Reckless (Mockingbird Square Book 4) Page 4

  “This stew hasn’t been salted. Did you make it?”

  Margaret held her breath and counted to ten. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “I did make it, thank you, Mrs Pritchard. I’m sorry I didn’t add enough salt.”

  The woman stared at her a moment and then sighed grudgingly, “Never mind. You do your best, Miss Margaret, I know that. The whole village knows that. We’re all hoping that you get your just reward.”

  Did she mean in heaven? Margaret wondered. Because she really didn’t want to wait until then.

  Afterwards, Margaret made her way back to the vicarage, head down against the flurries of snow, watching her step on the slippery and mushy ground. The number of tasks awaiting her when she got there was too long to contemplate, so she didn’t contemplate them. Instead, she thought about the Christmas play and the pleasure she’d see on the faces of the parish children who would be taking part.

  Louis had gathered them together after Sunday service, and she wasn’t sure who was the most excited. They were yet to get Lady Strangeways’ approval, but there seemed to be no reason for her to object. The parish children had been taking part in the play for as long as she could remember.

  Afterwards, she and Louis had discussed costumes and whether they could borrow some appropriate animals for the manger scene. It had been pleasant. She had even begun to wonder whether she might have chosen Louis for herself, had she not spent those happy months in London. But she had been away and seen how much more life could be. She had seen her cousin Olivia deeply in love, and refusing to compromise despite the difficulties involved in marrying a penniless Scottish laird. She had seen Simon Linholm fall in love with his brother’s intended, Christina Beale, and fight for her hand. And more recently she had seen her friend Lavinia Richmond’s misery when she believed she could not marry Captain Longhurst, and how ecstatic they had been when they found a way around the scandal that had kept them apart.

  Margaret had seen love at its richest and fullest, and because of that she knew Louis would never have been her first choice. He was second best, and he would always be second best. She wanted the sort of love Olivia had, that Lady Richmond had, and at the same time she knew it could never be hers.

  And thinking about it would only turn her into one of those glum and wretched women she despised. Thinking about him only made her restless for things that must forever be denied. Why Monkstead, anyway? It made no sense to be fixated on such a man. It wasn’t even as if she liked him! He’d always ruffled her into saying things she knew she shouldn’t, and yet, no matter what she said he didn’t seem to mind. She’d suspected once or twice that he’d even encouraged her to behave badly, no doubt for some perverse pleasure of his own.

  He was also married, although where his wife lived and why they were apart remained a mystery. Gossip had it that their union was deeply unhappy for them both. However, married or not, she was not so naïve to believe he did not have other women, women who would be delighted to lavish affection on such a handsome and wealthy man. She might believe him to be a solitary creature, but the truth was she did not know anything about his private life.

  For her own sake, this foolish longing for something and for someone she could never have needed to stop. She knew it. The moment her engagement to Louis was announced, Margaret promised herself she would never think about the earl again.

  The vicarage chimneys were sending grey smoke into the slate sky as Margaret trudged up the path to the side door. It was no use going to the front because there was no one to answer it. Her father was busy, her mother was in her room, and their few servants were run off their feet and had better things to do than open doors.

  As soon as she stepped inside she could hear voices coming from the vicar’s study.

  She knew the dean was coming this afternoon but she hadn’t thought he was due until three. Besides, as her father’s superior in the church hierarchy, he would have been shown into the sitting room, where the important people were entertained.

  Just then, the servants’ bell rang from the study, a furious jangling, suggesting it wasn’t the first time.

  Hastily, Margaret stripped off her outdoor clothes, hanging her cloak on the coat rack with cold, clumsy fingers. That was when she noticed that there was an unfamiliar coat there. She paused to examine it, surprised by the cut and quality of the garment. Surely the dean had not found a tailor in Bond Street? Because that was where this coat looked as if it had been made.

  The bell jangled again.

