A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(51)

Seagulls strutted around at the top of the glistening mud heap, pecking the earth, then flapping about to land a few feet away. In the sharp midday light, they put Charlotte in mind of carrion crows, feasting on the remains of some huge mythical beast.

“Why put houses where a retaining wall was required?” she asked.

Sherbourne tore the bread in half and offered her the larger portion. Charlotte took a bite, and got hints of coal and dirt with her bread and butter.

“Jones laid the houses out there because workers should live near the works, one of Haverford’s requirements. The men aren’t to be tramping three miles each day to and from the colliery, out in all kinds of weather. They are to have decent housing at or near the colliery itself.”

Which left many choices besides the lee of a steep hill. Charlotte was about to make that point when another conveyance rattled past the white tent, the Duke of Haverford at the reins.

“What is he doing here?” Sherbourne muttered.

“He’s our neighbor. Perhaps he came to offer assistance.”

Sherbourne gave Charlotte an incredulous look and rose. “Haverford.”

The duke brought his trap to a halt. “Anybody hurt?”

“Not a soul.”

Haverford remained on the bench, looking very much the properly turned out gentleman. “You had a row of houses planned where that mudslide landed, didn’t you?”

“Close to the works,” Sherbourne said, crossing his arms. “As required.”

A tense silence sprang up. Charlotte rose from the stack of timbers and joined Sherbourne beside the vehicle.

“Your Grace, good day.”

If Haverford was surprised to see her, he was too well bred to show it. “Madam.” He touched his hat brim. “If you don’t mind my asking, Sherbourne, what in blazes happened here? Griffin said you’d had a mudslide. Half the hill has landed on your work site, and I don’t see how you’ll get it put back where it belongs before winter arrives.”

“Rain happened,” Sherbourne said. “Tons and tons of rain. We’ll manage.”

Charlotte wanted to smack her husband. Haverford owned much of the valley, and that meant he might also have an empty cottage or two, or a pensioner’s patch to spare.

“Harvest is in,” Haverford said, as the men began to wander back to their shovels and picks. “I’ll send some of my tenants over, shall I? They don’t like to be idle, and if you’re putting that hill back where it belongs, you need manpower.”

Charlotte squeezed Sherbourne’s arm, hard. He shot her a glance that blended annoyance and amusement. A married glance?

“We can use all the help you can spare,” Sherbourne said. “Some prayers for a stretch of sunny weather would also be appreciated.”

“You’ll have to take up the prayer request with Mr. MacPherson,” Haverford replied. “I’ll see who I can muster for a few days of fresh air and free ale. Don’t be surprised if Griffin shows up with a batch of shortbread. Why has the Earl of Brantford decided to impose himself on my hospitality?”

Sherbourne ran a hand through his hair. “Brantford is paying a call on you?”

“I have a passing acquaintance with him from various Parliamentary encounters, and on the strength of that acquaintance, he’s asked for the castle’s hospitality. His letter mentioned having an interest in a new colliery, and I sent him the appropriate gracious reply. He should be here by the end of next week.”

*



“Why did you do that?” Sherbourne asked, as he drove Charlotte to the house. Heulwen and Morgan were walking home together, and Sherbourne wished them the joy of their flirtation. Dishes rattled in the back of the vehicle, and the aroma of beef stew blended with the scent of a muddy autumn landscape.

And gardenias.

“Why did I invite Haverford and his duchess to dinner on Friday?”

“That too, but why did you bring food when I hadn’t asked you to come to the site?”

Sherbourne had spent a good five minutes staring at a scrap of paper, pencil poised to write a message that would allay Charlotte’s fears without conveying any of his own. He’d never once considered that Charlotte would want to be involved.

He’d stuck with the facts: Extensive damage, no fatalities.

The project budget had sustained a severe injury, though, as had Sherbourne’s confidence in Hannibal Jones.

Two hours later, Sherbourne had looked up and seen his wife, his passionate, shy, blunt wife, perched on a hard chair, spouting off about the weight of a cubic yard of water, and his heart had felt lighter.

“I came to the works because I was worried,” Charlotte said, bracing herself as the gig hit a rut. “Your note was cryptic, and when is food a bad idea?”

No more cryptic notes, then. Full sentences, a greeting, a signature. He could do that. “The food was good. The men appreciated it.” Sherbourne had appreciated it. He’d told her that, hadn’t he?

Good God, when had this lane become so full of potholes?

“You don’t have to mince words, Mr. Sherbourne. I should not have stuck my nose in, implying that you were less than equal to the situation. One grows concerned—‘no fatalities’ can imply grievous injuries—and merely sending a footman with a few sandwiches when I know the colliery has no cooking facilities did not seem…” Charlotte snatched away a bonnet ribbon that the wind insisted on whipping against her mouth. “I’m glad the men enjoyed the soup.”