The Master of Calverley Hall Read online

  “So, you’re back.”

  But can he put her world to rights?

  It should have been Connor Hamilton’s final triumph to return to Calverley Hall as its master, rather than the poor blacksmith’s boy he once was. He’s shocked to find that the previous owner’s daughter, his old friend Isobel Blake, has lost everything, including her good reputation. Now the fragility beneath her shabby clothes and brave smile makes him want to protect her and hold her close...

  “Ashford creates charming characters.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Rake’s Bargain

  He despises you. Yet he made her heart race whenever he was near.

  And Isobel couldn’t forget that kiss. It was as if he’d branded her as the shameless wanton he clearly believed her to be.

  The stories that had spread around her time in London only strengthened her sense of being utterly alone—she’d learned to be resilient, and she had built up a stone wall around her heart.

  But that didn’t mean her heart didn’t ache within its defenses. She didn’t want the person who took that wall down piece by piece to be Connor Hamilton—Connor, with his cynicism, and his scorn for her family, and most of all for herself. She couldn’t be feeling what she did for him—she just couldn’t!

  Author Note

  I love reading about the lives of men who were born with nothing, but achieve real success—they owe nobody anything, and they’re ideal hero material. My hero in this book, Connor, is a good example—he’s what the people of Regency times would have called an “iron master,” since through his iron foundries he’s made a fortune for himself from building canals, harbors and bridges.

  But Connor makes the mistake of moving into the former home of a ruined heiress, Isobel Blake—and then the sparks really begin to fly!

  LUCY ASHFORD

  The Master of Calverley Hall

  Lucy Ashford studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency era is her favorite period. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Derbyshire Peak District, close to beautiful Chatsworth House, and she loves to walk in the surrounding hills while letting her imagination go to work on her latest story.

  You can contact Lucy via her website, lucyashford.com.

  Books by Lucy Ashford

  Harlequin Historical

  The Major and the Pickpocket

  The Return of Lord Conistone

  The Captain’s Courtesan

  Snowbound Wedding Wishes

  “Twelfth Night Proposal”

  The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

  The Rake’s Bargain

  The Captain and His Innocent

  The Master of Calverley Hall

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

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  For Alan

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Diary of a War Bride by Lauri Robinson

  Chapter One

  Gloucestershire—June 1816

  Seven years ago, Connor Hamilton had vowed to turn his back for good on the English countryside. But today, as he felt the warm summer sun on his face and breathed in the scent of freshly mown hay, he realised he’d never actually forgotten how beautiful it could be.

  He’d chosen to drive from the Hall in his phaeton, with nine-year-old Elvie sitting at his side and Tom, the elderly groom, perched on the back. His two matched bays set a smart pace along the road to Chipping Calverley, but as their destination grew closer Connor reined them to a walk and took a swift glance down at Elvie. Not that he could see a great deal of her, thanks to that huge sunbonnet her grandmother had insisted the child wear.

  ‘I promise I’ll bring her back in one piece, Laura,’ Connor had teased.

  ‘I know! I know I’m fussing!’ Laura had laughed. But then she’d added, more quietly, ‘You realise, Connor, how very much my granddaughter means to me.’

  An unspoken grief coloured her words and Connor had replied, ‘Of course. She means a great deal to me also.’

  Poor Elvie. Poor silent, orphaned Elvie. But she was taking everything in, Connor was sure, with quiet pleasure. And suddenly the little girl tugged at the sleeve of his driving coat and whispered, ‘Look, Connor. There’s a fair!’

  She was pointing to the colourful tents set out on a grassy meadow in the distance, the spaces between them already thronged with people and stalls. ‘A fair?’ he echoed teasingly. ‘Never, Elvie. Surely not.’

  ‘But there is, Connor. There is.’

  Connor pretended to lean forward, shading his eyes from the bright sun. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I think you’re quite right.’

  She didn’t say another word, but she gazed intently at the bustling scene as they drew closer. And Connor thought, Pray God I’ve done the right thing, bringing the child here. Meaning not just to the fair, but to Calverley, to the very place where he himself had grown up, the place he had turned his back on all those years ago. Thus, in all likelihood, opening himself up to all sorts of memories and regrets...

  Concentrate, he told himself sternly, because by now his horses had come to a complete halt in the solid queue of carriages, gigs and carts all heading for the fairground. Connor turned round to his groom. ‘All right if I leave you in charge, Tom, while I walk on with Elvie?’

  ‘All right indeed, sir,’ said Tom, lowering himself remarkably promptly for a man of his age from the rear of the carriage. ‘You two go and enjoy yourselves, now!’

  No one could have been more pleased than old Tom when Connor had arrived at Calverley Hall back in April and told him he was going to buy the place. Its former owner had died five years ago, owing money everywhere; the bank had taken possession and put the run-down Hall up for sale. No buyers appeared. Instead, a succession of tenants had done nothing to reverse its general decline and few of the staff from the old days remained.

