An Unconventional Widow Read online

  He remembered Fenwick-Clyde as a lecherous old sot with a reputation for roughness among the less privileged prostitutes. He scowled. No sense sugar-coating it to himself. Fenwick-Clyde had been abusive. He had heard rumours the man was the same with his young wife. He had been repulsed by Fenwick-Clyde and so never met the wife who had kept to herself and avoided most of the ton’s activities. He wondered if she still stayed away from society now that she was widowed.

  It was none of his concern.

  He noticed the ground change. They were on the fine gravel driveway leading to Rosemont, named for the profusion of roses that came into bloom during the late spring and summer. Hugo urged Molly into a run for the remaining distance.

  Minutes later they came to a halt, dirt and rocks flying behind the mare’s back legs. With a laugh of pleasure, Hugo slid to the ground. Home at last. It had been nearly a year.

  He breathed deeply of the fresh air, redolent with growing life—freshly scythed grass, flowers and the hint of stables. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. He had missed this place more than he cared to admit.

  In front of him were the steps to the entrance, situated in the middle between two wings. Rosemont was an H-shaped Elizabethan manor house, built from red bricks and thick oak beams. He had been born here in the housekeeper’s room thirty-six years ago.

  The front door opened and Butterfield came out. The old butler was tall and stick thin, holding himself with more dignity than anyone else Hugo knew, with the possible except of the Iron Duke. Wellington was well-known for his good self-image. And Hugo knew it well. He had served as one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp for the past year. He had been one of the few to survive that duty.

  ‘Butterfield,’ Hugo said, hugging the butler in spite of the old man’s attempt to hold himself aloof.

  ‘Sir Hugo,’ Butterfield said, his voice warm even through the tone of censure. ‘You mustn’t do that.’

  Hugo took pity on his old retainer and released him. ‘You did not always feel that way.’

  Butterfield’s old rheumy eyes softened. ‘Aye, but you were a young buck in leading strings then. Now you are the lord here and a man with a reputation for bravery, too.’

  Hugo waved him to silence. ‘None of that.’ He strode forward. ‘The carriage with my baggage will be here later. We ran into rain and, subsequently, muddy, pocked roads.’

  He strode past the running stable lad come to fetch Molly. The boy pulled his forelock and grinned from ear to ear. Hugo smiled, but kept going. Now that he was here at last, he wanted nothing more than to be inside, seated in the library with a snifter of good French brandy that had not been smuggled. The Lord knew he and others had fought long and hard to defeat Napoleon and gain access once more to a France under Bourbon rule. He hoped they would never forget all Britain had sacrificed.

  He entered the foyer, unconsciously absorbing the presence of the wooden plank floor and various suits of armour and the accoutrements that went with them. Shields of every shape and size hung from the oak-panelled walls. Muskets alternated with lances. Everything was polished to mirror brightness. He expected nothing less from his staff with Butterfield in charge. But the butler was ageing. He would have to hire a housekeeper soon, whether he wanted to or not. He had never wanted another housekeeper after his own history. Not that he would repeat his father’s indiscretions.

  Hugo waved off a footman who had come to get his jacket. ‘No, Michael, I will keep it with me.’

  The young man, short and thin, the antithesis of most footmen who were often hired for their looks so as to enhance their employer’s standing, stepped back. A smile curved the youth’s mouth at being remembered. Unlike some of the aristocracy, Sir Hugo always knew the names of his servants and called them by their given names. Some of his peers named their staff for the jobs each servant did, regardless of the servant’s actual name.

  The footman bowed. ‘Yes, Sir Hugo.’

  Hugo continued to the library. It was the room at Rosemont where he felt most at home and relaxed.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, he entered the room. Huge multi-paned windows covered the outside wall, allowing the late afternoon sunlight to enter in myriad prisms. Colours danced off the polished wood floor and flashed from the glass that enclosed floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A fire roared in the massive grate. Even this late in the year it was cold inside a house this old.

  He went to his desk and picked up a full decanter of brandy and poured himself a healthy portion. He drank it down in one long, satisfied gulp.

