The Earl Next Door Read online

  ‘Miss Marianne! Thank the Lord!’ said Trudie, as she turned towards the door.

  ‘Ah! Mademoiselle! I beseech you –‘ began the small man, turning imploringly towards Marianne. Before Trudie cut him off.

  ‘I won’t have it, Miss Marianne, I told him plain. Coming into my kitchen and messing with my things. That’s the best chicken he’s had, messing about with it and cutting it up and doing the Lord knows what with it, and how I’m to cook our dinner now I really don’t know.’

  ‘What . . . ?’ began Marianne, looking from one to the other of them, pleased to see that the stranger was well enough to be up, but unable to work out what had happened.

  Trudie, however, was for the moment too incensed to speak. ‘Goo,’ she declared finally, glaring fiercely at the little man, ‘that’s what he’s done with it. He said so himself. He’s turned the chicken into goo.’

  ‘Ragout!’ ejaculated the little man, exaggerating the shape of the word with his lips and making a sumptuous gesture with his hands, as though kissing an imaginary plate of food. ‘Ragout! I have turned it into ragout! Ah, Mademoiselle,’ he said, appealing to Marianne again, ‘I want only to help. To repay you for your kindness. But what can I do? I am only a poor Frenchman, with nothing to give the kind lady who has taken him in. But then I think, I can cook. Cooking is what I know. In France I am the superb chef! I cook for the lords and the ladies.’ His face fell. ‘But now there are no lords and ladies. Now there are only citizens.’ He spat the word. ‘And what do citizens eat? Heh? Do they eat the wonderful meals, slaved over by the anxious cook? Non! They eat bread, and tear with their teeth at the pieces of meat.’

  ‘French,’ said Marianne, taking off her gloves and hat and placing them on the end of the kitchen table. ‘Monsieur, you are French?’

  ‘Mais oui, Mademoiselle. And I am proud of it. I love my country. But this, it is not a good time to be French. And I say to my brother – I say it when I can stand it no longer, the blood and the pain and the fear – I say, I will go to England. I will make a new life for myself. I will get on a boat and cross the Channel and then I will walk to London. And then . . . who knows? Per’aps I will cook for the lords and ladies, per’aps I will even cook for the king. Oui? But now I cannot walk to London. I cannot walk anywhere.’ He looked sorrowfully down at his leg. ‘The young Mademoiselle, she has been kind to me,’ he said with a Gallic shrug, ‘but why should she look after me? Heh? No reason. Unless I do something for her. Unless I show her that Henri can be useful. Unless I show her that Henri can cook!’

  Marianne looked at Trudie. ‘It does smell very good,’ she said.

  ‘A- ha!’ The Frenchman beamed at Trudie in triumph, then whisked a ladle seemingly out of nowhere and proceeded to stir the savoury dish that was bubbling on the stove. Scooping up some of the liquid he blew on it and, ignoring Trudie’s indignant grimace, offered it to Marianne. She sipped at the sauce, and her face lit up.

  ‘A- ha! It is good, non?’ he demanded.

  ‘It is good, yes,’ laughed Marianne. ‘It really is,’ she said, turning to Trudie. ‘And it would be such a help to have another pair of hands about the place. You know it yourself. You could leave all the cooking to Henri.’ She knew that here she was playing her strong suit because Trudie, much as she might have protested about Henri’s meddling, did not enjoy cooking. ‘And, as long as he feels well enough, it will keep him occupied until his leg mends.’

  Trudie snorted. ‘And a good thing too. A foreigner, getting under my feet every day – I dare say you’d be too soft to turn him out.’

  ‘It is a good ragout,’ Marianne tempted her.

  Trudie fought a visible battle. She was not fond of cooking, but she loved to eat.

  ‘Madame —’ began Henri, turning appealing eyes on Trudie.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Trudie fiercely, then, a minute later, getting flustered, saying, ‘that is, Missus to you.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Missus,’ said Henri obligingly, holding out the ladle to her. ‘See for yourself.’