  But now Connor was the new master of Calverley. ‘Well,’ Tom had said when he heard the news, ‘I was thinking of retiring, to be honest. But since you’re back—if you need a fellow to run your stables, Mr Hamilton, then here I am!’ He’d puffed out his chest. ‘It will be an honour working for you, sir!’

  And if Tom was recalling how Connor grew up the son of the local blacksmith, and had laboured every day in the heat of the forge, then old Tom said nothing at all.

  Now Connor handed the reins to him, then went to help little Elvie down. ‘It’s a bit of a walk, Elvie,’ he told her. ‘But you don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ She gripped his hand tightly.

  ‘Good girl,’ he approved and noted how her eyes were round with wonder as he guided her through the lively crowds. So, he thought to h
imself, people still came from miles around to the midsummer fair at Chipping Calverley. ‘It’s the prettiest village in Gloucestershire,’ people always used to say. ‘With the best fair in the whole of the county!’

  And he was finding that every sound, sight and scent brought back memories. The appetising smell from the stall selling fresh bread. The music of the Morris Men with their fiddles and their bells. The laughter of the crowd watching the Punch and Judy show. You didn’t see many smiles on the faces of London’s businessmen, thought Connor. Not unless they’d just made a vast profit in some big financial deal—and even then, their smiles were only half there, because their brains were already busy counting up the money.

  Talking of money, those creatures in the livestock pens had to be worth a fair amount. He steered Elvie towards where the farmers stood proudly by their animals and the crowds pressed against the enclosures to get a better view.

  ‘Look, Elvie. See the calves?’ He lifted the little girl up high to get a better view of the cows with their young ones and—firmly chained to a stout post—the muscular black bull that gazed balefully at the awestruck crowd. Elvie gasped in delight, then they moved on because a little way past the cattle enclosure Connor had spotted some colourfully dressed gypsies offering pony rides. He saw Elvie gazing at them. ‘Do you want a ride?’ he asked her gently.

  She hesitated and shook her head; he thought he glimpsed uncertainty in her eyes.

  ‘Perhaps another time, then,’ he said. ‘Yes?’ And she nodded.

  Maybe I ought to get her a pony of her own, Connor mentally noted. A small one, a gentle one. It will give her something to take care of. Perhaps even help her, in a small way, to get over her father’s death.

  Connor, too, missed Miles Delafield. The older man had been not only his business partner, but his close friend. Miles would have loved all this, he thought suddenly. He gazed around and realised that if you looked beyond the fairground and up the valley, you could actually see Calverley Hall on the far side of the river. From here you got a heart-stopping view of its acres of gardens running down to the water meadows; of its gabled roofs and diamond-paned windows sparkling in the June sun.

  And now—all of it belonged to him. What talk there must have been, when the locals heard he was moving in. What speculation about the money he had made. And if he’d hoped to make his appearance here at the fair unnoticed, he was mistaken, because he was finding himself hailed in hearty greeting by landowners and businessmen who wouldn’t have acknowledged his existence in the old days. They came up to him one after another, declaring, ‘We must get together soon, Hamilton! It’s good to see you back, hopefully to restore the Hall to its former glory. You’ll come round for dinner soon?’

  And then there was the local Vicar, the Reverend Malpass. Malpass ran a small school for the children of the deserving poor, which Connor had briefly attended before being thrown out for hiding a frog in the Vicar’s desk.

  Did Malpass remember? Surely he did—but he was almost painfully effusive in his attempts to welcome Connor home. ‘Mr Hamilton, it’s truly excellent news that you’ve moved into Calverley Hall. I remember you well—and I’m sure that you’re exactly what the place needs!’

  Connor gazed at him, dark eyebrows slightly raised. ‘I remember you, too, Reverend Malpass. And I can see that you’ve hardly changed in the slightest.’

  The Vicar hesitated. Frogs? thought Connor. Was he thinking of frogs? Then Malpass, clearly shrugging aside the past, beamed down on Elvie. ‘And this young lady is your relative, is she? Charming. Charming, I’m sure. How do you do, miss?’

  ‘I—I’m very well, sir.’

  That stammer again. Connor felt Elvie shrink against his side and he gripped her hand. ‘She’s not my relative,’ he stated flatly. ‘Miss Elvira Delafield is the daughter of my former business partner.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Miles Delafield—he died recently of a heart attack, didn’t he? And I hear this poor little girl’s mother is dead, too—most, most unfortunate!’

  Connor felt Elvie press closer. He’d always thought the Vicar was a blundering fool. ‘Indeed,’ he replied tersely. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us...’

  But no sooner had Connor got away from the Vicar than he found himself surrounded by a fresh hazard—women.

  Oh, the women. Not just the young ones eyeing him up from beneath their beribboned straw bonnets, but their mothers, too, were coming at him from all sides. ‘My dear Mr Hamilton!’ they simpered one after another. ‘We’re truly delighted that you’ve returned to Gloucestershire. We do hope we’ll have the privilege of your company soon...’

