The fellow investors had questions. The baron had answers.
His low faith in the ship’s captain wavered. Misplaced mistrust. As unsavory as the man and as risky as the gamble, Harold felt a swelling of hope in his chest—all his doubts, all his worries, all for naught if he had misjudged the situation. This investment could pay off. With the wealth of this windfall, Harold could persuade his father to use a portion for the estate. Mr. Trethow would reap the rewards, as well. Harold’s thoughts shifted to the problem he promised Hazel he would sort—with the success of the investment, it would sort itself. All his worries lifted in a single evening.
He had been planning to confront his father. To say what, he had not decided, but it had been time to do the very handling Patrick had prompted, but now… This changed everything.
Harold was biting his knuckle, lost in thought, when Lord Driffield turned to Patrick to make a comment loud enough for all at the table to hear.
“Kissinger, I’m surprised to see you at a table of investors. Did your Papa loosen your purse strings?”
Patrick chuckled. “Hoping I’ll tip some coins into your empty coffers? Alms for the poor?”
Driffield raised his glass with a throaty laugh.
Conversation at the table shifted to politics. The earl showed every sign of disinterest, picking invisible lint from his spotless silk. From time to time, his eyes darted to Patrick. When the conversation over the Lord Mayor of London became heated, Driffield leaned towards Patrick and Harold.
Voice low, the earl said, “I offer this advice because I like your spirit, Kissinger. Stay away from Miss P. She’s a trollop out to trap a title.” Eyeing Harold, Driffield added, “You’d do well, Mr. Hobbs, to see she’s barred from the estate. I would hate to see your reputation tarnished by association. How easy it is for a woman like her to take advantage of a man such as yourself.”
Harold could see Patrick’s jaw tick with tension. This time, the viscount did not rise to the goading. Harold thanked him for his advice but said nothing more. The more he was exposed to Driffield, the more he hated the man, however strong the word to describe a sentiment for a near stranger.
It came as a relief when the baron rose from the table and suggested they join the ladies in the drawing room. Promises of musical entertainment awaited their pleasure.
To Harold’s immediate shock, he found Miss Plumb still in the room, content in conversation with Hazel. Lady Felicia sat ever so slightly away from them, conversing with Helena. As soon as the gentlemen entered the drawing room, Helena announced that Lord Kissinger and Miss Plumb would grace the party with a song. While Miss Plumb smiled prettily for the audience as she made her way to the pianoforte, Harold noticed her hands shook as she held them over the keys.
Hazel took her seat next to Harold, her leg a hair’s breadth from touching his. Resting an elbow on the arm of his chair, he caressed her hand with his pinky then hooked their pinkies together. The song began.
Patrick truly did have a magnificent voice. There must be Welsh in his bloodline, Harold had used to tease him. For all Miss Plumb’s nerves, she played an exquisite accompaniment, offering the crowd an undeniable glimpse of her natural talent.
A voice, discordant with the music, said something unintelligible then laughed. Harold frowned. The voice came again, louder this time, but not loud enough to dominate the entertainment, only interfere with the acoustics. Turning his head, Harold spied Driffield talking with Lady Felicia, the two carrying on a conversation as though a performance were not underway.
For the entirety of the song, the two conversed. It was not uncommon for guests to continue conversation during an informal performance, but in this instance, no one else talked, and all had been arranged for attention to focus on the musical entertainment, part of the charm of the evening. This was, quite obviously, not intended as background music. Lord Driffield’s behavior was in poor taste. He disrespected not just Miss Plumb and Patrick but also his hostess.
When the music concluded, applause congratulated the duo. Miss Plumb curtsied with more confidence than when she had first sat at the keys. Patrick bowed and held his hands to say a word about the music. Only, it was not about the music that he spoke, as Harold and everyone else in the room expected. What he said caused more than a few gasps. Even Harold sat straighter in his chair and leaned forward, Hazel grasping the arm of his chair to brace herself.
“If I could have your attention for a moment longer,” Patrick said. “I have an announcement to make. In honor of our hostess, we’ve chosen this party to be the first place for our news.”