  Trudie sniffed aloofly, but sidled closer. Then, deigning to bend her head and taste a little of the sauce, she said, ‘Not bad.’ And then, truthfulness overcoming her ruffled feathers, she said, ‘in fact, good.’

  ’Ahhh,’ sighed Henri, with the contentment of the true artist, ‘you like it, yes?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then it is settled?’ Henri glanced at Marianne hopefully.

  She nodded. ‘It is. Henri, you are welcome to stay.’

  Life became easier with another pair of hands. Although Henri’s leg had been badly injured in the trap he was able to work sitting at the big kitchen table. It was here he peeled and chopped the vegetables and, by means of a chair which Tom had heightened for him by nailing pieces of wood onto the bottom of its legs, he was able to sit at the stove and stir his soups.

  Marianne was upstairs a few days later, sorting through the linen and thinking how fortunate they had been to find Henri, the tempting aromas for that day’s dinner already drifting up from the kitchen, when she heard a clattering of hooves outside and, looking out of the window, saw Lord Ravensford riding towards the house.

  A minute or two later, Trudie appeared.

  ‘You’ve a visitor, miss,’ she said, with an interested expression, adding, ‘You didn’t tell me how handsome Lord Ravensford was.’

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t notice,’ replied Marianne coolly.

  Strangely enough, she wouldn’t have minded Trudie’s teasing if she had really been unaware of Lord Ravensford’s handsome, if predatory, features, and if she had not been so disturbed by the feelings he had awoken inside her. Then she could have replied with good humour, perhaps even with some banter of her own. But the fact that Lord Ravensford had had an unsettling effect on her, and that he had invaded her dreams in the most provocative manner, made her unwilling to enter into the subject.

  ‘Your white gown’s clean,’ said Trudie, ignoring Marianne’s remark. ‘I pressed it with the flat iron yesterday. You’ve always looked lovely in white.’

  ‘I see no reason to change just because Lord Ravensford has called,’ said Marianne, feeling suddenly awkward. ‘I believe this gown will do.’

  Trudie said no more. The yellow striped gown Marianne was wearing could not in the ordinary way be faulted, even though it was rather old. Its low bodice was filled in with a lace fichu and its wide satin sash showed off Marianne’s trim waist. Its pleated hemline was attractive, providing a pleasing decoration round the full skirt. Its sleeves, ending with a froth of lace just above Marianne’s elbow, showed off the delicate smoothness of her arms. All in all, she looked very presentable – although Trudie still thought she looked better in the white. However, she knew that Marianne was not one to be led and so she said no more.

  With Trudie’s eyes on her, Marianne did no more than push a stray ringlet back into place before going downstairs.

  Lord Ravensford was standing by the window as she went into the drawing-room, looking out towards the coast, but he turned round as soon as she entered the room. Trudie followed close behind and retired to a corner, where she proceeded to apply herself to some plain sewing.

  ‘Lord Ravensford,’ said Marianne. ‘I did not expect to see you.’

  ‘You are not disappointed, I hope?’ he asked.

  Marianne was not sure how to reply. For all his light air she sensed there was something more serious underneath it; something which, for some reason he did not want to show. There had been a hint of it the previous day, but today it seemed more marked.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  She sat down herself, on an old and handsome gilded sofa, and he followed suit. As she watched him settle himself she thought that he was not, somehow, like the other men she met. He made her feel somehow awkward, and aware of her heart beating. Was it because of his dark good looks? she wondered. But then she dismissed the notion. She had known handsome men before, and she had never had any difficulty in talking to
them. No, she decided, it was not because of his looks - although she could not deny that his gold-brown eyes had a curiously melting effect on her, or that his high cheekbones, straight nose and firm jaw were very attractive – it was something else.

  ‘ . . . don’t you think?’

  With a start, Marianne realised she had not been listening. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had not been paying attention, and she felt a flush spring to her cheeks.

  ‘You seem distracted,’ he said with an amused smile.

