Her grief for her lost dreams, the images she had carried for so many years destroyed when she had seen the decay of her home, shadowed her voice.
‘Enough of the past. It’s all gone.’ Martin stooped and scooped her into his arms. Lady Catherine bit back a squeal and clutched at him, then glared when he smiled at her. Reflecting that Helen was at least twice his mother’s weight, Martin swung towards the door. His eyes fell on Melissa’s bent head. ‘Melissa—are you coming? Dinner will be downstairs tonight—come with us by all means, if you’ve a mind to see the workings, or come to the drawing-room at six.’
Melissa gawked at him. Dismissing her from his mind, Martin strode towards the door.
‘Downstairs?’ Lady Catherine finally found her tongue. ‘I have my dinner up here. On a tray.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Not any more. Now that we have a habitable dining-room, while I’m in residence, you’ll take your proper place at the end of my table.’ He made his voice sound stern, as if he was issuing an order.
He glanced sidelong at his mother. She did not know what to say. On the one hand, she did not like to accept what might just be his charity; on the other, she longed to be seated at her table again. Martin grinned and strode along the corridor to the stairs.
Catherine Willesden barely noticed the bright new furnishings through the veil of tears clouding her eyes. She had never, ever valued Martin and his arrogant, impulsive ways as he deserved. She knew quite well that it was because he had never been tractable, as his brothers had always been. But, while George had brought the place to ruin, Martin had set it to rights. Her heart had been broken when she had finally understood the full sum of the mess—Mr Matthews had been distressingly blunt when she had asked. Now it was as if a magic wand had been waved—it was even better than she recalled.
Not that she could tell Martin that—the rogue would be insufferable. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, she blinked rapidly. Martin eased her into a chair which had been set waiting. She settled her skirts as he stood back.
Suddenly, the chair started to move.
‘Martin!’ The Dowager awkwardly grabbed at the arms of the chair.
Her reprobate son chuckled—actually chuckled!
‘It’s all right. I’ve got hold of it.’ Martin pushed the chair slowly forward. ‘It’s a wheelchair. Set on wheels so you can be moved about easily. See?’ He stopped and showed her the wheels. ‘I saw it in London. I thought you might find it useful.’
‘I dare say,’ said his mother, vainly trying to sound as forbidding as usual.
She failed. Martin pushed her on to the drawing-room, a smile of satisfaction on his face.
He took her through all the main rooms, explaining how those yet unfinished were to be decorated. To his surprise, she made no demur at any of his choices, going so far as to add some suggestions of her own. At five o’clock, totally in charity one with the other, they parted to dress for dinner.
The meal was the first they had shared in over thirteen years. Despite that fact, there was no constraint, beyond that provided by Melissa, who sat, dumb, throughout. Martin tried to include her in their conversation; in the end, his mother grimaced at him and shook her head.
But at the end of the evening, after tea taken in the comfort of the fashionable blue and white drawing-room, his mother declined his offer to carry her upstairs.
‘Melissa can go,’ she said, waving her ineffectual daughter-in-law away. She turned to look at Martin. ‘Are you going to sit in the library?’
Martin eyed her suspiciously. ‘Yes.’
‘Good! You can wheel me in there. I want to talk to you.’
Reflecting that his mother had not changed all that much in thirteen years, Martin complied, a rueful smile hovering about his lips.
The library had been the first room rendered habitable by the efforts of his decorators. It had always been the room in which his father had sat. Simple but elegant furniture in the classic style Martin favoured was scattered in a deceptively ad hoc manner throughout the long room; warm wooden bookshelves, ceiling high, were packed with leather-bound tomes. Martin dutifully wheeled his mother in, wondering just what she had on her mind. But, when he had settled her before the fireplace, she did not seem to know where to begin.
