by Mary Balogh
“I intend to leave my card at Dunbarton today, before I call upon anyone else,” Sir Edwin said. “It is, of course, a fitting courtesy that I wait first upon the Earl of Haverford. It would be quite unexceptionable of his lordship to receive my card and refuse my admittance today, but I must congratulate myself on the hope, ma’am, that he will receive in person the baronet of Penwith. His lordship, after all, will be happy to discover that there is someone of such elevated rank nearby with whom he might consort on terms of near equality. He has perhaps been informed that only ladies still reside at Penwith, though of course even one of those ladies bears a title.” He bowed his head to Lady Hayes. “And the other will do so within the next few months.” He smiled at Moira. “What an extraordinary coincidence it is that has brought both of us into Cornwall at the same time. I will call today, this afternoon. Miss Hayes, will you do me the honor of accompanying me?”
Moira had been accepting his plans with resignation, even with some approval. Doubtless it would be best if there were some civility between the two men, who would, after all, be quite close neighbors. But she took instant alarm at the suggestion that she be personally involved in that civility. She looked at her mother, who was sitting straight backed and unsmiling on her chair.
“We do not visit at Dunbarton, sir,” Moira said. “There have never been any social dealings between our two families.”
“Indeed, Miss Hayes?” Sir Edwin said. “You amaze me. Is his lordship quite so high in the instep, then? One does not expect it of the aristocracy, especially when one is oneself of superior rank, but it is perhaps understandable. I shall demonstrate my worthiness to be an acquaintance of the Earl of Haverford. I shall apprise him of the fact that my mother was a Grafton of Hugglesbury. The Graftons, as you surely are aware, have the purest of bloodlines, ma’am,” he assured Lady Hayes, “and can trace themselves back to a brave knight who fought at the elbow of William the Conqueror himself.”
“There was an unfortunate incident several generations back,” Moira explained. “My great-grandfather and the present earl’s great-grandfather were both involved in smuggling, which flourished on the coast here at that time.”
“Dear me,” Sir Edwin said, looking genuinely shocked. Moira wondered with an unexpected flash of amusement if he had never sipped wine that had come into the country via the back door, so to speak, without the customary duty having been paid on it. She wondered if his mother and his sisters had never drunk tea that had arrived in their teapot by similar shady and circuitous routes. But even if they had, and even if he knew it, he doubtless would not consider that he had been involved in any way with smuggling. Most people did not.
“The Earl of Haverford acted more in the way of a sponsor and purchaser of smuggled goods than in an active capacity,” Moira continued, “while my ancestor was the leader of the smugglers. He went out at night with his face blackened, I daresay, and a pistol in his belt—and a cutlass between his teeth.” She avoided her mother’s reproachful glance.
“I had not realized that there was such a blemish on the Hayes’s baronetcy,” Sir Edwin said, clearly distressed. “Smugglers? Pistols and cutlasses? I beg you never to disclose these facts to my mother, Miss Hayes. They would send her into a decline and perhaps even bring on fatal heart palpitations.”
“When the coast guard caught my great-grandfather,” Moira said, “and dragged him before the nearest magistrate—the Earl of Haverford—the earl sentenced him to seven years in transportation. He was carried off to the hulks.”
Sir Edwin sighed with noticeable relief. “It is bad, but it might have been worse,” he said. “If you had had a hanging in your family past, Miss Hayes . . .” He shuddered.
Moira felt unaccountably amused—and vindicated. Sir Edwin had made no reference to the dreadful hypocrisy of the Earl of Haverford. “He returned after the seven years,” Moira said, “doubtless coarsened and hardened by his experiences. He lived for twenty more years as a visible embarrassment to his neighbor. There has been an estrangement between the two families ever since.” Almost but not quite total. It would have been better if it had remained total.