  Margaret hurried toward the study door, smoothing her hair back into its chignon, and tucking in the wispy strands that were forever trying to escape.

  Her father’s voice was droning on, although she couldn’t hear actual words. Perhaps, she thought, he wasn’t too concerned by her absence. Although that would be a miracle indeed, and so far this year miracles seemed to be in short supply.

  Taking a deep breath, she tapped on his door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

  Her father stood right in front of her, obstructing her view of the rest of the room. Hearing her enter, he turned to face her, and for a moment she wondered if someone else, someone who looked like her father, had taken his place. Because he was beaming as if she was everything he had ever wanted in a daughter, which she knew was definitely not the case.

  “Margaret, there you are!” he cried in a hearty voice. “Come in, come in. We have a visitor.”

  “A visitor, Father?” she managed, fighting her shock.

  “Yes, a visitor. That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” That impatient note was more like the man she knew. “I hope we still have some of that fruit cake and you haven’t given it away to the undeserving poor.” And he laughed as he said it, as if he was speaking to someone like minded. A man of the world.

  It was only then that he stepped aside, and her gaze slid beyond him to the other occupant of the room. She was expecting to see the dean, but it wasn’t the dean, and her brain struggled to take that fact in.

  And while her brain struggled her heart soared, taking her breath with it.

  The visitor was tall, with short dark hair, and immaculately dressed in a dark blue jacket, tan breeches and polished boots. On his handsome continence was a knowing smile, and although he looked like the Earl of Monkstead, she knew it couldn’t be. The earl did not belong in Denwick, and he certainly didn’t belong in her father’s study.

  Her mouth was hanging open. Before she could think to close it, he was bowing and saying, “Miss Willoughby, what a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  She managed a curtsey, knowing it was unsteady, and said in a breathless voice, “My lord.”

  When she straightened she found his dark eyes searching hers, and there was a question in them. His gaze slid over her features and a frown drew his brows together, as if whatever he saw did not please him. Which was odd, because she could only think how very glad she was to see him, despite knowing that feeling this giddy sort of elation was very wrong, and she had no doubt that she should be punished for it.

  “Monkstead has called in regard to his uncle, Sir Cecil Throckmore.” Her father couldn’t wait any longer to take centre stage. “Sir Cecil is dead, Margaret, and he is to be buried here in Denwick.”

  She tried to take it in. Sir Cecil was dead? She remembered then how Mrs Pritchard had mentioned to her that nobility from London were visiting their village. Had she meant the earl?

  “I-I didn’t know,” she heard herself stammer. “I am sorry.”

  “My great uncle was very old and his house was very cold,” the earl replied, the rhyme causing his lips to twitch in a way that was shockingly inappropriate, and yet so very like him. “I’m only surprised he lived as long as he did.”

  The vicar smirked. “We rarely saw your uncle in church. He was not a devout man. Margaret, didn’t you hear what I said? Tea and some of your fruit cake for his lordship.”

  Normally she would have rushed off to do her father’s biding, but Monkstea
d was still looking at her and while he held her with his dark gaze she couldn’t look away. “You will be happy to know that all is well in Mockingbird Square,” he said as if the vicar wasn’t huffing in impatience. “There have been three marriages and a christening since you left.”

  And suddenly he looked so insufferably smug, as if he had made all of that happen single handed. How could she have forgotten how much she disliked his arrogant interfering in other people’s lives? She was almost grateful for the reminder, because her momentary tongue-tiedness was swept away.

  “Indeed, my lord. It’s a wonder there is anyone single left in London.”

  Her father made a hissing sound but she didn’t look at him because Monkstead’s smile only grew broader. Now there was a satisfied air about him, as if she had given him the reaction he was looking for.

  “Tea, Margaret,” her father repeated, and this time there was no ignoring the hard stare he gave her. There would be retribution for what he considered her forward behaviour and she knew it.

  The earl moved to open the door for her, leaning closer as she passed through. “Ah, there you are,” he murmured, for her ears alone. “I thought for a moment you had been replaced by a stranger.”

