“Suffice it to say that I will not be marrying anytime soon,” she replied. “Thank you for your company, my lord. I should return home.”
He looked ready to protest, eyes narrowed, head high. Still he nodded a farewell, and she turned the horse. She tried to look as calm, but she couldn’t keep herself from looking back. Once more he was watching her leave, yet this time the determination on his face told her that he intended to learn her secrets, whether she wished it or not.
Chapter Four
Unfortunately the Earl of Kendrick wasn’t the only person intent on discovering more about Samantha’s personal affairs. She had barely reached Dallsten Manor and was heading for her room to change out of her mud-encrusted riding habit when Mrs. Dallsten Walcott met her at the foot of the main stair.
The house was much improved since she’d left, thanks to the vision of her cousin Jerome and judicious use of funds from her inheritance. Jerome had a reason to want to preserve the manor. He had fallen in love here with Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s daughter, Samantha’s former governess, Adele. And Adele had been raised in the house, which had belonged to her family before hard times had forced them to sell to Samantha’s father. So it was no wonder Jerome and Adele shared Samantha’s fondness for the place.
In the past eight years the Everards had rebuilt the crumbling pele tower that stood at the north corner and added fine wood paneling to the lower half of many of the walls. They’d also augmented the formerly spartan staff with footmen, gardeners and maids of every variety.
Now their work was evident, for every wood surface gleamed, from the parquet floor to the banister on the elegant stair. Even the ancient wall tapestry of knights attacking a stag had been cleaned, the colors once more proud.
But never as proud as the lady standing sternly on the stair.
“Why am I not informed of your goings out?” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott demanded, face nearly as pink as her fashionable wool gown.
Samantha stifled a desire to stick out her tongue at the elderly woman who had known her most of her life. For one thing, the gesture was unkind—she knew how Mrs. Dallsten Walcott tended to cling to people and things as a way to stave off her fears of loneliness and poverty. For another, Samantha had entirely outgrown such childish displays, most days.
“It was only a ride,” she said, pausing below her chaperone and feeling a bit more like a schoolgirl every moment. “I didn’t think you’d wish to join me.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott put her formidable nose in the air and sniffed. “Certainly not. I never felt the need to pelt across the grounds willy-nilly like some hoyden.”
Like me, Samantha thought, but the appellation of hoyden merely made her smile. Truth be told, she liked the fact she felt free to race across the grounds. Lord Kendrick hadn’t minded either. He’d seemed genuinely concerned about her fall, of course, but he’d never scolded her for jumping hedges, even if the act was a challenging feat from a sidesaddle.
“If you have need of me, I’d be delighted to help,” she told Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, “as soon as I’ve changed.” She spread her skirts to emphasize the state of her disarray and a chunk of dried mud obligingly fell to the floor with a plop.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott took a step back as if she feared the dirt would attack her. “I merely wish to congratulate you on your strategy and offer my guidance in achieving it.” She eyed Samantha’s riding habit. “You appear to need some assistance.”
Samantha dropped her skirts. “Strategy?”
“To marry young Lord Wentworth.” She wagged a finger at Samantha. “You may have the others fooled into thinking you’ll give away the manor, but I know better.”
Why would none of them leave her alone on the matter? It wasn’t their portions of the Everard legacy at risk if she failed to meet the last stipulation of her father’s will and marry before her upcoming birthday.
Her oldest cousin, Jerome, would keep the estate her father had left him, which had only grown more prosperous under his management. Her cousin Richard would keep his ship and the two he’d purchased with his inheritance. Cousin Vaughn had no doubt already spent the money her father had left him on the estate he’d been given when he’d been elevated to marquess. She was the only one who stood to lose—her childhood home and the bulk of the fortune. But better that than to risk her future or her very life.
Samantha pushed past her chaperone and started up the stairs.
“I am not marrying Jamie,” she flung over her shoulder. “And I don’t need anyone’s help.”
She said it loudly and with great conviction, but she might have been whistling down the wind for all the good it did. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott swept up beside her, keeping pace as Samantha stomped down the long corridor for her bedchamber, shedding more mud with each step.
“Certainly you need help,” the elderly lady scolded. “He’s a mere youth, true, but even young men can be clever about evading matrimony. And you only have a fortnight.”
Samantha paused beside the painting of Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s father, who had a similarly unforgiving look in his eyes. “Madam, I refuse to have this conversation with you.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott folded in on herself, and her lower lip began to tremble. “Very well. I know you have no use for me even though I was your mother’s dearest friend and only confidante when your father abandoned her here for his other life in London. You needn’t heed my advice, although I’m certain I’ve only ever had your best interests at heart.” She slipped a lace-edged handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and dabbed at her eyes.
Other women would have begged her pardon, rushed to assure her of her place in their affections. Samantha had known her too long. She put her hands on her hips.
“Crocodile tears will not move me, madam. I know where your loyalty lies—with this house and the name of Dallsten.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott raised her head, and as Samantha had suspected, no tears glistened on her soft cheeks. “And if that were true, would you blame me?” She flapped her handkerchief across the air. “How can you even consider giving all this away!”
The guilt threatened to overwhelm her. She was an Everard, and this was her home just as much as it was Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s. She’d learned to read and ride here, lost a father and found a family. How could she let this house be sold to another?
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
The guilt abated. She had to remember that Dallsten Manor was only a house. Its presence or loss only affected her and a few others. They would mourn, and it would be over. Marrying in desperation or out of any other emotion had the potential to hurt so many more people, and more than one generation. She knew that now.
She laid her hand on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s shoulder and was surprised how frail it had become. “I’m sorry. I know how much you love this house and how you’ve enjoyed living in it the past eight years while I’ve been gone. But I’m not marrying before my twenty-fifth birthday. Very likely, I’m not marrying at all.”
This time Samantha was fairly sure the water welling in her chaperone’s blue eyes was real. “But we’ll lose the house, all the furnishings, the paintings, the sculpture,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said, sucking in a breath as if the idea was too much to bear.
“All but the dower house,” Samantha agreed, the words like acid on her tongue. “You have the use of that in your lifetime, along with any family mementos you care to claim.” She leaned closer. “We both know how many of those the dower house can hold.”
A slow smile lit her chaperone’s face as she blinked back her tears. Samantha knew she was also thinking about the time, eight years ago, when Mrs. Dallsten Walcott had managed to cart most