Alfred made no move to take his hand, or get up. “Oh?” He was clearly intrigued.
Disgusted with himself, Harry waved him up. “It was just instinctive. I won’t hit you again.”
“Ah, well.” Alfred sat up and gingerly felt his left cheekbone. “I know you didn’t mean to hit me—nothing’s broken, so you must’ve pulled the punch. Very grateful you did, mind—but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just remain here until you tell me what this is all about—just in case, with my usual babble, I inadvertently trigger any more of your instincts.”
Harry grimaced. Hands on hips, he looked down at Alfred. “I think someone’s been using us.” He gestured about him. “The Asterley Place house-parties.”
Unexpected intelligence seeped into Alfred’s eyes. “How?”
Harry compressed his lips, then stated, “Lucinda Babbacombe should never have been invited. She’s a thoroughly virtuous female—take it from me.”
Alfred’s brows rose. “I see.” Then he frowned. “No, I don’t.”
“What I want to know is who suggested you invite her?”
Alfred sat up and draped his arms over his knees. He blinked up at Harry. “You know, I don’t think I like being used. It was a chap named Joliffe—brushed up against him a couple of times at some hell or other but he’s generally about town—Ernest, Earle, something like that. Ran across him on Wednesday night at that hell in Sussex Place. He happened to mention that Mrs Babbacombe was looking for a little entertainment and he’d promised he’d mention her to me.”
Harry was frowning. “Joliffe?” He shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
Alfred snorted. “Wouldn’t exactly call it a pleasure. Bit of a loose fish.”
Harry’s gaze abruptly focused. “You took the word of a loose fish on the subject of a lady’s reputation?”
“Of course not.” Alfred hurriedly leaned back out of reach, his expression distinctly injured. “I checked—you know I always do.”
“Who with?” Harry asked. “Em?”
“Em? Your aunt Em?” Alfred blinked. “What’s she got to do with it? Old tartar she is—was. Used to pinch my cheeks every time she came visiting.”
Harry snorted. “She’ll do more than pinch your cheeks if she finds out what you invited her protégée to.”
“Her protégée?” Alfred looked horrified.
“You obviously didn’t check too hard,” Harry growled, swinging away to pace once more.
Alfred squirmed. “Well, you see, time was tight. We had this vacancy; Lady Callan’s husband came back from Vienna sooner than she’d expected.”
Harry humphed. “So who did you check with?”
“The lady’s cousin or something by marriage. Mortimer Babbacombe.”
Harry frowned and stopped pacing. The name came floating back to him from his first memories of Lucinda. “Mortimer Babbacombe?”
Alfred shrugged. “Innocuous sort, a bit weak, but can’t say I’ve heard anything against him—other than that he’s a friend of Joliffe’s.”
Harry prowled over to stand directly before Alfred. “Let me get this straight—Joliffe suggested Mrs Babbacombe was looking for an invitation to the entertainment here and Mortimer Babbacombe confirmed she liked living life on the racy side?”
“Well, not in so many words. Couldn’t expect him to come right out and say such a thing of a female relative, what? But you know how it goes—I made the suggestions and gave him plenty of time to deny them. He didn’t. Seemed clear enough to me.”
Harry grimaced. Then nodded. “All right.” He looked down at Alfred. “But she’s leaving.”
“When?” Alfred struggled to his feet.
“Now. As soon as possible. Furthermore, she’s never been here.”
Alfred shrugged. “Naturally. None of the ladies are here.”
Harry nodded, grateful for his own past deviousness. It was his fertile mind that had devised these parties, where married ladies and widows of the ton could enjoy a little illicit dalliance without running the risk of any social repercussions. Total discretion was an absolute requirement—all the ladies who attended had the same secret to hide. As for the gentlemen, honour and their peers—and the likelihood of future invitations—were more than sufficient to ensure their silence.
So the damned woman, despite all, was safe—yet again.
Harry frowned.
