Wyndcross, p.13
Wyndcross, page 13
“Henry,” she said.
He twirled his quizzing glass between his fingers, his throat feeling peculiarly dry.
“On no account must you fall in love with Miss Matcham. On no account must you raise any hopes in her heart.”
The quizzing glass dropped to the rug beneath him, and he rushed to pick it up. “Come again?”
“Miss Matcham is not, as we were given to understand, the heir to her stepfather’s fortune.” She looked at Henry, then Clara.
Gad, she was always composed. Only her flared nostrils betrayed her anger.
“She has no inheritance to speak of,” Lady Crofte continued. “None whatsoever.” She paused. “I had great hopes for her visit here. With a match between you and her, Henry, and one between Clara and Lord Ashworth, our family was to rise above the adversity which surrounds us. Those unions would take us to new heights.” She looked pointedly at him. “Henry will now have to look elsewhere for redemption. Our hope lies with you, Clara.”
Henry thought of his plan and how close that redemption was. He could almost taste it. It was a great relief he wouldn’t have to tell his mother he didn’t wish to marry Kate. He couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for her, though—he wouldn’t wish upon anyone the position of being the object of his mother’s wrath.
Whatever weight was removed from his shoulders on hearing his mother’s words, a look at Clara told him that it had settled squarely on her.
“What if neither union is necessary?” he asked.
He regretted the words immediately. There was good reason he never risked his skin for others. The gaze directed at him by his mother was enough to make a braver man than Henry cower. He glanced at Clara. She was looking at him with an expression he had trouble identifying for a moment, so unfamiliar was it: admiration.
“I only mean,” he said, encouraged by it, “that I’m devilish close to solving our financial difficulties. So, you see, there is no need for Clara or me to marry money.”
One of his mother’s thin brows lifted. He felt the need to drive home his point. “What’s more, I don’t think Ash has any plans to marry Clara.”
“What do you mean?” Clara asked. “Why do you say that?”
Both sets of female eyes bored into his soul. But he wasn’t blind, even if they were. “It’s plain as a pikestaff he’s fallen for Miss Matcham.”
Clara’s eyes grew round while his mother’s thin nostrils flared during an uncomfortable silence. Feeling he had hit a mark, Henry walked to the decanter of brandy on the side table and poured a glass.
“Impossible,” Clara said.
“What?” Henry said. “That a chap should prefer someone to you? A little humble pie will do you good, Clara.” He tossed off the brandy.
Lady Crofte exhaled calmly. “Surely, if that is the impression you have had, it is only because Lord Ashworth mistakenly believes the same thing we did: that Miss Matcham will soon be possessed of a large inheritance. That error is easily rectified.”
“Not by me it ain’t!” Henry said, shaking his head. He had no desire to meddle in his friend’s affairs, nor to be a talebearer.
Clara stared at him. “Even if he is in love with her, which I very much doubt, Kate is as good as engaged to that Simon Hartley man.”
Lady Crofte paused in the act of straightening a portrait hanging on the wall. “Hartley?”
“Yes,” said Clara. “They have been corresponding, for I saw her letter to him. It was destined for Weymouth.”
Henry snorted. Clara certainly didn’t seem to mind talebearing.
“So what?” Henry interjected. “Just because she’s not free for the taking don’t mean Ash will fall into your lap. Besides, surely, she’d rather have an earl than some fellow no one has heard of.”
Hadn’t Clara said she wished to marry Bradbury? Why, then, was she acting so dashed foolish about the whole Ash business? He would never understand women.
Lady Crofte put up a hand, commanding his silence. She looked to be having some sort of epiphany.
“This is all very fortunate,” she whispered, as if to herself. She straightened her shoulders and fixed her gaze upon Clara. “I am acquainted with the Hartleys. I believe the gentleman you refer to is a nephew. He comes to care for Agatha from time to time.” She seemed to be talking herself through things, taking slow steps as she spoke. “It is unusual to send an invitation so late, but Agatha won’t regard it. We will send her an invitation for the dinner party, addressed to her, her son, and her nephew. If Miss Matcham has an understanding with the nephew, it would be unkind in us not to invite him.”
