Page 21 of Under the Champagne Moon
Fleur sighed and poked through her basket. “Then I must fix the hole in my best stockings.”
* * *
Farnham leftGareth at the Sherington Manor stables, saying he would be up at the house a bit later to call on Sherington. After seeing to his mount, Gareth stopped in the kitchens, wheedled a sandwich and small beer from Cook, and was dusting off crumbs when the butler found him and summoned him to the study where Mr. Sherington was waiting.
It was just as well. He needed to tell him about the upcoming appearance of a Frenchman in Reabridge. Not that he’d expect Sherington to host Marceau. He’d never ask that of them.
When he pushed open the door, he saw that George Sherington had visitors. His elderly steward, Mr. Chigwell, sat across from him, while a weather-worn man in boots and well-worn coats stood. Haskell was here.
“You needed me, sir?” Gareth asked.
“Ardleigh. There you are,” Sherington said.
Chigwell rose and exchanged greetings. Haskell’s gaze was assessing.
“Meet Haskell,” Sherington said cheerfully.
Well, of course, he didn’t know of that fistfight so many years earlier.
“He’s in charge of the hired workers,” Sherington added.
Gareth’s shoulders tensed, but he extended a hand. “We’ve met before.” Haskell’s grip was firm but not threatening.
“Aye,” Haskell said. “Ye gave me this some years back.” He rubbed the crook in the bridge of his nose.
“And well you deserved it,” Gareth said in a pleasant tone.
The fellow’s lips quirked; in the start of a smile or a grimace, Gareth couldn’t discern.
Let the ass try himself on Fleur again; he’d crack more than his beak.
“Your men have done well,” Sherington said. “Haskell, let Chigwell know when they’ve finished that last field.”
“Aye, sir, and then I’ll get you a final accounting,” Chigwell said. “Now, begging your pardon, I promised I’d show Mr. Farnham that drainage work needing done. He has some thoughts on it.”
Chigwell and Haskell departed and Sherington directed Gareth to a chair.
“Laurence has gone up to town,” Sherington said without preamble.
“Town?” Memories of the fight with the Haskells had driven out all other thoughts. The satisfying crunch of the bully’s nose; Thad jumping in to fight Haskell’s brother; Laurence shrinking back like the bullies’ sister.
Damn, but he missed Thaddeus Sherington.
He cleared his throat. “Do you mean London, sir?”
“He’s keeping close watch on the ’Change. War’s over—for good this time, we hope, and things will be volatile. He’s not much for the land, and there it is. If Thaddeus had lived…”
Mr. Sherington tapped the desktop. “What are your plans, lad?”
“Sir?”
“Back to your family in Derbyshire? Or back to the army? Or somewhere else?”
Somewhere else, if you please. He thought of the rolling hectares of brimming vines; the chalk caverns filled with racks of riddling bottles; late evening meals under warm skies.
That would be Fleur’s life—if she’d take it. Impossible for himself.
“I’ll pay my brother a short visit, of course.” The shorter the better. “The army will take me back on full pay, I’m sure.” If he wished to risk yellow fever or typhus in some far-flung station.
