Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5)

by Emma V. Leech

  “No!” he said, a little too late and too vehemently. The old women exchanged glances. Henry cleared his throat. “That is… No, damn it. I’m… I’m courting a young woman, but I’ve just written to her father. I wish to marry her. There is no question of wrongdoing.”

  “Nani Maa,” said Ashton. The young man was hiding a grin and Henry wondered if he was a close friend of Florence’s. “I think you are barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Hmph,” his grandmother said, still looking suspicious, an expression shared by Montagu whose piercing silver gaze was making Henry extremely uncomfortable. Montagu and Gabriel Knight were close friends and Henry did not need Montagu speaking out of turn before he’d had the chance to put his case to Gabriel himself.

  “None of your business,” he told Montagu defiantly, folding his arms.

  The devil take it, must he explain his romantic affairs to everyone? His lordship quirked one blond eyebrow but said nothing.

  “If not you, then your father, or even his father,” Pippin murmured. “There is something here, an accusation of wrongdoing. I would say your accuser is certainly female, but it’s tangled up with something else that muddies the water. For now, Mr Stanhope, you must discover who you or your kin has wronged.”

  “I’ve not even been in the country for years,” Henry exclaimed, feeling like the women were ganging up on him.

  Pippin nodded, sympathy in her eyes. “I’m not saying it is your fault, Mr Stanhope, but perhaps someone believes it is your fault, or perhaps you merely represent your bloodline, and this goes back years. Revenge is a strange thing. Resentments can smoulder for generations, and then something happens, a spark that sets a blaze. Perhaps your return was simply the spark required to set this in motion.”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh, please don’t start criticising Mr Oak again, Florence,” Grace said with a sigh.

  She knew full well why Florence feared for her; it was for all the same reasons Grace feared for herself. It was just such a lovely morning and she had so little time left before she must tell her parents and, heaven help her, marry Mr Oak.

  Florence returned an indignant expression. “I wasn’t going to even mention Mr Oak.”

  “Oh. I apologise then, do carry on.”

  They were meandering through the lovely gardens at Holbrook House after breakfast, before the sun got too high and it became unbearably hot again.

  “I cannot help but think that this vendetta against Henry is something personal, yet he has not lived here for such a long time, and we know the only romance he had was when he himself was jilted.”

  Grace nodded, having heard everything now, both about Henry’s past and Florence’s campaign to win the man’s heart. She could only smile. The poor fellow didn’t stand a chance, for Florence was nothing if not single-minded.

  “So what if it isn’t Henry that is being targeted, but rather the Stanhope family? After all, Harriet is married now and Henry is the figurehead for the family, even if there are few of them left. Besides which, Harriet is too well guarded, being married to an earl. What if there is some old grudge, something that has been left to fester for years?”

  Grace sighed and turned a suspicious glare upon her friend. “This is about Mr Oak.”

  “No!” Florence protested and then coloured. “Well, he is someone I suspect, I admit, but I’m not targeting him specifically, Grace, I swear. I only think we should make enquiries and see if we can uncover any old stories about the Stanhopes, and Mr Oak’s family. You ought to know if he is involved, even if it his kin rather than he himself. Perhaps we might hear something that would shine some light upon it. I mean, we know Mr Oak’s grandmother was a witch.”

  “He said a cunning woman, not a witch,” Grace said firmly.

  Florence raised a dark eyebrow. “For most people that’s splitting hairs, or at least it would have been decades ago. Who else around here was known to have been, or still is a witch? People must know things like that. I think we ought to ask.”

  “Ask who?” Grace asked, not liking the sound of this one bit.

  “Anyone who is from the area. Henry’s estate begins only a few miles away, so I would think the servants at Holbrook would be a good place to start. I know some of them have followed in the footsteps of parents and grandparents, there are families that have worked for the St Clairs for generations. They’d know all the gossip and old stories from the area.”

  Grace frowned. “I don’t know, Flo. I have a bad feeling about this. What if the person involved discovers you are digging for information?”

