A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  “That she is,” Cholly agreed with a quick grin. “But she has a goodly welt on her like she took a pretty hard hit. Even Lacey might get riled up if so.”

  The earl was silent while they exited the house and crossed the yard to the stable where Lacey was housed. Mathew was with her, brushing her coat, and he beckoned for Halcombe to enter the stall.

  “I haven’t touched the welt, my lord, figuring you’d be wantin’ to see it first. It isn’t so bad a bit of salve won’t do the trick.”

  Halcombe saw that Mathew was right. It was not that bad and would likely soon heal. But for a horse never struck in her life, the shock must have been considerable. What had put it there, and why, was the question eating at his gut. Regretting that he had not pushed Frances for some more definitive answers, he thanked Mathew, dispatched one of the men to the Cauley estate to question the groom, and then returned to the house.

  Mr. Walton had come, determined that Frances was not concussed and agreed with the procedure that had been carried out on her shoulder. He approved the treatment of the abrasion as well and was gone before Frances was fully awake.

  Except for a short visit to Flora, Halcombe stayed at his wife’s bedside all afternoon. The swelling above her ear was already subsiding. It appeared, too, judging from the easier occasional movement of her arm, that her shoulder was less painful. She was lucky and would recover in a few days. As for Halcombe, it was going to take good deal longer for him to get over it.

  He left his post long enough to order a light meal and a decanter of port. Perhaps if he consumed enough of the stuff, the shuddering fear he still felt might eventually leave him. He poured a generous amount into a goblet and slouched back in his chair.

  When it was reported to him that Lady Merton had sent the Cauley groom away, Halcombe had been seized with such anger it was all he could do to refrain from immediately riding off to confront her. Damn Victoria. He did not know just what she had done to make Frances’ horse throw her. But there was no question in his mind that the viscountess was responsible. It was outrageous enough that she had dismissed the groom, leaving his wife unescorted, but to callously ride off after Frances was thrown was beyond reprehensible. And the viscountess had known of Frances’ situation. Halcombe was convinced of it.

  Knowing that he was partly at fault did nothing to sweeten his temper. He knew Victoria was capable of malice and still he had not curbed her. If he had told her frankly that any affection he’d once held for her was long gone and that she best turn her wiles on someone else, this attack on Frances might have been prevented. Instead, he had avoided the issue like some hen-hearted youth and his wife had paid the price.

  Halcombe was staring dully at the swirling contents of his glass when Frances’ soft, pleased whisper pulled him from his thoughts.

  “You are here.”

  He set the beverage aside and went to sit on the bed. “Indeed.” His use of the word made her smile, as he had intended.

  “It is not necessary for you to watch over me, but I am glad you are.” She raised a hand to her head and tentatively wiggled her shoulder. “I think I am feeling better.”

  She sounded so surprised that he grinned, relief coursing through him. “I thought you might be,” he said, “so I took the liberty of ordering a meal.” He propped some pillows behind her, then brought over a covered tray from a nearby table and balanced it on her lap. “I will hold the soup,” he said, grabbing the bowl before the contents slopped over the edges. “You, madam, squirm too much.”

  Frances pouted and shook her head. “I believe that was you, sir—practically jumping on the bed,” she said with a sly glance.

  “I think not,” he said smoothly, spooning some broth into her mouth.

  Frances smiled, took the spoon from his hand, and reached for a slice of buttered bread. When the soup was nearly gone, she dipped the small piece of remaining crust into the bottom of the bowl.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked when she had finished and the tray had been taken away.

  “I had something earlier.” Halcombe frowned at her and waited, his gaze intent.

  When she had looked at the ceiling, the walls—everywhere but at him—he cocked his head. “Frances…?”

  Sighing, she lowered her eyes and peered at him through her lashes. “I suppose you want to know what happened.”

  He raised a brow and said her name again, this time with a tone of dwindling patience. “Frances.”

  She looked imploringly at him. “It was entirely my fault, so you mustn’t blame Lacey,” she said earnestly. “We were on the way home from Mary’s, and I did have a groom with me, as you had ord…as you had requested,” she amended hastily.

