A Gentleman Of Substance. Deborah Hale

scarcely slept at all. In a particularly rebellious mood, she dressed in a serviceable old gown she’d brought to Silverthorne from the vicarage. Phyllipa or no Phyllipa, she intended to pay some calls on her friends in Nicholthwait today.

      Descending the stairs, she looked forward to a quiet breakfast without the company of her husband and his cousin.

      She nodded to the butler. “Mr. Talbot? Since I’ve come late to breakfast, tell Mrs. Maberley not to bother with a full meal for me. Tea and bread will be quite sufficient.”

      “Are you certain, ma’am? It would be no trouble.”

      “Quite certain, Mr. Talbot. In fact you may tell Mrs. Maberley that from now on I will take tea and bread for my breakfast.”

      As the butler set off for the kitchen, Lucy let out a long, shaky breath. There, that hadn’t been so difficult. Her stomach felt less upset already.

      Slipping into the quiet breakfast room, she startled at the sight of Drake sitting at the head of the table. He acknowledged her with a cool nod. She replied in kind. For a wild instant, Lucy found herself wishing Phyllipa had been there to ease the tension with her prattle.

      As she took her seat, she noticed the rise and fall of Drake’s fork picking up tempo. As rapidly as humanly possible, he consumed his breakfast. Evidently, he was as eager to get away from her as she was to see him go. With a flush of vindictive satisfaction, Lucy noted the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Perhaps he hadn’t slept as soundly as she’d assumed.

      She was beginning to fidget and wonder how soon Talbot would bring her tea, when she heard the muted sounds of a commotion in the entry. Drake must have heard it, too, for he looked toward the door. At first Lucy could make nothing of the words, except their tone of anger and urgency. Then, quite clearly, she heard mine and cave-in. Dropping his cutlery in midbite, Drake rose from his chair and strode out of the room. Lucy followed.

      In the entry hall stood Talbot, Silverthorne’s normally phlegmatic butler, engaged in a shouting match with a stranger—by far the dirtiest individual Lucy had ever seen. Spying Drake, he tried to shoulder his way past Talbot.

      When Drake approached, the stranger lunged forward, clutching the lapels of his coat. “Cave-in at High Head, sir! A whole shift of men trapped!”

      Drake responded immediately. Grabbing the stranger by the arm he propelled him out the door. Lucy presumed they were headed for the stables. As she stood there, momentarily stunned by the turn of events, Talbot brushed off his coat where the stranger had laid hands on it.

      “Why did you not show the man in at once, Mr. Talbot?”

      “As I informed the caller, ma’am—” he thrust back his shoulders and drew himself into a severely straight posture “—a few minutes either way wasn’t going to matter. His lordship slept poorly last night, and I felt he should be able to enjoy his breakfast in peace.”

      “His lordship slept poorly?” Lucy savored the taste of those words. Innocently, she asked, “What was the trouble?”

      “His lordship did not choose to confide that information.”

      Hearing the clatter of hooves in the forecourt, she looked outside just in time to see Drake and the messenger riding off at full gallop. With a pang of shame, Lucy remembered the cave-in at High Head, the trapped miners and their families. She had no business gloating over a minor victory in her running battle with Drake when there might be something she could do to help.

      Immediately an idea came to her. It would mean issuing orders to the Silverthorne servants—particularly the formidable Mr. Talbot and the cook, who wore a constant frown of disapproval. In the end she would likely receive a stern lecture from Drake as well, for breaking any number of edicts on the proper conduct of a viscountess.

      Both considerations gave her pause. Life at Silverthorne had been intolerable enough for the past month. Did she need to make it worse? On the other hand, who else had the means and the authority to bring relief to the people of High Head?

      Swallowing a lump in her throat and wiping moist palms on the skirt of her gown, Lucy gave her first true order as Mistress Silverthorne. “Mr. Talbot, kindly inform the hostlers I want a sturdy wagon and a good strong team. Have them harness up the little tilbury as well. In the meantime, I want the household staff to round up supplies for me.”

      “Supplies, ma’am?” The butler looked bewildered.

      “Lord Silverthorne has set off for High Head and I mean to follow. I’ll need blankets, cotton for bandages. Food, of course. I’ll speak to Mrs. Maberley about that. Well, Talbot, don’t just stand there. We have work to do.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” The butler acknowledged her with a twitch of his head. Then he blew a shrill whistle that brought several young footmen scurrying.

      For the next hour the elegant halls of Silverthorne echoed with footsteps proceeding far more quickly than their usual sedate pace. From her headquarters in the front entry hall, Lucy marshaled her supplies, diverted only briefly to don her gloves, her bonnet and a thick shawl. The wagon appeared without delay and was soon piled high with commandeered food and other supplies.

      “One more thing, Mr. Talbot.” Lucy stood on the tips of her toes and whispered in his ear.

      The butler’s face went white. “B-b-but your 1-1-ladyship,” he sputtered. “That’s the last of his lordship’s French stock. God knows when we shall see decent brandy again as long as Boney’s got a stranglehold on the Continent.”

      Lucy put her hands on her hips. “I have every confidence in General Wellington, Mr. Talbot. Now, go and get me that brandy. I will take full responsibility for disposing of it.”

      Talbot trudged away with the air of a man ordered to present his children for ritual sacrifice. Lucy turned her attention back to the wagon.

      “What a fine idea,” she commended the two footmen who covered her load with a heavy sheet of canvas.

      When she ordered the driver off the tilbury gig, the man gave her a puzzled look. “Who’s to drive you, ma’am?”

      “I shall drive myself, of course.” Lucy tried her best to look confident—and taller. “I’m very good with horses.”

      “I must protest, madam.” Mr. Talbot reappeared with a small wooden crate lovingly cradled in his arms. “That’s no journey for a lady to make by herself. I feel certain his lordship would not approve.”

      Lucy felt equally certain, but she had no intention of letting that stop her. There were people in trouble who needed her help. For the first time in weeks, she felt strong, confident and alive. “As you see, Mr. Talbot, his lordship is not on hand to consult.”

      The butler began to sputter again. Lucy relieved him of the crate of brandy, tucking it under the driver’s seat of the gig. “If it will put your mind at rest, Talbot, I do not intend to go all the way to High Head by myself.”

      The butler’s craggy features betrayed visible relief.

      “No indeed.” Lucy accepted a hand up into driver’s seat. “I’ll stay close to the supply wagon at all times. I also mean to stop at the vicarage and enlist my father to accompany me.”

      “What is all this to-do? Where is Viscount Silverthorne? Will someone kindly tell me what is going on?” Phyllipa emerged from the entry hall. She stared at the supply wagon and Lucy’s gig, as though the whole scene were some kind of apparition.

      Talbot briefly explained the situation.

      “This is ridiculous! Lucinda, come down at once. Rest assured I would never have let you get this far if I had known what was going on. I was in the nursery with Reggie. The poor child has suffered a dreadful bilious attack.”

      Undoubtedly brought on by eating too many stolen sweet buns, Lucy thought. She wished Phyllipa would be quiet for a minute so she could get a word in.

      “I’ve finally got