Patrick held a hand for Miss Plumb to stand beside him. When she clasped his hand, she did not let go.
Hands held between them, Patrick said, “You may all wish us happy, for Miss Plumb has accepted my proposal to become my wife.”
Harold’s shock was reflected in Hazel’s expression. The two stared at each other, wide eyed, lips parted. Applause and congratulations greeted the couple, Helena in particular clapping with vigor, undoubtedly more excited about the announcement occurring at her party than about the engagement itself.
All Harold could surmise was Patrick took chivalry too far. In a noble act to protect her from the harsh words of Lord Driffield, the viscount had acted spontaneously, Miss Plumb too disoriented by the party events to decline his act of kindness. With strategic planning, they could arrange for an amicable break in a few days. From Hazel’s bearing, Harold assumed she was coming to the same conclusion.
The guests milled around the newly made couple, offering their well wishes. All except Lord Driffield and Lady Felicia. The two remained at the back of the room, deep in a riotous conversation of laughter and smiles, seemingly unaware that the announcement had even taken place.
Harold rose with Hazel and waited for their turn to offer felicitations. There was nothing more to be said until he could get Patrick alone for a heart to heart. By all appearances, the pair was overjoyed. The guests had already forgotten or excused the cut from earlier—how important was a cut from one earl when the young lady was about to marry a future earl?
Oh dear. A complication. Harold wondered if Patrick realized it yet.
Breaking the engagement would be difficult once the Earl and Countess of Winthorp heard the news, and by the morning, they would have most certainly heard it, if not from Helena than from their lady’s maid or valet. There could be no doubt that the footman in the drawing room would carry the news downstairs in a matter of minutes. From there, word would travel from staff member to staff member and straight into the Winthorp’s estate, possibly before the evening ended. If the footman did not spread the news, the guests would, intentionally or not, as they talked casually to their own lady’s maid or valet or even to each other in the hearing of staff. No matter how one looked at it, Patrick’s parents would know before he could break it off. The work of a moment turned into a life sentence.
As the crowd dissipated, Harold dressed in his best smile. He reached for Patrick’s hand and shook it, Hazel hugging Miss Plumb.
“The surprise of the evening,” Harold said. “Could have knocked me over with a feather.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me for not telling you. I couldn’t resist the element of surprise.”
He was about to respond when the two least likely people made their way across the room. With a glance, Harold saw Hazel and Miss Plumb had not spotted the interlopers. At least the other guests had moved away. No one cared that Lord Driffield and his betrothed approached to wish the new couple well. No one except Harold and Patrick, and soon Hazel and Miss Plumb. As if to prove Harold wrong, Lady Williamson touched her husband’s arm to say something then headed in their direction to offer Miss Plumb further support if needed.
Lady Felicia, none the wiser of the true tension of the moment, offered stiff congratulations to Miss Plumb, her tone proudly conveying her disapproval for the h
eir of an earldom to marry so far below him. Lord Driffield said nothing until Lady Felicia turned her attention to Lady Williamson. Once she was distracted, he stepped forward, taking Patrick’s hand for a shake.
“I see my advice was unnecessary, Lord Kissinger. I wonder, though, if you’ve fallen into her trap or set one of your own.” He waggled his eyebrows and said, “A ready-made heir is perfect for someone like you. Am I right?” The earl laughed heartily, his hand still gripping Patrick’s.
The viscount’s expression darkened. Loudly enough to be heard, he said, “Thank you for your felicitations. I’ll share them with my betrothed.”
Before Patrick could extract his hand, Driffield tugged him closer to clap a hand on his shoulder.
Although Harold was standing close enough to hear, Driffield whispered for Patrick’s ears only, “No need to thank me yet, not until you need a spare for that heir.”
He winked as he released his grip on Patrick and collected Lady Felicia to move to another group for conversation. Neither Harold nor Patrick spoke for some time. Thankfully, Hazel and Lady Williamson continued to occupy Miss Plumb, none of them privy to Lord Driffield’s words.