  He hid a smile at the slip and flicked his fingers to urge her on.

  Frances sighed. “It was a perfectly agreeable day for a ride. And then we came upon Lady Merton.”

  Halcombe’s mouth tightened. This much he knew already. What he wanted to know now was exactly what Victoria had said—and done.

  Frances was quiet for a moment. Judging by the wary gleam in her eyes, she was gauging his reaction. Halcombe kept his expression noncommittal. Whatever the story, his wife was the innocent party and did not deserve his wrath—however much he wanted to rant.

  She gave him an owlish look. “I don’t believe the lady much likes me,” she said with feigned amusement. “Lady Merton was very upset and said some spiteful things. I believe she thought to make me angry, but I did not want to quarrel with her in the road—or at all, given the choice.” Frances paused, her forehead furrowed in thought. “She sent Mary’s groom away, and as her own had stayed well back, there was no stopping her. She went on and on about the two of you. I refused to argue with her, which made her angrier still.”

  Frances sat up straight, her expression and voice turning grave. “I truly felt she might have a seizure or apoplexy right there. It was sad—is sad—this fixation of hers. It was mean of me to show pity for her. I’m sure it put her over the top.”

  “I think your sympathy is misplaced,” Halcombe said with a twist of his lips, keeping a tight rein on his temper. “Continue.”

  Frances raised her hand and then let it drop onto the bed. “There is little else to tell. Lady Merton struck Lacey with her crop—very hard, poor thing—and since I was not paying the least bit of attention, I was completely unprepared when she reared.” Frances winced at the recollection and then appeared anxious. “Lacey will not have a scar, will she?”

  “No, the evidence will be gone in a few weeks.” Halcombe rose. “Go back to sleep, Frances.”

  She scowled at him. “No, I am much too grubby. I want a bath.” She threw the quilt to one side.

  “You are not taking a bath.” Brows bristling with disapproval, Halcombe watched as she scooted across the bed and swung her legs over the edge, ready to catch her when she fell.

  “I certainly am.” Frances’ feet landed firmly on the floor. “And if you do not summon Joan to assist me, then you will have to do so yourself.” She smiled sweetly in response to his glower. “That is, unless you want to join me in the bath, sir?”

  Tempted by the sudden thought of her naked, he took a step back. He knew full well what it would lead to and that she was not in any condition for it. Conceding with ill grace, as he suspected this spurt of strength would quickly fade, Halcombe reluctantly agreed. “Very well. If you fall flat on your face, it is entirely your fault.”

  “I will not fall on my face, nor will I blame you if I do,” Frances said with some irritation. “But the longer you delay here the more likely it becomes.”

  “Damn, you try a man’s patience,” Halcombe growled. “I’m going! Immediately after this.” He framed her face with his hands. The kiss was gentle, yet persuasive, and when he released her, her eyes were misty with desire. He smiled. “Enjoy your bath, Frances.”

  ***

  Once the bath was prepared, and Joan and two other maids had been called to assist his stubborn wife, the ear
l had his horse brought around and he made the short ride to Merton House. It was several hours ‘til full dark, but he expected to be back well before then. He rather regretted the distance was not longer. The initial roil of anger had eased to a simmer while he tended his wife. Now, with his full attention turned on Lady Melton, the earl felt his ire rise once more. And this time he had the means of release.

  A coach and four stood in the drive, a pair of coachmen aboard and what appeared to a plethora of trunks were being loaded in the boot. He handed his reins to the groom who came running and strode rapidly to the open front door. More baggage was stacked in the entryway. It appeared Lady Merton planned on a period of extensive travel. Wise of her.

  Halcombe’s command to the servant who came forward to greet him was exceptionally blunt. “Tell your mistress Lord Halcombe is here to see her.” The earl’s sharp voice effortlessly penetrated the peripheral noise of the laden footmen passing in and out. The obviously harried butler automatically took Halcombe’s hat and gloves.

