Page 10 of An Alleged Rogue

“I have,” Adam said. “And I believe that even your discerning palate would find the unparalleled blend of flavors most pleasing.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.” Adam saw the glimmer of speculative interest in the colonel’s eyes. “In fact, I would be willing to reserve a barrel for you, should you be inclined to try it.”

“Well, now.” The colonel blustered. “An entire barrel is rather a commitment for something I have yet to taste.”

“Perhaps.” Adam raised an eyebrow. “Unless you find that it lives up to my commendation, and then one barrel would be not nearly enough.”

Across the table, someone chuckled, and Adam turned to discover Mr. Hadford watching him.

With no attempt to feign innocence over being caught eavesdropping, his new neighbor inclined his head and smiled. “Forgive my presumption, my lord,” Mr. Hadford said. “But I recognize a fellow businessman when I see one. You have me intrigued. I shall take a barrel of your cider.”

The colonel frowned. “You’d best set aside a barrel for me, Dunsbourne. We are neighbors, after all.”

“Of course.” Adam worked to maintain a serious expression even as his chest expanded. Nothing would sell his product better or faster than word-of-mouth endorsements from well-respected local residents. “One barrel for the Palmers and one barrel for the Hadfords. I shall make note of your orders immediately upon my return home.”

“Capital,” Colonel Palmer said and turned his attention to his food.

Across the table, Mr. Hadford met his eyes and raised his glass. Adam nodded in acknowledgment of the gesture. He had yet to take the man’s measure. Instinct born of experience made him wary. But whatever Mr. Hadford’s motivation may be, his willingness to place an order for Dunsbourne cider had most assuredly worked to Adam’s advantage.

Farther down the table, Mr. Gosden claimed Mr. Hadford’s attention with a question about the hunt. Adam reached for his glass. A prickling sensation that he was yet being watched caused him to tense. Shifting his head slightly, he met Miss Hadford’s startling blue eyes. She held his gaze. An unfamiliar sense of awareness hummed between them.

“What say you, Miss Hadford?” Mr. Webb asked.

Miss Hadford blinked, and the connection was gone. She turned to her dinner partner and said something. Adam looked away, cutting into the steak-and-kidney pie on his plate with more single-mindedness than he had ever shown the dish before.

Chapter 4

It had been three days since Phoebe had attended the Palmers’ dinner party and her thoughts continued to dwell on the enigmatic Lord Dunsbourne and his sister, Miss Norton. It was not terribly surprising, therefore, that her afternoon ride took her toward Dunsbourne Manor. Her choice of direction was not consciously done, but as she rode, she wondered—for perhaps the hundredth time—what had prompted her reclusive neighbors to reenter society and whether they would do so again.

She had watched Miss Norton during the course of the evening and recognized the effort it had taken for her to maintain a fluid conversation at the dinner table. The young lady had lapsed into silence when they had all reconvened in the drawing room, but whether that was because Lord Dunsbourne had hovered nearby or because she had been emotionally spent, Phoebe could not tell.

Lord Dunsbourne. His name alone conjured up a swirl of conflicting emotions. That a man would be so reckless as to lose his family fortune and so cruel as to keep his sister a prisoner in his home was beyond the pale. Phoebe’s indignation rose at the thought of what Miss Norton must have endured these past years. And yet, the gentleman she had surreptitiously scrutinized at the Palmers’ gathering showed none of the characteristics she would associate with a gambler or a bully. He had discussed his cider-making venture with thoughtful caution, and his expression while watching his sister had been one of concern rather than anger. At the table, when he had caught Phoebe looking at him, he had held her gaze without reproof. And her heart had pounded.

Phoebe sighed. If her father had been home, she would have approached him to ask his opinion of Lord Dunsbourne. But he had left for London on business the day after the Palmers’ event and had yet to return. She did not know what had prompted his surprising offer to purchase a barrel of Dunsbourne cider any more than she could identify the emotion that had caused her own disconcerting experience with the baron. She knew only that her response had not been triggered by fear or revulsion. And that was problematic. Those were the feelings she should be having toward such a man.

She shook her head slightly, attempting to clear her mind of such troublesome thoughts. Surely there was more than enough beauty in the shady woodland that separated her home at Charwell Park from the baron’s estate to fully capture her attention.

A hint of color touched the leaves, and the ground was soft with rain-dampened earth and pine needles. It would be a few weeks yet before the crunch of leaves followed her horse’s path through the trees, but the musty smells of autumn filled the air. Up ahead, a thrush sang brightly. Phoebe’s horse, Aria, snorted, and the bird took flight in a flurry of feathers. Phoebe smiled and urged her mount toward the break in the tree line just ahead.

Behind her, the young stable boy tasked with accompanying her on this outing clicked his tongue, and his mount increased its pace to keep up. They both crested the rise moments later, and Phoebe immediately reined Aria to a stop.

“Oh.”

The single word escaped as a slow exhale, and she sat perfectly still in the saddle, taking in the view before her. The land fell away in a gentle decline, forming a natural hollow between the rolling hills. Nestled in the center of the small valley was a large, sandy-colored house surrounded by green lawns, tall trees, and tended gardens. Beyond the gardens, rows and rows of trees extended past a couple of outbuildings, all the way to the edge of a narrow river.

Even from this distance, Phoebe could see orbs of red, green, and yellow amongst the leaves of the trees. They were apples. Lots of them.

“Tell me,” she said, turning to the stable boy. “Is that Dunsbourne Manor ahead of us?”

“Aye, miss. It’s usually approached from the High Brodmore road, an’ the tall hedgerows keep it out of the sight of passersby.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “It’s right pretty, ain’t it?”

She nodded. With the afternoon sun casting its light on the house, the sandy-colored stone glowed warm and inviting. A wooden bench sat beneath the mass of greenery clinging to the walls near the back door, and a thin trail of smoke climbed upward from one of the chimneys. A few blooms—most of them yellow and orange—still graced the flowerbeds, and from somewhere near the farthest shed, a black-and-white dog appeared. Phoebe watched as the animal ran to meet a man emerging from among the trees. Her breath caught. Lord Dunsbourne. She recognized his broad shoulders and easy gait from here. And that must be his apple orchard.

“Can we access the High Brodmore road from here without trespassing on Dunsbourne land?” she asked.

“The trail follows the river t’ the road, miss. But whether or not it crosses Dunsbourne land, I can’t say.” He shrugged. “’Is Lordship’s never taken exception to anyone usin’ it afore.”