The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses Series 1-5 Read online

  Besides, he didn’t know a finger’s worth about cattle or dairy farming other than both smelled horrid. He swiped rain from his forehead and wrinkled his nose. How could his favorite cheese be a result of such stench? The reek had carried to him on the wind for miles. How did the locals tolerate it? An irony-born grin curved his lips. Much the same way he tolerated London’s, he’d wager. People disregarded flaws when they cared deeply about something or when convenient to do so.

  Gainsborough hadn’t blinked or appeared to have a second thought when he put up his land as collateral for his bet. He’d laughed and shrugged his thin shoulders before signing the estate over, vowing the neighbors adjacent to Esherton Green would jump at the opportunity to purchase the farm. Then, snatching a bottle of whisky in one hand and snaring a harlot years past her prime around the waist with the other, he had staggered from the gaming hell.

  Heath hoped to God the man had spoken the truth, otherwise, what would he do with the property? A gusty sigh escaped him as he slogged along to make the arrangements to sell his winnings. He should’ve been at White’s, a glass of brandy in one hand and cards in the other. Or at the theater watching that new actress, a luscious little temptation he had half a mind to enter into an arrangement with—after his physician examined her for disease, of course.

  Heath sought a new mistress after Daphne had taken it into her beautiful, but wool-gathering, head that she wanted marriage. To him. When he refused, she’d eloped with another admirer. That left a bitter taste on his tongue; she’d been cuckolding him while beneath his protection.

  Thank God he always wore protection before intimate encounters and insisted she underwent weekly examinations. Laughable, Daphne daring to broach matrimony when she’d already proven herself incapable of fidelity. Not that married women were better. His mother hadn’t troubled herself to provide Father a spare heir before lifting her skirts for the first of her myriad of lovers.

  Both his parents had died of the French disease, six months apart.

  Heath snorted, and the horse jerked his head. Now there was a legacy to be proud of.

  If and when he finally decided to become leg-shackled—at forty or fifty—he’d choose a mousy virgin who wouldn’t draw the interest of another man. A chit painfully shy or somehow marred, she’d never dare seek a lover. Or perhaps a woman past her prime, on the shelf, whose gratitude for saving her from a life of spinsterhood would assure faithfulness.

  Not too long on the shelf, however. He needed to get an heir or two on her.

  Didn’t matter a whit that half of le beau monde shared their beds with multiple partners. His marriage bed would remain pure—well, his wife would, in any event.

  A gust of wind slammed into Heath, sending his hat spiraling into the air. The gale lifted it, spinning the cap higher.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Ebénè raised his head and rolled his big eyes at the cavorting cap then grunted, as if to say, I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense. Do find me a warm comfortable stable and a bucket of oats at once.

  Two more miserable miles passed, made worse by the absence of Heath’s head covering. Water trickled down his face and nape, and, with each step, his temper increased in direct proportion to his dwindling patience. The return trip to Bristledale Court would be more wretched, given his sopped state, and dusk would be upon him before he reached the house.

  He should have accepted Leventhorpe’s suggestion of a carriage, but that would have meant Heath’s comfort at the expense of two drivers and four horses. He shivered and drew his collar higher. He anticipated a hot bath, a hearty meal, and a stiff drink or two upon his return to Bristledale. Leventhorpe boasted the best cognac in England.

  Heath glanced skyward. The roiling, blackish clouds gave no indication they had any intention of calming their fury soon. He wiped off a large droplet balancing on the end of his nose. Strange, he hadn’t paid much mind to storms while in Town. Then again, he wasn’t prone to gadding about in the midst of frightful gales when in the city either.

  Perhaps he could bribe a cup of tea and a few moments before the fire from the tenant.

  What was his name?

  Something or other Culpoppers or Clodhopper or some such unusual surname. The bloke wouldn’t likely offer him refreshment or a coze before the hearth once he learned the reason for Heath’s visit. Guilt raised its thorny head, but Heath stifled the pricks of unease. A business matter, nothing more. He’d won the land fairly. The tenant was in arrears in rents. Heath didn’t want another parcel of countryside to tend to. He knew naught of dairy farming.