“It is ever the way,” Sir Edwin said, “for wrongdoers to resent those who in all justice reprove and chastise them. It distresses me that ladies of delicacy and refinement”—he bowed first to Lady Hayes and then to Moira—“should have been left alone to suffer the consequences of such villainy. But that time is past. I am here now to both protect and rescue you. Although I will never besmirch my mother’s ears with this story of villainy, I feel confident in asserting that if she knew, she would advise me to the course of action that I shall take. I shall call upon the Earl of Haverford this afternoon, as planned, and I shall apologize most sincerely for my forebear’s actions and for his neglecting to humble himself and his family before the present earl’s forebear by taking himself away and living out his life in quiet obscurity.”
Moira was feeling a strange mingling of embarrassment, outrage, humor—and anxiety.
“My dear Cousin Edwin,” Lady Hayes said faintly, one hand over her mouth.
But Sir Edwin raised a staying hand. “You need not thank me, ma’am,” he said. “As the present baronet of Penwith Manor, I have inherited not only a title and property, but also responsibility for the actions of all the baronets who have gone before me. And for the protection of their womenfolk.” He bowed to Lady Hayes. “I shall attempt to effect a reconciliation in this matter, ma’am, and I feel confident that his lordship will honor me for my humility and for my assumption of all the blame for what happened long ago.”
Moira stared at him in silent incredulity. There was no longer anything funny about this. What would the Earl of Haverford think of them? And she despised herself for caring.
“Contrary to general belief,” Sir Edwin continued, “pride need not be lost in humility. I shall lose no pride in making my apologies to his lordship. You must not fear it, ladies. You will accompany me, Miss Hayes.”
“I beg you will excuse me, sir,” she said hastily. “It would perhaps be more proper for you to call alone since the Earl of Haverford is himself alone at Dunbarton.”
“It is said,” Lady Hayes added, “that the countess, his mother, is also coming to Dunbarton with other houseguests for Christmas, but I have not heard of their having arrived yet, sir.” It was surprising what one heard in a country neighborhood even when everyone was careful to avoid certain topics in one’s hearing. “He is undoubtedly alone at Dunbarton. Moira was to accompany me to tea in Tawmouth this afternoon.”
But Sir Edwin was not to be deterred. “It will be entirely proper for Miss Hayes to accompany me,” he said, “as my newly betrothed. It will be seen as a superior mark of courtesy in me to present you first in that capacity, Miss Hayes, to his lordship since he is, beyond any doubt, the social leader of this community. And it is entirely appropriate that you be present for the reconciliation of your family with his lordship’s. You will be able to lift your head high, Miss Hayes, after having had to keep it bowed in shame throughout your life. It would appear that some good angel has brought me here at this particular time. I can only conclude that my mother has aided and abetted that angel by insisting that I travel here rather than stay home to comfort her through the trial of her slight chill.”
Lady Hayes said no more. She only glanced at her daughter with a helpless, half-apologetic look. Her mother, Moira remembered, had once been a vocal advocate of ending a feud that had begun so long ago. She had come from Ireland to marry Moira’s father and had expected that she would live a full and happy social life. She had not enjoyed finding that she must avoid all entertainments that were to include the Countess of Haverford and her family. But that had been before the feud had been updated, of course. Perhaps, Moira thought belatedly, she should have mentioned those facts to Sir Edwin too. Undoubtedly she should have.
But she said nothing more. She did not argu
e further. Sir Edwin Baillie, Moira suspected uneasily, was a man with whom it was going to be difficult—perhaps impossible—to argue, merely because he heard only what he wished to hear and made assumptions to which he held fast as unassailable truths. It seemed that she was to make an afternoon call with him at Dunbarton. She dreaded to think of what awaited them there. She could only hope, she supposed, that the Earl of Haverford would be from home or that he would refuse to receive them.
But Sir Edwin Baillie, she thought, was not a man to be put off easily once he had set his mind upon a certain course of action. If the visit was not successfully made today, then it would be made tomorrow or the next day. On the whole, it would be better to get it over with today so that perhaps she could sleep tonight, having known the worst humiliation of her life. Surely it would be the worst.