Henry snorted. His mother always managed to make her scheming seem like the decent thing to do.
“And, Clara,” Lady Crofte added. “It would only be right to drop a hint of the understanding between Miss Matcham and Mr. Hartley in Lord Ashworth’s ear. He deserves to know. I imagine you can manage that easily enough.”
Henry shook his head. Women and their wiles.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kate’s quill paused at the top of the paper, stuck at the greeting to Simon. She vacillated between a desire to put off a decision and an urgency to have her future arranged. She had received a letter from him the day before, but he had made no mention of the conversation they’d had prior to his departure for Weymouth.
Had he changed his mind? Perhaps he regretted mentioning it at all.
She stared at the small pool where the ink had gathered at the tip of the quill, waiting for her. She crumpled the paper in frustration and threw it to the floor, toying with a desire to smash it with her boot.
Lindley opened the door.
“Miss,” Lindley said, “I am told you are wanted in the stables.”
Kate’s forehead wrinkled. “What for?”
“I couldn’t rightly say, miss.”
Kate frowned. “I shan’t attempt a ride until tomorrow, I think. Besides, I haven’t time to ride before the dinner party.”
“Good heavens, miss.” Lindley laughed. “As if I should suggest a ride when we have barely any time at all for your toilette!”
Kate’s lip trembled with amusement. “Shall I take offense at the suggestion we need all of four hours for it?”
Very much at a loss to understand why Lindley would send her to the stables with no explanation whatsoever, Kate made her way outside at a slow and steady pace. Carelessness could lead to the longer recovery she was all too eager to avoid.
She met Avery on her way to the stables, leading Henry’s horse to the courtyard at a brisk pace.
“Ah, Miss Matcham.” He gave her an enigmatic look but did not stop. “On your way to the stables, I reckon? She’s waiting for you.”
Kate thanked him in an uncertain voice as he passed her by. She had been certain Clara was occupied assisting Lady Crofte with preparations for the dinner. Had there been a misunderstanding leading Avery to prepare Rosebud for Kate?
But she saw neither Clara nor Rosebud in the stables. Two other horses stood between the rows of stalls. She stopped in her tracks. It was her own Cleopatra. She rushed forward with as much careful quickness as she could.
“What is this?” she exclaimed, going to Cleopatra’s head. “Where in the world did you come from, girl?”
She looked around the stables and could see no one. She had half a mind to go find Avery and ask him what—or who—in the world had brought her mare to Wyndcross. But he was engaged in his duties, so she would have to await his return for any information about the horse’s unexpected appearance.
A shaky laugh erupted from her, and she wrapped her arm under Cleopatra’s neck, pulling the mare toward her in an embrace and stroking her face with her other hand. Half of the horse’s mane was tangled, and a brush lay on the floor nearby. Avery must have been in the middle of brushing her when he was called to take out Henry’s horse.
She picked up the brush and began untangling the other half of the mane. Cleopatra tossed her head, and Kate smiled.
“I have neglected you shamefully. But I am nearly rid of this nasty limp, and I shan’t let anything stop me from taking you on a ride tomorrow.”
A sound came from the other side of the barn, and she peered over Cleopatra’s neck.
“I don’t think nasty is the proper description of your limp,” Lord Ashworth said. “Endearing, perhaps.”
Heart pattering with yet another surprise appearance, Kate smiled. “About as endearing as your eavesdropping.”
“Acquit me. I happened to be in the tack room. I had no intention of eavesdropping on a conversation between you and…your horse. Do you make a practice of telling her your deepest secrets?”
“Who else could be trusted with them?”
He chuckled. “A very good point. She is a better listener than most, too, I would imagine.”