  Florence shrugged. “Then perhaps they’ll stop. Look, I’m not suggesting we snoop about people’s houses or listen at keyholes. I only mean to ask a few questions about stories that must be common knowledge in the area. I can be subtle.”

  It was Grace’s turn to raise an eyebrow at that. Florence huffed, putting up her chin.

  “I can!” she insisted. “Just you wait and see.”

  “Henry!” Jasper greeted him with a warm grin and Henry experience a surge of relief. He felt as if he’d been wrung out and left to dry after his time with Pippin and Mrs Dharani. His utter disbelief in witchcraft had not been diminished, but some of the things they had said, things they had known about him, his family, and the house had unsettled him beyond bearing. “I see your time with Montagu, Pippin, and Mrs Dharani has left you a broken shell of a man. I’m hardly surprised. That combination is enough to destroy anyone’s composure.”

  Jasper gave him a cheerful grin and steered him towards his study.

  Henry allowed himself to be steered, giving a snort of laughter as he saw the full-sized stuffed grizzly bear was still in the same place it had always been. It wore a top hat at a rakish angle and a garish waistcoat Henry vaguely recognised.

  “I can’t believe you still have that thing,” Henry said, shaking his head at the bear.

  “What, George? Good Lord, yes. He’s part of the family, couldn’t part with him now.”

  Henry laughed and flopped down in the chair the earl indicated, silently accepting the drink Jasper poured for him.

  “So, did they come up with anything?”

  Henry shrugged, taking a swallow of brandy, and enjoying the warmth that bloomed as it slid down his throat. “Apparently, some female is set on vengeance, but whether against me specifically, the Stanhope men or the family at large is yet unknown.”

  Jasper pursed his lips. “Interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, it appears your Miss Knight has come to a similar conclusion.”

  “She’s not my Miss Knight,” Henry muttered, frowning into his drink, even though his guts strongly protested the lie. She was his, and he was going to do everything in his power to make it official.

  “Oh, give over, Henry. Really, it’s as clear as the nose on your face that you’ve feelings for her and she’s hardly hidden her interest in you. Surely, you’ve arranged to speak to Gabriel by now, for if he finds out before you’ve….”

  “I wrote to him this morning!” Henry interrupted, irritated at having his personal affairs discussed in this manner. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Jasper’s expression shuttered and Henry cursed, realising he’d offended his oldest friend.

  “I beg your pardon,” Jasper said, his tone cool.

  “Hell!” Henry retorted. He downed the rest of the brandy in one large swallow and surged to his feet, intent on refilling the glass. “I’m sorry, Jasper. I just… I just hate being discussed.”

  Jasper’s taut expression eased. “I’m your friend, Henry, or at least I thought I was. I’m not some malicious busybody picking over your affairs for fun.”

  “I know!” Henry took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to moderate his seething emotions. “I know,” he said again, calmer now.

  “Do you?”

  Henry shrugged. “You do not know what it’s like, Jasper, to see details of your life in the scandal sh
eets, to know everyone is discussing you over breakfast.”

  “Oh, ho, haven’t I indeed!” Jasper retorted, snorting with amusement.

  Henry sighed, remembering how notorious Jasper had been as a young man. He’d been happily married and respectable for so long it was easy to forget his rather colourful past. The earl had been one of the handsomest men of the ton and women had—and still did—throw themselves at him wherever he went. Jasper had quickly gained a reputation as a rake and had often been in the scandal sheets for some dreadful behaviour or other. In reality, his reputation had been exaggerated out of all proportion, but it hadn’t stopped the gossips turning a little indiscretion into something dreadful and licentious.

  “Perhaps, but the difference is, the stories never humiliated you and made you look a damned fool,” Henry said wearily. “I just want to keep my private life private, is that too much to ask?”

  “Of course not, but surely your friends and family don’t count? We only want the best for you. You might remember I encouraged your suit with Miss Knight. I think she’s perfect for you, and you for her, come to that.”

