Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

N icholas Emerson was whistling to himself in the stables at Southpoint. He was tired, but did not care. He never resented any labor associated with horses and having this small holding for his own was a dream come true. Like so many of his newfound joys, he owed this one to his Eliza. He would happily spend the rest of his life ensuring she had no doubt of his love and admiration.

He had discarded his jacket after his morning ride, and changed to old boots to muck out the stables. The horses nickered to each other contentedly, and he heard them stomping in the straw. Sunlight shone through the open door and the air was warm with the promise of spring. He had hired two grooms to begin working for him shortly, and had already been invited to choose a mare from the stable of a former comrade later in the week. He already had his stallion, Sterling, as well as a mare given to him by Haynesdale and another mare Eliza had brought to the match from Haynesdale's stables. His stable was growing steadily, and it was early days as yet.

It was a day to whistle, for certain.

He looked up when the beam of sunlight was interrupted and a gentleman rode into the barn. The new arrival looked around himself with interest and it wasn't until he dismounted and removed his hat that Nicholas recognized him.

It had been roughly ten years since they had seen each other, after all. That had been in London, and the other man had not appeared so respectable in those days.

"Joshua Hargood," he said with pleasure. There was more than a decade's passing in the change in Hargood's appearance. In London, he had dressed as flamboyantly as his brother, and been almost as reckless in his dares. Now, he stood in Southpoint's stables, dressed precisely and conservatively, his manner inscrutable.

"Captain Emerson," that man said, inclining his head.

"Captain no longer, I fear," Nicholas said readily. "I must offer my condolences on the recent passing of your father."

"I thank you. He was comforted to be at home when he passed."

"I hope he did not suffer too much."

The viscount's lips tightened. "His illness was long."

So, that was what Hargood had been doing since the end of the war. "I heard also that your brother was lost at Waterloo," Nicholas continued. "I am very sorry, Hargood."

"As am I." The viscount's throat worked and his voice became husky. "I thank you."

Clearly, there had been fondness between the brothers, despite the difference in their natures. "I suppose you were curious to see what changes I mean to make to Southpoint. We are nearly neighbors, after all."

"Not precisely," his guest said. "I don't suppose you know when the Duke of Haynesdale is expected to return?"

"No, but perhaps the dowager duchess knows more."

"I have just called upon her, and she does not." Hargood frowned, hesitating for a moment before he continued. "Your sister and aunt were at tea."

His gaze lifted to Nicholas and Nicholas suspected then that he understood.

"I believe I knew they were invited today, but I had forgotten. My wife, Eliza, did comment that she saw the coach pass. I supposed Lady Haynesdale sent it for them."

Hargood shrugged, then waited, his manner expectant.

Nicholas was content to explain. "Bramble Cottage was in the grant to me, and I offered it to my aunt, who has been my sister's guardian for most of her life." he continued, wagering that Hargood had a keen interest in Helena and her situation. "She was Viscountess of Hexham, but when her husband passed, the estate was entailed and the title fell to a nephew. My aunt resided in London for some time but wished to move to the country. The timing of Haynesdale's gift to me was most opportune."

Hargood betrayed no emotion. "It must be a pleasure to have your family so close."

"Sometimes it is," Nicholas ceded with a smile. "Though I do not doubt that there will be days I wish one side or the other to be a little less readily accessible."

"I was delighted to meet your sister." This was said with a resolve that confirmed Nicholas' suspicions.

"Helena can be very charming."

Hargood cleared his throat. "Having inherited the title, I feel it is my obligation to take a wife and ensure the future of Addersley."

"Of course." How strange to hear this man who had once run so wild sounding precisely like his father. Of course, the revels had been only for a year, and in Gerald's company—likely at Gerald's instigation. But could there be anyone so opposite in temperament to Helena?

Hargood looked Nicholas in the eye. "And I wondered at your sister's situation."

"Helena has no attachments at this time." Nicholas could not discern whether Hargood was relieved or not, but the other man's manner prompted his warning. "But I am not certain how happy you might make each other."

"But surely Miss Emerson will be content with financial security and a sensible match."

Nicholas laughed. "I suspect that financial security is the last detail that would concern Helena, if she was left to make her match herself."

