“Never,” his brother said firmly. “I am not hanging out for your title, Valentine. That is yours to pass down to your son.”
Caught by surprise, Valentine’s gaze slid to Marissa and quickly away again. She was looking down, her face in shadow, but he was certain he saw the curve of her mouth, and her dimple, and wondered what she was thinking.
The parlor was shabby but at least they were able to eat their meal in peace, and the food was well-cooked and plentiful. The landlord followed the serving girl in and asked if all was to their liking. From his change in attitude it was obvious he’d made inquiries about Lord Kent and, liking what he’d heard, hoped to do further business with him.
Valentine took the opportunity to question him about the Beauchamp family.
“Beauchamp? Aye, I know them. What do you want with them, if I may be so bold, Your Lordship?”
“That’s none of your business. Answer the question.”
The landlord of the Fox and Hounds seemed to respond well to Valentine’s autocratic manner. “They used to live in the great house about two miles south of Bentley Bottom, but one of the Beauchamps had a liking for London gambling tables and they went bust and lost it, oh, probably two generations ago. Now and then the place gets leased by visiting gentry, but it’s been empty for a year or more. Too big, you see, and in need of too many repairs.”
“And what happened to the family after they lost the house?” Marissa asked.
“Some of them still live in the village but now they’s as poor as church mice. The rest are scattered far and wide.”
“And this house…it was definitely the only one owned by them?”
“Used to be owned by them. Aye. There was another house on the same land before that one, but it was pulled down to make way for this present one. At the time the Beauchamp lady wanted everything bigger and better—she even had the flower beds and the orchard dug up, so’s she could plant a garden in the new fashion. Ten years later they lost everything.”
Grimly Valentine nodded his dismissal.
“She had the flower beds dug up?” Marissa repeated, when they were alone again. She didn’t need to say more; they were all thinking it.
Is there any point in looking for the Crusader’s Rose?
“We have to make certain,” Valentine said. “Even if it is not the original building the land has been in the family for centuries. The rose may have seeded into the new garden.”
Once more he was clutching at straws and he knew it, but he couldn’t afford not to be thorough in his search. If he missed something and then Von Hautt found it, he’d never be able to live with himself.
Back in the market place, the stallholders were beginning to pack away their wares and the farmers were loading up their carts and preparing for the journey home. The weather had been fine for days, but now the summer sun had disappeared beneath a bank of cloud, and there was a distinct smell of approaching rain in the air.
It didn’t take them long to collect their equipage and horses and set off to the south. Bentley Bottom was a scatter of cottages, soon passed. None of them spoke as they headed along the road, fields on one side and a thick copse of trees on the other. As they left the shelter of the trees Marissa suddenly made a little sound in her throat, and Valentine turned to see what was wrong.
She was staring to her left. “How utterly horrible,” she said with a shudder.
The house was like a great dark bird, glaring down at them, and even Valentine, who was usually not susceptible to atmosphere, felt a prickle of dread.
“Good God.”
“Is that it, do you think? The Beauchamp house?”
She sounded as if she hoped not, but he pointed out the faded name attached to one of a pair of crumbling pillars flanking a narrow lane. Beauchamp Place. They turned up the lane and drew closer to the house. There was a depressing decrepitude about the brick façade, and several windows were boarded up.
“No wonder it is unoccupied,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone choosing to live here.”
“It’s like something from a fairy tale,” Marissa said, managing a lopsided smile. “One of the more unpleasant ones.”
“The garden doesn’t appear to have been touched for a hundred years.”
Marissa followed his gaze and her face fell. “Oh dear.”
A ramshackle wooden gate barred their way, and beyond it brambles grew rampant across what were now only memories of pathways and borders and arbors that must once have been neatly trimmed.
George stared. “How are we going to search this place? We need a team of helpers with scythes and shovels and—and pickaxes.”
Valentine waved a hand dismissively. “I know what I’m looking for,” he said, with far more confidence than he was feeling. He glanced at Marissa again. She looked cold and downhearted and he wanted to put his arms about her and hold her until she was warm. Instead he said, with polite diffidence, “Do you want to wait in the carriage, Marissa?”