  “I don’t believe Lady Merton is receiving, my lord.”

  “She will see me,” Halcombe said with a careless indifference more intimidating than a roar, “or I will go to her.”

  The man scurried off with the earl’s hat and gloves still in hand. Halcombe hoped the fellow didn’t mislay them somewhere in all this confusion. But the butler had them clutched to his chest when he returned. Halcombe gently pried them loose, pocketed the gloves and laid his hat on a table.

  “Lady Merton is in the morning room, my lord. If you will be so good as to follow me?” He proceeded up the stairs, hurried along a short corridor, and then held open a door. “Lord Halcombe, madam.”

  Victoria stood in the middle of the room, glaring at him defiantly. “I should have known you would come to harangue me over that wife of yours. How a grown woman could fall off a slug like that one, I can’t imagine.” She touched her hands to her mouth for an instant. “Oh, but how forgetful I am! She is but a child.”

  The venom in her words chilled him. He moved forward a few steps. “Are you going somewhere, Victoria? I thought to suggest that very thing and here you have anticipated me.” Halcombe’s voice was honed steel and he saw her tremble.

  Victoria’s glare intensified. “I don’t need your threats to know when to cut my losses. The game is ended and I am the loser, it seems.”

  Colour flared on her pale face but she stood her ground—he would give her that—although he saw the fear behind her livid façade. “You were never in the running, madam.”

  “I was!” Her voice rose to a near-shout. “We were lovers once and you were more than eager to share my bed!”

  “We were, yes, and that is the one reason I will bury this incident instead of making you a scandalous harpy in the eyes of the entire world.” He stood close now and watched the wild beat of the pulse in her throat. Her beautiful face was marred by rage and a lifetime of avarice. Halcombe felt something near to pity for her and suddenly he understood his wife’s peculiar compassion for this bitter woman.

  “You are too, too, generous, my lord,” she spat out.

  “I think so,” Halcombe said. He stepped back and pulled on his gloves. “I don’t know what arrangements you have with George’s heir, but I suggest you ask for an allowance that will permit you the opportunity to live permanently…elsewhere.”

  She did not mistake the menace in his soft-spoken words. Her fists clenched and her knuckles gleamed white in the lamplight.

  “Get out. Get out!”

  “Gladly.” Gratified to have the last word, Halcombe closed the door behind him, a weight he had not acknowledged rolling from his shoulders. He made his way through the house, paused briefly to retrieve his hat, and bounded down the front steps into the welcoming shadows of the gathering dusk.

  He tossed a coin to the groom holding Zeus and was soon mounted and headed toward home, where his wife and daughter—his family—waited for him.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Richard, has anyone in the family ever mentioned a priest’s hole or secret room to you?”

  Frances breezed into his study not five minutes after Summerton’s arrival, one arm in a sling and several rolls of house plans wedged under the other. A multicolored smudge of bruises half encircled her right eye. Injuries aside, she looked adorable—smudged cheek, disheveled hair and all.

  “You have been poking around in the old part of the house again,” he said with a frown. “There is a reason those rooms haven’t been in use for years. The terms dirt, damp and decay come to mind.”

  “Yes, well, not all of them are in such sad shape,” she protested, laughing. “Sometimes I discover the most interesting things!”

  “Like the boy’s suit of armour you thought so wonderful? The one that crumpled into a pile of rusty metal when someone slammed the door?” Halcombe came around his desk and wiped the grime from her face with his handkerchief.

  A voice drifted to them from the corner of the room. “The soot adds a rather nice balance to the black eye, don’t you think? Better to leave it.”

  “Lord Summerton! Do excuse me. I did not realize you were here.” Frances looked askance at Halcombe. “Why didn’t you tell me, sir?”

  “You hardly gave me the chance.” One corner of his mouth tipped up. “You can pretend not to have seen him and come back later for a proper welcome.”

  “Now you are being nonsensical.” Frances dropped the drawings on a table and wiped her palms on Halcombe’s handkerchief. She extended a hand to the viscount, who had lazily risen from one of the study’s deep leather chairs. “I am sure Lord Summerton will think me an absolute ninnyhammer should I do such a thing.”

