by Ann Clement
Percy returned to the desk, sank into the chair, poured more wine into an almost-empty glass and opened one of the ledgers.
Soon his attention was focused on the layout of crops for the next year as he marked the appropriate locations on a crude map of Wycombe Oaks land he had drawn for himself.
When some half an hour later, distracted by a calculation he was trying to complete in his head, Percy glanced again at the sofa, his absentminded gaze met a scrutinizing one of wide-open, green eyes.
Chapter Ten
Letitia awoke in a blissful comfort. The warmth and softness around her were so inviting she didn’t want to move just yet. Instead, she kept her eyes closed, hoping to fall asleep again.
A rustle of paper made her snap out of that nebulous state and gaze around.
A discomforting sense of suspension enveloped her when all she could see was an unfamiliar carpet surrounded by bookcases. Bookcases… She had come down to the library in search of her husband and then… Her gaze followed the pattern of the carpet all the way to the fireplace and landed on a pair of masculine legs under the desk. She shifted her gaze higher. Above the surface, Sir Percival’s head was bent over some papers, a quill bobbing in unison with the movement of his hand.
The fuzzy remnants of sleep retreated in an instant. How long had he been at his desk? Had he noticed her? She moved a hand and discovered where the warmth had come from. Reluctant gratitude spread, like the blanket’s warmth, through her heart.
Unsure what to do next, Letitia watched him engrossed in writing. Damp curls framed his face, his expression thoughtful. In the gloomy daylight, he appeared tired, but no less fascinating. How would it feel to run her fingers through that still-damp hair? Or to kiss his decisive mouth, now slightly pursed in concentration?
She shuddered with self-disapproval. Foolish musings. How could she even let such thoughts enter her head?
Just then, Sir Percival dipped his pen in the inkwell and glanced ahead, without focusing on anything in particular, clearly preoccupied with his thoughts. His absent gaze skimmed over the sofa.
And then it sharpened immediately and wandered back to her.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “How long have you been here?”
There was that quick quirk of his mouth again. “Long enough to discover,” he said, “that you beat me to the food I asked Slater to send up here.”
So the delicious refreshments were not for her? Letitia removed the blanket and sat up.
“I beg your pardon,” she mumbled, embarrassment burning her cheeks. “I hope I left enough to forestall your demise from starvation.”
Sir Percival chuckled. “So, did you find what you were looking for?” He changed the subject and rose to his feet.
Oh! How did he guess she’d searched for Sarah’s portrait? Letitia put on her slippers and stood as well.
“You have a fine library here,” she offered.
“At your disposal whenever you wish to use it.” He bowed his head slightly and turned toward the door.
“Are you leaving?” she asked, disappointed. There was still the matter of her pin money.
“No.” He arched a brow. “I thought you were.” He seemed to be waiting for her to do exactly that.
“Not yet, now that you are here,” she said, affronted by the unceremonious dismissal. “I came here to ask you about my pin money. I hope my father included more in the dowry than Wycombe Oaks, because that ruin is hardly worth a sixpence, if you ask me. Though, of course, it doesn’t matter to me if it makes you happy to own it again.”
His countenance clouded, and a glint of agitation passed over it.
“That ruin, hardly worth a sixpence to you, is worth more than any other place on earth to me,” he said. “My family lived there for centuries, and I lived there until…we moved out. I know its wretched condition better than you, remembering what it was like when I was a child and seeing it die a slow death over the years. It was my inheritance my fa—your father acquired. Does it surprise you I wanted to get back what my family spent centuries creating?”
“Why did you not approach and ask him to resell it to you, then? What would you have done if I’d married someone else?” she asked, taken aback by the ferocity in his voice.
“I had my plans,” he replied, regaining his composure. “For reasons I cannot quite fathom, your father seems to dislike my family and refused me before, despite the fact that I made him a very advantageous offer. Your brother, had he lived, or your husband, had you married someone else, might have been more amenable. I only needed to wait.”
“What if neither were?” she said uneasily. His penetrating, hot gaze began to affect more than her brain.
“That was entirely possible, of course.” He nodded. “However, considering its condition, my hope was not entirely unfounded.”
“I wish you great success.” She turned for the door. This was definitely not a good time to ask how much money he was going to give her. It wasn’t hard to guess how her dowry, if there had been any in addition to Wycombe Oaks, would be spent. “One must wonder what possessed my father to buy such a ruin in the first place.”
Sir Percival’s expression hardened again, and the glint of irritation returned. “Is this what you think?” he growled. “Come.”
Without giving her a chance to escape, he took her by the elbow and maneuvered her around the sofa to the table on which was an album she had noticed before. He let go of her and reached for the cover. Yet his touch continued radiating some strange awareness that did not go away with the grip of his hand.
Her comment must have really ruffled his feathers. Letitia watched as Sir Percival turned pages with more anger than the task required, until he found what he wanted and pointed the page out to her.
She raised her brows in question, and then glanced at the watercolor. It showed the familiar castle and the mansion that blended into it.
Letitia stared, amazed. There could be no mistake, even though the view in front of her was very different from what she had seen after a week of living at Wycombe Oaks.
A wall enclosed the courtyard. A large, old oak tree stood to one side of it, surrounded by the lawn. A wide, paved drive flanked by small trees in tubs led to the entrance and disappeared on a bend through an arched gateway in the direction of the stables and the carriage house. The lawn on the other side of the drive, symmetrical to that with the oak tree, had a sundial placed in the circle of gravel in its middle, with shrubs at the corners of each of the four paths leading out of it. One of the paths led to a wall covered with climbing roses. It terminated in a niche where a statue of Pan stood guarding a stone bench in front of its plinth.
The passage of twenty-odd years, even the passage of twenty-odd years of neglect, could not account for the destruction she had seen.
