His wife? Bear shook his head to clear it. Miss Neatham’s mother, presumably.
Mr Neatham stopped in mid flow and looked around the pathetic room. “But why am I here? Where am I? This isn’t my room.”
He lurched upright, his shoulders shifting toward the edge of the bed, his hips staying put, and wailed as Bear crossed the space between them in two strides, to catch him before he fell from the bed.
Bear settled Neatham back against the pillows, and the invalid looked up at him, bewildered. “My legs. What is wrong with my legs?”
No wonder Miss Neatham was worried. You should never have left the poor, deluded man alone, Miss Neatham. If my roses were so important to you, surely you could have instructed a neighbour to sit with him? Though there had been no lights in the other cottages.
He searched for something soothing to say. “An injury, I am told, sir. Just rest. Do not let your legs concern you.”
Neatham frowned, but did not again attempt to move.
Perhaps Pelman’s sister would come in for the night, or—if not—Pelman might know someone. Someone who could change the bedding and dress the man in clean clothes.
Clearly, Neatham couldn’t be left alone. Especially not in a house that leaked. A spattering of drops entered around the window each time a gust of wind hit it. A continuous runnel of water down the wall in the corner fell to a pool that grew no bigger, so must be draining away between the floorboards to the room beneath.
“I will fetch help,” he told Mr Neatham.
“Fetch the constable,” Mr Neatham instructed. “There has been an intruder. I sent Rosie some time ago, but something must have happened to delay her. What did you say your name was?”
“Gavenor,” Bear repeated.
“Get the constable, Gavenor,” Mr Neatham said. “The man seems to have gone now, but he may come back, and I don’t want my wife frightened.”
“I will be back as soon as I can, Mr Neatham,” Bear said, with little hope that the man would remember.
First, he opened the door at the top of the stairs. A smaller bedroom, clearly Miss Neatham’s, even more spartan than the father’s. He took down the two gowns hanging on the wall, and manage to fit them into the trunk, which he carried downstairs and left by the door before checking the rooms on that floor. A kitchen with no fire, the few pans old and battered, looking as if they had been salvaged from someone’s junk heap. A front room with a single chair at a table by the leaking window, and a woman’s work basket, full of folded fabric and sewing paraphernalia. He put that by the trunk. Miss Neatham was clearly used to being occupied.
His coat was still drenched, but he put it on against the worst of the rain. He’d need an oilskin to protect Miss Neatham’s possessions while he carried them home. Perhaps Pelman would be able to loan him one.
Climbing back up the hill, dodging the worst of the torrents, he teased at the picture he’d formed, but it didn’t make sense. Why on earth was a lady of Miss Neatham’s quality living in such a hovel?
Pelman would know, but would he tell Bear? Bear had an uneasy feeling that Pelman knew her story all too well.
CHAPTER 4
A few minutes’ walk along the better maintained road at the top of Miss Neatham’s alley brought him to Pelman’s gate. He soon knocked on the door, which was opened by a maid. She took his coat and hat to hang over a drip tray, and carried off his card to present to her master.
This was more the sort of house where Miss Neatham belonged; a substantial dwelling with several reception rooms and probably a dozen or more bedrooms. The hall in which he waited was wider than the Neatham’s entire house, with a handsome staircase at one side broad enough for two people to ascend abreast. Opposite the staircase, portraits and landscapes adorned the wall, with room for half a dozen chairs and several side tables.
Pelman followed the maid back into the hall before Bear had time to do more than glance around.
“Gavenor. What on earth are you doing out in weather like this?”
On the spur of the moment, Bear decided to go fishing. “I’m on a mission for a lady, Pelman. Miss Neatham called on me this afternoon.”
Bear didn’t miss the worried crease between Pelman’s brows, hastily smoothed and replaced with a sneer. “Hah! I might have known she would complain to you. Don’t believe her, Gavenor. She has no right to that cottage. None at all.”
Pelman gestured. “Come on through to the parlour. You’ll want to dry beside the fire. The bi— female must have been convincing to drive you out in this weather.” Almost a question, the way his voice rose at the end of the sentence. One Bear had no intention of answering when Pelman spilled so much information without further effort on Bear’s part.
Sure enough, the silence prompted him to continue. “Mind you, I don’t deny that the baron may have promised the cottage to her—quite likely, under the circumstances—but he put nothing in writing.”
Interesting. The ill feeling obviously went both ways. What circumstances made it likely that the baron lied about giving Miss Neatham the cottage? Some men did not consider it dishonourable to lie to their paramours about future benefits, and a wise mistress took her promises in the form of a contract. Gavenor had trouble associating such sordid affairs with his indignant fairy. Let it sit. Undoubtedly, all will become clear.
“His will left everything to his nephew, including the cottage and—as I told the lovely Rosabel myself—all its contents. You purchased everything. So, there you are.”
Bear resisted the urge to push Miss Neatham’s personal name down Pelman’s throat, but remained silent, watching Pelman out of the corner of one eye while seemingly intent upon the fire.
“I told her she could take only what she could prove she owned. I was looking out for your interests, Gavenor.”
Very revealing. Bear tucked the information away to consider later.
“I am not here about Miss Neatham’s housing,” he said, as peaceably as he could manage, “though she must find her new accommodations very poor after Rose Cottage. Could you not find her anything more suitable?”
Pelman’s tense shoulders relaxed fractionally. “In an instant, if she can afford to pay.” His smirk invited Bear to make common cause with him. “You are a businessman, Gavenor. You know how it is. She has no income, and will not be able to afford the place she is in for long. She will need to come to an arrangement with me then.”
Bear, guessing what type of arrangement, stood speechless for a moment, fighting to keep from wrapping his hands around Pelman’s throat. Over his dead body would his fairy be forced into accepting whatever degrading offer this scum had made.
“Pride is cold comfort when the roof leaks.” The new voice was redolent with satisfaction. This would be Pelman’s sister. No fairy this one—rather, a hearty country woman with the resemblance to a well-bred horse that seemed characteristic of the type.
Pelman returned his sister’s smirk, oblivious to the danger in which he stood. “Livia, allow me to present Mr Gavenor, the gentleman who purchased the Hurley estate. Gavenor, my sister.”
Bear bowed. “Charmed, Miss Pelman.” A lie, but a social lie.
She simpered. “Mr Gavenor, how delighted we are you have joined our little community.” She prattled on about the paucity of social equals and the joys of a visit to Liverpool, not far distant across the Mersey.