The Convenient Arrangement (2 page)

Leaving the others to tend to the bags and boxes crammed into the boot and stacked atop the carriage, he strode up the steps. The four steps were half-circles with some sort of design engraved into them. He tried to see in the faint light from the carriage lantern, but either the design was so worn by weather and time or the light was just too scanty. He could not discern what the pattern might be.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow he would act like a child with a new toy that was sure to become beloved. He would explore the manor house and then the grounds. It might take him weeks, but he could envision no better way to spend his first fortnights here at Moorsea Manor.

When the front door did not swing open to admit him, Lorenzo frowned. The house was lit inside like a Covent Garden theater stage. Someone must be within. A chuckle welled up within him, but he swallowed it. If visitors seldom called, any footmen who watched this door might have grown lax at the post. Not, altogether, a bad thing.

“Allow me, my lord.” Kirby took the steps two at a time and reached for the door and gave him a wide grin. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Moorsea Manor.”

Lorenzo freed his chuckle, which was tinged with regret. This place well-suited him, but he wondered how Kirby would fare. Here, his short, round valet might find little opportunity to savor his fondness for emoting and poking fun, at every possible moment. Although his family had questioned why Lorenzo, who preferred serenity, would want Kirby serving him, Lorenzo suspected it was simply that they shared a sense of dry humor few others understood.

“Thank you, Kirby,” he said with all the exaggerated gentility that his valet's voice contained. Amazing that they could still laugh in the wake of this seemingly endless journey from Wolfe Abbey far north of here near the Lake District.

The light poured out, an unstoppable flood, as the door opened. Dozens of voices, each of them high with strong emotion, pounded Lorenzo's ears. As he stepped into the foyer, he wondered if all the residents of Moorsea Manor and half the shire were squeezed into the space. It was not a small area, but choke-f of people who all had their backs to him.

Even as he tried to sort out the chaos of the voices, he stared about him. He could not help but admire the rafters woven in the ceiling three stories above him. He had time to do little more than give the heavy, oak staircase a cursory glance. Even the ironwork lanterns hanging from the walls that were criss-crossed with boards and plaster in a decidedly Tudor motif earned no more attention than just the corner of his eye as one voice rose above the others.

A woman's voice.

“Why are you just standing there?” The woman's question was tinged with despair. “Go! Now!”

Kirby back-pedaled, nearly bumping into Lorenzo when someone shoved past and ran through the door at a high speed. The lad tripped on his own feet and stumbled down the steps before recovering. He ignored Lorenzo's half-spoken question as he stared at Mrs. Ditwiller's wide-open mouth and eyes. The lad then vanished into the darkness.

“I have no idea what is going on here,” Kirby said and stepped aside to let the housekeeper enter. “Sounds like a goodwife about to give her husband a curtain-lecture.”

Lorenzo had no idea what was happening either. He stared at the people filling the foyer. One or two people stared back at him before bending to whisper to one another and point at him, but most of the eyes were focused on a woman standing at the foot of the stairs.

Lorenzo could not blame them for staring at the woman. She was unquestionably beautiful, although her hair was a bold shade of red. Within her heart-shaped face, that was the perfect size to be held between a man's palms, her purple eyes flashed with emotion. Her gown flowed along her lithe curves, its lilac lace and silk flattering to her smooth skin. Across her shoulders, she wore the most outrageously patterned shawl he had ever seen. Its heavy fringe sifted down her arms, changing pattern with every motion.

When silence spread across the foyer as more and more of the people turned to look at him, the woman took note of the inattention to her words. She focused those incredible eyes on him and tapped her slender foot on the stone floor. “It is about time you got here.”

“Me? Who are you, madam?” He did not doubt she was of the Polite World, for her gown was well-made, although he could not judge if it were
à la modality
. He had not been to Town in several Seasons. He had no idea what a lady of the Polite World could be doing here about as far from London as she could get and still be within the borders of England.

She gave him no answer. She turned to speak with a woman who was wringing her apron as severely as Mrs. Ditwiller was her handkerchief.

