She stayed on the terrace until after he had gone inside.
When she went in, the first person she caught sight of was Amelia. Her sister looked radiant.
It was good to be here, after all.
Chapter 10
Nicholas walked down to the garden in the morning, heading between the flowerbeds to where he planned to sit. It was cloudy outside, but the sunlight broke through the clouds here and there, spilling pale gold onto the paths. He went straight and then right. He wanted to be alone to think.
His favorite part of the garden lay close to the side wall covered with ivy, beside which was a stone bench. He sat down and looked around at the roses and flowers, the herbs and the sweet rosemary growing fragrantly in the corner.
Mama loved gardening, I think.
He smiled. This part of Headly House reminded him of his mother’s garden at home. He had always loved the thought that, at their home, something of her creation was living. He had never thought about the fact that, of all things made—a drawing, a tapestry, something sewn—she had created a garden.
He found himself wondering about her. He had seen only two pictures of her. She had his oval face and dark eyes, her hair lustrous black. Her eyes, though, had a wise quality, like deep pools that held infinite secrets.
The sunshine warmed him, and the sound of bees in the rosemary was a soothing background. He could smell it, too. He took another breath and wished he could relax.
I wish there was something I could do, some advice someone could give me.
He thought of Lady Martha, and the other night. She had, in fact, not been out of the forefront of his mind since he came back from the recital.
She is so beautiful.
He did not simply mean physically beautiful—though he thought her lovely, indeed—but her personality was charming and quite beautiful, too.
He shut his eyes and thought back to the moments on the terrace—the way she looked at him, those hazel eyes so bright, the pale skin of her cheek as she beamed at him.
He had been amazed by her, and by how easily he trusted her.
Living with Father for twenty-two years, I’m surprised I trust anybody at all.
The thought of his father lowered his mood, and brought him back to his central problem. How was he going to get out of this betrothal, when it seemed that Lady Amelia herself wished to?
He found himself wishing that he could ask his mother.
As he sat there, eyes half-unfocused, he caught sight of a butterfly. It was very brightly-colored against the green foliage, its wings marked with red, brown and orange in lovely bands. He watched it flittering about lazily, stopping haphazardly at different flowers in its path. Then, as the gardener pushed his barrow along the path, almost crushing it, it flew purposefully and straight as a fired bullet, and settled on the wall.
Just as well it decided to stop fooling about—it would have been dead if it hesitated long.
The thought struck him as odd. Also, it seemed oddly fitting. Was he that butterfly; flitting carefree, not making up his mind?
And, if I stand still, will Father crush me into doing his bidding?
He turned to the butterfly, as if to ask, but it flitted away up over the wall, its wings bright against the dark sky.
“Well,” he said aloud.
It had been a simple experience—seeing a butterfly in a summer garden—but it was also oddly unnerving.
He thought about the conclusion he had come to. He needed to take some decisive action, and soon.
The first thing he thought of, as he stood to leave the garden, was that he needed to meet with Lady Martha again. He needed to speak with her in earnest, to ask her both about the betrothal—was her mother truly as rigid about it as his father was—and about her feelings.
He went pink thinking of it, but he had decided. He needed to be resolute.
His second thought, as he went into the house, was that he had asked his mother for advice and, in a strange way, he knew that he had received it.
He felt gratitude in his heart.
He heard his father’s voice as he crossed the hallway. It was loud and harsh as usual.
“And, Radford…if you don’t mind, don’t let anyone come up to disturb me. If anyone calls, take their card and tell them I’m unwell.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Nicholas shut his eyes a moment, trying to ready himself for a talk with his father. It was never easy, with him, even if all they were remarking on was the weather outside. He took a breath and walked up as his father noticed him.
“Nicholas. There you are,” he said, making it sound as if he’d found something distasteful in his dinner.
“Yes, Father,” Nicholas said neutrally, struggling for calm. “I went for a walk.”
“Ah.” His father sniffed distastefully. “Well, I’m going upstairs to check the accounts. Some of us can’t fritter away our mornings. I’m not taking visitors this afternoon, as I just told Radford here.”
Nicholas struggled to keep his expression neutral. He knew his father was asking him to stay in to take messages for him.
“Well, it’s a pity, but I am going out,” he said. “I planned a ride later.”
“What?” his father sounded genuinely surprised, as if somebody had told him that sheep could fly. “Well, what time will you get back, then?”
Nicholas lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I plan to be back around four o’ clock.”
“See that you are,” his father said.
