“Then why does he do it?”
“From his own kind heart, that’s all. All the years we watched him growing up, there was grief he’d never be master of Hawksley Park. But no doubt little Lady Diana will marry a good man who’ll see to things. Perhaps the fine young fellow she was walking with?”
Stunned into silence, Eleanor didn’t reply.
Frank Garth touched his cap and turned to move away up the lane.
“Through the lady-squeezer, my lady,” he said. “Another half mile will take you to the village.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor said to his retreating back as she felt herself flush with color.
She had just accused Leander Campbell of being entirely selfish and ruthless. After all, he had told her himself he made his living at gambling, and he had kissed her with consummate, unforgivable skill—surely the behavior of a careless rake?
So why was he helping the tenants at Hawksley? And he collected old books, apparently just for the love of them, an extremely odd passion for a worthless blackmailer. However was she to reconcile this with everything else?
* * *
Lady Acton looked thoughtfully at the handsome face with the fathomless violet eyes.
“Do you always, Mr. Campbell,” she said acidly, “do your best to make enemies?”
“On the contrary, Lady Acton, I value friends. Though now I have one less than I did. I miss the blameless company of poor Manton Barnes, for instance, though doubtless he’s as well off where he is now, as he was in the merciless streets of London.”
“Manton Barnes?” Lady Acton repeated. “I know the name, but I don’t believe I ever had the pleasure of his acquaintance, sir.”
“Your ladyship will never have it now. He’s dead.”
“I’m so very sorry. Was it sudden?”
“Very sudden. A gun accident.”
“And you have taken it rather hard, haven’t you?” The countess’s beautiful black eyes looked unflinchingly into his. “I wish I had known the man who could inspire your friendship, Mr. Campbell. I have the feeling that it might be rather a precious commodity.”
“The odd thing is,” Lee continued without blinking, “that Barnes seemed to know you.”
“Did he? How very extraordinary, for I’m sure I never met him. But then, I’m rather well celebrated in Town, sir. Perhaps he knew of me by reputation?”
“Perhaps,” Lee said, and smiled.
He hoped it conveyed both genuine apology and even relief. For he was convinced, though he couldn’t prove it, that the countess was telling the truth. She had not known Barnes and that was some small compensation. He very much wanted to know that the Actons were not connected with the blackmail of his friend. But then, who was?
And what had Manton Barnes meant when he wrote about the lady and the punishment of Prometheus?
But the Countess of Acton had turned away from him to hold out her hand to the gentleman who was now joining them. Major Sir Robert St. John Crabtree of the splendid mustaches gave her a charming smile, a military bow, and the violets.
She made no objection when both gentlemen helped her over the stile.
* * *
Lady Diana Hart and Mr. Feveril Downe were sitting side by side on some blocks of sawed wood outside the Norman church of Little Tanning when Eleanor caught up with them. As in many Norfolk villages, the church was bigger than all the little cluster of houses put together.
“Where’s Lee?” Diana asked.
“I’m not sure,” Eleanor said, sitting down beside Walter. “But I have a rather odd message for him from an old man I saw in the lane.”
“A message?” Mr. Downe asked.
Eleanor laughed. “Yes, about red flannel petticoats and a cow. Oh, yes, and some roof repair as well. His name was Frank Garth.”
“Oh, old Garth’s been here forever. That’s his cottage, at the end of the row,” Diana said, pointing. “His wife was taken ill last winter. I took her some food and did what I could. Lee probably sent them some funds.”
“Did he, by Jove?” Walter said. “I didn’t know Leander Campbell was given to rustic charity, though I’m not surprised.”
“Well, I am,” Eleanor said.
Diana looked at her in genuine astonishment. “Lee’s known folk like Garth all his life. If they have trouble they always turn to him, because they know I don’t have any funds of my own and he’s always sure to help if he can.”
“But he’s a gambler, isn’t he? And a libertine? I’m sorry, Di, I know you love your brother, but it seems very odd to me.”
“You’re too harsh, Lady Eleanor,” Walter said very seriously. “Lee told me he bumped into you at the Three Feathers, in the corridor or something, and he was rude, wasn’t he? He was pretty foxed, I imagine. Well, he’d just found a good friend killed and he wanted to forget about it. In normal circumstances he’s never a deep drinker, believe me.”
“Killed?” Diana cried. “How very dreadful!”