The Dowager Countess tried to remind herself she was just that, and the mother of the gentleman lounging at his ease in the latest style of wing chair opposite her. She eyed the elegant figure, clad in a simple yet exquisitely tailored blue coat and black knee-breeches, with some hesitation. What she felt she had to say was sensitive—or at least likely to be, given her relationship with this unpredictable son. She drew a careful breath and began. ‘As you know, I have always been kept informed of happenings in town by my friends. They write to me, telling me all the latest news and on-dits.’
Martin suppressed the impulse to put an immediate halt to the conversation. Instead, he raised one brow coldly. ‘Indeed?’
The Dowager stiffened. ‘You needn’t be so defensive,’ she said. Really, he was his father all over again. One only had to mention something he did not want to discuss and he withdrew. ‘I merely wished to tell you,’ she went on before he had a chance to hinder her, ‘that it has come to my notice that you appear to have a great interest in Helen Walford. To wit, everyone expects you to offer for her. As you never were witless, I assume that means you do intend to marry her. My only aim in mentioning the matter is to assure you that I will not raise any objection—even though I’m perfectly aware you wouldn’t pay any attention if I did,’ she added ascerbically. ‘I recall Lady Walford’s story and was a little acquainted with her parents. From everything I’ve heard, she’s eminently suitable to be your countess.’
To Martin’s astonishment, Lady Catherine paused, frowning, then added, ‘I must say, I couldn’t imagine you taking a bright little deb to wife—you’d probably strangle her before the honeymoon was over. Or, more likely, dump her on me.’
The Dowager raised her eyes to her son’s, and beheld the amusement therein. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Which brings me to my point. I don’t know what state the Dower House is in, but if you would make arrangements to have it refurbished by this firm you’re dealing with I’d be obliged.’
When Martin made no immediate comment, she added, ‘I’ll stand the nonsense, naturally.’
‘Naturally be damned.’ Martin put his glass of port down on a table beside his chair and leaned forward so that his mother could see his face clearly. ‘You’ve lived in those rooms above stairs for…oh, yes—the past ten years. You’ve lived in this house for close on fifty. Neither I nor my wife would wish to see you leave.’
For a moment, his mother stared at him, wanting to accept his decree yet unwilling to be suffered out of pity.
‘Don’t be daft,’ the Dowager eventually returned, although the phrase lacked strength. ‘Your wife will hardly want me and Melissa cluttering up her house.’
Martin laughed and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’d forgotten Melissa,’ he admitted, his eyes twinkling. ‘Who knows?’ he said, his smile twisting. ‘Perhaps Fair Juno will be able to get her to speak.’
‘Who?’
With a quick smile for his parent’s confusion, he brushed the question aside. ‘Regardless of all else, I can assure you Helen will expect you to continue here. I suspect you’ll deal famously. Aside from anything else, I imagine I’ll be facing an unholy alliance every time I want to do anything the least unconventional. You never know, she might need your support.’ When the Dowager still looked unconvinced, he added pensively, ‘And then there’s always the children to be looked after.’
‘Children?’ His mother’s stunned expression suggested she had leaped rather further than he had intended.
Martin grinned. ‘Not yet. Rake though I am, I suspect that they had better come after we are wed.’
His mother looked decidedly relieved.
‘And now, if I’ve put all your worries to rest, I’ll take you upstair
s.’ Martin rose. He scooped his mother, thoughtful and silent, into his arms. They were on the stairs when she asked, ‘So you are going to marry Helen Walford?’
‘Indubitably,’ Martin replied. ‘As the sun rises in the east, as one day follows another—you may count on it.’
Later, when he had returned to the library and his port, his words echoed in his mind. He had spoken the truth. The only question remaining was how to get his prospective bride to agree.
He lounged in his chair, stretching his long legs before him. Why she insisted on refusing his suit was still a mystery. But he felt certain, now, that he had misunderstood the nature of the hurdle which stood in his path. It was clearly not physical—which was something of a relief. Her reticence had to stem from some more simple problem— possibly a reluctance to place any faith in a man’s avowed devotion? Martin raised his brows. Given her first husband’s reputation, that was not hard to believe. Whatever the problem, he was confident of finding the answer. His anger at her apparent promiscuity had receded, draining away even as his need for her grew more acute. Rational thought now prevailed; he knew she was not promiscuous; her acts were driven by some deeper motive. He still faced a problem but it was not insurmountable. But he needed to solve it soon. With every passing day, he missed her more. There was nothing—nothing—that was more important to him.