“Does she belong here?” asked Kirby, scratching his head under his cap. With a lecherous grin, he added, “Do you think the old earl left her for you, too, my lord?”

Lorenzo scowled, and the valet's smile vanished. No matter what sort of bumble-bath this was, Kirby should not be speaking so of a lady.

The woman shoved a vagrant strand of red hair back from her face as she pointed at Lorenzo and asked, “You there, why aren't you helping?”

“Madam, I ask again,” he said, closing the door behind Gil who was staring, open-mouthed, around them. “Who are you and what is this upshot?”

Valeria Fanning aimed a furious glare at the tall, dark-haired man who refused to give her a direct answer. The old earl had been a warm-hearted man, but she suspected he had made little effort in this horrid house to keep his staff well-trained. This lean man, who must be the butler, for he was not dressed in the light blue livery of the other servants, made no effort to assist her. He carried a battered, black leather bag in one hand. Usually she would be curious what he might be toting about the house, but now she had no time to assuage her curiosity.

She started to turn back to ask a question of the woman she guessed was the housekeeper, but the exasperating man's gaze refused to release hers. For a moment, surely no longer than a single heartbeat, she was captured by that silver-blue gaze in his sharply carved face. His jaw's firm angle warned he was not a man who accepted reprimand well.

Dash it! Why was she worried about the butler when David was missing? Again!

“How can you just stand there?” she gasped, resisting the yearning to take him by the arm and shake him until he gave her a single answer to her questions. “We need to find him.”

“Him who?”

Was the man completely bereft of his wits? She had just described the problem to the manor's household staff. She took a deep breath to keep from flying into a pelter. That would gain her nothing at this point, and she could not fault this household staff for its lack of guidance. That must be changed posthaste. Pointing to the footman who had opened the door for her, she said, “You explain. I do not have the time.”

Valeria whirled to rush up the stairs. David had a fondness for high, precarious places. Mayhap this drafty, archaic pile of stones had a tower that he had seen upon their arrival. She dared not consider how unsafe such a place would be for an eight-year-old lad.

A hand on her arm sent a fiery shock through her. Anger burst within her as she was spun to stare up at the man with the pale blue eyes. When he swiftly drew back his hand, astonishment on his face at his own forward behavior, she took a step away.

“Your manners are intolerable for a butler,” she snapped. “I have no doubts that you would be dismissed immediately if Lord Moorsea were here to witness this.”

“I am sure my manners are quite intolerable for a butler,” he said, with a tilt of his head in her direction. “However, madam, I am not the butler.”

“Not the butler? Then who are you?”

“Allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed more deeply. “I am Lorenzo Wolfe, Lord Moorsea.”

“You …?” Her voice came out in a squeak.

When Lord Moorsea put his hand under her elbow, she was grateful to let him assist her to a chair next to the massive staircase whose banister must have been made of oak sturdy enough for a ship's keel. The rickety chair gave a warning creak as she sat on it, but it did not collapse. Dear God, she feared she was about to.

Squaring her shoulders, she clasped her hands primly in her lap. This was not a good beginning, but she must not allow her ill-spoken words to return to daunt her as Lord Moorsea had with his introduction. She was no young miss who could run crying back to her schoolroom in the wake of a
faux pas
. She had left that child behind long ago. She had endured more than she had thought she could in the past few months, and she had survived. Making a May game of herself mattered little when David was still missing in this strange house.

“Do you wish me to send for some
sal volatile?
” asked Lord Moorsea. A wry smile tilted his expressive mouth as his gaze swept the foyer and staircase. “I daresay it might be a scarce commodity here.”

Her answer faltered when his compelling gaze settled on her once again. He was not what was commonly considered handsome, but he had a face no woman could ignore. The sharp planes altered with each of his expressions, making him look one minute austere and daunting, the next warm and wondrously kind.

“I am quite well,” she whispered. “I shall not swoon.”