Hargood frowned, looking into the distance as if he reconsidered his choice. "She did confess her fascination for highwaymen." He looked at Nicholas, as if inviting that man to challenge the assertion which he seemed to find incomprehensible.

Nicholas could not.

"That would be Helena," he agreed easily. "She is often enamored of how matters appear, at the expense of overlooking how they are," Nicholas admitted. "She was, for example, recently courted by a Mr. Ethan Melbourne, who cultivated her affection solely because he thought her an heiress."

"A prudent man might have verified such a detail, if it was key to his suit."

"True enough, but Melbourne did not. He was well-attired and well-mannered, as well as handsome and persistent. He persuaded Helena to leave London in his company."

Hargood's brows rose. "Alone?"

"And unwed, but mercifully in a public carriage. They did not reach Gretna Green before Mr. Melbourne realized his error—my sister has no dowry—and as a result, Helena found his charm diminished both markedly and quickly."

"Has she been cast into disrepute?"

Nicholas thought he could guess the other man's view of that, but Hargood sounded more curious than disapproving. "No, the kindly wife of a solicitor riding in that coach with her own daughter took note of the situation. With Helena's surety that I would pursue her, she took my sister under her protection. I retrieved her from that lady's household and returned her home safely."

"Ah." Hargood nodded. "I did think her impulsive."

"She is."

"Though she is yet young."

Nicholas was not convinced his sister would abandon such tendencies as she aged, but neither did he wish to discourage Hargood. "I would hope her inclinations might change in time, but I am by no means confident of it," he felt obliged to say. Hargood ignored this, as Nicholas had anticipated. "There is nothing that would give me greater happiness than to see Helena betrothed to a suitable gentleman who will treat her well."

Hargood straightened and spoke with precision. "I would be honored to be that man. In terms of practical considerations, I have twenty-five thousand pounds a year, as well as the house here and the one in London."

It was more than sufficient to see Helena kept and Nicholas did not hide his admiration. "I would welcome your success, Hargood." Nicholas felt the need offer one last warning. "You should know that my sister has a fanciful conviction that she might wed the Duke of Haynesdale. My aunt has told me of it."

"I wondered," Hargood mused and Nicholas could only wonder what his sister had said. "Is there an understanding?"

Nicholas shook his head. "None. I am not certain Haynesdale has noticed her at all. I think it a harmless affectation on Helena's behalf, for Haynesdale has no inclination to wed anyone by my understanding. I mention it only as you will have to overcome the appeal of that prospect."

"His grace is not here," Hargood noted.

"True enough."

The other man nodded and took his leave, as if his triumph was inevitable. Nicholas watched him go, wondering what would come of it all.

Perhaps Helena would suddenly develop a measure of good sense.

Nicholas chuckled to himself and turned back to his labor. It would be a cold day in the devil's realm before that happened, but Hargood might prove to be more persuasive than Nicholas believed. He could not have completely forgotten his wild youth, and that might grant him an understanding of Helena that would serve him well.

Nicholas could only hope.

In matters marital, Joshua's father had always insisted the mind saw more clearly than the heart. That man had valued reason over emotion and Joshua saw little reason to doubt such counsel. His own match with Miss Havilland had been a calculated alliance, negotiated between the two fathers to provide best for their children. It had been arranged, sensible and planned for the benefit of both parties.

And so would this match be.

Even though Joshua arranged it himself, his marriage to Miss Emerson would be such a logical prospect that no person of intelligence could dismiss or decline his suit.

He already had Captain Emerson's agreement.

The aunt would undoubtedly also concur.

Miss Emerson herself was perhaps impulsive, but she was not a witless fool. She had to know that any childish fancy for the Duke of Haynesdale could not come to fulfillment.

She would see sense, Joshua was certain of it.

Surety of his victory made him impatient to see the matter resolved. Of course, he had already invited Lady Dalhousie and her niece to the house, but he would send a written invitation to formalize it. Miss Emerson could come to Addersley Manor on the morrow with her aunt, purportedly to choose a puppy. In truth, she would have an opportunity to see her new home, and he would propose to her. The aunt would undoubtedly wish to assure herself of his prospects and it would only be fitting for Miss Emerson to be chaperoned.