  ‘Ahem,’ a female voice said. ‘I don’t believe you belong here.’

  Hugo swallowed a less than gracious retort. Instead of looking in the direction of the voice, he poured himself another brandy. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

  ‘This is a private home, young man, and the owner is not about.’ The woman’s voice was sharp yet breathy, as though she struggled for oxygen. ‘I suggest you leave before I call a footman and have you ousted.’

  Taking another long drink, Hugo pivoted on his heel and faced the woman. She was tall and thin to the point of near emaciation. Her chin was pointed and her brown eyes seemed too big for her face. Pale blonde hair, streaked with grey, was pulled back into a tight bun. Her mouth was pinched with irritation at the moment.

  ‘I don’t believe I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, ma’am,’ he drawled, finishing the brandy.

  She drew herself up. ‘Nor do I have yours. Nor do I wish to.’ She crossed to the pull by the fireplace and yanked the velvet strip.

  ‘You must be here with Lady Fenwick-Clyde.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her back was ramrod straight in its pale lavender kerseymere.

  He set the empty glass down, resigned to another confrontation and one not nearly as pleasant as the last. He made her a short bow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself then, since I doubt I will be seeing the last of you for some time.’ He ignored her indignant gasp. ‘I am Sir Hugo Fitzsimmon—your host.’

  Her pale blue eyes widened and a scarlet flush mounted her cheeks. ‘Oh, dear. How very inconvenient,’ she muttered.

  Hugo choked back a laugh, grateful he was not drinking the brandy. It would have spattered over everything.

  ‘How gracious of you,’ he replied. ‘You must be Lady Fenwick-Clyde’s companion.’

  ‘Yes, I am, and I can tell you, sir, that we certainly did not expect you to return as you have.’ She shook her head. ‘Your reputation is such that not even a widowed lady with a chaperon is safe with you in attendance.’

  He shrugged with true indifference. ‘Then you must relocate to the inn nearby. Their rooms are clean and their food passable.’

  ‘You could much easier go back to where you came from for a while.’

  Hugo wondered if his hearing was going bad or if she had just attempted a joke. One look at her serious, clearly affronted countenance told him neither was correct. She meant exactly what she had said.

  ‘We, after all,’ she continued, ‘have express permission from your steward to lodge here and be at liberty on your land for as long as it takes Bell and her team to excavate the Roman villa.’

  Hugo wondered if he had actually died at Waterloo and gone someplace that was not heaven. This situation was surreal.

  ‘I think not,’ he said, pouring another glass of brandy and gulping it down. ‘I shall leave you here while I go to my rooms. When I come back, I shall expect you to be gone.’

  Before she could do more than open and close her mouth, he was out of the room. His one refuge in this house, the one place he felt completely at liberty, and she had invaded it.

  ‘Sir Hugo,’ Butterfield said, coming toward the library. ‘Oh. Miss Pennyworth must be in there.’

  Hugo halted. ‘Miss Pennyworth? A tall, thin woman who thinks she owns Rosemont?’

  Butterfield nodded.

  ‘I am going to my rooms, Butterfield. Get Tatterly and tell him I expect him to meet with me on the hour. In the library. Without Miss Pe
nnyworth or anyone else for that matter.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord,’ Butterfield said to Hugo’s back.

  Chapter Two

  Annabell strode into the foyer to the sound of male voices raised in irritation. They came from the library, her favourite room. Much as it pained her to admit it, she recognised one of the voices as belonging to Sir Hugo. A meeting lasting only minutes, and his voice was now imprinted on her senses. What was happening to her?

  ‘Tatterly,’ Sir Hugo said, his tone low, ‘see that Lady Fenwick-Clyde and her chaperon are out of here by tomorrow. Tonight if possible.’

  Hearing her name, Annabell did the unthinkable. She moved closer. Better to know in advance what was being said about her than to find out when it was too late to do anything about it. She all but put her ear to the oak panel.

  ‘Yes, Sir Hugo, but—’

  ‘No buts. I am home and intend to stay here until I decide to leave, not until some rumour-monger forces me to leave in order to save that woman’s reputation.’ There was an ominous silence. ‘And that chaperon. She would drive me to mayhem.’