With a gesture of decision, Martin drained his glass. There were no objections to be considered, no ramifications to be weighed. Tomorrow, he would return to town and see her.
He would woo her—he would win her. And then he would bring her home.
Two days later, at the fashionable hour of noon, Martin turned his bays into the familiar precinct of Half Moon Street. He drew them smartly to the kerb before Helen’s narrow-fronted house. Joshua jumped down and ran to their heads. Martin threw him the reins. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be. Walk ’em if necessary.’
Martin strode purposefully up the steps. She was going to say yes this time. He was not going to leave until she did. He raised his hand to the knocker—and froze.
The knocker was off the door.
He stared at the empty hinge from which it normally hung—a small brass weight in the shape of a bell. Only its outline remained.
Helen had gone out of town.
Abruptly, Martin turned on his heel and strode back to his curricle. Surprised by his master’s sudden return, Joshua glanced up and opened his mouth, then shut it again. Silently, he handed his master the reins and scrambled up behind. From long experience, he knew better than to ask questions when Mr Martin looked like thunder.
Heading his team back into the traffic, Martin considered the Park, then decided against it. The last thing he needed was inconsequential chatter. He turned his horses towards Grosvenor Square mews. Soon, he was striding back and forth before the fireplace in his library, feeling caged and impotent.
Why? Why had she left?
The talk after the Barhams’ ball could not have been that bad. He might have committed a blunder under stress but he knew his London. The tattlemongers would have twittered over it for all of twenty-four hours, then forgotten it entirely.
So why had she gone?
To avoid him?
Martin thrust the thought aside, then, when no other explanation offered, reluctantly brought it back for examination. Too restless to sit, he prowled the room. Could she have thought he would repeat his performance—with Selina or whoever—and make her life a misery? With a frustrated growl, he shook his head. No—no he could not believe she would imagine he would hurt her—well, not more than the Barham effort. Given that they had developed a degree of understanding through the long hours they had spent together, she would know he would calm down after that—after he had seen her distress. Hell, he wanted to marry the woman—she could not believe he would hurt her. Could she?
Sunk in semi-guilt, Martin prowled the room.
A sudden realisation brought him to a halt. He raised his head and stared, unseeing, at his own reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. She could not have gone off to escape him—because he had taken himself off. With a sigh of relief, he sank into a chair. She would have realised within a day or so that he had left the capital. He doubted her friends would have sanctioned a withdrawal before that. So…
So why had she left? Perhaps the reason had nothing to do with their relationship? She had no immediate family; her friends were a select few, all of whom were presently residing in London. Perhaps Dorothea had taken ill and retired to the country? Recalling the last sight he had had of Hazelmere’s lovely bride, Martin rejected that idea as unlikely.
Had Helen been forced to leave by something else entirely? The thought jerked Martin upright. After a moment’s cogitation, he rose and tugged the bell-pull, insensibly relieved to have something concrete to do.
When Hillthorpe answered, he asked for Joshua.
Moments later, ‘You wanted me, guv’nor?’ broke across Martin’s thoughts. He raised his head and beckoned Joshua closer.
‘That gentleman I had you watch—Hedley Swayne. You mentioned you’d struck up a relationship with his man?’
Joshua wriggled his shoulders. ‘Not so much a relationship as a drinking partnership, if you take my meaning?’
Martin did. He smiled, a touch grimly. ‘That will do admirably. I want you to get over there now and find out what you can of Mr Swayne’s recent exploits. Particularly, if he’s had any unusual visitors—or if he’s dressed down to attend any meeting. I expect that’s something his man would notice.’