Kate brushed her mane with a smile. “So long as there is no food to distract her.”
“Ah. I quite sympathize with her.” He reached a hand to Cleopatra’s neck and let his hand glide along her sleek coat.
Kate observed him through the corner of her eye. How did he manage to be so utterly perfect yet so entirely out of her reach? The knowledge she would likely never see him again once she left Wyndcross brought a lump to her throat and tempered her smile.
If she were to encounter him in the future, it might well be hand-in-hand with Clara. She was used to being apart from those she cared for, but she had never felt such bleakness as she did considering her future after leaving Wyndcross.
“I believe you have successfully brushed that particular part of the mane,” Lord Ashworth said, the hint of a laugh in his voice.
She looked down. In her abstraction, she had been brushing the same part of the mane again and again. She smiled wryly and pulled her hand back, watching her mare swat her tail at a fly.
“May I?” Lord Ashworth reached for the brush in her hand, and their fingers touched briefly in the exchange.
Kate’s gaze darted to him as her heart reacted to his touch.
He looked at her with searching eyes.
Her heart beat so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She wondered for the hundredth time what he was thinking and whether he could read her thoughts just by looking at her. His eyes dropped to her lips, and her breath fled.
He frowned suddenly, looking toward Cleopatra and brushing her mane.
Kate’s cheeks warmed. Surely, he had been able to perceive her thoughts and desires with that penetrating gaze. Was that why he had frowned? But then why had he looked at her so intently?
“Well, Miss Matcham, she is a beautiful mare.” He the brush on the stall door. It did not escape her notice that he avoided returning the brush to her where they might risk contact again.
He paused for a moment before giving the mare a final stroke, his lips pulling into a half-smile. “Welcome to Wyndcross, Cleopatra.” He turned to look at Kate. “How did I do? Am I to listen for a response?”
Kate smiled weakly. “You are a quick study, my lord. Are you here to ride with Henry? Avery was escorting his horse to the front just as I was coming here. Perhaps you missed each other.”
Lord Ashworth opened his mouth, then shut it. He went to his horse’s head and took the reins. “Thank you. I shall go there, then.” He swung up into the saddle and urged his horse toward Kate, leaning to pet Cleopatra a final time. “Take good care of your mistress, my girl, or you will have to answer to me.” And with those words, he left the stables.
She took in a breath as she watched him leave. It would be most prudent to ignore his words, to ignore that moment of intensity between them. It was easy to forget the many barriers between them when she was in his presence, but her mind was all too ready to bring them to the forefront at the first opportunity.
It was entirely possible Clara had feelings for both Mr. Bradbury and Lord Ashworth. Perhaps she felt torn between the two, though her regard for Mr. Bradbury was far more evident.
Lord Ashworth’s feelings on the matter were just as much a mystery. But whatever their feelings, an agreement apparently existed between them, and it would be wrong of Kate to do anything to sabotage that, even were she capable of it—something she heavily doubted.
For Lord Ashworth to look so far below himself would be seen as a dereliction of duty by many. Entertaining the possibility he would do so was nothing short of ridiculous and presumptuous on her part.
Her energy was much better spent deciding on a practical course for her future.
She had much to think on and spent the entirety of her toilette vacillating between her two options.
From the way Lindley furrowed her brows and made muted but disgruntled noises during her toilette, Kate knew she wasn’t looking her best. She was not vain enough, however, to assume her appearance would be a matter of importance to the host of strangers she would be meeting, and so she sighed softly at her reflection in the mirror and turned to leave her room.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“On your face, your lordship?” The valet stood in front of William, shoe blacking in one hand, a cloth in the other, a blank stare on his face.
William’s mouth twitched. “Yes, Spires. On my face. I need to ensure the disguise is sufficient.” He waited a moment, but Spires seemed glued to the spot. He chuckled, reaching for the blacking and cloth, and turned toward the mirror.