  The place must be sold.

  Simple as that.

  Keep spouting that drivel, and you might actually come to believe it.

  Although gambling is an inherent tendency in human nature, a wise woman

  refrains from partaking, no matter how seemingly insignificant the wager.

  ~Wisdom and Advice—The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  Brooke scrunched her forehead and tried to decipher the words. Not only did Sheridan possess atrocious penmanship, the tea had ruined much of the writing.

  ...writing to inform you I have...

  A large smudge obliterated the next few words. She smoothed the wrinkled paper and squinted.

  Esherton Green...new owner.

  Brooke couldn’t suppress her gasp of dismay as she involuntarily clenched one hand around the letter and pressed the other to her chest.

  New owner? Esherton Green was entailed. Sheridan couldn’t sell it.

  Yes. He could.

  Only the house and the surrounding five acres were entailed. Even the outbuildings, though they sat on those lands, hadn’t been part of the original entailment. The rest of the estate had been accumulated over the previous four generations and the barns constructed as the need arose. She’d memorized the details, since she and Papa had done their utmost to finagle a way for her to inherit.

  He’d conceived the plan to send Sheridan half the proceeds from the dairy and farm, so she and the others could continue to live in the only home any of them remembered and still make a modest income. They’d gambled that Sheridan would be content to pad his pockets with no effort on his part, and wouldn’t be interested in moving to their remote estate and assuming the role of gentleman farmer.

  And our risk paid off. Until now.

  She needed the acreage to farm and graze the cattle. Their milk was sold to make Cheshire’s renowned cheese. Without the land, the means to support the girls and staff was lost.

  “What does he have to say?” Blaire exchanged a worried glance with her twin.

  Blythe pushed a curl behind her ear and slanted her head, her intelligent lavender gaze shifting between the paper and Brooke. “Is something amiss, Brooke?”

  “Shh.” Brooke waved her hand to silence their questions. The tea had damaged the writing in several places. She deciphered a few disjointed sentences.

  Pay rent...reside elsewhere...at your earliest convenience...new owner takes possession...regret the necessity...unfortunate circumstances...commendable job managing my holdings...might be of service

  Brooke’s head swam dizzily.

  “Pay rent? Reside elsewhere?” she murmured beneath her breath.

  She raised her gaze, staring at the now-frolicking fire, and swallowed a wave of nausea. Sheridan had magnanimously offered to let them stay on if they paid him rent, the bloody bounder. How could she find funds for rent when he’d sold their source of income? They already supplemented their income every way possible.

  Brette took in sewing and embroidery and often stayed up until the wee morning hours stitching with a single candle as light. The twins managed a large vegetable, herb, and flower garden, selling the blooms and any excess produce at the village market each week during the growing season. Blythe put her musical talents to use and gave Vicar Avery’s spoiled daughters weekly voice and harpsichord lessons.

  The women picked mushrooms and tended the chickens a
nd geese—feeding them, gathering their eggs, and plucking and saving the feathers from the unfortunate birds that stopped laying and found their way into the soup pot.

  The faithful staff—more family than servants—contributed beyond Brooke’s expectations too. Mabry and the other two stable hands provided fish, game fowl, and the occasional deer to feed them. Duffen spent hours picking berries and fruit from the neglected orchard so Mrs. Jennings could make her famous tarts, pies, and preserves, which also sold at the market. And dear, dim-witted Flora washed the Huffington’s and Benbridge’s laundry.

  Sheridan remained obligated to care for them, save Brooke, who’d come of age since he gained guardianship of the girls. It would serve him right if she showed up on his doorstep, sister, cousins, pets, and servants—even the herd of cows—in tow, and demanded he do right by them.

  Brooke didn’t know his age or if he was married. Did he have children? Come to think of it, she didn’t have an address for him either. She’d directed her correspondences to his man of business in London. Where did Sheridan live? London?

  Was he one of those fellows who preferred the hubbub and glamour of city life, rather than the peace and simplicity of country living? Most likely. She’d never lived anywhere but Esherton. However, the tales Papa told of the crowding, stench, and noise of Town made the notion of living there abhorrent.