Nicholas said nothing, just turned away and walked up the stairs, back straight. Inside, he was oddly calm.
He can have Radford turn callers away with an excuse, just as he was planning to do earlier.
No, this was Nicholas’ own life, and he was deciding to take charge of it.
He went up to his room and sat down at his desk. He took out a small piece of paper, dipped his quill, and hastily wrote.
Lady Martha,
Forgive me for the impertinence of my request, but might I meet with you in the woods, near the stream, tomorrow noon? There are matters I wish to discuss. Please feel free to bring a maid as chaperone. Your friend, C.
He sprinkled sand on the ink, to dry it, then folded the letter up small. He didn’t seal it, but put it in his pocket and fastened the button, to stop it coming out when he was riding. Then he went downstairs.
The ride was faster than he had expected, and he arrived at Weston Manor at an hour before midday, his coat buttoned against the cold breeze. He stopped under some trees, about ten feet from the gate, and thought.
I need to get in unheeded.
It wouldn’t work if he marched up to the front door and demanded that the butler give a letter to Lady Martha. Her mother would certainly have something to say about that.
He dismounted swiftly, left his horse below the trees, his reins looped around a bush, and headed up to the gate.
He peered in.
The manor was set back from the gate by perhaps a hundred paces, and the windows faced onto the drive. He hesitated about walking up to the door, sure he would be seen.
The miller and collier must bring their carts in somewhere, he reasoned. They didn’t bring heavy carts up to the front door of the manor on the gravel drive.
He moved to the left, and after a bit of searching, he came across the rutted cart-tracks that led from the forest path up to a second, much less fancy gate. A feeling of relief washed over him, and he tiptoed in.
The cart-track led up to a side entrance. He concealed himself and waited for someone to come out. He was sure it wasn’t kept locked, at least not during the day. The servants would be coming and going through it on their daily tasks.
He couldn’t see anyone watching, and so, trying to be nonchalant, he walked through the doorway.
A startled gasp met him.
“My Lord! Oh! I wasn’t expecting someone to come in through here.”
Staring with shock, Nicholas found himself looking down into the
startled blue eyes of a maidservant. She looked up at him, eyes wide and curious. He guessed she was very young; about Lady Martha’s age. He thought he recognized her, and she certainly seemed unafraid of him. He took a deep breath and decided to trust his instincts.
“Miss…my apologies.” He bowed low. “I was looking for Lady Martha? I need to give her a message. In confidence,” he added.
“Oh!” the woman looked at him curiously. “Well, I’m her maid. I can give her the message, if you wish?”
Nicholas realized that she was familiar because he’d met her. She’d chaperoned Lady Martha on her visit to Westhall village. He made a small noise of relief.
“Thank you,” he said, and reached into his pocket. “Here it is. If you could give it to her as soon as possible? In confidence.”
She looked at him again, and he couldn’t quite fathom the expression in her eyes. He hoped she wasn’t shocked by his behavior. He had to risk it.
“I’ll take it to her now,” the maid said.
“Thank you,” he said again. She curtseyed and walked briskly away.
Nicholas stayed where he was in the hallway for a moment, not quite able to believe what had happened. Had it really been so straightforward, to deliver a secret message?
He stood there, blinking with surprise, and then, when he heard more footsteps hurrying along the floor, he turned and headed out of the door.
He had to prepare for the plan.
Chapter 11
“Lady Martha?” a voice whispered somewhere on the edge of Martha’s reverie. She ignored it. She was sure it was probably just the rustle of leaves on the tree outside the window.
“Lady Martha!”
She jumped as the voice called loudly, and sat up smoothly off the bed, slipping the French novel she’d been reading under the pillow. She was sure her mother would have something to say about it if she knew.
“Penitence? What is it?” she called, going to open the door. Why was her maid being so cautious? Normally, she’d just knock, or—more usually—just walk in and then be surprised when she found somebody there.
“My Lady!” Penitence said, and looked around the hallway. She seemed nervous. “Can I speak a moment?”
“Of course,” Martha said, feeling nervous. Whatever could be bothering her so much that she sneaked up here like this?
“Good.”
Penitence followed her into the bedroom, and shut the door. There, she looked up at Lady Martha.
“Somebody gave me a secret message for you. Him—the fellow your mother’s been inviting here every day.”
“What?” Martha stared at her in shock. “You mean…”
“Fellow from the village. Or, we saw him in the village. That fellow.” She emphasized the words with an emphatic nod.