They might wed before the end of May.

By this time next year, he might have an heir.

Joshua was not truly concerned about Haynesdale as a competitor, but it might be better to see Miss Emerson's agreement secured before the duke's return. He would dispatch the invitation as soon as he completed his business with Mr. Newson.

By this hour on the morrow, his future would be resolved.

Aunt Fanny, predictably, was in a fluster about the viscount. She practically interrogated Lady Haynesdale about him and his prospects, much to Helena's mortification—but then, Lady Haynesdale seemed almost as anxious to discuss him. Perhaps she, too, tired of the topic of roses.

At any rate, it seemed Lord Addersley was a paragon of virtues, a noble, honorable, honest, reliable man Lady Haynesdale had known from infancy, one who attended to his responsibilities in a timely manner and was unfailingly courteous. His father had been a wonderful man; his mother a delight who passed too soon.

Helena could not suppress her yawn. Clearly, her fleeting impressions had been her own fabrications. He was dull beyond belief. He paid his bills and his taxes. He took care of his tenants and his holdings.

They returned to Bramble Cottage to find an invitation from the man in question to visit Addersley Manor on the following day.

"How gracious of him to formalize his offer," Aunt Fanny said.

"It arrived not half an hour ago, ma'am," Becky, their maid provided. "'Twas his ostler, Hoskins, as brought it."

Helena fairly saw her aunt's realization that Becky had been raised locally.

"What do you know of the viscount, Becky?" Aunt Fanny asked, feigning polite indifference.

"Not much, ma'am, seeing as he has been in London these past ten years. I was but a girl when he left."

London? He had been in London? Helena found her curiosity revived.

"He has a London house, then?" Aunt Fanny asked and Helena knew her aunt would next demand the address to determine its value.

"His father did, ma'am, and his father before him. I forget where it is, ma'am, but Jenny Percival went with the old viscount and his sons as upper housemaid and she says it is ever so fine."

"And what do you know of the new viscount?"

Becky, interestingly enough, shivered, though not with the delight Helena had experienced at the sound of the viscount's low and velvety voice.

"They say as there is no blood in his veins," she provided. "And that if you were to prick him, 'twould be ice water that flowed from the wound. Colder than a winter wind, he is, ma'am, to be sure. A lady would have to disguise herself as a ledger and speak only of sums and tallies to win his attention. That must be why he is unwed as yet." She nodded with enthusiasm. "There was to be a wedding all those years ago, but it never happened. Perhaps the lady found him lacking."

Even Aunt Fanny surrendered her ambitions with that confession and spent the evening frowning at her needlework. She suggested that they might not accept the viscount's invitation, but Helena wanted to see the dogs. How large could they be?

And she would acquaint herself with the duke's neighbors. She knew there could nothing else of interest for her at Addersley Manor.

All the same, she dreamed that night of a taciturn highwayman with eyes of glimmering green.

Addersley Manor was a complete contrast to Haynesdale House. Helena was astonished by the difference. While Haynesdale House was centuries old, large and of indeterminate design, Addersley Manor could not have been fifty years old. It was so obviously new—tall, broad and relentlessly symmetrical—that it might have been completed the year before. There were no stains or marks of age on the stone walls. The gardens, too, were formal—and to Helena's delight, there was not a rose in sight. The chosen plants offered a soothing composition of green and white, each specimen in its place and mirrored by one in the opposite location. The stairs before the house were broad and even, the doors wide and surrounded by panes of glass that sparkled in the sun.

Helena was certain she had never seen an abode that reflected its owner so well. Every detail was perfectly contrived and organized to reason. She would have liked to have seen a few pink peonies tumbling over themselves to mar the mathematical perfection of the garden or one of those enormous rhododendrons from Bramble Cottage, in full bloom.

"So new," Aunt Fanny clucked before the carriage door was opened. "It probably has every amenity," she said with a disapproval Helena did not share.

"No smoking chimneys," Helena agreed, thinking there was much good to be said for new construction. "No crooked floors and awkward corners. The spiders must have abandoned it in disgust, if ever they took up residence at all."

