Abby shrugged. “Yeah, I guess that’s it.” She turned back to look at history passing by the side of the road.
Ian prowled around his office like some great beast. He’d cleaned himself up a bit though he still hadn’t felt the desire to shave. Let it go another day, he’d thought. He had no engagements, nothing to do at all until his uncle arrived.
His gaze slid once more to his desk.
An envelope lay open on it, a letter from a solicitor in London. Ian fingered it again, removed the thick letterhead from within, and read the words one more time.
Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds could be his.
All it would cost him was his title.
The lands would remain in his possession, the houses, and other lesser titles. What this unknown person wanted was simply the hereditary title that had been handed down his family from ancient times, from when the Romans had ruled Britannia. The title that he had been bequeathed by Vikings and Saxons and Normans.
Just give it up, just relinquish the rusty old title of Earl Bowness and his prayers could be answered. The Rivendell project would be finished; the good it would do might serve as a model throughout the country, throughout Europe. The revival of the simple village could catch on and eventually bring him fame and fortune.
The drawback, of course, was that he would no longer be the earl, nor would his son, should he ever have one.
Ian slapped the paper back on the desk, watched it skid across the blotter and land on the floor. He didn’t bother picking it up.
“You look wonderful, Duckie,” Ian exclaimed when he saw the old lady propped up by pillows on the bed. “How are they treating you here? Are they torturing you?”
The nurse giggled behind her hand but her eyes went dreamy when they rested upon Ian.
“Come here,” Duckie said, patting the sheet, “and stop making that pretty nurse blush.”
Sitting gingerly on the hospital bed, Ian accepted the invitation. He worried about jarring his beloved housekeeper’s ankle. When he looked into her blue eyes, he saw pain and worry.
He had looked into those eyes thousands of times and always found love and care in them. Now, for the first time ever, he noticed how the lids drooped, how the color was clouding, and the face, no matter how adored, showed signs of age. Duckie was getting old. She’d been hurt, probably more than she knew. A broken hip might take ages to mend. Maybe she was too old to be taking care of such a large house. Maybe she and John should retire.
“I’ve been thinking, Ian,” she said, in her soft west country voice. “I don’t really like being in hospital. If I were to come home, I could get around quite nicely by wheelchair….”
He couldn’t help grinning. Here he was thinking of retirement and she was thinking about getting back to work.
“No, not just yet. Doctor said you must remain here for at least another day, dear heart. He knows you, Duckie. He knows that the minute you come back home, you’ll be wanting to work, and that’s not good.” Ian quirked a smile to soften his words.
Duckie’s eyebrows arched up. “The house is probably falling down around your ears without me!”
“Let it. It’s several hundred years old. Let it fall.”
She pursed her lips. “And just who is doing the cooking? Who is feeding you?”
She poked a bony finger into his ribs for emphasis.
Ian turned his head away from her, unwilling to admit the supposed guest was managing to feed them all quite well.
The housekeeper’s face fell. “I knew it. You’re all starving! That sister of yours can’t even coddle an egg….”
He turned and flashed her one of those smiles that had always managed to melt the lady’s heart. Going over to the window, he fiddled with some of the flowers he had brought.
“Now, now, don’t upset yourself, Duckie. We’re managing just fine. The American fancies herself a chef.”
Mrs. Duxbury gasped. “Never! You’ve got that lovely American woman cooking? Oh, Ian, she’s paid to stay at Bowness Hall. She’s paid for a wonderful holiday! What must she think of me?”
Seeing the fat tears roll down Duckie’s wrinkled cheeks, Ian immediately went over to her and, taking her hand, sat back upon the bed. “You’re not to worry about this. Actually, she told Imp that she likes cooking and she’s getting some wonderful ideas from your secret receipt files.” He playfully waggled his eyebrows at her and she lost her horrified expression.
“Oh, dear, this isn’t working out at all! Duxbury and I were afraid something terrible would happen, but Miss Letitia thought it would solve all our problems. Now it has only caused more.”
Ian patted her hand again. “Well, let’s not discuss this. What is, is. There isn’t anything we can do about it now. Besides, Imp has taken her into Bath today. They’re probably having the time of their lives, and that’s good for both of them.”
Mrs. Duxbury sighed. “If only…”
Ian shook his head. “If only covers enough, Duckie. It would seem that the luck of the Wincotts has just about run out. But it isn’t the end of the world. Something always turns up. You just get better and come home to us in one piece. Then we’ll play whatever hand we’re dealt.
“Now,” he continued, “I had better get back to Bowness Hall. Uncle Clarence and his new wife are due for dinner. If Imp and the American aren’t back from Bath, they should be shortly.”
Mrs. Duxbury brought her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, dear, whatever will you do if they’re late? What if Letitia goes haring off into the countryside with her guest?”
Ian rose with care from the bedside. “Don’t you worry, Duckie. I have a plan, should my sister fail me.”
“You’ll cook?” she asked, her voice wavering with alarm.
Ian grinned down at her. “No, I won’t cook. But I have the number of the Chinese takeaway in Glastonbury somewhere in my billfold.”
Lord Clarence Wincott exited the Rolls-Royce, holding the door for his wife. He didn’t see her vivacious smile because he was looking at the imposing structure before him, his childhood home, Bowness Hall.
Still imposing, he thought. Still fit for a king.
“Clarey,” his wife said, poking his ribs with her flattened hand, “I never thought it was like this!”
He smiled. “My dear, this is merely the outside. Wait until you step across the threshold.” Turning slightly, he placed his hand at the small of her back and ushered her to the magnificent door of the manor house. It opened from within just as they reached it. John, wearing suitable livery from the time servants cared about such things, greeted them formally.
Lord Clarence pulled back his lips in a restrained smile and nodded.
“The Earl and Lady Letitia await you in the lounge,” Duxbury intoned. “Allow me…”
“No need,” Lord Clarence replied. “I can find the way.”
John’s eyebrow raised imperceptibly as he bowed from the waist. Then, when the guests had cleared the doorway, he took their wraps and left them to find their way alone.
“Hurry along, my dear,” the tuxedoed man said.
“Clarey, I just want to look at all this…stuff. It all looks so rich and expensive. Hoity-toity!”
Lord Clarence stopped short. Turning to her, he scowled. “How many times have I told you one does not mention money or value, ever, Daisy?”