Page 10 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)
Six
J ustin carefully tilted the small pitcher and filled the earthenware bowl with milk. The fuzzy little ball of fur by his feet nearly knocked it over in its haste to lap up the frothy contents.
“What have you here?” Miranda knelt by her son’s side.
“It’s the runt,” he explained. “The others all push him away when its time for feeding. Cook said I might bring him this.”
She gave his little shoulder a squeeze. “That’s very thoughtful of you, my love.”
“You have always told me I must help those who are less fortunate than me.”
“That’s quite right, and I’m glad to see that you are taking it to heart. Kindness and compassion are qualities that every gentleman should have.”
“I shall remember that, Mama.” He watched the scrawny kitten lap at the milk for a moment. “Mama, am I a gentleman?”
Miranda drew in her breath. “We shall discuss that when you are older.”
Justin shifted slightly in the pile of straw. “The Major is a grand gentleman.” It was said more as a question.
“Yes. Indeed he is.”
“He said I might ride on Zeus again.” The boy’s face took on a rapt expression. “The Major is a great gun, isn’t he!”
Miranda carefully schooled her features to reveal no hint of her inner emotions.
“You are quite right, Justin. The Major is a great gun.” She brushed a wisp of hay from his dark locks.
” Now you had better run along and help Angus saddle Thistle.
His Lordship will soon be here to take you riding.
I shall make sure your newest protégé finishes his nuncheon.
” With a last little hug, she sent him on his way.
A figure stepped out of the shadows of the barn door.
“That was … good of you,” said Julian haltingly. “You didn’t have to say what you did.”
Miranda quickly rose. “I have no intention of coloring Justin’s feelings towards you, sir. It is only right that a boy should respect and … love his father.”
The marquess swallowed. “Given your sentiments, that is more than generous,” he said in a low voice.
Her eyes dropped to watch the kitten nudging the empty bowl along the dirt floor, as if searching for a way to conjure up another helping. “I told you, my sentiments are irrelevant, milord.”
Julian cleared his throat. “I should like your permission to give Justin a proper pony to ride. He is so fond of animals and I thought that, well, that he would like it.”
“I … I cannot afford the upkeep,” she said in a tight voice. “If Aunt Sophia would be willing?—”
“Of course I shall to see to all the expenses,” he said quickly.
Her hands twisted together as she considered the matter. “Seeing as it is for Justin,” she said slowly, “I suppose that will be acceptable.”
He murmured his thanks.
“But I mean to warn you, sir, I’ll not allow you to make a habit of showering him with all manner of costly presents. He doesn’t need to be spoiled to be happy.”
He gave a curt nod.
“Justin is waiting?—”
“Mrs. Ransford,” interrupted a voice. “Angus asked whether you be needing him to fetch you anything in the village this afternoon?” The young groom came around the stalls and stopped short at the sight of the marquess in conversation with Miranda.
“Oh! Master Justin said as you was here, but he didn’t mention you had company.
” His hands unconsciously balled into fists at his side. “Do you need me for anything, ma’am?”
“No, that’s quite alright, Jem. And you may tell Angus that I have no errands for him.”
Jem shot a black look at the marquess before reluctantly taking himself off towards the paddock.
Miranda turned to go as well.
“Mrs. Ransford,” repeated Julian softly. “Just how is it that you choose to go by that name?”
She spun around. “I’ll not have Justin subject to vicious taunts of being a bastard, so yes, I go by ‘Missus.’ As for Ransford, it was my grandmother’s maiden name.” Her chin rose a fraction. “I don’t think she would begrudge me its use, as my own is no longer welcome to me.”
Julian’s jaw tightened. “You might have kept Grosvenor,” he said in a near whisper.
Her face betrayed a flicker of emotion, then just as quickly hardened into a stony mask. “I don’t want it—nor am I entitled to it anymore, milord,” she replied coldly. “Now, if you will excuse me?—”
“M … Miranda.”
She froze at the sound of her name on his lips, her face going a ghostly pale.
“Despite what you may think, I … I never meant for you to suffer such …” His words caught in his throat as he seemed to grope for how to go on.
“That is, Aunt Sophia only lately informed me of what your circumstances have been for these past seven years. I—I never knew.” He hesitated, looking strangely uncertain.