  “Because I offered you my sympathy?” she replied, her voice as low as his.

  “Because you were polite to me.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him in a show of defiance that felt good and left the room without another word.

  Normally it wouldn’t take her long to make the tea and set up a tray and carry it back, but her hands were shaking and her head was full of unsettling questions. Monkstead was here, and in the moment when she saw him, before her father explained the reason for it, she had thought … she had hoped …

  She shook her head at her own stupidity. Why not admit it? She had thought he might have come for her, just as he’d said he would. She really was such a fool. Margaret took a deep breath and then another, putting her cold palms to her cheeks to cool them.

  She glanced in the window pane, seeing her reflection against the gloomy afternoon outside, and wondering what the earl had seen when he looked at her just now. The heightened colour had left her cheeks and she was pale, and there were shadows under her eyes from worry and lack of sleep. She’d lost weight too. Lady Strangeways had been right when she’d said Margaret no longer had the bloom of youth. Perhaps that was why Monkstead had frowned—he’d thought she had changed for the worse. And then he’d fallen back into their old bickering ways as if they had never been apart.

  Margaret had spent hours and hours reminding herself how much she disliked him, and yet once she was no longer in his presence he was the person she missed the most.

  With a sigh she turned away from the window, telling herself there wasn’t much point in worrying about it. The earl was here because his great uncle had died. That was a fact. Anything else was pure fantasy.

  By the time Margaret returned with the tray, the two men were seated in chairs by the fire, and her father was regaling the earl with stories of his hunting prowess.

  She set the tea down on the table between them, glancing sideways at Monkstead and noting the hooded look to his eyes. He was bored or irritated. Perhaps both. Her father had never been the most fascinating conversationalist—except in his own opinion—and the earl was not a man who suffered fools.

  As Margaret turned to go, the earl came to his feet.

  “Miss Willoughby, please join us.”

  “Margaret has much to do,” her father said coldly.

  Monkstead turned his head and Margaret didn’t see his expression, his back being to her, but her father did. To her amazement a faint flush rose in his cheeks and he cleared his throat. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Do join us, Margaret, my dear.”

  She was so surprised that she drew up a straight-backed chair and sat down immediately.

  “Has Lady Richmond written to you?” Monkstead asked.

  She made sure not to meet the earl’s eyes as she finished pouring from the tea pot. “Yes. I was sorry I could not attend their wedding.”

  “They are leaving for America once the Atlantic storms pass.” He was still watching her; she could feel his gaze upon her face.

  “They are lucky to be allowed this second chance.” A glance, a half smile, and she handed him his cup, careful to avoid his fingers. She was afraid to look him in the eye and afraid to touch his skin, at least until she was able to reign in her confused feelings.

  The vicar frowned, taking a bite of his fruit cake, and she knew she was in for a lecture about modesty. Her father believed women were useful for domestic concerns but should otherwise stay in the background. She wondered what he would think if he’d heard the conversations she’d shared with the earl in Mockingbird Square. And then she decided it was probably better that he hadn’t.

  Yet Monkstead had never made her feel as if she was doing anything wrong. They disagreed, often, but thinking back over their encounters, he had encouraged her to tell him what she thought, even if he did not agree with her. There’d been a buzz between them, a sense that, with words anyway, they were well matched.

  She wished he hadn’t come to Denwick. His presence only reminded her of the contrast between what her life had been for a few short, blissful months, and what it was now.

  The vicar cleared his throat. “Are you expecting many people at Sir Cecil’s funeral?”

  Margaret suspected he was hoping for the presence of lots of lords and ladies, so he could puff himself up when he spoke to the Dean a little later this afternoon.

  Monkstead immediately dashed his hopes. “I doubt it. There were no children from his union with my great aunt, and he was not the friendliest of fellows. My father died several years ago, and he was not the social sort, so it will only be my sister and myself to mourn Sir Cecil’s passing.”