“Come on—let’s have breakfast.” Alfred turned towards the door. “Might as well reap the rewards of being so early—we can snaffle two helpings of kedgeree.”
Still frowning, Harry followed him to the door.
An hour later, Lucinda swept down the main staircase, Agatha, dourly protective, three steps behind. An incipient frown tangled Lucinda’s brows, put there by Melthorpe, who had knocked on her door while they had been packing with a breakfast tray and a message that his lordship would hold himself in readiness to take leave of her whenever she was ready. Then, a few minutes ago, when Agatha had opened her door, it was to discover a footman patiently waiting to carry her bag to the carriage.
For the life of her, she couldn’t understand how they had known she was leaving.
It was all most confusing, a situation not helped by the skittering, totally uncharacteristic panic that had laid siege to her confidence.
As she set foot on the last flight of stairs, Lord Asterley strolled out of the dining-room. Harry followed in his wake, a sight that made Lucinda inwardly curse. She switched her gaze to her gloves, tugging them on; when she lifted her face, it was set in determined lines. “Good morning, my lord. I’m afraid I must depart immediately.”
“Yes, of course—I quite understand.” Alfred waited by the bottom of the stairs, his most charming smile in place.
Lucinda struggled not to frown. “I’m so glad. I have enjoyed my stay, but I’m sure it’s for the best if I leave this morning.” She avoided looking at Harry, standing behind his host.
Alfred offered her his arm. “We’re quite devastated to have you leave, of course, but I’ve had your carriage brought around.”
Beginning to feel distinctly distracted, Lucinda put her hand on his sleeve. “How kind of you,” she murmured. From beneath her lashes, she glanced at Harry but could make nothing of his urbane expression.
“A pleasant day for a drive—hope you reach your destination without any fuss.”
Lucinda allowed his lordship—expatiating in similar, totally inconsequential vein—to lead her down the steps.
As he had said, her carriage awaited, Joshua on the box. Lucinda paused on the last step, turning to her host as Agatha slipped past. Calmly, she held out her hand. “Thank you, my lord, for a most interesting stay—even if it was so short.”
“Delighted, m’dear, delighted.” Alfred bowed extravagantly over her hand. “Dare say I’ll see you shortly in London.” As he straightened, his gaze met Harry’s over Lucinda’s shoulder. “In the ballrooms,” he hastily added.
Lucinda blinked. Then she turned to the carriage, and discovered Agatha, her expression thoroughly disapproving, up beside Joshua on the box.
“Here—allow me.”
Before she could do anything about her maid’s unexpected position, Lucinda found herself handed into the carriage. Deciding that rapid departure was undoubtedly her wisest course, she took her seat by the window and settled her skirts. She could get Agatha down once they were clear of the drive.
Lord Asterley spoke through the window. “Do hope you enjoyed your stay. We’ll look to see you again next—” Abruptly he caught himself up, a comical look on his face. “Ah—no. Not again.”
“Quite,” came in clipped accents from behind him.
His lordship quickly stepped back. Lucinda, features rigidly impassive, drew breath to farewell her predatory protector—only to see Harry nod to his lordship and calmly climb into the carriage.
Lucinda stared at him.
Harry smiled a touch grimly, saying, sotto voce, as he moved past, “Smile
sweetly at Alfred—or he’ll be even more confused.”
Lucinda did as she was told, plastering an utterly fatuous smile on her lips. Lord Asterley stood on the steps and waved until the curve of the drive hid them from sight.
As soon as it did, Lucinda rounded on Harry. “What do you think you’re doing? Is this another of your forcible repatriations?”
Harry settled his shoulders against the seat. “Yes.” He turned his head to look at her, brows rising arrogantly. “You aren’t going to tell me you belonged at Asterley Place—are you?”
Lucinda blushed, and changed tack. “Where are we going?” She had not left Asterley Place in an unfashionable rush solely because of the activities of its guests. After last night, she had no idea how Harry now viewed her, despite what she had sensed, despite what she now hoped. Undermining her confidence was the realisation, the cast-iron certainty, that if he wanted her, she would go to him—without any marriage vows—without any vows at all. She had intended to rush back to the safety of Em’s side, where her own weakness would be bolstered by Em’s staunch propriety.
