with the barest hint of a smile lingering about the curve of his lips. He obviously had no idea that what he’d promised was impossible.
Oh, Lord, please keep them from hating him when he has to tell them the truth!
At least he wasn’t gloating, she thought as they approached the wrought-iron gates of Blackcliff Hall. However much of a challenge he offered her in keeping the estate going, he had to be a better owner than Colonel Umbrey. The colonel had always been capricious—the house too warm one day, too cold the next; salmon his favorite and least favorite meal by turns. He’d only grown more strange as the years had passed. Look at how he’d cast off his faithful valet, discharged her father and holed up in his bedchamber.
But even he had understood that the mine was closed.
The villagers stopped respectfully outside the gates, their rousing cheers following Gwen and Trevor up the curving gravel drive. The trees edging the estate boundary quickly hid them from view. From the direction of the gatehouse came a single, questioning bark: Dolly, protesting being left behind. She hated it when Gwen locked her in the kennel behind the stone gatehouse. Gwen would have liked nothing better than to lean against Dolly’s warm side, particularly as Gwen was a bit sore from the night’s exertions.
But she knew the mastiff had no place in the morning’s activities. This morning was all for Sir Trevor.
As they continued up the drive, other noises faded until the loudest sound was the crunch of Icarus’s hooves against rough gravel. The autumn breeze brushed Gwen’s cheek, set the trees along the drive to rustling. Leaves of bright red and deep russet drifted down across the emerald lawn.
“How long has Blackcliff been sitting?” Sir Trevor asked.
Did it look so terrible to him, even in the daylight? True, the stone fountain below the sweep of the drive stood empty and clogged with fallen leaves, but that was easily fixed. “About six months,” Gwen replied. “Colonel Umbrey refused all callers the last three months of his life, and he wouldn’t allow any changes to the estate. But the mine’s been closed for over a year. The surveyors said it was too dangerous to work.”
There—she’d said it. She cast him a quick glance to see how he might be taking it. The smile on his handsome face was even more noticeable.
“Surveyors can be mistaken,” he said.
So could he, but Gwen was suddenly very glad his education was one thing she could leave to her father.
Rob Winslow was waiting in front of the gray stone manor to take Icarus. She’d picked Rob purposely. He was tall, his strapping frame showed well in the brown coat and breeches that had been the livery of the previous master, he knew something about horses being the son of the village blacksmith and he’d play the role for no other pay than her thanks. He touched his brown forelock as Sir Trevor reined in, then quickly took charge of the horse.
Sir Trevor watched him, green eyes narrowed, until he’d disappeared around the house for the stables.
Gwen swallowed, feeling the chill in the air. “He’s not the one who took your horse yesterday, is he?”
“No. That man was much older and considerably thinner. That was my impression, at least. He was wearing a cloak.” Sir Trevor shook himself and started up the stairs. “I thought you said the groom had been discharged.”
“He was,” Gwen said, pacing him to the door. “Rob, that is Mr. Winslow, is merely filling in until you settle on your staff.”
He raised his dark brows over his aristocratic nose. He’d taken out his key, but she reached around him for the door. “No need. My father’s already opened the house. You did ask to meet with him this morning.”
He cast her a look. She could not tell what he was thinking, but she found herself holding her breath as he pushed open the door and strode inside.
Margaret Bentley was waiting to take his coat. She was the one person Gwen had qualms about. Oh, she looked the part of housekeeper with her snowy hair bound in a coronet about her round face and her motherly girth swathed in black bombazine covered by a pristine white apron. But she had no experience as a cook for anyone other than her six children and husband, all of whom had passed on.
“Welcome home, sir,” she said in her gentle voice as she reached up to help Sir Trevor with his multi-caped greatcoat. She had to stand on her tiptoes to pull it off. As she dropped back down, she peered at Gwen around his waist, brows up and mouth pursed in an O of awe.
“This is Mrs. Bentley,” Gwen said. The little woman straightened as Sir Trevor turned to eye her. “She’s acting as housekeeper and cook.”
Mrs. Bentley bobbed a curtsy, puddling Sir Trevor’s coat against the floor as she did so. “A pleasure, sir. Mr. Allbridge is waiting in the library, and I’ve started the teakettle on the boil. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Trevor replied. “And tea would be most welcome.”
Gwen let out her breath.
“Have it right out, dearie,” Mrs. Bentley said with a grin, then she blinked and swallowed. “That is, very good, sir.” She ducked her head and hurried off.
Trevor turned to Gwen. “So I have a groom and a housekeeper. How many more?”
“A maid of all work, and I’m working on a footman,” Gwen replied, feeling rather proud of herself. It hadn’t been easy finding people willing to volunteer with such short notice. “And several other men will be by this afternoon to set the gardens to rights.”
She waited for his praise, his amazement over her skills at managing a house. She was certain she’d be just as humble accepting them.
Instead, his mouth tightened. “You are kind to think of my needs, but in the future, I’d prefer to be consulted before you spend my money.”
Gwen felt as if he’d slapped her. She recoiled, but only for a moment. How dare he assume she’d spend his money without asking!
She squared her shoulders and looked up into his icy green gaze. “I will have you know, sir, that not one of these people asked a penny. Blackcliff Hall is the life of this village, and we’re all so glad to see it occupied again that we were delighted to stay up last night and make it presentable. And if you were any kind of gentleman, you’d appreciate that!”
Trevor raised his brows at her vehemence. Every inch of her straightened spine and high head said righteous indignation. Her chest rose and fell in her green coat, pink ribbon fluttering, as if she were taking deep breaths to try to steady her emotions. She truly thought these people would serve him with no expectation of reward.
He couldn’t believe that. In his experience, everyone had a reason for offering help; everyone expected something in return. Nor could he believe they’d worked all night for no other purpose than to pretty up Blackcliff Hall. They knew nothing about him. Why put themselves out on his behalf?
And despite what she’d said about Blackcliff being vital to the village, he was certain they must have more important things to do. Determined to prove himself right, he strode into the withdrawing room.
And stopped. And stared.
Every wood surface
