HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  Harold.

  He could have refused the marriage. He could have eloped with Miss Evans. Instead he sacrificed his future to save her reputation. While she did not condone his keeping this from her, she understood why he had, for much the same reason she had been reluctant to tell her father of the betrayal. How does a man tell his wife, especially a woman he loves, that she was used for greed by her father-in-law and her own father?

  That evening, she missed supper with complaints of a migraine. In truth, she wallowed in guilt. She had left Harold without listening to him, without trusting him. What sort of wife was she? How could she claim to love him without trusting him? Without so much as the benefit of doubt, she had accused him of scheming and trickery. Her conscience weighed heavy with the shame of it all.

  Hazel and Nana sat together in the parlor on a blustery Wednesday of the next week. Embroidery was their focus, something Hazel found tedious, but she endured the torture as an excuse to enjoy Nana’s company. The two had the house to themselves. Nana’s companion had walked to the village for shopping. Melissa and Sir Chauncey were paying a call to friends in the area. Papa was out doing whatever it was Papas did. Cuthbert Walter was riding with friends.

  Time and again Hazel made to tell Nana about the whole ordeal but each time she stopped herself. While she wanted to talk about it and wanted Nana’s wisdom, she hesitated to say anything negative about Lord Collingwood. The man was not just Hazel’s father-in-law, but more importantly Nana’s son. It would not be the thing to speak ill of him, least of all to his mother. And so, she maintained her silence. There was no one with whom she could commiserate. Melissa would listen and offer sage advice, but Hazel hesitated there, as well—one did not air the dirty laundry of one’s family or marriage even to close friends, and not all of the problem was her secret to share.

  The only person she could or wanted to discuss this with was Harold. What a kick in the shin.

  “Missing that strapping lad who calls himself my grandson?” asked Nana with a teasing wink.

  Hazel blushed. She had been missing him. Her own fault. If she had been sensible, she could at this moment be in their private sitting room, cuddled against him beneath a shared blanket, or better yet, freezing her toes off in the boathouse for that romantic rendezvous Harold had promised. The mere thought of his recommending they keep warm with body heat had her cheeks burning.

  “Yes, Nana. I am missing him,” she admitted.

  “Then you’ll be delighted to know he’s heading this way after his trip to London.”

  Hazel dropped her needle. “I beg your pardon.”

  “It’s all in his missive.” Nana continued to embroider, oblivious to how the announcement affected Hazel.

  “What missive?”

  “That missive.” Nana nodded to the mantel but did not look up.

  Tossing aside her worsted work, Hazel rushed to the mantel. There, poised nobly atop the seashell carvings, was a refolded letter, the wax seal broken and the creases not quite in line with the new folds. On the front of the letter her name and post read in smart, looping letters.

  “This is addressed to me,” Hazel said, stating the obvious.

  Nana shrugged a single shoulder, her lips twitching from a suppressed giggle. “It could have been for me.”

  “Is your name Hazel Hobbs?” She laughed despite her attempt at a scolding tone.

  “It’s these aged eyes. Can’t see clearly anymore. I could have sworn it said from Horace, which meant it was for me.”

  Nana’s giggles increased as she continued successfully with her needlework. Aged eyes, Hazel’s left foot.

  “You found the contents interesting, did you?” Hazel asked, eager to read the letter but not wanting to appear overly so.

  “Not particularly. There was not a single naughty word to be read.”

  “Nana!”

  The single shoulder shrugged again.

  Her fingers trembling, Hazel unfolded the letter.

  Hazel,

  I am coming to Cornwall in approximately two weeks’ time. I have business to conduct in London that I hope will right matters and secure your trust. I understand if this is impossible. Give me the chance to prove my business acumen in a way that ensures your present and future happiness. You are all that matters. Your humble servant

  Harold

  Good heavens.

  He was coming here!

  He had a plan to right matters. But how? Had he been standing before her, she could have told him he need not bother for she realized her error in judgement and should be the one securing his trust instead. What in the name of star-crossed lovers was he going to do in London?

  He was coming here!

  Nana’s voice broke her rapture. “You see? Wholly disappointing. I expected a vivid description of how he hoped to pleasure you within the first ten minutes of your reunion.”

  “Nana!” Hazel screeched once again.

  “If I were you, I would look forward to whatever London surprise my grandson has planned. You deserve a treat.”

  After the way she had treated Harold? Hazel thought not.

  Nana gave her a pointed look. “Don’t think I can’t see that pained expression.”

  On the tip of her tongue was the urge to remind Nana of her aged eyesight.

  Continuing, the baroness said, “You deserve a treat. When was the last time you did something for yourself or made a choice about what you want in life? Not recently, I’d wager. And I know how to make a winning wager. Ask Horace. To thine own self be true, I say.”

  Letter in hand, Hazel rejoined Nana but ignored her embroidery canvas. She reread the letter instead. He truly loved her. A matter-of-fact letter to some, but to her it was boldly scrawled between the lines.

  “Don’t ignore me,” Nana interrupted. “Tell me I’m right—I so love to be right. You’re a woman ruled by the desire to help others, always putting their needs before your own. This lovely trip was for my sake, I’m sure.”