She had never before run from anything or anyone—but what she felt for Harry was not something she could fight.
Her heart thumping uncomfortably, she watched, eyes wide, as he sat back, laid his head against the squabs and stretched his long legs before him, crossing his booted ankles. He closed his eyes. “Lester Hall.”
“Lester Hall?” Lucinda blinked—not Lestershall, his own house, but Lester Hall, his family home.
Harry nodded, settling his chin in his cravat.
“Why?”
“Because that’s where you’ve been since yesterday. You left town in your carriage and drove there, with your maid and coachman. I followed several hours later in my curricle. Em and Heather will be following in Em’s carriage this morning—Em was indisposed yesterday. That’s why they didn’t accompany you.”
Lucinda blinked again. “Why did I go and leave them behind?”
“Because my father was expecting you last night and you didn’t want to disappoint him.”
“Oh.” After a moment’s hesitation, Lucinda asked, “Is he expecting me?”
Harry opened one eye, studied the delightful picture she made in her blue cambric carriage dress, her hair neatly caught in a chignon, her bonnet framing her face—the whole made distinctly more entrancing by the uncertainty he could see in her misty blue eyes and her slightly stunned expression—then closed his eye again. “He’ll be delighted to see you.”
Lucinda thought long and hard about that. “Where’s your curricle?” she eventually asked.
“Dawlish drove it back last night with a message for Em. You needn’t worry—she’ll be there by the time we arrive.”
There didn’t seem anything more to say. Lucinda sat back—and tried to make sense of what she’d learned.
Some miles later, Harry broke the silence. “Tell me about Mortimer Babbacombe.”
Hauled from deep contemplation, Lucinda frowned. “Why do you want to know about him?”
“Is he a cousin of your late husband’s?”
“No—he’s Charles’s nephew. He inherited the Grange and the entailed estate when Charles died.”
Eyes still closed, Harry frowned. “Tell me about the Grange.”
Lucinda shrugged. “It’s a small property as such things go. Just the house and enough fields to support it. Charles’s wealth derived from the Babbacombe Inns, which he’d bought with the fortune he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather.”
Half a mile had passed before Harry asked, “Was Mortimer Babbacombe familiar with the Grange?”
“No.” Lucinda let her gaze wander over the lush fields through which they were passing. “It was one of the things I found particularly strange—that having barely set foot in the place—I believe he had visited for a day the year before Charles and I married—he was so very keen to take up residence.”
Another long silence ensued; again, Harry broke it. “Do you know if Mortimer was aware of Charles’s wealth?”
Lucinda frowned. It was some moments before she answered. “If you mean did he know Charles was personally wealthy, then yes, I think he must have known. Although he didn’t visit while I lived at the Grange, he did appeal to Charles for financial relief. Basically on an annual basis. Charles used to look on it as a pension for his heir, but the sums were often quite large. The last two were for two and three thousand pounds. However…” Lucinda paused to draw breath. She glanced at Harry. His eyes were now open, narrowed and fixed on the carriage seat opposite as he pondered her words. “If you mean did Mortimer know the details of Charles’s fortune, then I can’t be sure he did. Certainly, in the past ten years, Charles made no effort to communicate such matters.” She shrugged. “They were, after all, none of Mortimer’s business.”
“So he might not have known that Charles’s money did not derive from the estate itself?”
Lucinda humphed. “I would have thought any fool could have seen that the Grange could not possibly generate anything like the amounts Charles regularly sent to Mortimer.”
Not from London. And they had no guarantee that Mortimer Babbacombe was not, in fact, just such a fool. But Harry kept such observations to himself. He closed his eyes and listened to the rumble of the wheels as his mind juggled the facts. Someone, he was now convinced, was taking an unwarranted interest in Lucinda’s affairs—but to what end he couldn’t fathom. Mischief, pure and simple, was impossible to rule out, yet instinct warned him that alone was insufficient reason. On the face of it, Mortimer Babbacombe seemed the most likely candidate, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that he was not Lucinda’s heir—her aunt in Yorkshire stood nearest in line. And anyway, why send her to Asterley?
