From Waif To Gentleman's Wife. Julia Justiss

who had gone white about the lips and looked definitely unsteady. ‘It will ease the burn and help settle your head.’

      The groom, who’d succeeded in quieting Ned’s frightened horse, ran up. ‘Sure enough they would’a robbed us, Sir Edward, if’n you hadn’t scared them off.’

      Ned shook his head. ‘There were five of them, by my count, and probably they had more weapons. They must know I would have handed over whatever they asked for to prevent further bloodshed. Besides, they were cheering for “General Ludd”.’

      ‘General Ludd?’ Harrison repeated. ‘You mean … they were Luddites? I thought all that nonsense ceased after the arrests and hangings in 1814.’

      ‘There’s been a revival of frame-breaking attacks since Waterloo. We’re not so far from Nottingham, which has always been in the thick of it,’ Ned replied, frowning.

      ‘Thugs and vermin is what I call ‘em,’ the coachman pronounced. ‘Should be hung or transported, the lot of ‘em. As I expect they will be, once you report this to the nearest magistrate!’

      ‘Whoever they were, I believe they’ve got safely away,’ Ned said. ‘Richard—’ he turned to the groom ‘—help Harrison to that fallen log.’ He gestured towards the wood’s edge. ‘You and John walk the horses while he recovers himself before we must jostle him the rest of the way to Blenhem Hill.’

      After a token protest that he was all right, the valet let himself be assisted to the ground, where he walked on wobbly legs to sit on the mossy tree trunk. Leaving the man sipping at the brandy flask, Ned paced the road, pondering what to do next.

      Though he’d heard of the unrest and Nicky had specifically mentioned it, Ned had never truly expected to encounter any difficulties. Indignation over the unprovoked attack and the injury to his valet prompted him to proceed directly, as John Coachman advised, to the local magistrate. But was that the wisest course of action?

      His agreement with Nicky was so recent that no one at Blenhem Hill or the surrounding area knew he’d acquired the property. He was neither expected, nor would anyone recognise him when he arrived. Indeed, even Nicky’s former manager didn’t know about him, for he carried Nicky’s note of introduction to Mr Martin in his pocket.

      During their discussions he had focused on the agricultural problems at Blenhem. With the shock of the attack to prompt his memory, he now recalled that Nicky also owned a controlling interest in one of the local cotton mills.

      Had the Englemere crest been recognised when they stopped at the inn in Kirkwell? It seemed rather a stretch of coincidence to presume the attack on a carriage belonging to the nobleman known to own both the cotton mill at Dutchfield and the estate at Blenhem Hill, occurring on the seldom-travelled road leading to that property, could be just the random act of local hooligans. Especially given the slogans being shouted by the perpetrators.

      Last summer, a renewed series of Luddite uprisings had swept through East Anglia. The mob had smashed frames in a mill at Loughborough and though this time none of the proprietors had been killed, Ned vividly recalled that two owners had been murdered in a previous wave of violence.

      Even if the attack hadn’t targeted Nicky personally, the fact that such a move had been made against a crested coach indicated that, at a minimum, a strong sense of disaffection prevailed in the area. If the people around Blenhem Hill were suffering and desperate, as Martin had indicated, the attackers might well be local men. Having Ned ride in demanding justice of the magistrate and threatening transportation to the perpetrators—perhaps sons and husbands, brothers and sweethearts of his own tenants—would hardly gain him the confidence and co-operation he needed to restore prosperity to Blenhem.

      Or discover the true purpose behind the attack.

      A course of action occurred to him, expeditious if unprecedented. Mr Martin and the staff at Blenhem Hill were not expecting Sir Edward Austin Greaves; however, they would be anticipating the arrival of a new estate agent.

      Though an agent might be the younger son of gentry, as a working man rather than an owner there was less of a difference in station between him and the tenants on his estate. Such a man would be more likely to inspire trust and elicit candid opinions about Blenhem—and any agitation in the neighbourhood—than an unknown new owner of aristocratic birth. No matter how sympathetic or friendly a face Ned presented to them, simple ‘Mr Greaves’ would probably be able to learn a good deal more about these people and their circumstances than the more elevated ‘Sir Edward’.

      He would do it, he decided. An estate agent having little need for a valet, he’d send Harrison home to Kent to recover and John Coachman and the groom back to Nicky with a report of what had happened.

      The decision made, an ironic amusement tempered his anger and frustration. This ‘challenge’ was turning out to be even more interesting than he’d anticipated.

      An hour later, the carriage turned down the gravelled drive leading to the front door of Blenhem Hill. Or at least, what had once been a gravelled drive, now mostly given over to the weeds that flourished between the wagon tracks.

      Mr Martin had not underestimated the dire condition of the property. Indeed, there was so much wrong that Ned hardly knew where to begin. With every neglected field and tumbledown dwelling they had passed, Ned’s ire had increased.

      No wonder the local citizenry were restive! If he were a tenant on one of those farms, he’d be ready to don a mask and shoot someone himself. Nicky shouldn’t have simply fired his previous manager, Ned concluded, struggling to control his outrage, he should have had him flogged on the village green.

      His angry gaze swept over the manor house as they approached, then checked in surprise. Unlike the vistas he’d just passed—bracken-filled fields and dilapidated cottages roofed in mouldering thatch, many of which seemed in imminent danger of collapsing altogether—this dwelling seemed to be in good repair.

      The coach pulled up with a squeal of brakes and a jingle of harness. Ned hopped out—but no one emerged from the manor to greet the new arrivals. Not until he had raised his fisted hand to knock at the broad hickory-planked door did it swing open.

      An older man he presumed to be the butler stood upon the threshold. After glancing at the carriage, its crest visible on the undamaged door nearest them, the man bowed. ‘How may I help you, my lord?’

      With a warning glance to his servants, who had only reluctantly agreed to the plan their employer had outlined to them before resuming their travels, Ned extended his hand. ‘Myles, isn’t it? Lord Englemere sent me. I’m Ned Greaves, the new estate manager.’

      An hour later as he walked through the deepening dusk from the manor to the stables to confer with Harrison and John Coachman, Ned noted the first benefit that had derived from his altered status. Sir Edward must have summoned the men to the estate office, perhaps causing speculation and risking the possibility that they might be overheard by eavesdropping servants. Mr Greaves could simply go to their quarters. There was a curious and rather liberating freedom in ambling across the stableyard almost unnoticed, he reflected.

      Not a flicker of surprise had crossed Myles’s face when Ned had informed the butler he needed to consult with Lord Englemere’s grooms and coachman on the repair of his vehicle, the damage to which and the wounding of Harrison he’d fobbed off as an accident with the coachman’s pistol that had occurred on the road.

      Of course, the butler’s demeanour had been wooden since his arrival. It was impossible to discern whether this senior member of the household sympathised with or detested the man who had previously held the position Ned had assumed, whether he welcomed or resented the arrival of a replacement.

      In the same polite but impersonal tone with which he’d answered the door, Myles had asked Ned if he wished his baggage to be stowed in the largest guest chamber, where the previous agent had been installed. Upon Ned’s assent, he directed a footman to fetch Ned’s things, informed him of the hours when the household normally breakfasted and dined, and bowed himself out.

      Myles was