  Hazel began to object but Nana held up a staying hand.

  “I know all about you, Hazel Hobbs. Miss Plumb, or whoever she is now, has told me all your secrets. You protected her from scandal and took her into your home, both times taking the brunt. You’ve hosted parties to help both her and her husband find love. You’ve seen to my comforts and amusements, no insignificant effort there. Do I need to list more? I can. I will. Make a decision for yourself for once. What does Hazel want? I think Hazel wants a treat. Let my grandson spoil you.” Leaning closer to Hazel, never mind that they were alone in the parlor, she said, “I know he’s talented like my Horace. Has he sketched you yet?”

  Between talk of being selfless and being sketched, Hazel was relieved by the question. A personal question, but far easier to address than the motivation behind her choices in life.

  Was she so selfless? Not from her perspective. This trip was proof enough. If she were so selfless, she would have put Harold’s needs first. Then again, coming here had not been for her so much as for her father. When had she last made a life decision that involved her own needs? What did she even want from life? If she could make any choice for herself, what would she choose?

  Well, right now she would choose to talk with Nana about art. There was little else that would bring a smile to her lips outside of Harold himself.

  The hustle and bustle in the Trelowen courtyard could not be ignored. Hired coaches queued as servants loaded an endless collection of trunks. For Harold’s trip to India, he had not packed half as much. Then, he had no plans to return this time. Below stairs was atwitter with gossip. Helena flitted about the house, distraught. The baron sequestered himself in his study. Harold remained the levelheaded and calm fixture in the eye of the storm. His plan was to send the coaches to Cornwall in advance of his travels while he saw to the dealings in London.

  Everything liste
d in the marriage settlement was his to do with as he wished, including the income percentage from Teghyiy Hall. He fully intended to take advantage of his legal right to the settlement contents, with Hazel’s consultation, of course. If his father thought to access that income or anything else to do with the settlement, he would have quite the surprise in store, or at least that was what Harold hoped to ensure after conferring with the solicitor.

  Beyond his stone expression raged a maelstrom of emotion. Defying his father did not come easily. Guilt plagued his every waking thought. This was his father. A son should obey his father. With each hesitation, he thought of Hazel. A man must protect his family. Redefining family was difficult, for rather than thinking of his parents as family since they were beyond his reach, he had to focus on Hazel as his family.

  She was all that mattered.

  Not since Hazel’s departure had he shared a meal with his parents. First, he had been absent. Now, his father was absent. Bless his mother for her heretofore cheery disposition. Not until the hired coaches arrived did her panic begin. She was inconsolable. He had tried. His mother might be flighty, but she was still his mother, and he loved her dearly.

  The longcase clock read over an hour until Harold needed to depart. One task remained. To say goodbye to his father.

  For what must have been half an hour, Harold stood in the anteroom staring at the study door, his legs numb and heavy from lack of movement. Packing and arranging the departure had not been difficult. After all, he had delegated those tasks. Facing his father for the last time was not something he could delegate. His imagination ran wild with farewell scenarios—a quick and heartless goodbye where neither made eye contact, a tearful goodbye wherein Harold lost his courage, a shouting match, a pleading for forgiveness on the part of his father.

  Nothing prepared a son for a moment like this.

  Drawing on the inner strength encouraged by thoughts of Hazel, he entered the study.

  If he had thought the stench of unwashed body had been pungent before, it was nothing to now. Harold covered his nose and mouth with his hand. The room smelled of sick, sweat, spirits, and death. Alarming. His eyes swept the room.

  Empty decanters littered the floor and tables. Parchment, scrolls, and books were scattered about the study in equal measure. An overturned chair suffered a broken leg. Most disturbing was his father. Eugene Hobbs lay curled on his side on top of his desk, cradling a dueling pistol. Harold’s heart thudded wildly, erratically.

  His body shook. His eyes watered. His face contorted. Good God, no.

  The baron groaned, whimpered, then fluttered his eyelids open.

  Harold closed his own eyes. It took him long minutes to compose himself. By the time he opened his eyes again, his father was propped on an elbow and staring at Harold.

  Eugene spoke first, his words slurred. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

  The baron sat up, swaying as he dropped his legs over the side of the desk. His fingertips brushed the pistol. As if startled by its appearance, he stared at it before harrumphing and turning his attention back to Harold.

  In an instant that sent a cold chill down Harold’s spine, he questioned if this had been staged. His father’s last-ditch effort to gain control. The man knew about the dowry. By now he would have realized Harold controlled the Teghyiy income, as well. Would he playact this dire of circumstances?

  In another sweep of the room, Harold noticed in the far corner near the basin stand a curious spillage on the rug. He suspected it was bile. Closing his eyes again, he squeezed back tears. This scene could not be staged. He resolved to remain on his guard, nevertheless.

  Eugene barked his words. “Well? Say your goodbye so you can leave me in peace.”

  Harold shook his head. “You’re not well.”

  “Don’t tell me what I am and am not. This is my house, and you’re no longer a resident.”

  Walking to the hearth, eerily cold and devoid of fire, Harold turned one of the chairs to face the desk. He had to move a spilled glass before taking a seat.