“It was Manton Barnes—Sir Robert’s nephew, as a matter of fact.” Walter Downe flushed deeply. “Had an accident cleaning his gun.”
“Oh, how awful!” Diana said. “Poor Sir Robert—and how terrible for Lee! If my brother was offhand when he met you, Eleanor, surely you can forgive him?”
Eleanor said nothing. The sad death of this Manton Barnes might explain why Leander Campbell chose to get foxed, but it certainly didn’t excuse his kissing her or trying to blackmail her. But for Diana’s sake, she would try to be friendly to him.
After all, once this visit was over, she would very probably never see him again. It might be unexceptionable to be in his company in the country, but the profligate by-blow of the late Earl of Hawksley was hardly the kind of person her mother would encourage to come calling at Acton House on Park Lane.
* * *
Lady Acton, accompanied by Sir Robert Crabtree and Leander Campbell, came strolling from amongst the birches. The breeze whipped at her elegant skirts and brought a flush of color to her perfect cheeks. She looked exquisite.
“Dear children,” she said as they came up. “Sir Robert is going to show me the brasses in the church, but by all means go on if you wish. You will escort my daughter, won’t you, Mr. Campbell?”
“With pleasure, my lady.” He gave her an exact bow.
“I have some bread for the ducks,” Diana said, leaping to her feet as the major and the countess disappeared in the direction of the church. “Let’s go down to the pond!”
Eleanor walked beside Mr. Campbell as Diana led Walter across the green toward the duck pond. Its choppy surface reflected broken images of a row of flint-and-brick cottages. A small tree-shaded stream fed the pond and then gurgled away under a low stone bridge. The hamlet of Little Tanning was entirely enclosed by the Hawksley estate. Every house in it was the property of the dowager countess. Thus most of the inhabitants, including the children, were out somewhere on the farms.
“I met a certain Frank Garth,” Eleanor said, clutching at her parasol as they met the full force of the wind whipping across the open green.
“Did you?” he asked.
“You’re to be thanked for a red flannel petticoat.”
“Good heavens.” He had taken off his hat and tucked it under one arm. The wind tossed his dark hair wildly about his face.
Eleanor began to try to fold her parasol, since it now threatened to turn inside out. “And a roof.”
“This Mr. Garth is a doited old gaffer, no doubt.”
“And a cow for one Mrs. Pottage. Does she have windmills in her head, as well?”
“Without question,” he said perfectly seriously.
“It seemed to me, sir, that Mr. Frank Garth is entirely in possession of his wits. And if the lady who is waving her apron at you from that doorway is the same Mrs. Pottage, she would seem to be a stout, sensible country woman, not in the least given to wild fancies.”
“Indeed.” He waved back to the woman who smiled and nodded from one of the cottages. “Then perhaps I’m the one with wild flights of folly, Lady Eleanor?”
“If you try to tell me that you send charity to these people because you suffer fits of madness, Mr. Campbell, I shall only think you lacking in the wit to come up with a better explanation.”
“Like the Norfolk men staring at the moon’s reflection in a pond?” he said, smiling down at her. “I think the only question that arises is why four otherwise perfectly sensible people are fighting gale-force winds in order to feed some ducks. The birds are dabbling quite happily without us, although large waves are now racing through the water, and our gentle spring breeze is rapidly threatening to carry us off.”
“Whatever the wind, I hope my feet at least are firmly planted on the ground. Oh, no!” Eleanor burst out laughing. “There goes Diana’s best bonnet!”
As she spoke, the wind also caught Eleanor’s parasol, which sprang open and was torn from her grasp. It sailed wildly after the devastating straw-chip bonnet with the blue ribbons that Lady Diana had selected with such care that morning. The truant hat whisked off across the duck pond. It seemed to hesitate for a moment above the water, then a fresh gust caught it and it went racing away into Little Tanning. The parasol, now floating like a giant dandelion seed, danced after it.
“Tally ho—the fox is away!” Walter cried. “Come on, Lee! Let’s after the quarry!”
“Have you nerve to face your jumps, Lady Eleanor?” he asked.
“I’ve ridden to hounds with my brothers, sir. I hope I’m game for anything.”
Diana and Walter were already racing around the pond after the bonnet. Eleanor laughed, picked up her skirts in both hands, and ran after them.