  “You truly don’t think me too old?” Henry asked, sceptical and too aware of the anxiety in his question.

  Jasper shrugged. “All I know is I’ve seen some of the men sniffing about her and I’ve been glad I never had a daughter. I’d have been hard pressed not to start killing people, and I know Gabriel feels the same.”

  “Is this supposed to be reassuring?” Henry demanded in outrage.

  “Yes, if you’d let me finish! I only mean that I know you are a good man, you are honest and decent, and you would be the kind of husband I would wish for my daughter if I had one. I’d take the age difference over some of the fortune hunters and fools out there in a heartbeat.”

  “So basically, I’m better than the alternative,” Henry said dryly.

  Jasper rolled his eyes. “If you are determined to take offense, yes, you are.”

  “So you agree she could do better.”

  “Damn it! No, I don’t agree, and stop putting words in my mouth. Obviously, in an ideal world you’d be closer in age, but the world is anything but ideal and nothing is perfect. We live with reality and finding happiness is a dashed hard business, so who gives a tinker’s cuss if there’s an age gap if you love each other? Life is too short, and I think Florence would be lucky to have you. There, you belligerent devil. Does that satisfy?”

  Henry sat down again, nursing his brandy. “I suppose. I mean… yes, thank you, and I’m sorry. You’re right, I am in the devil of a mood. All this nonsense about witchcraft and— Bloody hell, Jasper, I never expected to fall in love again. I didn’t want to, but….”

  “But there’s not a lot of choice in the matter is there?” Jasper’s expression was full of sympathy and understanding. He would understand too, knowing the merry dance Henry’s sister had led him on.

  Henry laughed and shook his head. “No. It would appear there isn’t.”

  They drank in companionable silence for a while and a little of the tension singing across Henry’s shoulders eased until he remembered what Jasper had said earlier.

  “Wait, you said Florence had come to a similar conclusion. What do you mean by that?”

  Jasper shrugged. “Only that she’s been interrogating the staff all morning.”

  “What?” Henry sat up straight.

  “I believe she is trying to discover any known witches or wise women in the area and any stories that might relate back to your family. She’s very perspicacious,” Jasper added with approval.

  “And you let her?” Henry said, aggrieved. “What if she stumbled upon someone involved? She might put herself in danger.”

  Jasper frowned. “Calm down, old man. Aren’t you getting a bit overwrought? She’s only chatting to a few of the—”

  But Henry was already on his feet.

  “Where is she?” he asked, reaching for the door.

  “The kitchens, last I heard,” Jasper called after him as Henry did not stop to discuss the matter any longer. He was going to find Florence and put a stop to this at once.

  Chapter 13

  Dear Miss Weston,

  I understand you do not wish to make our betrothal public yet, but I thought perhaps it would put your mind at rest to visit the place where you are soon to live.

  I would be pleased to accommodate you if you wish me to invite Miss Florence and Miss Evie Knight, and whomever else you would want to accompany you for a visit under whatever pretext you prefer. Though it is not as grand as what you are used to, the farm is prosperous, and the house well maintained, but I thought perhaps you might wish to inspect it and see for yourself.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Sterling Oak to Miss Grace Weston (daughter of Baron and Baroness Rothborn).

  17th August 1839, Bramble Cottage, Holbrook House estate, Sussex.

  “Ah, well, there’s always been talk of wise women and the like,” said Mrs Simmons. The elderly woman had been nursemaid to both the earl and his son Cassius in her time and lived in a neat little cottage on the St Clairs’ estate. “And there’s plenty who kept their skills a secret too. There still are, I don’t doubt. Folk can be suspicious of things they don’t understand. As to who… let me see now.”

  Florence sat patiently beside Grace, sipping tea with every outward sign of calm, though she did not feel the least bit patient. Most people had been reluctant to speak to them, unsurprisingly. They were guests, and good staff knew they did not spread gossip, even if invited to do so, and the staff at Holbrook were both too well paid and well treated to disregard their duties. However, old Mrs Simmons was a kindly soul and clearly delighted to have a visit from two young ladies, so Florence hoped she might unbend enough to chat with them.