  And they proceeded to recite a list of church committees, fund-raising fêtes and parish entertainments that all sounded extremely worthy—but he knew, of course, what the tabbies were really thinking.

  They would be thinking that Mr Connor Hamilton, at twenty-five years old, was an extremely wealthy man. Had risen from being a blacksmith’s son to partner in a highly successful iron business—and now that his partner had conveniently died, he’d got the lot. What was more, he was the new owner of the most impressive house in the district by far—a family home if ever there was one, even if it was somewhat neglected—and he was not married!

  Connor endured just a few more moments of the mothers parading their daughters, but he was heartily glad to be distracted by Elvie tugging at his hand. ‘Connor,’ she was whispering. ‘Connor, look.’

  He looked and realised there was some sort of disturbance over by the crowded ale tent. A cluster of children, none of them older than Elvie, were racing around and he thought he could hear a small dog yapping. There were adult voices as well now, raised in anger and in threat.

  Connor, with Elvie’s hand still in his, drew closer. The children looked underfed and scruffy—he immediately guessed they were from the gypsy caravans that came every summer to set up camp in Plass Valley, half a mile from here. Their parents would be busy harvesting the hay and the children, he realised, were chasing after a puppy whose rope leash trailed after it. They dived to catch it, failed and tried again, shrieking with laughter as the excited puppy evaded them.

  Local people didn’t like the Plass Valley children, Connor remembered. Local people didn’t like their parents much, either, despite the vital work they did on the farms in summer. The children’s appearance didn’t help, since judging by the mud splashes on their clothes and bare skin they’d all taken a dip in the nearby duck pond.

  And so, evidently, had the puppy. Droplets of water were still flying from its fur as it shook itself, causing nearby ladies to shriek as their best frocks were bespattered, while their menfolk blustered. One burly man caught a little lad by the ear. ‘You young varmint, you and your kind should be beaten out of here. And I’ll—’

  He broke off when Connor stepped forward. ‘The child’s rather small for your threats, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ll bloody thump him, that’s what! Plass Valley vermin!’

  ‘Try thumping me instead,’ invited Connor.

  Connor was tall and his well-tailored clothes couldn’t hide the fact that he was extremely well muscled into the bargain. The man hesitated, muttered something under his breath and vanished into the staring crowd. And then Connor heard another voice, a young woman’s voice, saying calmly but firmly, ‘Children, you really shouldn’t let your puppy get so excited. He thinks it’s all a game—he doesn’t understand that you’re trying to catch him.’

  Connor could see her now. Tall and slender, in her early twenties, she wore an old-fashioned cotton sunbonnet and a flowery frock—a frock now generously splashed with mud, since she’d picked up the excited puppy and was holding it firmly in her arms.

  One of the children—a freckle-faced lad in a battered cap set at a jaunty angle—called out to her, ‘We didn’t mean any trouble, miss! He went swimming in the duck pond and got stuck in the weeds. So we pulled him out
, but then he ran away.’

  ‘But here he is—fortunately,’ she said. The puppy was trying to lick her face with its pink tongue. ‘Perhaps you’d better take him home and get yourselves cleaned up.’

  The children looked at one another. ‘But he’s not ours, miss.’

  ‘Not...?’

  ‘He’s a stray,’ explained the lad. ‘We found him this morning up in the fields, really hungry, so we fed him and asked around. No one wants him. And he’s not wanted at home, either, at our camp, ’cos our dads say we’ve got enough dogs already.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Well.’

  And Connor felt the memories surge and connect, rolling into place one after another. The young woman wore country clothes that were clearly homemade and years out of fashion; yet she carried herself with grace and spoke with unusual clarity. And more memories began to pile in. Far too many of them.

  Then someone else arrived—that blasted Vicar, Malpass. ‘Best keep yourself out of this, young lady,’ he said curtly to the woman, looking almost with repugnance at the muddy puppy in her arms. ‘As for you,’ he declared, turning to the children, ‘how dare you run wild here, disturbing the peace and up to no good? Be off with you!’

  Connor was about to stride forward and intervene, but the children had a defender already.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the children, Vicar,’ she said, still apparently calm, ‘about this little dog. He was in difficulties in the pond and they were trying to help him. Is that really so bad of them?’

  The Vicar clearly thought it was. ‘You know their kind. They’re no better than their parents, living like vagrants, thinking they’re beyond the power of the law. And they never attend the church!’

  ‘Perhaps they don’t attend your church,’ the woman said steadily, ‘because they realise how unwelcome they’ll be.’

  And her intervention—was this what she’d intended? Connor wondered—had given the children the chance to escape, scampering through a gap in the hedge and off into the neighbouring fields. Connor stepped forward, Elvie’s hand still in his, and said to the Vicar, ‘It seems there’s no harm done, Reverend Malpass. But I think we all need to remember that these children’s parents are vital to the summer harvest. Don’t we?’

 
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