien, his expression resembling that of a small boy gloating over a favorite toy.
A hot wave of resentment clogged Damien’s throat, and he gave Lord Poole a violent stare. “I thought you’d be long gone by now, Poole. When are you leaving?”
“Whenever it suits me.”
“Would you care for some tea, Damien?” Isabella interjected. Her face was set in grim lines.
“I have important matters I need to discuss privately with you, Isabella,” Damien said, pointedly ignoring her offer of refreshments.
She lifted her teacup and took a leisurely sip.
Damien felt the gloom wrap itself around him.
He had suspected that while he was gone from The Grange, Poole would try to burrow his way into Isabella’s good graces, and it was evident he had succeeded.
There was an obvious bond of affection and respect between Isabella and Poole that made Damien feel excluded. And strangely hurt.
“I will await you in my study, Isabella,” Damien muttered. Opening the door with a jerk, he escaped into the hall.