  That was enough! How dare he speak that way about Susan. Annabell found herself fully as angry as Sir Hugo. She marched through the library’s open door and stood just past the entrance, feet apart.

  ‘You, Sir Hugo, should ensure the doors are closed before you go on about unwelcomed guests.’

  The object of her censure turned slowly to face her. ‘I should not have to pay attention to what I say in my own home, Lady Fenwick-Clyde.’

  He was right and she knew it, but still… ‘You may not have expressly invited me, but Mr Tatterly said it would be acceptable for Miss Pennyworth and me to stay here as long as necessary to excavate the Roman villa.’

  Sir Hugo took one step towards her and stopped as though he did not trust himself any closer. ‘As long as I was on the Continent it was. I am not there now. Nor do I intend to move into a room at the village inn. So, you had best go. Your reputation won’t be worth the breath used to shred it if it becomes known you are sleeping under the same roof as I am.’

  She notched her chin up. ‘I am a widow. Widows may do as they please.’

  His eloquent mouth nearly sneered. ‘Widows of a certain ilk, certainly. Somehow…’ he ran his gaze insolently up and down her body ‘…I don’t believe you want to be in that category in spite of your unconventional dress. But correct me if I am wrong.’

  ‘Leave my clothes out of this,’ she said, barely able to contain her ire at his insinuations. ‘Until you arrived unannounced, my reputation did not need preserving.’

  He shrugged and turned his back to her. ‘I am here now, this is my home, and that is that.’

  ‘Sir Hugo—’ Tatterly said, his strong, solid face agonised.

  ‘Not another word, Tatterly.’

  Annabell took pity on the man. It was not his fault. ‘Mr Tatterly, don’t worry. You are not to blame for any of this. None of us believed Sir Hugo would forego his pleasures so quickly to rusticate.’

  Sir Hugo’s shoulders shook and Annabell heard what sounded suspiciously like a snort. Yet, when he turned around, his face was unreadable. ‘I take my pleasures where I find them, Lady Fenwick-Clyde. For the moment, I find them here.’

  Annabell bit her lip, a bad habit she had when confronted with a problem to which she did not like the solution. ‘Very well, Sir Hugo. Miss Pennyworth and I shall move to the inn.’ She turned her brightest smile on the steward. ‘If you would be so kind as to procure us rooms, Mr Tatterly, I would be forever in your debt.’

  Mr Tatterly turned brick red. ‘Of course, milady. It would be my pleasure.’ He started for the door where Annabell still stood, but stopped in time to ask his employer, ‘May I be off, Sir Hugo? The sooner this is done, the sooner everything is solved.’

  Sir Hugo nodded. ‘By all means, Tatterly. We wouldn’t want to inconvenience Lady Fenwick-Clyde any more than necessary.’

  Annabell stepped to the side so Mr Tatterly could pass. She pointedly did not look at Sir Hugo, who had moved to stand by one of the many windows. His sarcasm in dismissing Mr Tatterly had increased her irritation, which was decidedly unlike her. All the years of her marriage she had managed to ignore Fenwick-Clyde’s snide remarks and disparaging words. Although, in all truth, Sir Hugo was not disparaging or snide, he was sarcastic and sensual and hard to ignore.

  ‘Do you have a maid?’ Sir Hugo asked without taking his attention from the scene outside. ‘If not, I will have a maid sent to help you pack.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I can take care of myself, Sir Hugo.’

  He turned and gave her an appraising study. ‘I believe you can, but why would you when it isn’t necessary?’

  She raised one black brow. ‘Because it makes me self-sufficient.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  She thought his mouth thinned, but if so it was so slight she immediately decided she had been mistaken. And even if she was not, it did not matter. After life with Fenwick-Clyde, she did not care what a man thought of her or her need for independence.

  ‘I won’t impose on you a moment longer than absolutely necessary.’ She pivoted on the heel of her boot and stalked from the room. The sooner she was gone, the better for all of them.