  “You’re not well,” Harold repeated.

  “What do you care?”

  “You know I do.”

  Eugene snorted then coughed until he hacked on phlegm. “If you did, you wouldn’t leave. A son has an obligation to his father.”

  “You know why I’m leaving.”

  “Not going to stay to watch the creditors pick at my bones.”

  Harold was unsure if that was a question or statement, so he remained silent. Resting his elbows on his thighs, he laced his fingers and stared at the strewn paper beneath his feet.

  Neither man spoke. Harold was torn. Should he walk out now? Should he find a way to console or help his father? Should he ring for someone to light the fire and clean up the mess? Should he send for a physician? He knew not what to do.

  “Martins found him,” Eugene said.

  Harold looked up. His father bandied his hand about the floor as though trying to point to the letter, one of the myriad papers in disarray.

  “Took the letter overlong to arrive. He found him the day after sending the first letter.”

  That the letter arrived within a month rather than a year was good timing as far as Harold was concerned, but clearly the news was not good. He surmised Martins found the good captain either dead or halfway to the West Indies with both cargo and money.

  “Bastard’s under the protection of the Company. Official EIC ship captain now.”

  Harold unlaced his fingers to stare at his open palms then laced them again.

  “There was no cargo, Martins wrote. Never was. All a ruse. Not a lick of opium to his name. Money’s gone. Word’s out. Letter came from Trethow asking questions. They’ll all know soon.”

  Consolatory words failed him. He had known it was coming. He had known it while still in India investigating the deal. Hearing the truth of it nevertheless dealt a blow to Harold’s gut. His father was bankrupt. The only money they had remaining was the assets in the marriage settlement.

  “I’m ruined,” said the baron, choking on the words.

  Harold’s eyes flicked to the pistol within his father’s reach.

  “Worse, I’ve lost my son.” Eugene choked again, this time on a sob. He covered his face with shaking hands and cried as Harold had never seen his father cry before. “My son.” The man began to wail noisily, then blubbered. “Don’t leave me.”

  Lost for words, Harold’s jaw unhinged. He was ill-equipped for this predicament. Telling lie from truth was not easy. Hearing platitudes from a man incapable of affection, especially under duress, made telling lie from truth all the more challenging. His heart leapt to embrace his father and give him anything he wanted, but his head stayed the reaction.

  Voice steadier than his nerves, Harold said, “You know the cost of me staying.”

  “Anything. I’ll do anything.” The words were muffled behind his hands.

  “You have one and only one chance to make this right. If you’re serious, I’ll give you an hour to clean yourself, then you’ll accompany me to London. One utterance or hint of balking, and you’ll see the back of me. Understood?”

  He hated that his words sounded cold, but he could not waver, not now.

  “Ring for Shephard. He’ll ready me. One hour, son. One hour.”

  It would take the baron far longer than one hour to clean himself from his drunken stupor and what smelled like two weeks’ worth of stench, but Harold nodded. Would his father stay true to his word? Would he allow Harold to make this right? Hope once again swelled in his breast.

  Chapter 23

  Harold’s heart was in his throat, as was his stomach. Really, his throat was a crowded place today, causing a parched tightness that had him swallowing every minute on the minute. He turned his horse down the lane towards Teghyiy Hall and passed beneath the gatehouse’s stone arch
. As eager as he was to reach the hall, he had spent the evening and early morning at the parish inn to guarantee he arrived clean of body and attire and scented of rosewater rather than road.

  Abhijeet remained at the inn until further notice. Harold could not be certain of the reception at the hall. Although the caravan of hired coaches had been ready to head to Cornwall while he set forth to London, he had delayed their departure in light of the events with his father. Everything now depended on Hazel. Would she bar the door? Could she trust him again?

  He touched a hand to the nape of his neck to ensure the hairbow felt straight. Not a hair out of place for his arrival. Since he had not seen Hazel in nearly a month, he wanted to be pristine for her first sighting of him.

  But wait… Had she not confessed on countless occasions how much she favored him rugged and unkempt? Dash it. He reached back again and tousled his hair, skewing the bow and tugging a few strands to wisp about his face. The cravat received the same treatment. A tug here. A tug there. Yes, that ought to do it. Presentable for Mr. Trethow and family but suitably disheveled for Hazel’s pleasure. She could be so angry at him that she would not give his appearance a second glance, but he hoped she might be so taken with him that she forgot her anger. At least long enough for him to make peace.

  The hall came into view, a stately five-bay block with two perpendicular wings. While the courtyard was quiet, a stable hand waited for him, ready to take his horse. A liveried man Harold assumed was the butler waited on the portico. They had received his notice of arrival, then, and were expecting him. His eyes darted to each window for signs of Hazel. No wafting curtains. Disappointing.

  As soon as he dismounted, he was shown inside and directed into a drawing room. The formality brought foreboding. Would she not receive him then? Well, at the very least he could ask to see Nana. Surely Nana would not think him a thieving rogue, too. Oh dear.

  The drawing room door opened and closed behind him before he had a chance to sit. He turned to face his executioner.