style="font-size:15px;"> Tom’s guardian used to hunt him down with his pack when he thought he’d had his freedom for too long. Remembered fear made him cast a swift glance in the direction of the hunt kennels his guardian had built far enough away for their howls not to keep him awake at nights. Luckily his companions were too busy to see it and he clamped adult self-control on childhood fears and reminded himself he’d learnt to like and trust dogs since then.
‘I know you’re in the stables because these misbegotten hounds insist you are, so who does the curricle belong to?’ that brisk voice added from much nearer at hand.
‘Which question would you prefer me to answer first, Lady W.?’ the goddess shouted over the hubbub.
Paulina-whoever-she-was sounded as calmly unruffled as any woman could with such a commotion going on in her stable yard, but shouldn’t that be his stable yard? And why did he feel a need to claim the property he’d been tempted to destroy all his adult life?’
‘How many times have I told you not to call me by that repellent nickname?’ the newcomer demanded.
‘So many I wonder you still bother,’ Paulina replied as Tom peered over her shoulders and managed to meet the lady’s shrewd blue eyes. ‘He claims he’s the Marquis of Mantaigne and this is Lady Wakebourne,’ Paulina said as if not quite sure how to introduce a possible impostor.
‘Lady Wakebourne,’ he said, searching his memory for clues to how the lady fitted into the complex patchwork of the ton.
He dredged up the tale of a certain Sir Greville Wakebourne, who had bankrupted a great many people before putting a bullet in his brain several years ago. This lady, who had evidently been a true beauty in her youth, was probably his widow, but it was impossible to tell if she mourned the swindler or not. She didn’t look as if she dwelt on him or anything else in the past, so vivid and vital was her presence in the here and now.
‘Lord Mantaigne,’ she greeted him with such superb assurance he was in mid-bow before his brain reminded him he was the host here and not the other way about, but he carried on anyway.
‘Weren’t you one of my godmother’s coven of regular correspondents, my lady?’ he asked and felt Polly-Paulina’s gaze fix accusingly on him, as if he’d been trying to deceive her about his identity instead of trying to convince her he really was rightfully lord and master here.
‘Please accept my condolences on her death and desist from using such terms in future,’ Lady Wakebourne told him with a firmness that told him she was every bit as stubborn as the goddess.
‘Is he really the Marquis of Mantaigne?’ Polly-Paulina asked, sounding so disgruntled she must be taking him seriously.
‘Of course he is—why would anyone else admit to being a notorious rake and dandy?’ Lady Wakebourne replied before he could say a word, stern disapproval of his chosen way of life plain on her striking countenance.
‘They would if it meant getting his possessions along with his reputation,’ Paulina-whoever-she-was muttered.
Outraged barking had waned to a few vague snuffles and the odd whine as the owners of those formidable canine voices sniffed about the curricle for concealed villains. Now two huge paws hit the bottom half of the door and a shaggy head joined Lady Wakebourne’s attempts at blocking out daylight. The creature appeared comical until its panting revealed a set of strong white teeth the hounds of hell could be justly proud of.
‘Get down, sir,’ Lady Wakebourne ordered the enormous animal irritably. ‘If you must take in any stray lucky enough to cross your path, Polly, I wish you would train them not to dog my footsteps as if I actually like them.’
‘But you do,’ Polly said, seeing through Lady Wakebourne’s frown as easily as the large hound seemed to, given he was now watching her with dogged adoration.
An impatient bark from lower down said the hell-hound was blocking the view, so he sank back to sit next to a busy-looking terrier with a thousand battle scars and a cynical look in the one eye he had left. He met Tom’s gaze in a man-to-man sizing up that was almost human, and if a dog could snigger this one did in a crooked aside. An elderly greyhound with an aloof look that said I don’t get involved, so don’t blame me and a lolloping puppy with some spaniel and a great deal of amiable idiot completed the canine quartet. Even Tom couldn’t bring himself to blame them for the sins of the pack of half-starved beasts his guardian had once used to terrorise the neighbourhood and his small charge.
‘Not in the house, I don’t,’ Lady Wakebourne asserted, as if it was her house to be pernickety over if she chose.
Tom frowned as he searched his mind for a reason why the widow of a disgraced baronet was living in his house without his knowledge. ‘I expect several carts and their teams before dark, my lady. Can anyone help us make more of the stabling usable?’ he asked the simplest of the questions that came into his mind.
It felt strange to be so ignorant of his household, especially when there wasn’t supposed to be one. Two coachmen, several stalwart grooms and three footmen were on their way with supplies to make camping in a ruin bearable and they would need somewhere to bed down as well. It would be too dark to do much more than sleep by the time they arrived, but he’d often sought the warmth of the horses at night as a boy and one more night in the stables wouldn’t hurt him.
‘No, but the northern range is better than the west. It takes less battering from the winds that come in from the sea,’ Polly-Paulina said with a sly glance at Tom’s riding breeches, shining top-boots, snowy white shirt and grey-silk waistcoat. He wasn’t dressed for heavy labour, but she seemed happy about the idea of him doing some anyway.
He had no old clothes here and wouldn’t don them now if he had, so he hoped there was a copper of hot water over the fire betrayed by its smoking chimney. Tom met the girl’s hostile gaze, determined not to prove as useless as she clearly thought him.
‘We’ll need pitchforks and a wheelbarrow, buckets and a couple of decent brooms. You will have to remind me where the well is,’ he prompted as she stayed stubbornly silent.
‘The boys can come in from the gardens this late in the day to help, Paulina. They are probably disgracefully dirty by now anyway,’ Lady Wakebourne said with a caution in her voice to remind her fellow interloper some tact was needed when dealing with the owner of a house you were living in without his knowledge or permission.
For a long moment Paulina the Amazon glared at Tom, as if quite ready to lay aside any pretence of civility and risk expulsion. He raised one eyebrow to question her right to be furious with him, but she seemed unimpressed.
‘Very well,’ she finally agreed without taking her eyes off him, as if he might steal the silver if she did so.
He couldn’t help the mocking smile that kicked up his mouth, because it was his silver, or it would be if it hadn’t been taken away years ago.
‘Lunar, go and fetch Toby,’ she told the huge beast, as if he would understand. ‘Go on, boy, go fetch him in,’ she added when the bigger-than-a-wolf dog put his head on one side and eyed Tom and Peters as if not sure it was safe to leave them here.
‘Maybe he’d feel better if we went with him?’ Tom suggested lightly.
‘The boys would run away from such a dandy,’ Paulina-Polly muttered darkly, shooting him a look that said she wouldn’t blame them.
‘Perhaps