‘Oh, he’d notice right enough. Went on a treat over the gent’s new coloured silk neckerchiefs last time I saw him. The way he tells it, the swell only thinks of the rags on his back.’
Martin raised a brow. ‘That’s certainly the way he appears—but I know for certain there’s at least one other thing Hedley Swayne exercises his wits over.’ He fixed Joshua with a commanding eye. ‘I want to know what Hedley Swayne’s been up to this week—and I want to know as soon as possible.’
‘Right-ho, guv’nor.’
With a cheery half-salute, Joshua left.
He was back far faster than Martin had anticipated.
‘He’s gone—bolted.’
‘What?’ Martin exploded out of the chair he had slumped into. ‘When?’
‘Seems like the gentleman’s taken hisself and his man and his usual escort—whatever that might mean—off to his estates. In Cornwall, they be, so the housekeeper said. They left two days ago.’
‘Two days,’ Martin mused, pacing back and forth on the hearthrug. ‘Any reason given?’
Joshua shook his head. He watched his master stalk the room, then, when no further orders came his way, he asked, ‘D’ye want me to keep watch—to see when he returns?’
Martin stopped his pacing. He looked at Joshua, then slowly shook his head. ‘I’ve a nasty suspicion that when he returns it’ll be too late.’ With a nod, he dismissed Joshua and renewed his striding. It helped him to think.
There was no necessary connection between Helen’s leaving town and Hedley Swayne’s departure. That did not mean there wasn’t one. Martin swore. He wished he had followed up the peculiar Mr Swayne’s abduction attempt. His preoccupation with making Helen Walford his wife— and thus safe from such as Hedley Swayne—had pushed that little incident to the back of his mind. His memories of it had been overlaid by far more interesting recollections of Helen herself.
Shaking such recollections aside, Martin acknowledged his worries. He wanted answers and the only way of finding them was to ask questions—of the right people. And, in this instance, the right people were undoubtedly the Hazel-meres.
When a rapid reconnoitre of the gentlemen’s clubs drew a blank, Martin presented himself at Hazelmere House. To his surprise, although Mytton was as gracious as ever and went immediately to inform his master, ensconced in his library, of his arrival, he was kept kicking his heels in the black-and white-tiled hall for what seemed like a
n age. Eventually, the library door opened.
Dorothea emerged, the heir in her arms.
If she had looked daggers at him at the Barhams’, this afternoon she had added spears and crossbows to her armoury. Bemused, Martin reflected that he should, by all accounts, be dead.
With a decidedly cool nod, Dorothea turned on her heel and climbed the stairs. The stiffness of her spine bespoke her disapproval.
Martin raised his brows slightly at the sight. He was not overly surprised that she should still be so starchy—he had yet to make his peace with Helen and Dorothea was, after all, Helen’s closest friend. But there was a haughtiness in her disapproval that evoked memories of how the matrons had looked at him thirteen years earlier.
Mytton approached. ‘His lordship will see you now, my lord.’
There was nothing, of course, to be learned from Mytton’s impassive countenance. Martin followed him to the library.
Inside, he discovered that his pricking thumbs were justified. Hazelmere was standing by the long French windows, open to the afternoon breeze. His stance, rigid and unyielding, warned Martin that something indeed was up, even before he drew close enough to see the stony hazel gaze.
Martin stopped by a chair, laying one hand on its back. He raised a laconic brow and sighed. ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’
There was an infinitesimal pause while Hazelmere assimilated the information underlying that question. Then his features eased. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked, his voice slightly strangled.
‘Other than losing my head at the Barhams’ the other night, I’m not aware that I’ve transgressed any of the immutable laws.’
‘Not even before the Barhams’ ball?’
At the quiet question, Martin’s gaze locked with his friend’s. After a long moment, Martin moved around the chair in front of him and slowly sank into it. ‘Oh.’
‘Precisely.’ Slowly, Hazelmere came forward to sit in the chair facing his guest. ‘I take it I don’t need to ask if it’s true?’
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