He had no words for what he felt. He turned and strode across the garden and out the gate that led to the road.
Chapter Twenty
“Take the carriage and wait for me at the crossroads, Jem,” Hardcastle said to his coachman. They were in the yard of the Pilgrim’s Lantern inn in Ainstoun. “Pegasus is fat and lazy, and I need to get both of us back into condition. I will ride to the Fossey estate to do my business, but I’ll return to London in the coach, I think, with Jean-Marc. I will be not more than three hours, so we should have time, if you meet me at the crossroads, to get halfway to London before dark.”
Jem touched his hat with his customary surly obedience and headed back into the stable to bring Pegasus around.
As he mounted, the ache in his back and legs a fading reminder of the beating he had sustained, Hardcastle reflected on how little he had thought of the highwaymen who robbed him and left him for dead. His family rings were likely gracing the hands of some doxy at the moment, and his money had likely bought grog for half the hedgebirds in the county. And yet in some ways he felt it was fair trade for the experiences of the last weeks.
He recognized that he had been bored and dissatisfied with his life for some time now, but had not had the courage to confront that. After all, if he did not do what he did, then what was his life? How was he to live? He had never been one who needed the close company of others on a daily basis, and yet in the gentle rhythms of the Gillian household, the daily converse with two people of such superior understanding and cheerful good nature, he had found peace and contentment. At some future point he would have to ask himself what that meant.
He rode out of the deserted yard and into the countryside, the soft mist making quiet all around him. Soon he was galloping along the unfamiliar road, breathing in deeply the scents of ploughed fields and blooming heather. He no longer looked forward to the confrontation he was about to have. He thought that in the nearly two weeks he had spent in the Gillian household, not only had his anger abated, but he had gained some understanding of how his actions would affect not just one hasty young man but a circle of people he had never considered. And even the county. The Fossey estate was one of the principle employers and a center of people’s lives. With an absentee landlord like himself, things would not be the same for the village and the tenants. It was shabby treatment all around, but he still saw no way around it
Fossey had made a bet, lost it, and now must pay the price. It was like crime, like those two highwaymen who had robbed him, he thought. A goodly portion of society stayed away from crime only because they knew the consequences of criminal activity were severe. But there were some who bet that they would not be caught. When they lost that bet, then they paid the price. Action and consequence, nature at its most raw form. The mouse might bet that the cat will sleep through his incursions on the larder. If he lost the bet, he lost his life.
And yet he could almost hear Phaedra’s soft voice in his ear whispering, “But, my lord, we are humans, not animals. Should not human behavior be modulated by mercy and forgiveness rather than ruthless, mindless cruelty?” He shook his head. How long would it be before he stopped hearing her and seeing her and thinking of her?
The innkeeper had said there was a signpost indicating the crossroads, and that the Fossey estate was to be found a mile beyond that. And there was the signpost ahead. Grimly, Hardcastle trotted on until he came to the long drive that swept up between rows of beeches to the Fossey estate, an unimposing but attractive stone house of nice dimensions and size. His newest acquisition.
He rode around to the back, wondering whether he would have to go right up to the house and knock on the door, but as he approached the stable, Fossey walked out leading a dappled mare by its bridle. The young man stopped at the sight of Hardcastle, and his ruddy cheeks paled.
Hardcastle gazed steadily at him and then swung down off Pegasus. “I have come to settle our bet, young man,” he said. “Is there some private place we can talk away from your family?”
• • •
He had been back in London for over a week, and yet this was the first night he had ventured out to his club. It had finally become too gloomy at the house, where the ghosts of what could have been haunted him. He remembered often the evening games of euchre with Phaedra, and the afternoon games of chess with her father. When a stray ray of rare London sun pierced the perpetual city miasma, it only reminded him of Phaedra, and her insistence on sunshine.
