Page 36 of Marry in Haste
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“Are you responsible for that hell-born brat?”
“I beg your pardon,” Cal said in freezing accents. He’d just stepped down from the carriage, which had pulled up in the main street of Alderton, outside the lawyer’s office. And this fellow had taken one look and rushed up to him.
The man looked from Cal to the crest on the carriage and back again. “You’ve got the look of a Rutherford, all right, and that’s the Ashendon crest. You’re the new Lord Ashendon, ain’t you?”
Cal gave him a cold stare. He had no intention of explaining himself to this mannerless oaf.
“Sorry, should have introduce m’self. Gresham,” the man said, unfazed. “Local squire. Master of the Hunt, for all the good it does me.” His small blue eyes gleamed angrily in his meaty red face. He turned and beckoned to a tall fellow in baggy breeches and muddy top boots. “The new Lord Ashendon,” he told his friend, and jerked his chin toward the crest on the carriage.
The tall man gave his friend a startled look, glanced at the crest and turned to Cal with a warm smile. “Welcome to Gloucestershire, my lord. We are delighted to see you here at last. Simply delighted.” And before Cal knew it the fellow was pumping his hand with enthusiasm.
“Planning to remove the little wretch from the district, I hope,” the squire interrupted. “Haven’t had a proper hunt in years. Much longer and someone’s going to shoot the brat.”
Cal stiffened.
“Not your fault, we know that,” Muddy-boots said hastily. “Blame your brother. Never showed any interest in the child. Not young George’s fault, not really. A child needs a firm hand on the bridle—”
The squire snorted. “Firm hand? Needs a damned good thrashing if you ask me. Interfering inthe hunt, dammit—it’s not, notEnglish!”
“I will deal with the matter,” Cal said crisply. “In the meantime, I’m looking for the lawyer, Chiswick.” He indicated the doorway with the brass plate attached.
“Out, I’m afraid,” Muddy-boots said. “Saw him heading out of town an hour ago.”
“I see. Could you direct me to Willowbank Farm?”
Muddy-boots gave him the directions. Cal glanced up at Hawkins, who nodded to indicate he’d heard them.
Muddy-boots gave a satisfied nod. “Can we count on you removing that—er, removing young George from the district, Lord Ashendon?”
“I’ll make my decision when I’ve gathered all the relevant information. Good day, gentlemen.” He climbed into the carriage and rapped on the roof, and in minutes the village was behind them.
Henry had obviously acknowledged the boy—at least locally, if not to his family. He sounded like a youth, rather than a child—a wild and uncontrollable one, at that.
The army was the perfect place for wild, uncontrollable youths. A disciplined environment and a worthy job to do, a little responsibility and the wildest lad could be tamed. A cavalry regiment, perhaps, for young George. It was the obvious solution.
Chapter Seven
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.
—JANE AUSTEN,EMMA
Willowbank Farm looked shabby and neglected. Weeds studded the rutted lane that led to the house, and the garden was overgrown and straggly. The paint on the frames surrounding the windows was peeling, as was the front door.
As they drove up, a large gray wolfhound loped toward them, barking. The front door opened and a lanky youth appeared. “Finn. Come here!” The dog gave the carriage wheels a longing look, then trotted obediently back to his master.
Dressed in worn buff riding breeches, a shabby green jacket and high leather riding boots splattered with mud, the youth made no move to come and greet the visitor. One hand on the dog’s collar, he eyed the carriage and its occupant with suspicion.
He looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, with an angular face, pointed chin and closely cropped curly dark hair. There was a faint, barely discernible resemblance to Henry.
Cal leapt lightly down from the carriage. “Would you be George?” he asked, realizing he didn’t know the boy’s surname.
The boy scowled and raised his chin. “Who’s asking?” And there, suddenly, was the resemblance Cal had been looking for: the famous Rutherford scowl, evident in half the ancestral portraits that graced the family portrait gallery at Ashendon.
“I’m your uncle, Cal Rutherford.” Cal held out his hand.
The boy made no move to take it. He scanned Cal suspiciously for a good minute, his hand tight on the dog’s collar. Then he released the dog with a muttered order to stay, and moved reluctantly forward. “George Rutherford.”