"Spiders! Do not speak to me of such creatures!"

"I doubt there are any, Aunt. I doubt there is any dust. There cannot be a nook to shelter a mouse, and there will be no bats in the attics for they cannot contrive a means of entry. It looks absolutely pristine."

"It has no character, no soul, no spirit," her aunt complained. "No history !" A footman opened the door then and she bit her tongue. She fortified herself with a deep breath, then left the carriage.

Helena was quick to follow her aunt, pausing to appreciate the wide level drive covered with pea gravel. The skies seemed bluer over this house and the sun a bit brighter. Lord Addersley himself emerged from the house to greet them, and his manners left nothing to be desired, according to Aunt Fanny's gracious response.

Helena thought he looked very fine in a navy jacket, buff trousers and his tall gleaming boots. His cravat was as white and crisp as previously, and again, he wore no adornment. He wore no hat and the breeze tousled his hair just enough to make him look less forbidding.

If only he were a little bit wicked. She sighed.

She had hoped that she would have confirmation of his secret side, the dangerous rogue with the glimmer lurking in his eyes, but he was the very heart and soul of indifferent politeness. They might have been strangers for all the warmth in his tone.

Surely the statue could not have been his true nature?

But then, who else would live in such a house?

"I thought we might resolve the question of the puppy first," the viscount said and gestured. "The stables are this way."

"The puppies are in the stables?" Helena asked as he offered Aunt Fanny his arm.

"Of course." He looked at her as if she had responded to him in Greek. "They are hunting dogs."

"Yes, but I thought you would have them in the house, perhaps in your library," Helena explained. "You do have a library?"

"Of course."

"With a grand fireplace?"

He halted. "Would you prefer to see it first?"

"No, but I always imagine a litter of puppies gathered around their mother, before a fire in a library."

He hesitated, a small frown between his brows. "There were dogs in the house when I was a boy, but my father and I have been in London in recent years. We have only come to Addersley Manor on occasion to hunt. The dogs were better cared for in the stables."

That made sense. "But if you mean to remain in the country, perhaps you should have dogs in the house," Helena said. When he did not reply, she dared to continue. "If I had a dog, I should want it to be with me all the time," she said. "I would expect it to sleep in my room and follow me through the house. I do not hunt, my lord, so there would be no other reason for me to have a dog than companionship. If that is not your expectation, perhaps I need not choose a puppy at all."

"A dog might also defend my niece," Aunt Fanny contributed when the viscount did not argue with her. "When they are part of the family, they are more inclined to be protective."

"Of course, you are correct in all of that," Lord Addersley inclined his head crisply and led them onward. Either he was unconvinced or he had another matter on his mind. He seemed, for a man who hid his thoughts well, to be preoccupied.

They might have crossed the distance in silence, if not for Aunt's chatter. Neither the viscount nor Helena spoke.

His stables were as newly constructed as the house and nearly as fine. The floor was swept clean and the horses were most handsome. Helena knew that Nicholas would have appreciated both the stable and the horses.

A large brown dog emerged from the shadows as they approached and barked a warning. It was indeed as tall as the viscount's hip and Helena gasped in surprise. The ostler came out and patted the dog. "Easy, Rufus," he said. "They're friendly enough." He grinned then inclined his head to Lord Addersley. "You see he recognizes his lordship. That's his bark to greet friends."

"He barks differently depending upon who arrives?" Helena demanded.

"Of course, miss," the ostler said.

The dog came to her, his tail wagging, and she was taken aback by the size of his teeth. He was a shaggy creature with a long rough coat, and it looked as if he had bushy eyebrows and a moustache. Lord Addersley offered his hand and the dog sniffed his fingertips, still wagging, then stepped closer to sniff the viscount's boots and trousers. Lord Addersley then patted the dog's head, his touch both sure and gentle.

The dog certainly appeared to have a calm manner. Helena followed the viscount's example and was delighted by the dog's easy acceptance of her. His fur was stiff but also soft, he was warm and she could feel the strength in his shoulders. He sat down and leaned against her leg, a not inconsiderable weight, tipping his head back with a blissful expression as she rubbed his ears. He began to emit a growl of satisfaction when she rubbed his throat.

