Edward’s swift dispatch of the Marquess was one of his most memorable exploits, but now when he displayed sympathy or opened his house or his purse to help another, there were those who were wont to believe his base intent was to reap some greater reward. It seemed precisely the case when he extended his hospitality to Elise Radborne, the daughter of a foster sister now ten and five years dead. The disappearance of Elise’s father had brought about circumstances that had necessitated her flight from the family manor in London, and only too aware of the rumors of a hidden treasure, Edward had eagerly opened the east wing to her. Still, it was not in his nature to be overly generous. Since he was the only kin the girl could turn to, he had taken advantage of her plight, requiring steep rents and pressing her into service as working mistress of his newly acquired country estate of Bradbury Hall. Casually he had given the excuse that his own daughter could not be bothered by menial tasks while she attended to the preparations for her marriage to the Earl of Chadwick. Well in advance of the wedding feast, Edward had instructed his niece to restrict herself from the evening’s regalement and to give her full attention to the supervision of servants as they laid out the feast. Not a drop or a crumb was to be wasted, he had sternly admonished her, and above all there was to be no sampling of the fare by the hirelings.
Though naught but ten and seven years of age, Elise Radborne was a rather resourceful young lady and not without experience in managing a large manor, for she had served as mistress of her father’s house for several years past, but she was among strangers and had been placed in charge of a household staff still sympathetic to the late Marquess of Bradbury, Maxim Seymour. As loyal as the hirelings were to his memory, they were equally as critical and resentful of the new squire, for it was widely rumored among them that Edward Stamford had purloined the estates of Bradbury by conniving lies.
Elise had no way of determining what was truth and what was not. She had come to Bradbury months after the Marquess was killed in a reckless bid for freedom and had never had the occasion to become acquainted with the man. Her closest contact with him had been her discovery of his portrait in the east wing where she now resided. Previous to her arrival, the quarters had remained closed, but in the tiny cubicle where the portrait had been found, the disturbance of dust and the clean, fresh covering over the piece had given evidence of its recent placement. Curious as to why so grand a painting would be hidden away, she had made discreet inquiries, only to be told that the squire had ordered the portrait destroyed shortly after his arrival and that the servants, taking umbrage at his dictate, had spirited it away to the east wing.
Elise could hardly fault the servants for their loyalties, though she was persuaded by the evidence of the Marquess’s crimes that he had not deserved such devotion. After all, he had been judged guilty of foreign intrigue, conspiring to assassinate the Queen, and of trying to conceal his duplicity by the murder of her agent. Still, when she considered how long many of the servants had been at Bradbury, some even before the event of Lord Seymour’s birth, three past a score and ten years ago, Elise could understand why they would choose to reject the evidence of his guilt and remain faithful to his memory.
She was determined to remain just as sensitive to her uncle’s motives in ridding the house of every reminder of the late Marquess. If the portrait represented a true likeness of the man, then one could assume that Seymour had made quite an impression on Arabella. The loss of such a magnificent suitor would have made any woman resentful of a father who had somehow been involved in his demise. If for no other purpose than to keep peace in his small family, Edward had been justified.
The challenge Elise had found herself faced with since her arrival was dealing with a staff of servants who disliked the squire. Though they kept busy and attended the duties of the house, it was done more out of respect for its previous owner. A confrontation usually ensued after a long period of continual grumbling over Edward’s way of doing things. It was not their right to question the squire’s orders, Elise instructed them, no matter how inane they seemed to be.
This evening was proving no exception to the rule. She had already scolded several for their unfavorable comparisons between their present master and their last, when she noticed a manservant dawdling in front of a tapped barrel. This one wore a tunic whose hood covered his head, preventing any glimpse of his features. He stood hunched over his task in such a way that his broad shoulders obstructed her view, giving rise to the suspicion that he was taking liberties with the brew, certainly an unforgivable sin in her uncle’s eyes.
Bracing herself for another argument, Elise straightened her spine and smoothed her black velvet gown over the hooped farthingale, assuming her best mien as mistress of a great house. For one so young, she looked very intent and most elegant in her simple but costly garb. A white, lace-edged ruff, conservatively narrow compared to the lavish excesses of court dress, flared out from her throat and rose higher in the back, enhancing the beauty of her oval face. A bloom of rosy color brightened delicately-boned cheeks, setting off a sparkle in the jewel-blue eyes. Those sapphire orbs slanted slightly upward and were thickly fringed with silken lashes of a coal-black hue. Her brows had not been shaved as was the custom of some women, but were slashes of red-brown that swept upward across flawless, lustrous skin. Her rich auburn hair had been parted in the middle and was neatly coifed beneath a pert, black velvet attifet which formed an arc above both sides of her forehead. Two long ropes of pearls hung about her neck beneath the crisp ruff and swept downward over her bosom. A ruby-encrusted frame served as a clasp at the first full swell of her breast and held a miniature enamel painting, the profile of a woman whose image her father had often said resembled her mother.
Elise hoped she looked as imposing as the subject of the tiny portrait, for the servant would be more likely to give her the respect due her station, than if he were one of those who had witnessed her undignified masquerades as ragged urchin and Hansa youth. Pausing close behind the man, she inquired almost sweetly, “Is the wine to your liking?”
Slowly the hooded head turned until the narrow opening of the deep cowl faced her above a broad shoulder. The covering was drawn up close around the man’s face, half masking it, and though his darkly translucent eyes caught the glow of nearby candles and seemed to glimmer at her from the shadows of the hood, she was forbidden a clear view of his features. He seemed much taller and somehow different from the other hirelings, lending to the suspicion that he had come from a different portion of the estate.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mistress. The ol’ winemaster bid me sample the brew so’s no bitter vetch’d be sourin’ the tongues o’ these ‘ere foin folk.” Though stubbled with the coarseness of a commoner’s speech, his voice was deep and rich, with a full measure of warmth. He raised the flagon he held, tipping it a bit, and thoughtfully contemplated it before tapping his forefinger against its side. “Mark me word, mistress, this ‘ere brew comes from the ol’ stock. Has a fair ta middlin’ bite, ‘at it does. ‘Tain’t none o’ ‘at rot this fellow Stamford serves up.”
Elise stared agog at the man, taken aback by his unabashed affront. His audacity pricked her sense of propriety, and her voice sharpened with sarcasm. “I rather doubt Squire Stamford would countenance your judgment or your opinion, whatever it may be. Ungrateful wretch! Who are you to cast awry the good intent of one who pays your wage? For shame!”