Regina Scott - An Honorable Gentleman

Lord of the Manor

When the owner of ramshackle Blackcliff Hall arrives, the locals have high hopes that Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam will set things to rights. Especially Gwen Allbridge, the estate manager’s daughter who has single-handedly kept Blackcliff Hall going. Now she must convince Trevor to stay and make the hall—and the village depending on it—prosperous again.

The decaying estate is just another reminder to Trevor of his noble father’s rejection. Abandoning it for London could restore his cheer…but how can he disappoint Gwen? Her faith in him makes him yearn to live up to the ideals she holds dear. As disturbing, unexplained events encroach on the pair, Gwen’s steadfast courage will rise to meet Trevor’s newfound honor as they learn that there’s no dream like home.

“Just how badly,” Trevor said, “do you wish me to stay?”

“I’ve told you how important Blackcliff is to the village, sir.”

“Indeed. The last lifeblood it seems. You’ve gone to great lengths to prove to me how well I’ll like it here. Are you setting me a mystery to sweeten the pie?”

A mystery? Gwen had been right—some part of him relished this challenge with the statue.

“I have no part in this, Trevor. Or do you think I’m the one moving the statue?”

“The idea had crossed my mind.”

For some reason, the accusation hurt. “Do you truly think me so devious?”

“Not devious,” he replied. “But determined. You admit you’d do anything to make me stay,” he said.

“I admit I wanted you to stay,” Gwen replied, “but this presumptuous attitude is not endearing you to me, sir.”

“Forgive me, Gwen. I should know there’s no guile in you. You have been nothing but kindness itself to me since the day I arrived.”

Well, that was better. She could only hope that he truly had decided she was innocent. And that maybe, maybe, this puzzle would give him a reason to stay for a while longer.

REGINA SCOTT

started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she had learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian and Portuguese.

She and her husband of more than twenty years reside in southeast Washington state. Regina Scott is a decent fencer, owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet and she is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene. Her friends and church family know that if you want something organized, you call Regina. You can find her online blogging at www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com. Learn more about her at www.reginascott.com.

Regina Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.

—Jeremiah 29:11

To Nonie, who never fails to encourage me; to Linda, who never fails to enlighten; and most of all to my heavenly Father, who never fails to inspire.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Blackcliff Hall, Cumberland, England, 1811

Someone else was in the house.

Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam stopped in the center of the bedchamber he had been considering making his own and listened, head cocked. Blackcliff Hall muttered the usual creaks and groans of a house built nearly two hundred years ago and left for the past two months to itself. He’d already determined the cavernous place to be empty of servants save for an elderly fellow who’d taken his horse at the stables. And servants were generally silent in any regard.

From downstairs came the sound of a door closing. Trevor’s head snapped up. He slipped across the Oriental carpet and flattened himself against the heavy oak paneling of the wall. Over the past few years he’d made enemies helping his father and aristocratic friends solve personal problems like blackmail and bribery. Any one of a number of vengeful men could have followed him as he made his way north and east into Cumberland. Any one of them could be searching for him even now.

But if it was a choice of hunt or be hunted, he’d far prefer to hunt.

He glanced out the door, but nothing moved along the wide, oak-paneled corridor that crossed the chamber floor of the gray stone manor house. He knew the main stairs squeaked; he’d frowned at the noise on the way up. From the dust-covered furniture to the cobwebs dulling the brass chandeliers, the place reeked of neglect. The only lamp that was lit was the one he’d set on the bedside table.

How kind of his father to hand the godforsaken place over to him.

Another door closed, and footsteps echoed a moment as the intruder crossed a space of bare wood. From the drawing room to the entry hall, perhaps? He seemed to remember a span of dark wood floor separating the ruby-patterned carpets in the two rooms. If his enemy was anywhere near the entry hall, Trevor would be a fool to take the main stairs down.

Instead, he followed the upstairs corridor for the servants’ stair at the end. His footfalls on the thick carpet were silent. The suits of armor that stood sentry in recesses along the corridor watched his passage. He paused only long enough to relieve one of its swords. The blade was long and heavy in his grip, the steel icy. The sword was also dull as ditch water, he had no doubt, but his adversary wouldn’t know that. At the very least, it would serve as a club. Trevor slid into the servants’ stair and closed the door quietly behind him.

The whitewashed stair was circular, winding up to the schoolroom and down to the main floor, he knew. A window high above let in enough of the fading twilight to allow him to pick his way down. But even as he made the first turn, something moved below. He pulled back before he could be sighted.

There was more than one of them, then.

Hand tight on the sword, breath tight in his chest, he rushed down the final turn, ready to fight for his life. The only thing that moved was the side door, swinging in the cool evening breeze. Outside, a covered walkway swept down to the laundry outbuilding. In the autumn gloom the path stood as empty as the rest of the house had been when he had arrived an hour ago.

He’d known it was chancy at best to show up unannounced for the first time at the estate he’d been given when he’d been made a baronet. He’d expected a flurry of activity to greet his arrival—grooms running to stable his horse, maids hurrying to make up a bed with fresh linens, a chef bustling to prepare him a feast.