At length, Patrick asked, “Can I trust you to be my second?”
Harold faced his friend, taken aback. “You needn’t ask, but are you certain?”
Patrick answered with a brisk nod, then said, “Wait until after the wedding ceremony to issue my challenge.”
“You mean to go through with it, then?”
“If you mean a duel, undoubtedly. For the honor of our ladies, I will meet him on the field. If you mean the marriage, I already have the license. Forgive me for not telling you. It was between Agnes and me and not something we wanted to share until made public. Tomorrow morning is the wedding, a private ceremony in town. We’ve been planning this for two weeks, and not entirely for the reasons you must suspect. Platonic love is potent. If the duel doesn’t go as planned, at least she’ll have my name and my family’s protection.”
Harold was speechless. This whole time, they had been planning a union. Had Patrick been planning to challenge Driffield the whole time, as well? Harold did not ask.
Instead, he inquired, “What of your parents?”
Patrick’s smile was sardonic. “They’ll be at the ceremony. I’ve already told them she’s with child. It wasn’t something I could hide, not when she’ll soon show, not when the baby will arrive nearly four months early. The irony? They think it’s mine.”
“Their reaction?”
Patrick laughed. “Ecstatic. I’ve never seen my mother happier. It’s just as well because from the moment Agnes and I made the decision, I accepted the baby as mine. Girl or boy, the babe is mine. Congratulate me, Harold. I’m going to be a father.”
Chapter 20
The vestry was crowded with only three people: Hazel, Agnes, and Agnes’s lady’s maid. Rather than Agnes and Lord Kissinger marrying at the church in town, Hazel had insisted they marry at the chapel on the estate, the same chapel in which she and Harold had exchanged their vows. The curate had not been fazed by the change in location, but then, who would be when it was a viscount and heir to an earldom who was bridegroom?
Where Agnes could not be persuaded was the wedding date. Hazel wanted to arrange for a wedding breakfast, but Agnes would not be moved. The ceremony was a mere formality, she had insisted. They could always plan a larger celebration later. It was fortunate Hazel had even been able to invite herself. As far as she could surmise, Agnes had intended the only guests to be the two witnesses, Lord and Lady Winthorp.
Hazel watched as the lady’s maid tidied Agnes’s hair, fussing despite the simplicity of the style. The chasm between Hazel and Agnes widened. So many secrets. And now a surprise marriage. She wanted to feel happy about this monumental moment, but instead, all she felt was the heartache of losing her friend.
“You’ll be moving after the wedding?” Hazel asked, her voice wavering.
In contrast, Agnes’s voice was firm and confident. “Yes. I’ll be taking up residence at the Winthorp estate.”
“Nana will miss you.” Hazel could not meet Agnes’s eyes. “As will I.”
She tried to tell herself to be happy. This was not a betrayal of friendship, rather Agnes finding a way to save herself.
Agnes fluffed her petticoat. “Patrick has already written to Father to ensure my possessions are sent. I’ll finally have my dresses, not that they’ll fit for long.”
“What did Mr. Plumb say? Did he respond?”
“Oh, yes. He and Patrick have been in correspondence. As much as I didn’t want Father to know my whereabouts, I couldn’t marry without his permission. We would have eloped had he said no, but Patrick was determined to try. He convinced Father of the match with more ease than I expected. I honestly thought we would have to elope.” She laughed, lighthearted and cheery.
How could Agnes be so merry? This day was the sacrifice of happiness and love, the trapping of a gentleman who did not wish to wed and could never make Agnes content or be contented by her in return. Yet she smiled and looked for all the world like a bride on her wedding day, appropriate given that was exactly what she was.
Agnes must have seen Hazel’s reticence. “Won’t you be happy for me?”
Hazel met her friend’s gaze at last. “Of course, I’m happy for you.”
“No, you’re not. I don’t know why you insisted to be here. You don’t want to be here.”
“But I do!” Hazel avowed. “I would never miss your wedding day.”