“What?” This time, Martha’s face went red. “You mean…” she repeated. She couldn’t believe Penitence meant Lord Calperton.
“Here,” her maid said. She dug a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and passed it over.
Martha read through it, feeling her heart start to thud wildly.
At noon. At the stream. Tomorrow.
“Penitence,” she murmured. “I think I may need to request your help.”
They made a plan. They would say they were going to the town to visit the milliner. Lady Weston could not possibly object to that. Then, instead, they would walk around the back of the manor and join the other track that led to the stream. Since they would walk—Penitence could not ride—they would need to leave earlier to make it at midday.
“Yes,” Penitence said firmly, clasping her hands together. “It is a sound plan.”
Martha woke early the next morning, and went to have breakfast by half past eight. She was unsurprised to find nobody there, and was tiptoeing out of the room when her mother came up the hallway.
“Martha! Goodness! What are you doing?”
“Having breakfast,” Martha said succinctly. She had jam on her fingers, likely pastry around her mouth, and she was carrying a folded napkin with a pastry in it for later. She felt certain it was very clear what she had just been doing.
“Oh.” Her mother made a small sound in her throat that indicated disapproval. “It’s terribly early. You need to see the physician, I think. You must be ill, to wake so early.”
“By no means,” Martha said, hiding her annoyance. “I merely woke early, that is all. It’s just as well, since it means I can go to the village and still be back in time for luncheon.”
“What are you going to the village for?” her mother asked.
Martha looked up innocently. “To buy a new hat. I want one to match my riding habit.”
“Oh.” Her mother sniffed. “Well, don’t be too long. And take someone better than your riding instructor as a chaperone—you know how she seems to always get lost.”
Martha went red. “Yes, Mama.”
She went swiftly down the hallway and up to her bedroom.
“Ready?” Penitence whispered.
“Ready,” she agreed. She slipped the pastry into the little drawstring bag she carried looped at her wrist, and then pulled on her bonnet.
She looked over at Penitence, who was dressed in cloak and bonnet, too.
“Let’s go,” she said.
They walked into the hallway.
Outside, the air was brisk and fresh, and Martha was glad of her cloak. They trudged up the hill and through the woods, keeping clear of the pathways. Martha knew where she was going—Miss Millway, their riding instructor, had taught both the Weston girls a little wood-craft when they were young, and they knew the woods around the house as well as they knew the garden.
“Almost there,” she told Penitence, who walked silently beside her.
As they neared the stream, she felt herself starting to get nervous. What she was doing was risky and exciting. She had no idea why Lord Calperton had requested that she come, and yet she knew absolutely that it was not going to be for a bad motive. She knew him, though they had barely talked.
Something within her recognized something within him, and she knew innately that he was not the harmful sort.
They headed down the path and to the stream. For a second, she was startled. Lord Calperton was standing in the clearing with his back to her. He was wearing a black riding coat and a top hat, and he was looking away from her, down the path through the woods.
She moved forward, deliberately stepping on a twig. He jumped.
“Lady Martha!”
She smiled and was surprised at the delight on his face. “Greetings, Lord Calperton.”
“You came.”
“Of course.”
They looked at each other, and she felt her heart melt. He was so close, and she could have reached out to touch him, and part of her ached to do so.
He looked into her eyes and she looked into his, and she felt her cheeks flame with blushing. She couldn’t look away.
He leaned forward and she felt almost as if he wanted to kiss her. It was not the first time she’d felt that strange spell.
He coughed and the feeling shifted. She looked up into his eyes.
“You sent me a message,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I had to speak with you. I need to know your opinion on this matter.”
“Matter?” she frowned. “What matter is that?”
She could see how uncomfortable he was. After a long moment of looking down the path, he turned back to her. “Your sister is not fond of me, I think.”
Martha stared. “My Lord! I…” she trailed off. “I cannot divulge a secret.”
“But she isn’t, is she?” he pushed her. His voice was gentle, and she looked into his eyes.
“I cannot speak for my sister,” she said. Her voice was low and vibrating with emotion. She wondered if he knew what she meant.
I cannot speak for my sister, but I can speak for myself.
She looked up at him and she thought that he looked at her in a way that suggested he unde
rstood.
“My Lady, I would not wish you to betray the confidence of your sister. But I am aware that she has a liking for someone who is not myself.”
“Yes,” Martha said, and felt a warm glow that made her smile. He had said that so carefully, and his respect for her sister touched her. All the same, he was right, and he ought to know it. “That is so.”
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 9