"Ah, he likes that," the ostler said with a chuckle. "You'll own his soul in a heartbeat, miss."

Helena laughed, glancing up to find the viscount watching her, his attention so intent that her heart skipped. His eyes were dark again and their gazes locked for a moment during which she could not catch her breath.

"I do not want his soul, just one of his puppies," she said and the ostler chuckled.

The viscount averted his gaze.

"You'll need to know a little of dogs and their barks then, miss. There's his warning bark, when something is amiss or a stranger is coming," the ostler explained. "There's his welcome bark when someone he knows is arriving. There's his growl, which is for trouble that does not yet merit a bark. There's a yip he makes when he's playful."

"Dogs have an entire vocabulary for those who know to listen," Aunt said as if she knew of such matters.

"Goodness," Helena said, laughing when the dog licked her fingers. He gave yet a different bark, a high one that sounded happy. "He sounded as if he was purring when I rubbed his ear."

"Aye, he likes you, miss," the ostler said with satisfaction. "And a good thing that is since his lordship means to let you see the puppies." He turned and walked into the shadowed interior of the stables. "Rufus is as proud a father as ever you saw, miss."

He led them to a stall at the end. There were old blankets piled there and a darker dog of similar size to Rufus lying upon them. The mother was almost black, her fur a little more curly and glossy than that of Rufus. No less than eight tiny puppies scrambled around her, some nursing, some sleeping, some tumbling over their enormous feet. Their fur was silk and shiny, softer than belief, their antics and wagging tails so adorable that Helena was enchanted.

Lord Addersley crouched down beside the bed and she watched him doff his gloves. One puppy flopped against his boot while another nipped at his fingertip. They trusted him, it was clear. He smiled, oblivious to her perusal, and once again, she thought he was wonderfully handsome.

It was unfortunate that his nature was so restrained and quiet. He would be a dreadfully tedious companion once a woman looked beyond the cleft in his chin.

"They nigh all need new homes, miss. We can keep two or three, but Rowena here had a large litter." The female dog oofed, a low sound that might have been born of pride. "Though it is too soon as yet for them to leave their mother."

"Truly?" Helena asked.

"Aye, miss, they are nursing yet. I would not take them from her for another week."

"But you can choose one today," Lord Addersley said.

"Pick of the litter to the lady," Hoskins said with approval.

"There's a fine tribute, Helena," Aunt Fanny said. "You must thank Lord Addersley for that." Helena did as her aunt surveyed the puppies with a critical eye. "You will want the largest female, my dear."

"I will?" Helena knew nothing about dogs, but it was clear her aunt did.

"We had hunting dogs at Hexham, Helena. Do not look at me as if I am mad," Aunt chided.

"I did not know, Aunt. I apologize." Helena curtsied to her aunt, mollifying the older lady. The viscount, she was well aware, watched her keenly.

The ostler nodded approval. "Naught better in the house than a female," he said. "She'll take you all on as her family."

"How lovely!" Helena said. "You do let dogs into the house."

"These hunting dogs run through the muck, miss, for 'tis their job to flush the game, wherever it is to be found. It would be no good for them to be in the house with his lordship in London all the time. But I take Rowena home when she is not with a litter."

Helena smiled at this.

"Miss Emerson's suggestion is a good one, Hoskins. I think I will choose a pup to raise in the house myself. I remember running through the house with a pair of dogs that must have been the forebears of these. Rex and Riley."

Hoskins grinned. "Riley was Rowena's grandfather, sir."

The viscount smiled just a little. "There is a resemblance, to be sure. I remember him as enormous, black and fierce."

"But loyal, as well, sir."

"Indeed."

"But why the biggest female?" Helena asked.

"She will not be shy, nor will her siblings have bullied her," the ostler said. "She will not be timid." Helena watched as one pup growled at another, nudging it away from the mother with a purpose that was not a jest. "'Tis better if the bigger pups have homes first, then in their absence, the smaller ones come into their own."

"Goodness, it sounds complicated."