The bonnet was now bowling fast down the dirt lane that served Little Tanning for a main street. Walter ran full tilt after it, while Diana chased in his wake. Meanwhile, the parasol had soared over their heads and lodged for a moment in the faintly greening branches of an oak tree.
Eleanor raced over the bridge, but Mr. Campbell overtook her easily, tossed aside his hat, and began to climb the tree.
“For heaven’s sake, be careful, Mr. Campbell!” she cried. “The parasol is of no account whatsoever.”
Her only reply was a shower of twigs as he rapidly ascended the trunk. He had almost reached the offending parasol, when another gust caught it and sent it tumbling onto the rooftops of the cottages where it proceeded to bowl along the ridge cap.
He gave Eleanor a wink, let go of the tree, and leaped. Her breath stopped in her throat, then came back in a rush as he landed safely beside a softly smoking brick chimney. Instantly, he was on his feet and running lightly after the parasol. The silk fringe flapped wildly as it danced ahead of him and he jumped from one roof to the next.
“I suppose I should be grateful, Lady Eleanor,” she heard him say before the wind blew away the words, “that old Frank Garth repaired his roof.”
Eleanor picked up his hat and ran along behind the cottages as he traced the ridges of one after another. But the parasol skipped beyond them. He stopped at the edge of the last roof. The quarry had spun up again out of reach. It was now rolling across the high peak of Mrs. Pottage’s dairy barn. A little loop of leather hanging from its handle trailed behind it. With another burst of wind, it jumped up off the pantiles and the loop caught in the spinning tine of a weathervane. Solidly captured by the highest perch in the village except for the church tower, Eleanor’s parasol danced a jig in the wind as if mocking its pursuer.
The space between the buildings was too far to jump, and the barn roof was some feet higher than the cottages. Yet Mr. Campbell tugged off his jacket and tossed it to Eleanor, leaving him clad in his maroon waistcoat and buff breeches. The wind instantly flattened his white shirt against the strong muscling of his arms.
“If your ladyship would be so kind as to pass me that washing pole?” he said, as casually as if he were asking for more wine at dinner, rather than being balanced precariously on a rooftop.
Eleanor was breathless with running. “But what are you going to do?”
“Do not gainsay me! The pole, if you please!”
She took the long, forked stick that the cottagers used to prop up their laundry lines and flung it up to him like a javelin. He caught it in one hand and bowed his thanks.
“Where on earth,” he said as he tested the stick, “did you learn to throw like that?”
“You know I have two older brothers. We played together every summer at Acton Mead and I had to keep up, you know.”
“And become an Amazon? You leave me trembling in awe of your prowess.” He didn’t seem to be trembling in the least, unless it was with laughter. “Now, for the parasol!”
In spite of herself, Eleanor was laughing, too. “Pray, don’t do anything more, sir! It’s not worth it, truly.”
“I think, brown hen,” he said, suddenly serious, “that it’s worth a great deal to see you laugh.”
“What?” she said, staring up at him.
“In all my wicked experience,” he continued with a wink, “I have never seen a more beautiful laugh, nor more beautiful eyes.”
Eleanor stopped dead in her tracks. “Are you trying to flatter me, sir?”
But Mr. Campbell was no longer looking at her. He had backed up several paces and was coiled like a spring, the smooth muscles of his back lithe as a cheetah’s. As she watched, he took a short run and using the washing pole, vaulted cleanly to the barn roof. Abandoned, the pole fell bouncing from the cottage roof to the ground.
He ran along the pantiles and caught up the parasol. He flourished it in triumph.
“Don’t be ridiculous, brown hen,” he said lightly, as if there had been no interruption. “You’re an earl’s daughter, and I seem to be the most notorious rake in London. I’m certainly without birth, position, or prospects. I’d be lucky to marry a City chit with a large enough portion to support my dissolute career. In the meantime, pray don’t refuse me the harmless pastime of practicing compliments.”
Eleanor gazed up at him. An odd constriction pressed around her heart.
“For heaven’s sake!” she said. “I don’t want your professional compliments. Suppose they were to turn my foolish schoolgirl’s head? Don’t you have a conscience?”
“Even a hardened rake has some shreds of conscience when in the presence of a lady with so skillful a throwing arm. But I promise I’ll keep my observations to myself in future. ‘Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, / And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,’” he quoted freely. “But you can’t stop me thinking—”