requires attention?”
The man stepped closer, pausing to spit a wad of tobacco from the corner of his mouth. The brown lump landed two inches from Lucien’s highly polished black boots. “Aye, for all the good it will do.”
Lucien ignored the clear challenge. “Is there someone to attend to my horse?”
“My son will watch your ’orse.” He snapped his fingers and a child appeared at his elbow. “Take his lordship’s ’orse to the stables.”
The awed look on the youngster’s face as he stroked a grubby hand down Oberon’s neck reassured Lucien his mount would come to no harm. He handed the reins to the boy, watched to see if Oberon accepted the boy before turning to the man. “I am in your hands, sir.”
“Aye.” A blob of spittle landed on the ground at his feet.
Lucien chose to ignore the action, knowing he needed to earn the villager’s respect. Trust would take time because, from what he had seen, they’d no reason to believe anything a representative from the castle told them. “After you, sir.”
“Humph! I ain’t never bin called sir before. Name’s Sam Judson, the smithy.”
Lucien offered his hand and Judson’s mouth dropped open in bemusement. His gaze rose to size up Lucien. It wasn’t difficult to read his mind, and Lucien felt renewed anger at the St. Clare family. They owed a duty to the village people—a sacred trust. He held his hand steady for a moment longer and was about to lower it to his side when the smithy extended his beefy one. A tinge of red shaded the man’s cheeks as their hands clasped in a brief shake.
“What will you show me first?” Lucien asked. “Should we start at this end of the village and work our way to the other end?”
Judson hesitated, then his expressive face hardened in resolution. “This way, my lord.”
Over half of the cottages Judson showed Lucien required work to make them habitable. The leaking roof on one cottage and rotten timber on another were minor problems and easily solved. The empty well meant villagers had to carry water from a stream at the opposite end of the village. That promised more of a challenge. Judson introduced him to several men and mentioned the names of the tenants in each of the cottages. By the end of the tour, Lucien’s initial anger had solidified to a hard lump in his gut. This was no way to treat tenants. And by God, he’d see improvements before he left. The stolen identity forced on him would do some good after all.
Judson coughed to attract his attention. “Here comes your lady, my lord.”
Francesca? Lucien straightened from his observation of the well. A smile formed on his lips before abruptly fading when he remembered she was gone. His mouth tightened. What the devil was the English mouse doing in the village? He’d told her not to stray from the castle without protection. Damn it! Hadn’t he heard Lady Augusta the previous evening request her aid with the latest in the stream of visitors to Castle St. Clare? At the time he’d issued a silent prayer of thanks because the visitors kept his wife busy at the castle. The cantankerous old bat would make her displeasure known and they’d suffer the consequences tonight at dinner.
His eyes narrowed as the woman approached, a slender figure in a blue gown and cloak and a scrap of a hat perched on top of her head. She picked her way around the biggest puddles and splashed through others with scant regard for her clothes.
“I thought I told you to take a footman with you if you left the castle,” he said when she stopped in front of him.
“Matthew escorted us. I told him he could visit his friends. Since you were in plain sight, I thought that would be acceptable.” Her smile was wide and sunny.
Lucien ground his teeth together. “What are you doing here?”
“Exploring the village.” She sounded a little puzzled. “All I’ve seen of my new home is the beach. Lady Augusta has kept me so busy with household tasks and visitors this is the