Page 35 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
The thought of becoming like his father both repulsed and terrified Mallon. He’d never inflict that on any child of his own. Better to remain a bachelor and avoid such tangled pain.
Mallon had spent most of the night counting the chimes as the hours passed, all the while debating how he could permit the countess’s continued presence.
It would be awkward in the extreme. As for Hugo, the poor fool might think himself besotted but he had little idea about women—and none at all about Geneviève, who would never be content with an innocent like Hugo. Mallon would wager she’d have a string of lovers before the first year of marriage was out.
“I’ve brought a tray, m’lord, seeing as the main breakfast has been cleared.”
With a sigh, Mallon poured from the coffee pot. The kipper he pushed aside.
“Thank you, Withers. I’ve meant to ask how things are on the estate. I must meet with Scroggins, to find out about the cattle.”
“Aye, m’lord. He’ll be glad to talk to ye. He’s gathered ‘em safely in the shippon, what with the snow coming. Take a care going in, as we’ve the ram tethered by the door and he’s in a foul mood at losing his liberty. We’ve plenty of hay stored in the loft above, an’ Scroggins has put up the rowan sprigs to keep the beasties safe.”
“Ah yes! Excellent!” It had been some time since Mallon had heard mention of that custom—rowan tokeep away the roaming imps and witches of the winter moor. Nonsense, of course, but it was not for him to interfere.
“And how are you, Withers? Keeping well?”
The butler had been around since his grandfather’s day. At some point, Mallon supposed, he’d have to broach the subject of a well-earned retirement. He’d be welcome to stay in the house, of course. Mallon had no intention of turning anyone out. Wulverton Hall had been Withers’ home for a lifetime; it was unlikely that he had alternative plans.
The man was staring vacantly out of the window and was looking every one of his eighty years. Was it more? Mallon could hardly begin to say.
“Lost in your thoughts, Withers? Hope you’re not out of sorts.”
“Sorry, m’lord. Just looking at the ravens. They gathered about the hall before the passing of your father, and Master Edward. They’re still about.”
Mallon took another gulp of coffee. He knew what Withers was getting at. The raven was an ill omen, a harbinger of death. If he didn’t get some Seltzers inside him soon, it might be his death the ravens were cawing for.
“If that’s all m’lord.” Withers shuffled back toward the door. “I’ve left some hot water in the pitcher.”
“Thank you. Nothing for now.” Mallon stirred himself to sit up, holding his head gingerly.
Except there was something else. Mallon needed to ask Withers about his brother. He hadn’t known the escaped convict was Silasuntil one of the farmers had mentioned it yesterday. With everything that had happened, he’d not had a chance to take Withers aside. No wonder the poor man was talking of ravens and gazing onto the moor. He must be worried sick, imagining his brother out there alone.
It was his duty, as viscount, to look out for those in his care, the tenants on his land and the servants in this house. Hangover or not, certain things had to be dealt with.
However, for now, he needed to catch Hugo, and he’d better get a move on.
What time was the hunt setting off?
Eleven?
“More muddy footprints!”declared Marguerite, looking at the hearthrug in Hugo’s room. “With guests in the house, it’s really too much!”
Mallon stood in the doorway, watching his sister-in-law scuff her slipper against the marks. Despite the success of her entertainments, she didn’t appear in a very festive mood. It was hard, he supposed, coping with everything on her own. She had, after all, been running the house single-handedly since Edward’s demise, and that of his father.
She began plumping the cushions on Hugo’s sofa. “I’ve been letting the dogs prowl about, with this dreadful convict on the loose, but they’ll have to stay in the kitchen if they’re going to bring this filth with them.”
Marguerite didn’t know, then, that it was Silas who’d escaped. Before her time, of course. It pained Mallon. To her, he was just another ne’er-do-well.
Muttering about table settings and making sure luncheon would be served promptly, she swept out.
She’d been talking about her late brother’s vineyard the other night. It might do her good to have a bit of sunshine. Now Mallon was back, there was nothing to stop her from going. He’d encourage her to make the trip, once all the hubbub of Christmas was dealt with.
Mallon sighed. His plans to speak to Hugo would have to wait. The young swain had set off already, along with the others taking part in the hunt.
As he made to leave, pulling the door closed behind him, something caught on Mallon’s brogue. The carpet was fraying, and he’d stepped into a stray loop. Like rather many things at Wulverton, it was in need of attention, the rod having come loose, leaving the threads to unravel.
He stooped to free himself, and it was then the piece of paper caught his eye. A laundry list, or some such, dropped by one of the maids, which had found its way under the carpet’s edge.