Who could possibly benefit by her enjoying a discreet liaison?
Harry inwardly shook his head—and let the matter slide. Time enough to bend his mind to it when they headed back to London. Until then, she was going to be under his eye every minute of the day—and very close, and safe, every minute of the night. Lester Hall and its surrounding acres were the safest place on earth for a Lester bride.
Her eyes on the greenery sliding past the windows, Lucinda decided that she should feel reassured, not only by Harry’s manner, but by his efforts to protect her name. She cast a sideways glance at him; he appeared to be asleep. Recalling how he had spent the night, she could hardly feel surprise. She was physically tired herself but too keyed up to relax.
But as the wheels went around and the miles rumbled past and she had more time to dwell on their state, it occurred to her that she had no guarantee Harry had actually altered his stance.
The carriage hit a rut; a strong arm shot out and saved her from falling to the floor.
Lucinda righted herself; Harry’s hand fell away. She turned to him—and glared at his still shut eyes. “Lady Coleby was speaking to me yesterday.”
Languidly, his brows rose. “Oh?”
Despite his tone, he had tensed. Lucinda pressed her lips together and forged on. “She told me you had once been in love with her.”
She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, in her throat.
Harry opened his eyes. Slowly, he turned his head until his eyes, very green, met hers. “I didn’t—then—know what love was.”
His eyes held hers for a long moment, then he turned forward and closed them again.
The wheels rolled on; Lucinda stared at him. Then, slowly, she drew in a deep breath. A smile—of relief, of welling hope—broke across her face. Her lips still curved, she settled her head against the squabs—and followed Harry’s example.
Chapter Twelve
Three days later, Harry sat in a garden chair under the spreading branches of the oak at the bottom of the Lester Hall lawn, squinting through the early afternoon sunshine at the blue-clad figure who had just emerged onto the terrace.
She saw him; she raised her hand, then descended the steps and headed his way. Harry smiled.
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And watched his intended stroll towards him.
Her gown of cerulean blue muslin clung to her figure as she walked. Her face was shaded by a villager hat, three blue daisies decorating its band. He had put them there himself, first thing this morning, when their petals had still sparkled with dew.
Harry’s smile deepened; contentment swept through him. This was what he wanted—what he was determined to have.
A shout, greeted by gay laughter, drew his attention to the lake. Gerald was punting Heather Babbacombe about. Face alight, Heather was laughing up at Gerald, smiling down at her from his place in the stern.
Harry raised his brows, resigned to what he strongly suspected was the inevitable. But Heather was still very young, as was Gerald; it would be some years yet before they realised just what this Season had begun.
He hadn’t been at all surprised to see his younger brother drive up to the Hall a bare hour after he and Lucinda had arrived. As he had foreseen, Em and Heather had reached the Hall before them; Em had already had the household in hand.
Other than casting him a curious, almost wary look, Em had forborne to comment on his arrangements. To his considerable satisfaction, after the debacle of Asterley Place, it appeared his aunt was content to run in his harness.
Just as his intended, albeit suspiciously, was doing.
Harry rose as she approached, his smile openly welcoming.
Returning his smile, Lucinda put a hand to her hat as a gentle breeze whipped her skirts about her. “It’s such a lovely afternoon, I’d thought to stroll the grounds.”
“An excellent idea.” The breeze died; Harry claimed her hand and with a calmly proprietorial air, tucked it in his arm. “You haven’t explored the grotto at the end of the lake, have you?”
Lucinda dutifully admitted ignorance and allowed him to steer her onto the path skirting the lake’s edge. Heather saw them and waved; Gerald hallooed. Lucinda smiled and waved back, then let silence fall.
And waited.
As she’d been waiting for the past three days.
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