Percy looked back at the door into the wine cellar. It was out of the range of the light from his candle, however, and he was forced to walk back. And yes, he could see now that this door and the wall in which it was set were considerably more ancient than those that led into the empty, damp room.
“I daresay, then,” he said, “it would be as well to leave the door in place and forget about the lost key.”
“Yes, my lord,” the butler agreed.
Percy left the house by the front door and turned to walk about to the back. There were back doors, he knew, leading out to the kitchen gardens and other areas most frequented by the servants. There was also a servants’ entrance at the side of the house closest to the stables—the same side of the house as the wine cellar. Percy had seen that before. Now he went to look at the other side. And sure enough, there was a door there too, one that was closed and securely locked—no surprise there. It also looked neglected, as though it had not been used in years. There was no path leading to it and no evidence of its having been approached by any large number of feet recently. On closer inspection, though, there was perhaps some sign of new sod having been set down for several feet stretching from the door. He could see the faint mark of straight lines in the grass dividing the pieces.
Damn it all, he thought, the old earl, his predecessor, had shut up the cellar at the dower house so smugglers couldn’t use it. But had they replaced it with a good chunk of the cellar at the hall? If Percy was not mistaken, those pieces of sod were of a more recent date than two years ago, when the old earl had died.
There must have been general dismay when he turned up here a couple of weeks ago. A valiant effort had been made to move him at least to the back of the hall, where he was less likely to see a band of smugglers hauling their goods up to the house one dark and stormy night. And, that plan having met with defeat, a desperate attempt had been made to see to it that no light of outside activity could possibly penetrate the darkness of his bedchamber.
Did this mean that Crutchley was involved? And who else among the servants? All of them?
Damn it all to hell. He was going to have to either turn a blind eye—that phrase again—or do something about the situation.
The habit of a lifetime was to turn a blind eye, preferably two. It seemed to be a habit with his neighbors too, whether they benefited from the trade or not.
What did it matter to him if people in these parts liked their brandy and other luxury goods, and if someone—probably literally some one—was exploiting and terrorizing the locals, including, perhaps, his own servants, and getting very rich from the trade? And breaking the legs of a mere lad who had probably found the mad courage to voice an objection because his hero, Lord Barclay, had spoken out before going off to war.
Who was that someone? Anyone he knew?
He hoped not.
And of course it mattered. Dash it all, it mattered. And here he was. Decision time. Was he going to continue floating along in life, seeking out pleasure and avoiding pain, as he had done for at least the last ten years? Or was he going to wade in like a damned crusader and martyr, stirring hornets’ nests and upsetting apple carts, disturbing the peace of the neighborhood and everyone in it, and all for what? So that everyone could drink inferior brandy? Or so that he could get his legs broken?
He considered his options rather grimly.
Forever after on his birthdays, he was not only going to sit alone before his own fire, wrapped in a shawl, a nightcap on his head, slippers on his feet, drinking tea laced with milk. He was also going to take up knitting. Why the devil had he decided to come here?
He had everything. No. He had had everything. He no longer did. Something was lacking. Self-respect, perhaps.
And he would not have met her if he had not come, he thought as he made his way back to the front of the house. And he would not have debauched her on his own land. No, nonsense, there had been no debauchery involved. What had happened last night had been absolutely mutual and dashed good too. In fact, he was going to have to devise a way of going back tonight. She had issued the invitation, had she not? To conversation and tea and sex?
There was something bothersome about it all, though, and he was not sure what it was.
He was not sure about anything. That was the whole trouble.
16
The ball was to be held in ten days’ time, two days before Imogen was expected at Penderris Hall. She had half hoped the ball would be later. She did not want to get too deeply drawn into . . . what? The lure of family and laughter? Living again?
Her thoughts troubled her as she participated in the plans and helped Aunt Lavinia remember every person for miles around who must be invited.
Cleaners were to be sent into the ballroom. Every inch of it from top to bottom was to be washed and scoured and dusted and polished to within an inch of its life. There were to be banks of flowers everywhere—a challenge for the first week of March, but not an insurmountable one—and there was to be a lavish banquet for supper and a full orchestra. There were to be card rooms—and card games, of course, for those so inclined—and a quiet lounge or two where guests might relax away from the bustle of the ballroom.
Despite her thoughts, Imogen was surprised at how much she enjoyed the morning and the interaction with the other ladies, who all bubbled with energy and enthusiasm. She was glad she was not living at the hall, though. It was a relief to know that she had her own house for retreat. She must never lose sight of who she was or of the life she had chosen to live.
And, oh, it would be very easy to be drawn off course. Every nerve ending in her body quivered when the earl stepped into the library—or so it seemed. She could tell by the amiable look on his face that he had been taken by surprise and was not too happy about it.