She had not set eyes on the Earl of Haverford for over a week. She had hoped that she might never do so again. But it was a forlorn hope, of course. She had the uneasy suspicion that he had returned to Dunbarton to stay, and it appeared that Sir Edwin Baillie intended to make his permanent home at Penwith. Even if the families remained estranged, she and Kenneth were bound to meet again.
She wished he had not come back. She even found herself wishing for one rash moment that it were he, and not Sean, who . . . but no. She shook off the horrifying thought. No, she could never wish such a thing even in exchange for Sean’s life. She never could, no matter who he was or what he had done—or what further embarrassment he was now unwittingly to cause her. She remembered how through the years she had waited for every scrap of news that had filtered through to Dunbarton—how she had waited with dread, how she had despised herself for both the waiting and the dread. She remembered how she had felt when news had come six years ago that the severity of wounds sustained in Portugal had sent him back to England—but not to Dunbarton. Surely a soldier was sent back to England only when he was permanently maimed or not expected to survive, she had thought. She had waited in agony for more news, all the time telling herself that really she did not care at all.
She remembered the letter that had come from the War Office about Sean. Oh, no, she could never wish what she had just almost wished. Never.
She just wished he had not come back. And that Sir Edwin Baillie had not come to Penwith. She wished she could simply return to the rather dull spinster’s life she had been living until a few weeks before.
* * *
KENNETH had just returned from a few hours spent with his steward riding about some of the outlying farms of his estate. He was changing from slightly muddy clothes—the previous two days had been wet—and was just starting to warm up when his valet answered a knock on his dressing room door. Two visitors were awaiting his lordship in the downstairs salon.
His lordship sighed inwardly. In the nine days since his return to Dunbarton it seemed that he had done little else but visit and be visited. It had been pleasant to become reacquainted with old friends and neighbors, to meet a few new neighbors, but sometimes he wished he could have more time to himself. The situation could only worsen during the coming week as his mother and sister and his other houseguests began to arrive. Still, he looked forward to having the house full, to learning the new role of host.
He tried to think as he descended the staircase a few minutes later of someone in the neighborhood who had not yet called upon him. He could think of no one. But he had already returned most of those calls. The second round must be starting, then. He sighed. Whoever it was might at least have waited until after his mother’s arrival.
He did not recognize the man who stood in the middle of the salon, one hand behind his back, the other fingering the fob on his watch chain. The man’s shirt points, stiffly starched, were almost piercing his cheeks. His brown hair was combed upward to stand an inch or two above his head. Was it to bring him to more of an equality in height with his companion, Kenneth wondered, turning his eyes on her. She was definitely the taller of the two and was doing nothing to conceal the fact. She held her chin high, a look of proud defiance on her face as if he had challenged her in some way. She was dressed as she had been on the day of his arrival. Moira Hayes was masquerading as a demure lady and doing a very poor job of it. What the devil was she doing in his salon?
But he hid his surprise and bowed to them both. The man was smiling and bowing in return, for all the world as if he were making his obeisance to Prinny or even to the mad king himself. Moira Hayes stood stiff and tall and did not even attempt the curtsy that good manners dictated.
“Sir?” he said. “Miss Hayes?”
The man introduced himself as Sir Edwin Baillie, baronet of Penwith Manor since the unfortunate passing of Sir Basil Hayes and in the absence of any surviving direct male issue. Moira, Kenneth noticed without looking directly at her, did not wince at this summary dismissal of her father and her brother. Sir Edwin Baillie was also related, through his mother, to the Graftons of Hugglesbury, whoever the devil they might be. Sir Edwin looked keenly at his host, clearly expecting a start of amazement at this news. Kenneth raised his eyebrows. So this was the man Moira was to marry? Why had she come here?
“And Miss Hayes you have addressed correctly indeed, my lord,” Sir Edwin said with another deep bow. “But you will deem it the proper courtesy in me to announce to you before I do so to anyone else—except for Lady Hayes, her dear mama, of course—that Miss Hayes has done me the signal honor today of agreeing to become Lady Baillie in the near future.”