"They work it out, miss, just as nature intended." The ostler reached down and lifted a glossy black pup, taking her from the nipple with authority. She was as black as midnight with a white bib and half of her face was white. Her eyes were dark and she was as soft as velvet. "This would be the biggest of the girls. Born first she was, this one, and she already knows her mind."

"Look at her paws!" Aunt said.

"She will be as big as her father, I wager," Hoskins said. He set her down beside Helena, who offered her hand to the dog as she had with Rufus. The puppy sniffed her and wagged, then licked her gloved fingertips before pouncing on the toe of her slipper that peeked out beneath the hem of her skirts. Helena squealed and retreated but the puppy followed, stumbling clumsily after her, that tail aloft and wagging.

"Don't you chew my slippers," Helena said, scolding.

The puppy's eyes glinted and her tail wagged. She gave a little bark and jumped toward Helena's other toe. Helena fled a few steps and the pup bounced after her with delight. When she halted, the puppy collapsed over her foot and nuzzled her instep so that it tickled. Helena laughed and the pup gave a joyful bark. The mother barked a summons but the puppy did not return to her, simply looking up at Helena in adoration as she wagged her tail. Her tongue was a lovely shade of pink and her nose black and cold.

By the time Helena had confessed her satisfaction, the puppy had demolished a ribbon rose on one slipper. She attacked the second, moving so quickly that there was no chance to stop her.

"If you had worn your boots, Helena, your slippers would not have been damaged," Aunt Fanny chided.

"But I like these slippers," Helena protested. She leaned down and tapped the puppy's nose. "Naughty girl. You must leave my slippers alone." The puppy wagged her tail as if in agreement and Helena could not remain cross with her.

"She will need a name," Aunt Fanny said, as if the decision was made.

"Mischief," Helena said on impulse, patting the pup's head. "Her name shall be Mischief, for what she has done to my slippers." The pup barked then nipped at her finger, spinning in a circle as if in approval. She then tumbled to the ground as she tripped over her own feet, rolled over and bounced to her feet again. Helena could not help but laugh and the puppy barked.

"That is a happy bark," Helena guessed and the ostler nodded approval.

"That it is, miss. I wager she likes you."

"A good choice then," Lord Addersley said. He picked up the puppy and carried her back to the mother, nestling her back in place. The pup looked back at Helena before suckling again. Helena realized she would be able to identify her, given her size and coloring. It was a case of learning to look at what was before her eyes.

"She doesn't want me to forget her," Helena said.

"She will not forget you," Lord Addersley said with authority. "Nor will Hoskins and I forget that she is your choice. I thank you, Hoskins. Please choose a pup for the house for me."

"I will indeed, sir. The biggest male, sir?"

"Indeed, in the spirit of Riley."

Rufus escorted them from the stables, as if to ensure that they were not taking any of the pups with them.

As they headed back toward the house, Aunt Fanny cleared her throat. "Such a handsome house, my lord, with a fine prospect."

"My father had it built as a wedding gift for my mother," he acknowledged without much interest.

"Was there not a house already?"

"It had burned in my grandfather's time. He and my grandmother preferred to live in town, so he acquired the London house then. My mother preferred the country to town, however, so my father had this house built for her."

"Most generous," Aunt said with approval. "Do you still keep a house in town?" she asked as if she had not learned as much from Becky.

Next she would demand the address. Helena might have wished her aunt would be a little less direct in her inquiries, but the viscount did not seem to mind—and she found herself curious about the answer, as well.

She told herself that she was simply learning about their new neighbors.

"I do," the viscount said. "It is an older house and perhaps in need of improvement, though my father and I found it very comfortable in recent years. It is in Cavendish Square."

Aunt Fanny caught her breath, that gleam appearing in her eyes again. "When you marry, your wife will have to consider herself very fortunate," she said and Helena could not believe her aunt's presumption.

"I can only hope as much, madame," the viscount said with a force that seemed uncharacteristic.

Aunt Fanny was smiling, looking as smug as a cat who had stolen the cream. Helena could make no sense of this.

Puppies, it was clear, addled the wits of everyone. She hoped there was something good for tea. Aunt was always certain that bachelors could not see a household administered properly and had lamented the prospects of a meagre refreshment all morning long.