  “Well, there was old Mrs Oak, she had a knack for medicine and the like, and she’d read your tea leaves. Cards, too. I know people respected her skills. Granny Merrick was another, mind she’s long gone and never had no children. Mrs Hick… Ah, now some said she had the way, but she always swore she didn’t. Mind, after what happened with her kin it’s hardly surprising.”

  “Oh?” Florence asked, setting down her teacup.

  “Oh, ’twas many years ago, sometime last century, but her great-great-grandmother was hanged for a witch. One of the last ever convicted, too.”

  “Good gracious,” Grace exclaimed.

  Florence swallowed, her hand going involuntarily to her throat. “On what evidence?”

  Mrs Simmons frowned, considering this. “That I don’t remember. I do remember she was with child at the time. They held her until the babe was born, and then hanged the poor woman.”

  Florence reached for Grace’s hand as her friend made a sound of distress. “How horrid.”

  Mrs Simmons’ expression was pinched. “Men interfering in women’s business,” she said tightly, shaking her head. “Always causes trouble. She was ill used. Her family struggled ever after that, what with the shame and trying to raise the babe. Her sister took the child on. If not for the St Clair family, I don’t know what would have become of them.”

  “The family worked for the St Clairs,” Florence said, perking up at this information.

  “Yes. Still do, to my knowledge. I don’t remember hearing that they’d moved on. Now the sister was a Harding, I’m sure, but didn’t she have a daughter? My memory isn’t what it was, sadly.” Mrs Simmons closed her eyes, puzzling out the thread of the family tree. “Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Perhaps if you made another pot of tea, Miss Knight, while I think on it.”

  “Of course,” Florence said, leaping up obligingly.

  Anything if it helped the lady get her a name to question.

  Henry strode down the path in the direction he’d been given for Mrs Simmons. Apparently, Florence had left the kitchens some time ago to speak to the St Clairs’ old nanny. The path dipped and then rose again and, on reaching the top, Henry saw her walking back to the house with her friend Miss Weston.
The two of them were chattering animatedly and Henry felt his heart give a most uncharacteristic lurch in the vicinity of his heart. How the devil had this happened, and with such ease. He had believed love was something that only his friends would live with, that he’d had his chance and lost it. How wrong he had been. It was hopeless to deny it any longer, he was in way over his head. So be it. If this was his last chance at happiness, and he very much suspected it was, then he was going to hold onto it until his last breath.

  This time he would not let anything go wrong. Not that he regretted losing Lily, that had been for the best. He knew that now, even if it meant there were scars to bear. This time it was different. He was not perfect, and he knew Florence could do better, but no one on earth would try harder than he would to be everything she needed, to make her happy. He knew how precious this feeling was, and how devastating it was to lose it.

  He watched her as she followed the path towards him. Everything about Florence seemed to thrum with energy, she was so alive, so vital, and so very crucial to his future happiness. Henry could not lose her. He would not survive such a loss a second time. So, he must put a stop to this madness before she got herself into trouble.

  “Henry!” she exclaimed, her expression one of such pleasure in seeing him, he felt quite winded.

  “It’s supposed to be Mr Stanhope,” he said under his breath, hating that he sounded so old and fussy, but he didn’t want gossip about them circulating before he’d spoken to Gabriel.

  Florence rolled her eyes at him. “Grace is my friend, Henry, she knows about us.”

  Miss Weston blushed and avoided his eye. “Yes, well, I shall walk ahead. Good day, Mr Stanhope.”

  “Miss Weston,” Henry said, giving her a polite bow before turning back to Florence. “Who else have you told?”

  Florence shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “Not many people, but everyone seems to know, anyway. Apparently, I look at you like a lovesick puppy.” She looked adorably disgruntled by this description and Henry was torn between pleasure at knowing she could not hide her feelings and wishing she’d try a bit harder to avoid getting him murdered.