Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(86)

Albert snorted. “No thank you, your highness.” He walked to the door and held it open, pulling himself up to what approached a manly height. “I don’t take Kendall charity.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you don’t take Kendall charity?” She approached the boy, staring him straight in the face. The flinty defiance in his eyes never wavered. Lucy checked the smile tickling the corners of her lips. Eight years ago, she might well have viewed an identical expression in a mirror. “Well then,” she asked cagily, “will you take a Kendall wager?”

She plucked an apple from the basket on the table and walked outside. She beckoned to Mary, and the girl scampered happily after her. “Mary,” she whispered, placing the apple in the girl’s palm, “would you kindly run and place this on the fence there?” She tilted her head toward the stone border edging a nearby oatfield. “Quickly now, and there’s a shilling in it for you.”

The girl did as she was bid, and Lucy rewarded her as promised. “There’s a shilling well-earned,” she said loudly, shooting the older boy a look. She straightened and faced him, holding out her hand. “Now, about that wager. Albert, may I borrow your sling?” She nodded toward the leather strap protruding from his pocket.

He squinted at the distant target, then eyed her dubiously. “You can’t hit that.”

“If I miss, I’ll owe you a shilling. And if I hit the mark—”

Albert snorted.

“If I hit the mark,” she repeated coolly, “you must accept a half-crown.” She took the scrap of leather from the boy’s hand and bent to select a suitable stone from the path. “It’s a wager, then?” she asked, fitting the stone to the sling.

He nodded. Lucy glanced briefly at Miss Osborne, who appeared to be watching the exchange with great amusement. Lucy felt a brief pang of conscience. Striking wagers with obstinate boys probably didn’t befit the Countess of Kendall. But hang it all, the “fine lady” routine didn’t seem to be fooling anyone. It certainly wouldn’t buy Mary more bread.

Miss Osborne’s gaze met hers. Lucy shrugged and smiled. She took aim at the apple, set the sling in motion with a flick of her wrist, and released.

The apple exploded in a cloud of white pith. Albert’s mouth fell open.

Lucy dug a half-crown from her reticule. She handed it and the sling back to the slack-jawed boy. “If it’s pride you’re concerned about, Albert—next time, take the charity. It will cost you less.”

Albert blinked. He looked down at the coin and the sling, then the fence, then back at Lucy. Flashing an amused glance in Lucy’s direction, Miss Osborne reached out and tweaked his ear.

“Albert, I believe the words you’re searching for are, ‘Yes, my lady.’”

“You have a problem.”

Jeremy looked up from his letter, surprised. Why he should be surprised, he didn’t know. After their argument that morning, he’d spent the day expecting—hell, even anticipating—the imminent descent of Lucy’s wrath. At least, he noted from her determined stride, her ankle appeared to have mended.

“I have a problem?” he repeated.

“A serious problem. Your tenants hate you.”

He sat back in his chair. She wanted to talk about his tenants? “Yes, I know.”

“No, I mean they truly hate you! When the name Kendall is spoken, old people spit on the ground. Mothers threaten their children with your name. ‘Do as I say, or I’ll have Lord Kendall come and take you to the poor-house.’ Peopledespise you.”

“And you see this as a problem.”

“Of course! Don’t you?”

He sighed, laying his quill on the desk. “A problem is something I can attempt to remedy. This—this is more of a reality. If it makes you feel any better, it’s my father they truly hated. Me, they intensely dislike. So far.”

“I went visiting tenants today, and the children shrank from me in fear!”

“You went visiting tenants? With whom?”

“Miss Osborne, the doctor’s daughter. And an escort of outriders.” Her green eyes flashed. “My lord.”

Jeremy rubbed his temples. He’d known that would come back to haunt him. “Listen, Lucy, about this morning …”

She cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. “I met two children today who are orphaned, most likely. Their mother is most certainly dead, and their father has been transported to Australia. Can you guess his crime?”

Yes, he thought. He had a reasonably certain idea.

“Trapping one miserable partridge to feed his ailing wife and their children. One bird, worth a sentence of transportation.” Indignation burned red on her cheeks. She bit the fingertip of one glove and pulled it off.

He rose from his chair and rounded the desk to stand beside her. “Lucy, my father was a very harsh lord. He was especially unforgiving toward poachers. It’s regrettable, but there’s nothing that can change it now.”

“But your father is dead,” she said, peeling off her other glove. “You’re the lord now. Certainly you’d never go making orphans of poor children, just for the sake of a partridge.” She untied her bonnet and flung it onto a nearby chair. “Yet the tenants still fear you, despise you. Why don’t they understand that you’re nothing like your father? That you’re a kind and generous and not at all hateful man?”