“I would like to see that you receive a yearly sum?—”
“My circumstances are no longer any of your concern.” With that, she whirled and fled from the barn.
The kitten jumped back from the bowl as a string of low oaths exploded from the marquess’s lips. They trailed off into an exasperated sigh as he raked his hand through his hair, then limped off to meet his son.
The one they called McTavish slipped into a seat at the back of the smoky tavern and signaled for the barmaid to bring him a tankard of ale. The two others at the small table scraped their chairs in a little closer.
Scofield spoke without preamble, his voice low so that no one else could overhear. “We’ve discovered he’s a bloody marquess. And what’s more, he was in the army until the injury to his leg forced him to sell out.”
A look of grave concern crossed the face of his ginger-haired companion. “Think he has anything to do with the government?” he asked haltingly.
“Don’t be such a lily-livered goose, Gibbs,” growled Scofield, giving his companion a look of disgust. “I’ve sussed out that he’s got a minor estate nearabouts, so there’s nothing too suspicious about him paying a visit.” As he spoke, his eyes sought assurance from the obvious leader.
McTavish was sitting with head bowed, a blank expression on his features as if unaware of the conversation taking place around him.
But when he looked up, his flinty grey eyes were sharp enough to make the others flinch in their seats.
“We can’t afford to assume anything,” he said.
“He’s to be watched carefully. I want to know everything—where he goes, who he sees, when he uses his damn chamberpot!
” He glanced around the room. “We’ll meet again in four day’s time, this time at the tavern in Dunham.
” He pushed aside his untouched ale. “When you have the answers, I’ll decide what to do. ”
Sykes finished putting the final polish to the marquess’s riding boots and looked around the master bedchamber.
There was nothing left to do. The silver backed brushes were neatly arranged on the dresser, the hacking coat and breeches were hung away in the armoire, the fire was freshly stirred and the silk dressing gown was laid out on the carved four poster bed for whenever its owner decided to retire.
The valet frowned as he considered that with each night, the hour that Julian finally sought his bed was getting later and later.
Far from improving the marquess’s frame of mind, the sojourn to the country seemed to be only exacerbating his dark moods.
And that made no sense. Now that they had finally left the rigors of war behind them, it seemed his employer should finally begin to relax and enjoy life a bit.
After all, he was in a position to do exactly that. It appeared he could have whatever he wanted, which made his odd edginess even more puzzling.
Sykes couldn’t help rubbing at his jaw as he wondered whether some discovery concerning their mission here was causing the marquess some concern that he was keeping hidden.
His eyes clouded over at the thought that after all they had been through together, Julian might not care to be on quite the same footing as they had before.
After all, the man was no longer a mere major but a titled lord.
With a final, vigorous rub, the ex-batman laid the boots aside and went downstairs.
Julian’s head came up with a jerk at the sound of the soft knock on the library door.
“Come in,” he growled.
Sykes entered carrying a glass filled with an amber liquid in one hand. “It’s late, guv. Thought perhaps your leg was acting up so I brought you a draught of laudanum.”
The marquess made a face as he turned from staring into the flickering fire. “You know I refuse to become dependent on that vile stuff. We’ve both seen how it can ruin a man.”
“An occasional dose does no harm.” He gave a pointed look at Julian’s drawn features. “If you don’t let yourself get some sleep, you’ll drive yourself into the ground.”
“My leg is no worse than usual.” Taking up the book that lay open in his lap, the Marquess made a show of starting to read. “What makes you think I’m not sleeping?”
“For one thing, I hear you crying out at night—the nightmares have come back, nearly as bad as right after you were first hurt,” answered Sykes frankly. “If it isn’t your leg, what is troubling you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snapped Julian.
A faint flush stole to the valet’s cheeks at the marquess’s cold rebuff. He walked stiffly towards the hearth and stirred the logs to life with rather more force than necessary. After a few minutes of heavy silence, he essayed to find a less touchy topic of conversation.
“It seems we have an intriguing neighbor. Have you by any chance crossed paths with her during your rides?” He expected Julian to respond with a modicum of curiosity, but his words were met with nothing more than the same ominous silence.
Still, he went doggedly on. “I’ve seen her several times in the last week, even managed a bit of a chat with her before she took off like a skittish mare.” He shook his head slowly. “Aye, there’s some mystery about Mrs. Ransford, there is. Quite a beauty too, despite the shabby dress?—”