  Heart whooshing in her ears, she dropped her attention to the letter once more.

  Expect your response by...as to your intentions.

  Her gaze flew to the letter’s date. Tea had smudged all but the year. Moisture blurred her vision, and she blinked furiously. The unfairness galled. She’d worked so blasted hard, as had everybody else, and that pompous twit—

  “Brooke?” The hint of alarm edging Brette’s voice nearly undid her.

  Fresh tears welled in Brooke’s eyes, and she pivoted toward the windows to hide her distress. After dragging in a steadying breath, she forced her leaden feet to carry her to the unoccupied chair and gratefully sank onto the cushion. However, flattened by years of constant use, it provided little in the way of padding.

  She took another ragged breath, holding the air until her lungs burned and willed her pulse to slow to a somewhat normal rhythm. Though her emotions teetered on the cusp of hysteria, she must present a calm facade. The quartet weren’t given to histrionics, but something of this magnitude was guaranteed to cause a few waterworks, her own included. Pressing shaking fingers to her forehead, Brooke closed her eyes for a brief moment.

  God help me. Us.

  “I fear I have disquieting news.” She met each of their wary gazes in turn, her heart so full of dismay and disbelief, she could scarcely speak.

  God rot you, Sheridan.

  “Sheridan...” Her mouth dry from trepidation—how can I tell them?—she cleared her throat then licked her lips. “He has sold the lands not attached to the house.”

  The study echoed with the girls’ gasps and a low oath from Mabry.

  Outrage contorted his usually jovial face into a fierce scowl. “The devil you say!”

  Freddy wedged his sturdy little body between Blaike and Blaire, his soulful eyes wide with worry.

  “Told you the day be cursed.” Duffen shook his head. Highly superstitious, he fingered the smooth stone tied to his neck by a thin leather strip. A lucky talisman, he claimed. “Started with me putting on my left shoe first and then spilling salt in me porridge this morning.”

  “Sheridan cannot do that.” Blaike looked at Brooke hopefully. “Can he, Brooke?”

  “Yes, dear, he can.” Brooke scowled at the illegible scribbles. She took her anger out on the letter, crumpling it into a tight wad before tossing it into the fire. “He’s offered to let us stay on if we pay him rent.”

  The last word caught on a sob. She’d failed the girls. And the servants.

  She couldn’t even sell the furnishings, horseflesh, or carriages. Everything of value had long since been bartered or sold. The parure set would only bring enough to sustain them for a few months—six at the most.

  What then? They had no remaining family. No place to go.

  She clenched the cushion and curled her toes in her boots against the urge to scream her frustration. She must find a position immediately. A governess. Or perhaps a teacher. Or maybe she and the girls could open a dressmaker’s shop. They would need to move. There were no positions for young ladies available nearby and even less need for seamstresses.

  London.

  A shudder of dread rippled through her. Nothing for it. They would have to move to Town. They’d never traveled anywhere beyond the village.

  Did she have the legal right to sell the cattle and keep the proceeds? She twisted a curl beside her ear. She must investigate that posthaste. But who dare she ask? One of her neighbors might have purchased the lands from beneath her, and she couldn’t afford to consult a solicitor. Perhaps she should seek Mr. Benbridge’s counsel. She couldn’t count the times he’d offered his assistance.

  Silas Huffington’s sagging face sprang to mind. Oh, he’d help her, she had no doubt. If she became his mistress. Hell would burn a jot hotter the day that bugger died.

  “Did he say who bought the lands, Miss Brooke?” Duffen peered at her, his wizened face crumpled with grief. Moisture glinted in his faded eyes, and she swore his lower lip trembled. “That churl, Huffington?”

  Brooke shook her head. “No, Duffen, I’m afraid Sheridan didn’t say.”

  What would become of Duffen? Mrs. Jennings? Poor simple-minded Flora? Queer in the attic some would call the maid, but they loved her and ignored her difficulties.

  How could Sheridan sell the lands from beneath them?

  The miserable, selfish wretch.