  Hugo watched her stride from the room and shook his head. She looked cool and composed in her outrageous clothing—a woman who thumbed her nose at the world—but in truth she was anything but cool. She was a spitfire for all that her hair was as silver as the full moon. And undoubtedly a bluestocking, determined to prove she did not need a man for anything.

  Before he realised it, his mouth curved into a devilish smile. It would prove interesting to show the very independent Lady Fenwick-Clyde that men were good for many things. His smile deepened and his green eyes darkened. His body responded.

  His laugh filled the empty library. Oh, yes, it was good to be home.

  Annabell turned to her travelling writing desk and made sure the quills were in place and the ink securely stoppered. Without her volition, her fingers strayed to the leather writing portion. Many years of use had made the fine cowhide smooth as satin. In one corner was an ink stain. In another were initials she’d carved into the mahogany wood years ago. She could still remember when.

  She had been married several years and miserable. Guy, her older brother, had given her the money to get away from Fenwick-Clyde not knowing she intended to go to Egypt. He had thought she just wanted to go to Scotland or Ireland or even Italy, places acceptable for a married woman with a chaperon to go. Guy had been furious when he learned where she had really gone, but it was too late by then. She was at her destination and fascinated.

  The Egyptian desert with its exotic heat and plants had intrigued her, but the pyramids had caught her imagination. It was the start of her love for antiquities. Prior to that she had been interested, but it had been academic. Now it was nearly a passion.

  Her Egyptian guide had been a native of the region who taught her to enjoy strong coffee and to appreciate the harsh beauty of the desert. If she concentrated hard enough, she could still imagine the feel of the dry, hot winds against her skin.

  The trip had been a turning point for her.

  She had always been interested in everything ancient, since first studying the classics with her brothers when they prepared for university. This trip showed her she could participate in the discovery of the past, not just read about it.

  Fenwick-Clyde had threatened to banish her to the country when she made her first trip to Egypt against his orders, but she had not cared, she had gone anyway. A wife who openly defied her husband—he had made her pay in ways polite society would never know about. Fenwick-Clyde had died shortly after that, overtaken by too much drink, women and general dissipation.

  Annabell snapped shut the lock on her portmanteau as someone knocked on the bedchamber door. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Lady Fenwick-Clyde,’ Tatterly said, his tone slow and stolid, yet managing to dra
w her back from her reverie. ‘Excuse me, but there is a problem.’

  Still fiddling with her packing, she looked at him. ‘Yes?’

  His large fingers played slowly against the smooth wood of the doorjamb. He was a wide man, not particularly tall, but solid. Like a man who made his living at physical labour even though he was a gentleman and had been educated at Oxford.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The inn is filled completely. There is a prizefight in the area this coming weekend.’

  ‘Does Sir Hugo know?’

  ‘No, my lady. He is riding the grounds, letting the tenants know he is back.’

  In spite of herself, she was impressed. Very few men of her acquaintance would take the time immediately upon arriving home after being gone for nearly a year to reacquaint themselves with their landholders.

  ‘He is a conscientious man.’

  ‘Very much so, my lady.’ Tatterly still stood on the threshold of the room, his stance tense. The problem of her quarters was not resolved. ‘What do you want me to do, Lady Fenwick-Clyde? There is another small village, but it is more distant and would take you at least an hour in travel each way. And that is if the weather is good.’

  Annabell frowned and stopped what she was doing. Things were definitely not getting any better. ‘Tell Sir Hugo I would like to meet with him immediately upon his return.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  She smiled at the still-tense man. ‘And thank you for everything you have done, Tatterly.’

  ‘You are welcome, Lady Fenwick-Clyde.’

  He stayed where he was, radiating uncertainty. Now his fingers were motionless against the door. Annabell glanced at him and raised one brow.

  ‘Yes, Tatterly?’

  ‘Um…if you permit, I thought I would tell Miss Pennyworth you won’t be leaving immediately. I saw her in the morning room.’ His fair skin turned russet. ‘That is, if you don’t think she would mind.’

  Annabell smiled. The man was transparent. ‘Please do that for me. I would appreciate not having to stop what I am doing to inform her.’