And so this night he had ventured out to his club, and now he sat gloomily amid the old men who sat reading papers and drinking port. He should be in the card room, and indeed that had been his first destination, but the moment his fingers touched a deck he remembered Phaedra, and saw her lips curve up in a shy smile as she made the wager that could have changed both of their lives. He had quietly put down the deck of cards and exited the room without a word to a soul, leaving behind many a puzzled glance, no doubt.
Had he backed away from taking his prize, the ultimate treasure of her sweet self, out of fear? he wondered. As difficult as leaving Phaedra behind had been, how much more difficult would it have been if they had made love?
But he wouldn’t think of that. He sank deeper into the red leather chair and stared through the cigar smoke up into the vaulted reaches of the ceiling.
Why was everything so damned dreary? This was London at the height of the Season. There were a million pleasures, licit and illicit, just waiting for him. He was wealthy and could buy any indulgence he wanted, he need only name it. He could gamble ’til dawn, or make love for the same period. He could drink himself into a stupor, or—
“Hardcastle, old friend, it has been weeks!”
It was the one London voice he would welcome. He turned to see Mercy Dandridge gazing down at him. His friend’s expression turned to one of concern.
“I say, it looks like you have been in a dust-up. What happened?” Mercy sank into the chair beside Hardcastle and reached out, almost touching Hardcastle’s cheek before remembering himself.
Grimacing, Hardcastle touched the healing reminder of his attack. If his friend remarked on the faint bruising and scab, he would have been appalled at how the earl looked in the early days following the unhappy event. He shrugged. “Waylaid by highway robbers, invalid for a couple of weeks, nothing important.”
Mercy gazed at him steadily for a few moments. He cocked his head to one side in a motion painfully reminiscent, for Hardcastle, of Phaedra and her father, and said, “I would be very interested in hearing your adventures. I have an engagement this evening that I cannot evade, but may I drop in on you tomorrow?”
Hardcastle nodded. “I would like that, Mercy. Do.” He stood and stretched then, and said, “Right now I’m going home.”
• • •
She should be glad he was gone, Phaedra thought, sweeping the kitchen floor. He had changed her life forever, and now it was as if he had never been there. She was back sleeping in her old room—not soundly sleeping, she could too easily picture his strong and enticing frame stretched out, taking up her space—but sleeping. Her father was back to his routine, and though he had said something about Lord Hardcastle making an offer for a visit to London so he could study the Codex, Phaedra had cautioned him that the earl might well forget the offer once back in his proper milieu. His proper milieu? Call it rather his highly improper milieu, draped with fair barques of frailty, soiled doves, as she had heard old Mrs. Jones speak of them, gambling at a faro table or over vingt-et-un.
Had some of those girls started like her, lured by a lusty lord into an improper relationship? No, it wasn’t that easy. If she and the earl had made love, she would not have turned to the next man she met for the same relationship. For most of those girls, no doubt, it was not sexual desire but a desperate financial decision, made out of fear of starving or a desire to live in some other way than abject poverty.
He was the only man who had ever appealed to her that way, and she would never forget him. Eve
ntually she would stop tossing and turning at night, remembering his kisses and caresses and the entrancing force of his attraction. And yet, for all of the physical attraction between them, and as much as she enjoyed that part of their brief relationship, it was not his body nor his touch that she remembered in the moments when she was baking bread or weeding the garden. It was his voice, and the way he would listen to her and talk to her, even argue with her, but without condescension. She had a feeling he really listened, just like her father did. It was the connection between them, an unspoken bond. She had felt they understood each other in some way.
And yet ultimately, she had not been able to convince him to see things her way. She remembered her shameful envy of poor Deborah, when she thought of all that that girl had. How different things were now. Mrs. Daintry had responded to a note from Phaedra with the news that the girl had made herself ill and would not eat, nor could she sleep. It was time to tell her the truth, Phaedra thought, now that Hardcastle was gone to London. She would not let Deborah keep thinking that Charles was unfaithful. Maybe something could still be done for the two young people, though she rather doubted it. Squire Daintry was not one to set his daughter’s value cheaply. He would not countenance a son-in-law with no money, no estate, and no future.