  ‘I am.’ But she could not tell him what had been distracting her. ‘I . . . ’

  ‘I was saying I hoped you had a safe journey home, and that you were not too much inconvenienced by the snow.’

  ‘I . . . yes . . . no. That is, yes, I had a safe journey home, and no, I was not too much inconvenienced by the snow.’ She smiled suddenly, aware of the absurdity of her reply.

  He smiled in return, and this time it seemed a genuine smile, not the mocking smile with which he had reacted to her state of abstraction. ‘I’m glad. I have come to tell you that I have dealt with the matter of the mantraps. I’ve had the men out clearing the woods, and so far they’ve found five. It isn’t easy in this weather. There is still snow on the ground and we may have missed some, but once there is a thaw we will know if we have found them all.’

  ‘Doesn’t the estate manager know how many he laid?’

  His eyes darkened, becoming the colour of liquid gold. ‘He does, but he refused to tell me. He gave me to understand that he was employed by Mr Billingsdale and that what he did on the estate was his business, not mine.’

  ‘But you had the traps cleared anyway?’ asked Marianne anxiously.

  ‘Yes. Those things are an abomination. How anyone can want to trap their fellow man is beyond me, particularly in such a cruel manner. But then, there is a lot of cruelty in the world I fear.’

  ‘You are thinking of France,’ said Marianne.

  He nodded. Then, as if realising that the horrors of the French Revolution were not a fitting subject for a lady’s drawing-room, he returned to the subject of the mantraps; hardly a fitting subject either, but one in which Marianne was concerned. ‘I am still worried there may be some traps left. Which is why I have come to ask you if I can speak to the man you found. I would like to ask him if he noticed any others, and if so, where they are.’

  Marianne nodded. ‘Of course.’ She rang the bell. ‘Will you tell Mr Billingsdale that his manager refused to help you? I only ask because generally he does not like to be disturbed, and I don’t think you will get much help from that quarter.’

  ‘The day I need Billingsdale to help me deal with a surly manager is the day I return to town for good,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘No, Jakes has refused for now, but once he sees I mean to take an active interest in the running of the estate he will soon change his tune.’

  Marianne felt an unexpected surge of relief. ‘I’m pleased to know you care. It isn’t good for a neighbourhood to have an absent landowner. The land can often be neglected; either that, or overused. I’ve been worried for some time that the trees are being cut and none replanted – but then, of course, it’s no longer my concern.’

  ‘No longer?’ he queried.

  She rubbed her hands together, as they felt suddenly cold. ‘The woods used to be a part of this estate,’ she explained. ‘They —’ She stopped. She had been about to tell him that they had been sold off to cover her brother’s gambling debts, but prevented herself just in time. She hardly knew Lord Ravensford, and it would be disloyal to her brother to say any such thing. Despite everything, she still loved Kit very much and, against all odds, she hoped he would one day return to take his rightful place as the master of Seaton Hall. ‘I sometimes forget, and take too great an interest in them.’

  ‘It must be difficult for you, running an estate of this size.’

  Marianne felt unexpectedly touched. She had done her best to look after the estate in Kit’s absence, but it had been a heavy burden, and she was surprised at how grateful she felt to him for his understanding. She did not want him to feel sorry for her, however, and said calmly, ‘I am happy to do what I can to help Papa.’

  At that moment the door opened, and Tom came in.

  ‘Tom, can you ask Henri to join us?’ she asked.

  Tom looked surprised, but saying, ‘Yes, Miss Marianne,’ went to fetch him.

  ‘Henri?’ queried Lord Ravensford, with a satisfied air that Marianne did not understand. ‘He is French?’

  ‘Yes. He was running away from the Revolution, trying to make his way to London. He’s a chef,’ she explained.

  ‘I must ask him if he has any tips for my Mrs Hill,’ said Lord Ravensford with a smile.