  Never had Brooke felt such rage. If only she were a man, this whole bumblebroth would have been avoided.

  “Man ought to be horsewhipped, locked up, an’ the key thrown away,” Duffen muttered while wringing his gnarled hands. “Knew in my aching joints today heralded a disaster besides this hellish weather.”

  “Perhaps the new owner will allow us to carry on as we have.” Everyone’s gaze lurched to Blaire. She shrugged and petted Pudding’s back. The cat arched in pleasure, purring louder. “We could at least ask, couldn’t we?”

  A flicker of hope took root.

  Could they?

  Brooke tapped her fingers on the chair’s arm. The howling wind, the fire’s crackle, and the cats’ throaty purrs, filled the room. Nonetheless, a tense stillness permeated the air.

  Why not at least try?

  “Why, yes, darling.” Brooke smiled and nodded. “What a brilliant miss you are. That might be just the thing.”

  Blaire beamed, and smiles wreathed the other girls’ faces.

  Duffen continued to scowl and mumble threats and nonsense about the evil eye beneath his breath.

  A speculative gleam in his eyes, Mabry scratched his nearly bald pate. “Aye, if he’s a city cove with no interest in country life, we might convince the bloke.”

  “Yes, we might, at that.” Brooke stood and, after shaking her skirts, paced behind the sofa, her head bowed as she worried the flesh of her lower lip.

  Could they convince the new owner to let them stay if she shared her plans for the farm? Would he object to a woman managing the place? Many men took exception to a female in that sort of a position—the fairer sex weren’t supposed to concern themselves with men’s work.

  Hands on her hips, she faced Mabry. “Ask around, will you? But be discreet. See if our neighbors or anyone at the village has knowledge of the sale. If the buyer isn’t local, we stand a much better chance of continuing as we have.”

  What if the buyer was indeed one of the people she owed money to?

  Not likely.

  She would have heard a whisper.

  Wouldn’t I?

  Something of that nature wouldn’t stay secret in their shire for long. In Acton, rumors made the rounds faster than the blustering wind, especially
if the vicar’s wife heard the on dit. The woman’s tongue flapped fast enough to send a schooner round the world in a week.

  Brooke turned to Duffen. Often loose of lips himself, he had to keep her confidence. “We want this kept quiet as possible. I cannot afford to have our debts called in by those afraid they’ll not get their monies.”

  Duffen angled his head, a strange glint in his rheumy brown eyes. He toyed with his amulet again. “Won’t say a word, Miss Brooke. Count on me to protect you an’ the other misses.”

  She smiled, moisture stinging her eyes. “I know I can, Duffen.”

  Wringing his hands together, he nodded and mumbled as he stared into the fire. “Promised the master, I did. Gots to keep my word. Protect the young misses.”

  “Brooke?” Blythe’s worried voice drew everybody’s attention. “What if the owner wants to reside at Esherton? What will we do then?”

  Only ninnyhammers mistake preparation meeting opportunity as luck.

  ~Wisdom and Advice—The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  Lifting his head, Heath squinted into the tumult swirling around him. At the end of a long, tree-lined drive, a stately two-story home rose out of the grayish gloom. A welcoming glint in a lower window promised much-needed warmth.

  Deuced rotten day.

  The indistinct shapes of several outbuildings, including two immense barns and an unusual round structure, lay to one side of the smallish manor. A cow’s bawl floated to him, accompanied by a pungent waft of damp manure.

  Ebénè must have seen the house and stables too, for the tired horse quickened his pace to a trot, ignoring Heath’s hands on the reins.

  “Fine, get on with you then.”

  He gave the horse his head. Splattering muck in his haste, the beast shot down the rough and holey roadway as if a hoard of demons scratched at his hooves.

  The thunderous crack of an oak toppling mere seconds after Heath passed beneath its gnarled branches launched his heart into his throat and earned a terrified squeal from Ebénè. The limbs colliding with the earth launched a shower of mud over them. A thick blob smacked Heath at the base of his skull then slid, like a giant, slimy slug, into his collar. The cold clump wedged between his shoulder blades.