Regency Society Collection Part 2. Ann Lethbridge

by way of freshly washed cobbles and repaired stable doors.

      Young Bracewell had not been part of his circle of friends, thank God, so there should not be anyone in the party of guests he knew well. For added security, he’d let his beard grow for the past couple of days.

      He knocked on Weatherby’s office door and ducked inside at the gruff permission to enter.

      A lantern on the bench relieved the gloom and gave Weatherby’s weatherbeaten face a rather saturnine cast. ‘I’d almost given you up, Deveril,’ the old man growled. ‘Did you catch our poacher?’

      ‘I think I scared him off when I removed his traps last week. It was likely some poor sod from the village adding a bit of meat to his cooking pot.’

      ‘You are too soft-hearted, my lad. It’s his lordship’s game they’re stealing. If you find him, you’ll deal with him.’

      Robert nodded obediently. If I find him.

      ‘Ah, well, these are the plans for the guests’ hunt. Think you can handle it?’ Weatherby handed Robert a map and gestured him to take a chair.

      Robert pored over the map. Weatherby intended to draw out the fox from Gallows Hill and give the hunters a fair run. So Miss Bracewell’s fox had been spared his traps only to end up fleeing the hounds. She would hate that.

      Damn. What the hell was he doing, thinking about her likes and dislikes instead of his work? ‘When?’

      Bushy brows lowered, Weatherby bent over more maps. ‘Two days from now.’

      ‘We’ll need beaters from the village.’

      ‘Right. Let them know. They won’t want to miss his lordship dropping of a bit of blunt their way, or the chance of a stray rabbit or two. Pass the word down at the Bull and Mouth, would ye.’

      ‘Be glad to.’

      Weatherby reached for another plug of tobacco and stuffed his clay pipe. Robert braced for the choking smoke while Weatherby went over the rest of his duties for the day.

      A half-hour later, he stepped out into a gusty north wind with the brace of pheasant Weatherby deemed ready for his lordship’s table. Storm clouds gathered overhead. Another day, he’d go home soaked to the bone. But at least he had employment.

      He glanced up at the back of the mansion. The diamond panes stared back like empty eyes. Was she up there somewhere, tucked up warm in her bed dreaming of foxes? Or dreaming of him? His body responded instantly.

      Damn it. Why could he not get it through his thick head, she was not for him?

      He strode across the courtyard and through into the kitchen where a rush of heat enveloped him. The scent of new-baked bread made his mouth water.

      Maisie lifted her head from her churn and grinned. ‘Morning, Rob.’

      ‘Good morning.’

      Cook bustled out of the scullery and he handed her the rust-coloured birds. ‘I suppose you are looking for breakfast, lad?’ She set the birds down on the table and planted her hands on her ample hips.

      ‘If you’ve any to spare.’

      Once in a while, Weatherby sent him in here first thing in the morning, knowing he’d be offered a hot meal. Another of the crumbs offered by the higher servants to the lower orders, a greasing of the wheels of servitude. The old gamekeeper had a kind heart beneath his gruff ways.

      ‘Sit you down, then. Maisie, fetch the butter.’

      Robert drew up a wooden chair to the scrubbed pine table. While Maisie scurried about setting him a place, Mrs Doncaster tossed two eggs and a thick slice of bacon onto the griddle hung over the fire, then cut off two thick hunks of bread from one of the cottage loaves cooling by the window.

      Moments later, she slapped the bread down in front of him and pointed her knife at the pat of butter set out by Maisie. ‘There you go, then, you big lummox. Eat hearty if you want to keep that frame of yours from caving in.’

      Maisie giggled, then grimaced when the cook glowered in her direction.

      Robert pretended not to notice. He stemmed his anticipation of a decently cooked breakfast by slowly buttering the bread. ‘It’s getting right busy around here.’

      ‘Aye. T’ain’t so much the master’s guests,’ she went on in a low grumble. ‘They’s bad enough in theirselves. ‘’Tis all them stuck-up maids and valets what’ll want feeding and waiting on. The master makes no allowance for that.’ Her pudgy hand worked swiftly over the griddle. Deftly, she scooped up the eggs and bacon and dropped them on a plate. She set his plate down with a sharp bang on the table.

      At the sound of a throat being cleared from the doorway, the cook turned to face the butler framed in the doorway. ‘Good morning, Mr Snively.’

      Another battle in the offing?

      The grim-faced butler acknowledged the greeting with no more than a flicker of an eyelash. ‘Maisie, Miss Bracewell is in the breakfast room looking for tea and toast.’

      Not in bed dreaming, then.

      ‘In this house, breakfast above stairs is at eight o’clock,’ Cook muttered, handing Maisie a slice of bread and the toasting fork.

      ‘Family is served when they want to be served. I will return in fifteen minutes for the tray,’ Snively uttered in awful accents. Receiving no reply, he left.

      ‘Family,’ the cook uttered with scorn. ‘Hardly. Making out like she’s real family. Well, she ain’t. Mark my words, she’ll come to a bad end.’

      A flash of anger shot through his veins. Hot words formed on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them.

      ‘Good Gawd, Maisie,’ Cook yelled. ‘Watch what you’re doing. You’ve burned the toast again. Scrape it off quick and slap some butter on it before old Iron Drawers returns and finds nothing ready.’ She turned back to Robert. ‘You mark my words, blood will out. The mother was no better than she should be, and the daughter will turn out the same. Now, if you’re finished, Rob, I gots work to do.’

      Seething with rage, he clenched one fist under the table, taking one slow breath after another, angry at her. But worse. Anger he could say nothing in her defence. It was not his place to defend Miss Bracewell. Any sign of interest would fan the flames of gossip.

      The sight of congealed egg on his plate turned his stomach. Either that or the vicious words had stolen his appetite. He pushed the plate away. ‘Quite finished, Mrs Doncaster. Thanks.’

      He rose and picked up his hat and coat. For once he couldn’t wait to leave the warmth of the kitchen and get back to his labours.

      Outside in the passage, where the servants’ stairs led to the bedrooms above, he took a deep breath and fastened his coat buttons, residual anger making his fingers clumsy.

      ‘Rob?’

      He turned at Maisie’s breathless call. ‘Don’t you have a breakfast to prepare?’ he asked. ‘You’ll be in trouble if it’s not ready.’

      ‘Snively came fer it right after you left.’ She closed the gap between them. He backed up until he hit the newel post.

      ‘Cook meant to give you this.’ She waved a small package. ‘Tea.’ She made a dive for his pocket.

      He snatched the packet from her hand. ‘Give her my thanks.’

      Still blocking his path, she peeped up at him from beneath stubby lashes. ‘They’ll be right busy when the guests arrive. No one will notice me and thee.’ She nudged him with a generous hip. ‘Perhaps we can have our own party. Ee, but I do fancy you, Rob.’ Scarlet blazed on her plump cheeks as she aimed a kiss at his mouth. Jerking back, he fielded her moist lips on his cheek at the same moment he heard a gasp from farther along the passage.

      Maisie lifted her chin and