A knock at the back door sent her scurrying to put away her broom, untie her apron and answer it. As if she had stepped directly from Phaedra’s thoughts, it was Deborah, and the girl fell into her friend’s arms and hugged her fiercely.
In amazement, Phaedra pulled away from her and held the girl at arm’s length. “I was just thinking of you! You—you look radiant! What has happened? Have you spoken to Charles?” What he could have said to put the roses back in Deborah’s cheeks, Phaedra did not know, but it was the only explanation she could think of.
“Yes! He told me all! Oh, Phaedra, he does not love another girl! He’s not so worthless.” Deborah threw off her bonnet, tossing it toward the table, where it skidded and fell on the floor beyond. The girl danced around the kitchen, twirling on one toe, and then stopped and hugged Phaedra again. “We are to be married!”
Wild imaginings flew through Phaedra’s brain. Had there been some sort of error? Had she mistaken what Charles said? Or—awful thought, had something happened to Hardcastle, making the bet null and void?
“What has happened? What’s going on? I thought—”
“I shall make tea,” Deborah said grandly, “and tell you all about it. It is the most amazing story. You’ll never guess who is involved!”
The girl accidentally tipped the kettle over while trying to put it on the hob and the fire went partially out, and so it was some time before Phaedra could get the kettle over the fire again and actually make tea. Deborah refused to talk before it was poured, though she hummed to herself, and kept jumping up to gaze out the window, down the road.
“Now,” Phaedra said impatiently, once the tea was sitting before them on the kitchen table, “what is this all about?”
Deborah then told Phaedra the story she already knew, about the euchre game, and Charles’s rash bet. So she would not have to tell Deborah that, anyway, she thought, relieved. But still, it did not explain anything. And the flighty girl had not yet mentioned Lord Hardcastle’s name.
“I should be furious with Charles,” Deborah said with a scowl, which quickly turned back into a grin. “But I can’t! I am so relieved it’s not another girl. There were so many casting their caps for him in London, you would not believe. Miss Susan Debenham told me that a Miss Alistair was convinced he was going to offer for her, but that was all a hum. He told me—”
“Deborah! What happened with the bet?”
“Oh, yes. You will never guess who he made the bet with!” Deborah watched Phaedra’s face avidly.
“Why don’t you tell me,” Phaedra said. Hardcastle had apparently told no one about her knowing, likely because he knew how her keeping that knowledge from the Daintrys would be viewed.
“It is your own earl, Lord Hardcastle. Can you imagine? ‘Hard-hearted’ Hardcastle himself! He was on his way down here to settle the debt when the bandits waylaid him. All the time Hardcastle was convalescing here, Charles was trying to ready Anna and Lady Fossey for the necessity of moving. He had sent letters to their relations asking who would take them in, and was just waiting for their replies before he headed back to London to settle. He was so brave,” Deborah sighed, swirling her tea and not noticing when it slopped over the sides of the cup. “He didn’t want to upset me, and thought that if I considered him unworthy of my love I would be angry enough that I would forget him. As if I would! The goose.”
Phaedra felt the urge to scream, but controlled her voice modulation well, she thought, when she said, “And so what happened when Lord Hardcastle left there? Did he release Charles from the debt?”
“Not exactly,” Deborah said, frowning down into her cup. “He pointed out to Charles that a man’s word was his pledge. And Charles responded that he was willing that moment to hand over the keys to the estate. He asked only that Anna and his mother be allowed to stay until they had time to pack and find a place to live. And he asked that he be the one to break the news to them, as he had not yet told them the truth.