  The vicar made a sound very much like a disappointed grunt but forced himself to rally. “Well, I’m sure there will be plenty of his neighbours wishing to give him a proper farewell. Perhaps I can persuade Sir Peter Grey to come. He is an important fellow, though unfortunately his house is in the adjoining parish. And Lady Strangeways is most gracious and she will want to—”

  A tap on the door interrupted him. When Margaret went to open it, the scullery maid was there, fidgeting and shooting frightened glances in the vicar’s direction. She crept closer to Margaret and whispered urgently in her ear.

  Margaret turned to pass on the message. “Father, the dean is here. He’s waiting in the sitting room.”

  Mr Willoughby waved a dismissive hand. “He can wait five minutes. Tell him I have the Earl of Monkstead here with me wishing to make arrangements for his great uncle’s burial.”

  “Father, it is the dean, and he has come all this way to see you. You know he won’t be pleased if you delay.”

  His face darkened, but Monkstead spoke up before the vicar could reply. “My sister, Lady Sibylla, is waiting for me at the inn, so I will take my leave. It’s clear that you are a busy man with many calls upon your time. I would not keep you from your work. Now, if your daughter would be kind enough to walk with me to the door …?”

  The vicar seemed pacified by the flattery. “Of course,” he said. “Margaret, if you please, see our guest out and then bring refreshments for the dean.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The earl followed her to the door and she realised then that of course it was his coat that had been hanging on the rack. Monkstead took it from her, hastily shrugging into it, refusing her offer of help. He seemed deep in his own thoughts now that they were alone, the camaraderie she had felt between them gone. She waited as he did up the buttons, biting her lip, not sure what to say.

  “I am sorry about your great uncle,” she spoke at last. “I didn’t even realise Sir Cecil was your great uncle. I’m surprised you didn’t mention it when I was in London.”

  “We weren’t close,” he answered abruptly, as if he didn’t want to discuss the m
atter further.

  And yet Margaret still thought it odd he had never mentioned the relationship, despite him knowing she and Sir Cecil lived so close. She wasn’t sure what to make of his omission. Or perhaps she was reading too much into it and he genuinely hadn’t believed it was important. She had been his neighbour in Mockingbird Square, and although she had believed they had some sort of rapport, it occurred to her now that her view of their relationship might not be his. The earl might have amused himself by baiting her, but he had probably forgotten her as soon as he walked away, just as he would any person so far beneath his consequence.

  He’d paused on the last button. “What is it?”

  She blinked up at him.

  “You’re chewing on your lip,” he explained, with the faintest of smiles. “You do that when you’re worrying about something.”

  “Do I?” She was surprised he’d noticed. “I was just wondering if you were staying in Sir Cecil’s house.”

  He began to pull on his gloves. “My sister is staying at the inn—she seems to have caught a cold. I will probably remove myself there to sleep, but I will be in Sir Cecil’s house during the day, until matters are settled.” He grimaced. “Have you ever visited him? The place is derelict and there is no warmth to be had in any of it. No wonder Sibylla took ill.”

  Margaret bit her lip and then remembered what he’d said and, feeling flustered, put a hand to her mouth. “Not up to your exacting standards then, my lord?”

  He didn’t smile, as she’d hoped he might. “Not up to anyone’s standards. According to his servants, who are beyond old, he did very much as he pleased, and if he could do it without spending any of his considerable fortune he was all the more pleased.”

  “A miser then?”

  “Very much so. There’s a will somewhere. Your father was asking whether there was mention in it of a donation to his church.”

  “My father isn’t the most tactful of men, but I can’t blame him for hoping. The church has several leaks in the roof, and some of the stonework is crumbling. Denwick may be a small village, but the parish is large, and requires visits on a horse that is very old and very slow.” She smiled up at him. “It doesn’t help to improve his temper that we have so many problems and no money to fix them.”