A wagon appeared on the path, bringing with it creaking wood and the muffled sound of hooves. A sway-backed mule led the weather-worn wood vehicle, its driver wizened and hunched against the cold—all three of them might be a century old.
“Yer Grace!” The driver reined in the mule, raised a hand, and wheezed, “I’m ‘ere to get yer!”
“Is that so?” Wulf eyed the piles of fresh hay in the wagon bed, then the wrinkled face, red with cold. Surely the man was one foot in the grave and did not deserve to be out on a morning like this.
“The ‘onest ‘ighwayman sent me, Yer Grace. I’m to take yer home on me way to find work.”
“I see. Thank you, then, sir.” At least the blasted woman hadn’t abandoned him entirely, though her gesture did not even his temper. “I would prefer to return to Falk Manor. Would you be so kind as to see me there?”
“’Spose.” A frowned creased the old man’s face. “I was going t’other way to pick up some work, but the ‘ighwayman said as ‘ow I ought to git you, and the jobs aren’t plentiful anyhow. So, work can wait.” He jerked his head toward the back of the wagon. “I’ve put out fresh hay.”
“That is kind of you.” Favoring his aching shoulder, Wulf pulled himself into the wagon and braced for the jolting ride. Even as he did so, he noted patches on the jacket draped over the hunched, frail shoulders in driver’s seat. Surely the threadbare garment would not be warm enough for this bitter cold.
Yet the man was looking for work, despite shoulders bent with age.
Wulf thought of the Honest Highwayman’s words the night before, of the poor and the old and infirm she provided for. Was this man one of Wulf’s own tenants? He did not know, and could not say he would have paid attention before. He would not have looked. Really looked.
That shamed him, though he doubted he would ever fail to notice those around him again.
“My good sir,” he said, turning in the wagon and leaning against the planked wall. “Might I ask how long you have been acquainted with the Honest Highwayman?”
“Fer some time.” The driver clucked to the mule and did not turn around. “I came to git yer, because I was asked. I won’t say no more, for the ‘ighwayman ‘as done well by me.”
Wulf had thought as much. The ancient man was one of the recipients of her thievery, and from the look of his frail frame, he could use it. “You are looking for work, you said?”
“Aye.” The word carried a cautious tone. “Cutting ice, dragging it to the ice houses. The big families will want it come summer.”
“Hm. Well, I’ve a need for another man in my stables, if he’s good with animals and vehicles. Light repair to wheels and such, a bit of polish to the carriage lamps, currying the horses.” He rubbed at his chin, as if he wasn’t thinking about that frail body hauling huge blocks of ice through the winter cold. “If you’ve the interest.”
“Could be.” The man clucked to the mule again, the sound inattentive rather than meaningful. “In the stables, you say?”
“Yes.” He waited as the man glanced over his shoulder, consideration moving over weathered features. “Just present yourself at the rear door of Highrow Place if you’ve a mind.”
The sound the aged driver made as they passed beneath the gate to Falk Manor was part grunt, part assent. Wulf accepted that as noncommittal, but noted he needed to speak with the head groom about finding a place for another set of hands should the offer be accepted.
The wagon trundled to a stop in front of Falk Manor’s double doors, and the butler quickly opened them. Eyes wide, he examined the rough vehicle and the less-than-respectable appearance of both its occupants.
“Your Grace!” The butler called out as Wulf jumped from the wagon to stride up the front steps. “Has there been an accident? Are you injured?”
“I was delayed by a highwayman last evening and my horse bolted.” He knew he sounded irritated and gruff, and smoothed his tone. “If I might seek assistance?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The butler glanced behind him as the lord of Falk Manor staggered across the parquet floor of the entryway, muttering something unintelligible “His lordship,” the butler murmured, “would be willing to offer whatever assistance you require.”
“Thank you.” Wulf eyed his host of the evening before.
The man still reeled from the effects of brandy and smelled like a perfumery. He appeared to have been sleeping, as his gaze was heavy-lidded and vague, and there were crease lines across his cheek.
“Highrow.” The earl squinted one eye and focused on Wulf. “Are you back? If so, ‘tis too late. My damned sister has rousted the lot of us, and the enjoyment is over. Everyone is off to bed.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Not, of course, that he was. The fewer guests he had to address, the better. Still, he decided to avoid mention of the Honest Highwayman altogether to the earl. “I was forced to shelter in the woods overnight. I thought perhaps I might impose upon you to arrange conveyance to Highrow Place.”
“’Course. Stewart?” The earl turned to the butler, waved vaguely in the air.
“I will send word to the stables to arrange a carriage.” Stewart bowed to Wulf and spared his lordship not a glance—the butler was clearly accustomed to taking the reins of responsibility from his employer. “In the interim, I shall procure a room for you, where you might refresh yourself and perhaps break your fast.”
“That would be most appreciated.” He ignored the earl as much as the butler had, which was just as well. His still-drunk host was listing sideways as he peered into the empty snifter in his hand.
“Your Grace,” Stewart gestured toward the stairs leading to the upper floors. “If you would follow me—”
“Bloody hell!” Filled with utter fury, the feminine shout rang under the high, painted ceiling of the entry and echoed long enough that the subsequent silence became ominous.
To a man, the occupants of the hall hunched their shoulders against that most terrifying thing—a woman’s anger—and turned toward the sound.
CHAPTER 9
THE LADY STRODE briskly through the sliding doors of the front drawing room, heels issuing a staccato beat on the polished parquet. Green flowers dotted her muslin gown, shifting over her skirts as if they marched along with as her temper.
“Did my brother ruin the drawing room rug? Truly? Mother took great care in bringing that from India ages ago. She would be heartbroken. There are burns. Burns!” The lady opened her arms wide, not in supplication or explanation, but as if to encompass the enormity of the transgression. A dusty paste bird nested in wigged curls just as the creature might have done during the woman’s come out a decade earlier. “The rug is not meant for the ends of cheroots. Or brandy. There is an extensive spill—Oh.”
She stopped, blinked at Wulf through round, wire-rimmed spectacles. Her skirts floated to rest around her slippers, the embroidered flowers ending their patrol.
“My lady.” He nodded in greeting, wincing because he should have addressed her as ‘Lady Christian Name’, but he could not remember her Christian name. He gestured to the wrinkled greatcoat, his bared head. “My apologies as to my appearance.”
“Of course.” A quick nod of her head, a flush of cheeks. “Your Grace.”
He did remember the girl—woman now—from his childhood. He had seen her a handful of times since then, hovering at the fringes of her brother’s house parties. Awkward in conversation but sweet in nature.
Desperately ready to wash, eat—and dear Lord, to sleep on a bed—Wulf turned back toward the butler. Stopped.
Cinnamon and woodsmoke.
He looked back, certain he was wrong. Sunlight reached beyond the lady’s lenses, shining on eyes not quite green, not quite brown. Eyes he had not expected to see again. Not here, not so soon.