  Summerton shook her hand. “That is one thing I would never think you.” He smiled. “How are you, Frances? You look very well.”

  “Richard says I look like a hoyden half the time. I daresay he is right.” Frances wrinkled her forehead in mock dismay. “I prefer not to imagine what other things you might think me, my lord. It may be that a ninnyhammer is not so bad after all.”

  “Colin, please.” He tucked her free arm under his and led her back to the cozy arrangement of oversized armchairs. “Come, join us and tell me more about these hidden rooms.” He looked at Halcombe and grinned. “I had no idea you were harbouring such delightful secrets.”

  “Don’t encourage her, Colin. Frances will have you crawling around dank and grubby passageways in no time.”

  “I neglected to bring my treasure-hunting clothes with me, so will have to pass on that adventure. Priests’ holes sound a less hazardous quest.” He looked over at Halcombe. “Is there a secret chamber here at the Manor?”

  “There has not been a Catholic in the family since Henry the Eighth forced the better part of the country into becoming dutiful Protestants, so I should be very surprised to find one.” Richard looked over at his wife. “Frances, many of the walls are a foot thick. What makes you think there may be a hidden room somewhere?”

  “You know I’ve been collecting all of the house plans and studying them.” She glanced at Summerton. “I’ve found multiple sets of various areas. It seems every time an alteration took place, someone made a new drawing. I am far from being an expert,” she said with a wave of her hand, “but rooms and walls and ceilings don’t always appear in the same place. So I began wondering about the possibility of a hidden room.”

  Frances looked at both men with expectant attention, obviously waiting for a response from them. At a loss as to how he should respond—and judging from the expression on Summerton’s face Colin was in no better case, Halcombe remained silent. He did not have the heart to extinguish his wife’s enthusiasm with his own doubts, so the sudden chime of the mantel clock was a welcome interruption. Saved by the bell. The phrase popped into his head and he smiled inwardly.

  Frances jumped to her feet. “Gracious, I had no idea of the time. I must go. Flora will be waiting for me and I don’t like to disrupt her schedule. If you are to
meet our little scamp later, Colin, I want to be sure she has a nap.”

  Halcombe stopped his wife mid-room. “Flora’s mother plans to retire as well, I trust.” He had agreed to allow her out of bed only if she promised to rest in the afternoons. But her idea of rest differed from his, and it never hurt to remind her of it.

  Frances’ mouth curved down. “Yes, I know.” She let out an exaggerated sigh and then pushed up on her toes to whisper in his ear.

  “Then it would not be a nap,” he said with a grin. He steered her toward the door and gave her a little push. “Go.”

  She laughed and hurried out.

  “I take it relations have improved since I saw you last?” Summerton asked.

  Halcombe held up a hand to pause the conversation and went to the door to send for some beer. He glanced at his guest. “Have you eaten?”

  “No, Jim and I came straight through.”

  The earl added some meat and cheese to his order, then took a seat in Frances’ just-vacated chair. He slouched down and crossed his outstretched legs. “We are…relating…much better,” he said with a smug smile.

  “How nice for you,” Summerton drawled with a roguish lift of his brows. His laughter echoed Halcombe’s. “Seriously, it is good to hear you and Frances have settled things between you. You both deserve some happiness.”

  A knock on the door signaled the arrival of refreshments. A laden tray was placed on the table and beer served to both men. The viscount speared a length of sausage with his knife and, in between bites, questioned his host about the reported stranger.

  “I wish I had more to tell you,” Halcombe said, after he had related what Blount had told him. “I had planned to ride over to Clifftop myself, but Frances took a tumble while riding—thus the black eye!—and I was loath to leave her.” He smiled and shook his head at Summerton’s look of curiosity. “It was nothing a few quiet days could not mend.” He set his mug on the tray and steepled his fingers in front of him. “I believe I was slower to recover from the shock than Frances was.