Agnes sighed and took Hazel’s hands in hers. “You’re angry. Perhaps because I didn’t tell you. Perhaps because I’m marrying Patrick. Perhaps because you think you’re losing me since I’m moving. Hazel, I’m marrying Patrick because I love him, and because he loves me. Before you protest, let me be clear. Although he and I have known each other only a short time, we have connected in ways I never thought possible for two people to connect. It began at the hunting party. We spoke at the dining table every evening. I was not romantically interested in him, but I felt an inexplicable connection even then. When I speak, he hears me. He is selfless and loving. I intend to make him the happiest of wives.”
“But he—”
“No protests. We’ve fallen in love. As hard as it is to believe, we’re a love match. Today, I’m marrying my best friend. Something I’ve learned since meeting him is that there are different kinds of love. I was a fool with Nathan and thought love was sexual and physical, but Patrick has taught me without meaning to that not all love is sexual or physical. Be happy for me. Today, I’m not marrying a man with whom I intend to share my bed, but with whom I intend to share my heart.”
Agnes’s face blurred as Hazel’s eyes teared. Nodding, she squeezed her friend’s hands.
“And neither of us can deny that he is terribly handsome.” Agnes winked. “You’re going to ask next,” she continued more seriously, “why I didn’t tell you. A simple answer. I didn’t want you trying to talk me out of it. You would have thought of a dozen reasons why we shouldn’t marry, and then you would have tried to come to my rescue. Again.”
“Well,” Hazel said, choking on her words, “at least you won’t live far.”
Agnes wrapped her arms around Hazel and hugged her tightly. “We could take tea every day if we wanted to. But please, no more elderberry biscuits.”
They both laughed, Hazel’s laugh sounding more like a sob. While her heart still ached, she saw the chasm bridged to a renewed friendship. She had not lost her friend after all.
Hazel wiped her eyes and freshened her complexion of any blotchiness or tear streaks before slipping into the transept to meet Harold for the ceremony. She laced her fingers with his and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Was he remembering the last time they were here? The twinkle in his eyes hinted that he might be sharing the same memory.
Spending an afternoon writing one’s last will and testament was not Harold’s idea of a good time. As Patrick’s second, it was a necessity. After issuing the challenge, the two men met with the March family solicitor, a gentleman who had been the family solicitor since before Lord Winthorp inherited his title, and a gentleman who lived nearby, unlike the Hobbs’s family solicitor who resided in London.
A humbling experience.
Sitting in the solicitor’s parlor.
Harold and Patrick writing their wills.
For Harold’s part, he wrote a letter to Hazel, instructing the solicitor to hand deliver it personally to Mrs. Hobbs in the event of his death, not to a family member on her behalf but directly into her hands and only her hands. In the letter, he detailed the family’s financial situation, explained the fate of her dowry, and instructed her on how to obtain her widow’s income. The letter was not without personal sentiment.
The morning after, a foggy and drizzly Tuesday, Harold and Patrick waited in an open field before dawn, the solicitor, Patrick’s valet, and the family physician standing nearby.
The duel was an unexpected turn of events. Harold doubted this was Lord Driffield’s first duel. With the man’s reputation, it was inevitable that someone would challenge him or had called him out already, be it father, brother, or husband. But it was Patrick’s first duel. Harold certainly had never been involved in one, although he had witnessed one in his youth. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought Patrick the sort to challenge a gentleman, even a gentleman who deserved it.
The sound of an approaching carriage caught their attention. Flamboyant. Lord Driffield arrived in his coach and four, coat of arms emblazoned on the side. Flamboyant and indiscreet. With the earl was his second, Viscount Brooks. Two outriders accompanied. From their attire, Harold assumed them to be valet and physician.
Once all were assembled on the field, Viscount Brooks and Harold approached each other. The fact that Patrick had once fancied Brooks was not lost on Harold, although he had never inquired if Brooks fancied him in return. The two meeting on the dueling field was somehow paradoxical from Harold’s perspective. At least Brooks was only the second.
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