He stared intently at his reflection for a moment, took in a quick breath, and dipped the cloth in the blacking. He wiped the cloth broadly across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and under his eyes, which narrowed in concentration. The smell of brandy and lemon—two of the many ingredients in Spires’ blacking recipe—filled his senses.
He ran the cloth through the blacking again and shot a quick glance at the reflection of Spires, who seemed horrified and possibly on the verge of tears.
“Surely you see the necessity,” William said. “Brass buttons, white cravats, and gleaming Hessians do not lend themselves to such an activity.”
“But what of the dinner party?”
“I shall remove it, of course, then dress for the party.”
“Will you also require that, my lord?” Spires looked at the chair nearby, where a large and ratty cloak lay over the back.
“I am afraid so, though I know the thought of my shoulders concealed under such an object must offend you.”
“Deeply, my lord.” He eyed the cloak again with misgiving. “It pains me to see you thus. To witness you involved in something so far beneath you.”
William said nothing, continuing to rub the blacking on his cheeks. When his face was covered to his satisfaction, he put a hand out for the cloak.
Spires gingerly draped it over his master’s form, his mouth turned down in disgust, his hands held out from his body, as if the article might be covered with plague.
When he saw the pair of boots his master requested he bring over, Spires let out something between a whine and a groan.
William smiled appreciatively. He picked up a tattered and muddied boot and inspected it with admiration. “They are a sight, are they not? I think they bring the ensemble together nicely. Complete to a shade, as they say.”
Spires closed his eyes in acute distress.
William let out a loud laugh. “Go, Spires. You look unwell. I shall ring the bell when I need you again.”
Spires looked torn between the urgent need to distance himself from the repugnant clothing surrounding him and the desire to fulfill his duties as a valet. A dismissive nod from his master tipped the scale, though, and he bowed and left the room.
William smiled wryly as the door closed behind his valet, pulling on the boots on by one. He stood and reached for the tricorne hat, which he placed firmly on his head. Turning toward the mirror, he stared at his reflection with a critical eye. His eyes gleamed strangely in his shoe-blackened face.
The disguise would do well enough.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Spires reappeared, recoiling slightly at the sight before him. He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes as if in a divine plea for help. “Lady Purbeck and Lady Anne await you below stairs, my lord. What shall I tell them?”
William grabbed the pocket watch lying on the nearby table and swore softly. The hour was far more advanced than he had realized. “Tell them I shall join them shortly.”
“Very good, my lord,” said Spires. “I shall return directly.” He bowed and closed the door behind him, while William snatched up the damp towel and began hurriedly wiping the blacking off his face.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sir Richard and Lady Crofte were already welcoming guests in the drawing room when Kate entered. Sir Richard, freshly returned from his time away, gave her a warm smile. Lady Crofte’s smile, however, looked more like a grimace.
Clara looked characteristically charming in a dress of white crepe. She was engaged in conversation with a middle-aged couple who stood next to Mr. Bradbury—his parents, no doubt.
Kate smiled, noting her rosier-than-usual cheeks and how she looked to Mr. Bradbury as she responded to a comment, as if for affirmation.
The guests came in steadily, and Kate did her best to balance amiability and proper reserve as she met and conversed with them. It was with relief she noticed Lady Anne walk through the door, accompanied by, Kate assumed, her mother and father. It did not escape Kate’s notice that Lord Ashworth did not make one of their party. She ignored the vexatious feeling of disappointment she felt and went to greet Lady Anne.
Lady Anne extended a hand toward her, smiling and linking her arm into Kate’s. “You are walking without a limp.”
“I have given my ankle no say in the matter this evening,” Kate said. “How horrid it would be to be remembered as the poor woman with the limp. I will pay for it all tomorrow, no doubt.”
They were interrupted by the sound of Lady Anne’s mother summoning her to exchange greetings with Lady Crofte. Kate made to move away, but Lady Anne kept their arms cuffed together.
