“Castlemare used to crow that tupping Beatrice was like bedding a block of ice.” Estwood shrugged. “We met over a card table once. I can’t say I liked him. Sloppy when he became foxed. Lots of spit when he regaled us all with his ducal personality.”
“She may not be worth the trouble,” Ellis said smoothly. “I do find her a bit chilly, but there is challenge in that. Even so, I’ll be returning to London soon.” The words hurt because none of them were true. But he sensed Beatrice wanted to stay hidden behind her walls of Chiddon villagers, high necklines and an appealing if unusual hairstyle. She would not thank him for drawing any attention in her direction. Beatrice may not have asked for his protection, but she had it all the same.
“Yes, Lady Anabeth awaits.” Estwood laughed, showing a line of even, white teeth. “Shall we have a look at the packet I brought you? There is an interesting opportunity for an exporting company. I’m starving by the way.”
“Sykes is on the way with refreshments of some sort,” Ellis said, his thoughts not on his friend, an exporting business, or whether Sykes would bring anything decent for them to eat. He wanted to question Estwood further about Beatrice but didn’t dare. Estwood was bound to mention to Lady Blythe that Beatrice was in Chiddon, and though Ellis’s mother had never liked Beatrice, she was well acquainted with the Foxwoods. Everyone was. She might be curious.
“There is a piece of property nearby I’d like to purchase,” he informed Estwood, resigning himself to a shift in the conversation. “There is a tavern in Chiddon, the only one, as it happens.” He told Estwood about Gates and his ale, leaving out Beatrice’s involvement. Soon, the brandy was put aside for two very expensive bottles of French wine. The tiny sandwiches brought by Sykes wouldn’t have satisfied anyone. Thankfully, the dinner roast was much better. Still, throughout the entire evening, Ellis’s enjoyment was dimmed as his mind wandered to Beatrice and the life she’d led before he’d found her in Chiddon. He was only certain of one thing. The horrible creature he’d once known no longer existed, or at least, not all of her.
After retiring, Ellis stared at the ceiling above him, remembering the feel of Beatrice’s mouth beneath his own.
He wished Estwood was returning to London tomorrow.
14
“What do you think, Your Grace?”
Beatrice cast her gaze over the pond before her, thick with some sort of sludge, before taking in the abandoned mill. She had no idea why Blythe had brought her here today. Morbid curiosity, perhaps, over the gruesome history of the place.
“I think it is a mill falling to rubble and a pond with dead fish.” She put a finger to her nose. “At least it smells like something dead.” There were rumors of ghosts about. “And I believe the area is haunted.”
“Hmm.”
Beatrice hadn’t seen Blythe for nearly a week, not since the odd, painful confession he’d thrown at her after church. She’d gone about her business, mildly bereft at his absence. But this morning, Blythe was once more at her breakfast table, happily tucked into a rasher of bacon and flirting outrageously with the previously dour Mrs. Lovington.
“I thought you might have returned to London,” she’d announced. Her pulse had throbbed gently at seeing him; she was unaccountably pleased he was once more sitting in her chair, even if she didn’t want to be.
Blythe had looked up from his bacon. “Nonsense, Your Grace. I’ve something to show you.”
Hustling her outside before Beatrice could properly finish her tea, she’d found Cicero already saddled beside Blythe’s horse, Dante. They’d ridden for the better part of a half-hour. Blythe had gestured to various points of interest as they traveled, though there wasn’t truly anything of note—just trees and grass. Now they were here, at the abandoned Mandrell mill.
The mill’s importance to the tiny village of Chiddon couldn’t be underestimated, but no one wanted their wheat ground on the same stone where Mrs. Mandrell’s lover had met his fate. After drowning his wife, Mandrell had hung himself. Farthing’s predecessor, Vicar Kent, had been Mrs. Mandrell’s lover, his death leaving Chiddon without spiritual guidance. Efforts to induce another villager to take on the mill had proven futile which meant all the wheat in the surrounding area had to be taken to Overton. Cursed, was what some said of Chiddon after such a tragedy, and many villagers had left for greener pastures.
“Grim scenery for a morning ride,” Beatrice announced. The entire tale left goosebumps covering her arms.
Blythe grinned. “Mr. Gates gave me the lurid details, Your Grace. Imagine, a lecherous vicar ground to death. Still, it isn’t enough reason to leave a perfectly good mill standing abandoned for over ten years when Chiddon is so obviously starved for one. Overton is some distance away. You won’t be able to keep your cheese monger or anyone else if the mill continues to stand idle.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “Are you mocking the need for a proper cheddar?”
The breadth of his shoulders rolled carelessly as a bit of wind teased at his hair.
He was so bloody handsome, Beatrice’s heart flitted about in her chest before settling. “The wheel doesn’t even turn.”
“Clogged with debris which can be easily remedied. That’s why the pond is stagnant. Well, that and the dam which is also overgrown.” He tilted his head to the left. “But I’ve seen much worse.” Blythe gracefully slid from Dante’s back.
Indecently tight breeches.The leather pulled exquisitely in all the improper places.
Beatrice looked down, afraid he’d catch her ogling him.
“Besides, Your Grace, don’t you need a new project, or do you still believe you can lure a baker to Chiddon without a mill?”
Beatrice did want a proper bakery, but the problem of the mill had stopped her. The bakery was for Rosalind, the Barrington cousin who created pastries which were regarded as works of art. Beatrice had used Rosalind in her campaign to destroy Andromeda.
“I was thinking more a dressmaker,” she replied.
The dressmaker was to be penance for Andromeda.
“Hmm. A mill would be far more useful to Chiddon.”