“I am glad to hear that, Miss—”

“Lady Valeria Fanning.” She stood and held out one hand while she gripped the back of the chair with the other. “Forgive me for my double errors of not realizing your identity, my lord, and of not introducing myself as soon as you entered.”

Lorenzo took the hand she offered between his and was not surprised when it trembled. Bits of color were returning to her face, but it still resembled carved marble. “You are quite distressed, as I noted upon our arrival. Whatever has unsettled you seems unresolved. Will you tell me what has upset you?”

“David is missing.”

“David?”

“My nephew David Blair. He is but eight years old, yet he has a curiosity that is unhampered by his age.”

Lorenzo looked over his shoulder. “Kirby? Gil?” When they pushed through the crush to his side, he said quietly, “Search the house without delay and find one eight-year-old lad who answers to the name David.”

“He is quite tall for his age,” Lady Fanning hurried to add. “His hair is dark, and he is wearing a forest green coat and brown riding pantaloons.”

Kirby gave her a consoling smile. “Don't fret, my lady. No lad has ever been able to stay hidden when I have been seeking him. We shall ferret him out.” His smile wavered. “To own the truth, though, that was at Wolfe Abbey.”

“Take some of the footmen here with you,” Lorenzo said. “They know the house, and you have a way of knowing what might interest lads. Use your keen eyes to spot the lad.” As Kirby gathered some helpers and sent Gil on his way to one wing of the house while the valet took another, Lorenzo added, “I think you and I, Lady Fanning, should take this opportunity, while the search is on for young David, to become much better acquainted.”

“What do you mean?” She snatched her hand back from his and pressed it to that outrageous shawl.

Lorenzo sighed. He had meant exactly what he said, but he had forgotten that the plain speech of the country did not fall easily on the ears of those who preferred the artifice of Town. If he said that he simply wished to know why she was here at Moorsea Manor, that would be the truth. However, if he had added that he had not realized he was still holding her hand, she would be offended … and it would be a prime out-and-outer.

Was he mad? He had no interest in engaging in a flirtation. All he wanted was the tranquillity that these rough walls and the moors should offer him. He would offer Lady Fanning and her missing nephew hospitality for the night before their journey continued. Tomorrow, he could begin his new life.

“Madam,” he said quietly, “I hope you are more familiar with this house than I am.”

“More familiar than you?”

“I am just arrived for the first time. Does the house have a library or a sitting room where we might speak while we wait for what supper can be prepared for us?”

“I am not sure.” She glanced up the stairs.

“My lord,” Mrs. Ditwiller intruded before Lorenzo could ask the questions about Lady Valeria Fanning and her nephew that were burning on his tongue. “One of the lasses told me there is a comfortable room at the top of these stairs and to the left.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ditwiller.” He was glad his housekeeper had the wit to know what he wanted before he needed it. Now, he could get the answers to those questions without so many of the household heeding every word they spoke. “Can you see that these people have tasks to do that will keep them busy while I speak with Lady Fanning?”

“Of course, my lord.” She smiled, and he knew she relished the opportunity to assume her place as housekeeper.

He motioned toward the stairs. “Lady Fanning?”

The lovely redhead nodded and led the way up the stone stairs that were covered with miniatures of the carpet which had been hidden beneath all the people gathered in the foyer. The slow sway of her hips drew his eyes, but he forced himself to look away. Even if he had wanted to amuse himself with the harmless court-promises of a flirtation, this woman with her snapping violet eyes would not be the one he chose. With her Town
bon ton
, she represented everything he wanted to put out of his life—silly parties and worthless calls where the prattle filled him with
ennui
.

His eyes widened as he stared at the items lining the upper hall. Suits of armor battled for space with dusty portraits and antique vases, many of them chipped and broken, that were stacked four deep on the tables flanking a doorway. A stuffed bear, which stood on its back feet, leaned heavily against the wall by the narrow window, and some plant that he could not name was growing in wild abandon from its pot to curl around the banister leading up to the next floor. He tried to imagine his mother, who had always been so tidy, living with this hodgepodge.