  A few minutes later Henri entered the room. He had made it clear he wanted to give as little trouble as possible, and once Tom had made him a makeshift crutch he had found he could get around quite easily, so that Marianne had called him to the drawing-room instead of taking Lord Ravensford to the kitchen. Lord Ravensford had already seen one example of her unconventionality, when she had visited him without a chaperon before she had been introduced to him, and she did not want him to think her behaviour was completely beyond the pale by taking him into the kitchen to talk to the servants.

  ‘You must be Henri,’ said Lord Ravensford, as Henri hobbled into the room.

  ‘Yes, milord,’ said Henri.

  For a moment Marianne had the curious feeling that the two men knew each other. But then she dismissed the notion as absurd.

  ‘Henri,’ she explained, ‘Lord Ravensford wants to ask you about the traps.’

  ‘Ah.’ Henri was grave.

  ‘He wants to have them removed, and so far has found five, but he wants to know if you saw any more that he might not have found.’

  ‘Ah! Yes. Mais oui,’ said Henri. ‘At least, I have seen two traps, and maybe they have not yet been discovered.’

  He described the places to Lord Ravensford as well as he could, and then Lord Ravensford thanked Marianne for her hospitality and took his leave. Saying, as he was about to go out of the door, ‘You are going to the Cosgroves’ ball are you not?’

  ‘Yes.’ She flushed, although why she should flush at the thought of the ball she did not know.

  ‘May I have the honour of the first dance?’

  She smiled with pleasure. ‘You may.’

  His eyes brightened. Then he bowed, and went out to his horse.

  Henri have a sudden exclamation. ‘Alors! I remember another one. Milord! Milord!’

  Marianne turned away from the window as he hobbled out of the room.

  ‘Well done, Henri,’ said Lord Ravensford under his breath, as Henri joined him outside. ‘It was a stroke of good fortune to be able to place yourself in the house. You can help make Marianne’s life easier. Your leg isn’t too badly hurt, I hope? It was very bad luck, getting caught in a trap.’

  ‘I will not be dancing any time soon,’ shrugged Henri. ‘But you and I, Luke, we ’ave suffered worse. We ’ave ’elped many people escape from the Revolution.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘You ’ave ’eard no news of your cousin?’

  ‘Nicole? No. But her betrothed is still in France and will not rest until he knows her fate. Meanwhile, we have other things to do. Keep an eye on Marianne, Henri, and if she needs any help then send me word. I will do everything I can to lighten her load.'

  Henri looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. ‘She is delightful, Marianne, is she not?’

  ‘She is,’ said Luke with a twinkle of his own. ‘But she is also Kit’s sister, and I never mix business with pleasure.’

  Henri shrugged his shoulders in a typically Gallic gesture. ‘It is a pity, all the same. That hair, those eyes . . . they make the task of ’elping ’er a treat, non?’

  Luke gave a wolfish smile. ‘Too much of a treat.’

  And with that he threw his leg over his horse and rode away.

  Chapter Three


  To her surprise, Marianne found herself looking forward to the Cosgroves’ ball. Usually she disliked going out on winter evenings, but this evening it seemed foolish to worry about icy roads and draughty carriages. Not that it had anything to do with Lord Ravensford, she told herself. No matter how interesting she found him she could never think of marriage; not with all her responsibilities to the estate; and –

  She stopped, startled. Marriage indeed! What was she thinking of? She must indeed be in need of more company, as Trudie was fond of telling her, if her thoughts were leaping to marriage simply because a bachelor had moved into the neighbourhood.

  ‘It’s a good thing you’re a slender nymph,’ said Trudie, recalling her thoughts to the present as she helped Marianne into her silk ballgown. It was of soft cream, perfectly suiting Marianne’s complexion and setting off the colour of her bright blue eyes. ‘When I used to help your mama dress it was always panniers and wigs and goodness knows what. Now the fashions are any old how, and it’s do as you will and come as you please.’ She gave a snort, not attempting to hide her opinion on the modern fashions, which in her opinion were not a patch on the opulent styles of yesteryear.