This time she did wince, not quite imperceptibly. Kenneth turned his eyes on her. Her face was already set into its look of proud disdain again, but one thing was perfectly obvious to him. This was not a match involving any affection on her part. And who could blame her? The man was clearly a pompous ass. She was probably squirming in embarrassment behind that aloof mask. Good.
“My good wishes, Miss Hayes,” he said. “And my congratulations to you, sir. Do please have a seat, Miss Hayes. I shall ring for tea.”
She sat on the chair closest to her, her back ramrod straight, her hands resting one in the other in her lap. For all the tautness of her posture, she succeeded somehow in looking graceful, Kenneth thought.
“That is extremely civil of you, my lord,” Sir Edwin said and cleared his throat somewhat theatrically. “Especially under the circumstances.”
The devil, Kenneth thought. She must have told Baillie. Confession time to precede the official betrothal? A few clandestine meetings. A few kisses. Had she confessed the kisses? But it appeared that the circumstances referred to were other than the ones that had leapt to his mind. It appeared that it was extremely civil of him to receive the great-granddaughter of the man his own great-grandfather had been obliged to sentence to seven years in transportation. It was extraordinarily civil of him to offer her a seat and tea.
For one moment when Kenneth looked at her, startled, their eyes met. She lowered her own hastily. He felt a strong urge to shout with laughter. It seemed inappropriate, however.
“As the new baronet of Penwith Manor,” Sir Edwin continued, “I must of course assume responsibility for all the actions of my predecessors, my lord. Though personally blameless, I would nevertheless humbly beg your pardon for the distress caused your ancestor by being forced to impose justice on one of his closest neighbors. I would ask your pardon on Lady Hayes’s account and on Miss Hayes’s account, though you would undoubtedly agree with me that women cannot be blamed for the perfidies of their menfolk. However, both Lady Hayes and Miss Hayes have been saddened by the estrangement that has existed between the two families for several generations.”
Moira bit her lip and her nostrils flared very slightly. Kenneth wondered if her betrothed realized that she was angry and guessed that he did not. Women cannot be blamed for the perfidies of their menfolk. Could they be blamed for their own? Had she told Baillie only about their great-grandparents? Not about eight years ago? He half smiled at her lo
wered glance.
“I think it unnecessary, sir,” he said, “for you to ask pardon for something that did not concern you in any way. I think it unnecessary for me to pardon what did not concern me and what happened so far in the past that it is beyond living memory. But if it will make you more comfortable, then I am perfectly willing to agree that the past be both forgiven and forgotten.”
“You are more than generous, my lord,” Sir Edwin said. “But I have ever found that members of the aristocracy are characterized by their generosity of spirit.”
Good Lord. And Moira was going to marry this? Kenneth glanced at her again. She looked a little white about the nostrils and mouth. She was still furious. He could not resist fanning the flames.
“And if it is true that you have been distressed by the estrangement, Miss Hayes,” he said, “then allow me to assure you that all is forgiven. I bear no grudges. You will be welcome to call here at any time with Lady Hayes or with Sir Edwin.”
She had matured, he thought a moment later. Her temper did not break as he knew it was on the brink of doing. She looked him very directly in the eye—he doubted that her betrothed could see the venom there—and spoke coolly.
“You are too kind, my lord,” she said. “You forgive me? I am overwhelmed.”
Sir Edwin Baillie, as expected, did not recognize either anger or sarcasm, even when they rose up in a curled fist and punched him between the eyes. He smirked and bowed, first to Moira and then to his host.
“And I am overwhelmed,” he said, “with this happy outcome of my gesture of humility. My dear mother always taught me, my lord, as I am sure your dear mother has taught you, that humility and pride go hand in hand, that displaying the first does not force one to forfeit the second, but on the contrary merely strengthens it.”