Page 23 of Kiss the Scoundrel Farewell
“Weel, then. We can see to dis business for ye, find out if anyone’s been askin’ about her.” Paddy stood and held out his hand. “I’ll have a report ready for ye when ye’re next in London.”
Simon stood and shook the big man’s hand. “I appreciate it.”
“Now go get yer woman,” said Mrs. O’Brien with a smile as she patted Simon’s arm.
CHAPTER 11
Meg breathed in the crisp country air. She was home. Her spirits lifted immediately as she took in the rolling hills, bare branches of the great oaks, and the evergreen pines. The quiet village remained the same. A farmer in a cart waved at them, and she waved back.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and Mr. Jackson jumped down to open the wrought-iron gate. Meg opened the shutter and poked out her head. “I think I’ll walk from here, Jack.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, coming to open the door. “There ain’t been much snow, so your boots should be enough.”
Once on the ground, she lifted her face to the bright sun while the coach rambled up the drive. She could endure anything as long as she had this haven and its people. As she walked, her gray and white terrier came yapping down the lane, his tail wagging furiously.
“Chipper,” she yelled to the pup, “I’ve missed you.”
The small mutt began to run and launched his body at Meg. She laughed as he licked her face. “I’d wager you missed my daily treats more than you missed me.”
Chipper howled in protest and snuggled under her arm with a delighted sigh.
“Come back here!” cried Tommy, the stable master’s son, as he barrelled around the house. He was a wiry lad of six with straw-blond hair and a constant smile. Unless he was chasing down his best friend. He came to a halt, beaming when he saw Meg.
“Milady, you’ve come home,” he yelled, waving his arms and breaking into a run much like the dog had. “Bunny had her foal.” He skidded to a stop, his breath turning into tiny clouds in the cold air, his brown eyes bright, cheeks red.
“Oh, my. Boy or girl?” she asked, smiling when the boy rolled his eyes.
“It’s colt or filly.” He shook his head in disgust, then grinned. “A colt, ma’am. He’s black as night with a star on his forehead and one white sock. Some say that’s unlucky. Da says it’s the best of luck.”
“I will defer to your father, then. Once I’m settled, I will come to meet our new boarder.” As they neared the house, Tommy’s chatter filled the silence and was balm on her heart. The door opened, and Mr. Farrell stood on the portico, chin high, a very small smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
“I see you’re also pleased I’m home,” Meg said with a laugh. “Did you get my letter?”
“Yes, my lady,” the older man said. The butler was a fixture of the estate, being the third generation in his position. “Your chamber is ready, and your correspondence is waiting on your desk.” He looked down his nose at the dog, displeasure evident on his face.
“Very good,” she said, waving goodbye to Tommy. “Come along, Chipper.” She handed her gloves and hat to Farrell. He helped her off with her mantle.
The entryway was large with a marble floor, tall ceilings, and a single staircase to the right. The parlor door was open on the left, and a cheerful fire blazed. She moved before it, rubbing her hands together.
“Would you like a repast, ma’am,” the butler asked, the specks of gray in his dark hair bright in the firelight.
She shook her head. “Just tea, please. I had a meal at the coaching inn. But some of Cook’s cottage pie for supper would be appreciated.”
“I’ll let her know. It’s Mrs. Brown’s day off, so if you need anything, Bess will be available.” He left the room, and Meg sank onto the velvet and brocade chair before the hearth.
She had stored the horrid hunting landscapes and Drake ancestors in the attic. A local artist who did wonderful pastorals had taken their place, along with a lovely portrait of her with Chipper. A painting of the estate hung above the mantel.
The dog sat contentedly, curled at her feet. Meg leaned back, enjoying the welcoming room with its light paneling, Turkish rugs, and neoclassical furniture. She preferred the clean lines of the style and the gleaming dark wood. She had purchased two tripod tables of rosewood to go with the claw-footed chaise longue and wingback chair. The room reflected Margaret rather than generations of Drakes.
A maid arrived with tea. Meg let the peace of her surroundings envelop her as her mind wandered to Simon. Had the announcement in the newspaper been a manipulation? She was well acquainted with parents who exploited their children. His handsome face danced before her eyes as her lids drooped.
A tattoo on the door woke her. Mr. Farrell stood in the doorway. “Mr. Jackson would like to speak with you, my lady.” He stepped aside to allow her driver entrance.
He approached slowly, always uncomfortable in “the big house,” as he called it. “I don’t mean to cause concern, milady, but I’ve been into the village and heard some news.”
She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and stifling a yawn. “Yes?”
“There were three culls askin’ about the lady of the manor,” he said gruffly. “I don’t like it, right after bein’ followed in Town.”