“But Lord Hardcastle said he did not want the Fossey estate. And yet he could not just give up the bet, either. And so, he said that if Charles will just stay on the estate, with Anna and his mother, of course, and will remit twenty percent of his profits to Lord Hardcastle for three years, he will consider the bet paid in full! They shook on it, and it was done. Of course, the joke is on the earl! As I said to Charles, twenty percent of the profits over three years? That is a pittance compared to the worth of the estate. Charles cannot understand it, and says he believes the earl purposely let him off easily, but that’s ridiculous. Everyone knows Hard-hearted Hardcastle’s reputation. No, I believe it is simply that the earl did not stop to look around, and I suppose from the modest size of the house, compared to his own half dozen likely, he thought it would not be worth much.”
Phaedra kept silent, though her heart was singing. Hardcastle, as canny as he was, likely could estimate the worth of the estate but had set a price he knew the baron could pay; it would be a bit of a hardship, but would serve to keep the young man on the estate and working to pay off the debt. He would have, for three long years, the twenty percent remittance to remind him of what he had almost lost.
She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude and said to Deborah, “And you settled things between you?”
The girl blushed and giggled. “We did. He kissed me in the most shockingly improper way! And he told me that if I would consent, we could be married inside of two years! Oh, I long to be married sooner! You being a maiden spinster will not know how—or why—I long to be married. There are things I have heard about—” She broke off, blushing. “But you, being a vicar’s daughter, would not have heard of such things. I must not forget myself. I am in hopes of being able to convince him to marry sooner. We can live quite happily on the estate; I do not need London.”
Privately, Phaedra thought that marriage would be a good thing for Charles in giving him a motive for good behavior, and giving him an object at home to keep him there and happy. But the Daintrys and Charles would no doubt work things out. She was just happy and proud of Hardcastle . . . Lawrence.
He had listened to her, taken her concerns seriously; she had made a difference with him. And he had made a difference to her. She understood love now. As Deborah said her good-byes, Phaedra’s mind turned back to their moments together; now she could remember him with untarnished pleasure. She went back to her housekeeping, cooked the evening meal, ate with her father, sewed for a while, then read, and finally blew out her candle late that night in her narrow bed, but never once did her mind leave her rake, her Lawrence, her dark but ever brightening angel. She could think of him and dream of him now with sadness, but with no regret.
Chapter Twenty-one
Idly, Hardcastle
noted that though the curtains were pulled back, there was no real sunshine streaming through the window of his library. There should be sunshine, he thought, remembering Mr. Gillian’s tiny room in Oxfordshire. There should be Phaedra. He stretched out in the wing chair behind his desk and closed his eyes, remembering her bustling gait and off-tune hum, the smell of lavender and the image of her bottom pushing open the bedchamber door, signaling that his day was to get considerably brighter by her mere presence.
He opened his eyes again and toyed with his wax seal, twirling it on the silk ribbon that threaded through it. Silk ribbon. Would she like silk ribbons? He had never seen any adornment in her glorious hair, and it needed no decoration other than the sun glinting off of it. But still, a young woman should have ribbons and lace. And pearls. How pearls would glow against her skin!
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. What would she be doing at that moment? It was early in the day yet. She could be weeding in the garden, or changing the bed linens or any one of a hundred other chores. In the course of a normal London day, he would not be up and about at such an hour, but he had been home and in bed early, and so he rose early. He had become dull, in other words, just like the fellows he used to laugh at who had families that interested them or wives with whom they wished to spend time.
But unlike them he had no object to focus his attentions on. He knew what he didn’t want, but he didn’t know what to put in its place. What did a man do if he did not gamble or drink or wench? His own life had become tedious.
It was a strange and wonderful fact that the one brief, shining moment in his life, the moment he thought of with pride and joy, was the moment when, realizing what the loss of her innocence would mean to and do to Phaedra, he refused to use her for his own physical pleasure. He supposed it meant little when compared with the gesture of reconciliation he made toward young Fossey. Several lives could have been destroyed there. And he felt deeply that he had done the right thing. The disbelieving joy and utter relief on the young baron’s face had told him how right it was. But that had left him with questions about how many lives had been ruined at the gambling table with him. How many wives beggared, how many children left without provision?
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