The Countess by Catherine Coulter Page B

Grandfather and he had held me.
    Who was the man speaking to?
    â€œNo woman is ever young,” said Lawrence, and that stalled me. Of course I was young. There was a good deal of scorn in his voice that set me frowning. He had certainly gotten back downstairs very quickly.
    â€œWe will see,” my husband continued. “Go on ahead. We will arrive at Devbridge Manor by dinnertime the day after tomorrow, barring any nasty weather. All goes well. Don’t worry.”
    I ran back up the stairs, George’s steak forgotten. Who was he talking to? Why?
    Perhaps his man of business. I didn’t plan to forget his voice. I was sure to meet him soon.
    Because I was young and healthy, my stomach full, I fell asleep quickly. I slept throughout the night, deeply, even George’s snores close to my ear, never breaking through my dreams.
    Betty’s knock on our bedchamber door came at promptly seven o’clock the next morning.
    Miss Crislock shook my shoulder. “Andy, my dear, you must wake up now. If I don’t take George for a walk this very minute, I fear there will be a mess that neither of us wish to face.”
    â€œPoor George,” I said, stretching. “He never got his steak.”
    â€œHe doesn’t need any steak. Now, I will take George for a walk. You have your bath, Andy. I’ll be back in a little while.”
    â€œThank you, Milly. I am in your debt as is my fine beautiful George.” At that moment I would have killed for Miss Crislock, as well as for my husband. I prayed that neither Miss Crislock nor Lawrence had any particular enemies, else I’d be hung for sure.
    After a light breakfast, we came out of the inn to find a gray damp day. George growled. I kissed his head. “Now, George, at least the sky is gray because of the weather and not because of the ghastly pollution in the city. Don’t whine.”
    Lawrence allowed George to ride with us part of the day. George, not a stupid animal, licked his hand. “You have no shame,” I told him. My husband smiled.
    It was a pleasant day, passed comfortably. We spent the night at the Hangman’s Inn in Collingford.
    â€œJust one more day,” Lawrence said when he left me at my bedchamber door that evening. “We’ll arrive home in time for dinner.”
    That was what he had said to the unknown man the previous night.
    â€œTomorrow,” he said after I’d yawned, “I’ll tell you about Hugo, my only ancestor of somewhatinteresting gruesome parts. He even wrote a diary so all succeeding generations would know of his obsession with the cursed heretics. Sleep well, Andy.”
    And so I found out the next day that Hugo Lyndhurst, then Viscount Lyndhurst, was raised in 1584 to the earldom of Devbridge by Good Queen Bess.
    â€œHis diary still exists?” I asked. “You weren’t joking with me?”
    â€œParts of it. The pages that remain are under glass in the Old Hall. I will show them to you. He built Devbridge Manor, completing it in 1590. After he obtained his earldom, he became less enthusiastic about butchering Catholics in large groups. He contented himself with an occasional auto-da-fé for a random Catholic who happened to wander onto his land. He died of old age in his bed at the age of seventy-four, surrounded by his seven children.”
    I thought about Hugo Lyndhurst. “He sounds villainous enough, Lawrence, but he isn’t the least bit romantic. Haven’t you anything better to offer?”
    He looked thoughtful for a moment. “After Hugo, there were no particular earls of interest. We did flourish under the Stuarts, being stout royalists. Unfortunately, this proved to be our undoing. Cromwell and his Roundheads took the manor when James Lyndhurst, then Earl of Devbridge, was hosting a very nice dinner for a regiment of royalist troops. Most of the manor was destroyed during the fighting, and only the Old Hall remains intact