Letitia remembered the oak tree, the lonely survivor, but gone were the lawns, the bench, the statue and the sundial. The uneven ground was overgrown with weeds. The drive had shrunk to a faint muddy path with tracks of various depths impressed by infrequent vehicles that came to the main entrance. The wall had been reduced to its foundation and covered with dirt, a few saplings left to struggle between the stones.
She remembered seeing a wild rose somewhere in that mess, a speckle of cheerfulness amid the chaos and destruction. It was probably the only survivor of the splendid climbers preserved in the watercolor.
Was it her father who had allowed such deliberate destruction? Why hadn’t he managed this estate the way he managed his other properties? Why had he purchased it in the first place?
Letitia glanced sideways at her husband. He watched her, as gloomy as the weather outside.
“This is the home I once had,” he said, his voice matching his expression. “This is how Wycombe Oaks appeared at the time it changed han
ds.”
The intensity of his gaze could discompose even a stone. Was he blaming her for her father’s neglect? That would be absurd. Maybe he simply hoped she would never return to the library. Well, perhaps she would not. Yet her mind now churned with too many unanswered questions.
“Do you have other drawings showing the house?” she asked after a moment.
Chapter Eleven
Soon after breakfast, Letitia set out to sketch for a painting that was just beginning to take shape in her head. But as exciting as this new idea was, her thoughts kept stubbornly circling back to the unexpected events of the previous day.
She had stayed in the library until it was time to change for dinner, scrutinizing the watercolors and drawings of Wycombe Oaks not only in that first album, but also in the portfolios Percy pulled for her.
The ruin had gradually become alive in front of her eyes. To her horror, she recognized a number of objects now placed in her father’s homes. Three Italian Masters in his London house. A Poussin gracing the saloon at Fratton Hall. And a couple of Wilsons she had studied so carefully at his Hampshire estate. She recognized a few busts too. They might be another set of copies brought from Italy, of course, but if her father removed the paintings, there was no reason to believe he would not remove the busts.
And then there were the two magnificent chandeliers she had always admired in their London ballroom. They had once lighted Sir George Hanbury’s great hall in the old castle.
Percy had made no comments about any of the drawings and watercolors, beyond explaining what part of the house they showed, and she did not tell him about her discoveries. But the persistent feeling of unease was impossible to shed.
Why had her father stripped Wycombe Oaks of its possessions and let it go to ruin? Shouldn’t Percy have back what was once in the house, now that the house was his again? Would her father return anything if she asked? God knew she had no influence over him.
A small grove tucked on a gentle slope and with a good view of the surrounding fields caught her eye. Letitia had no idea how far she had walked. She had never come this way before. But it had to be a good distance; she could feel the weight of John’s knapsack on her back. To her delight, right at the edge of the grove, a sizeable tree with a misshapen trunk bent low, parallel to the ground and forming a bench before it took off again toward the sky.
From that perch, she spotted a group of laborers working in one of the fields. This was exactly what she needed. Pleased with her discovery, she pulled the knapsack off her back and took out the sketchbook and crayons.
Inexplicably, instead of drawing the men wielding their scythes, she began to sketch Percy’s face—the way he’d looked at her in the library. She would never forget his face, even if she was thousands of miles away. Faces like his, strong and expressive, handsome—no, beautiful—in their masculine strength, did not happen every day. She had studied too many faces not to appreciate his.
Then a movement on the road caught her attention. A rider trotted unhurriedly in the direction of the grove.
Although he was still too far to see his features, the highwayman’s coat gave him away. If it were made of a fabric in the brightest pastels, it wouldn’t be more recognizable. Her husband was perfectly right; he stood out among his tenants in that horrid thing. They would probably never wear such ugliness. One day she would have a new one made for him and would put that one in the fire with pleasure.
Letitia quickly flipped the page and began to draw the horse and the rider. Meanwhile, Percy noticed her and raised his hand in greeting. Stupidly, she felt disappointed when he disappeared from her view.
Wherever he was going, she did not expect him to stop and waste his time on an idle chat with her. But soon the thumping of the hooves on the soft ground reached her ears. She quickly turned the page again and began to draw the fields.
There were no more than a few lines to show for her efforts when Percy halted his horse a few trees away and slid off the saddle. No reason for her heart to skip a measure. He tethered his mount to a nearby tree before loosening the girth to let the horse nibble on the grass.
“Good afternoon,” he said, coming closer to her tree. “Did you walk all the way here? It is nearly three miles from the house and about half the distance to Wycombe Oaks.”
“I like walking,” she replied. “It gives me time to think.”
“Given the distance, it had to be a productive promenade.” His mouth quirked into that quick smile, annihilating any underlying sarcasm. He rested his shoulder against the trunk of her tree. “Are you planning to paint these fields?”
“I may use part of this view in one of the paintings I am thinking of now.”
Percy nodded. His gaze landed on the knapsack lying on the ground next to her feet. He must have recognized its military origin.
“It was my brother’s,” she said.
“I guessed so,” he replied. “You were close, weren’t you?”
“He was always a good friend, despite our age difference and his often-prolonged absences, first at schools, then in the army. But we had a few good summers together.”
She gazed at the field. The line of haystacks, along with the men in white shirts, their scythes resting against a wagon, made a perfect grouping for her purpose.
“They sent it back from Egypt,” she added quietly. “I’ve had it ever since. I suppose I should put it away one day, before it is completely ruined, but it has been a part of me for six years now. But then, if I keep using it, one day there will be nothing left, just the shreds.”
Percy bent to pull a blade of grass. “It will probably last a very long time,” he said. “This coat you dislike so violently belonged to my father. My aunt told me he used to wear it when he was riding about with my grandfather. I think my mother must have shared your opinion of it. I found another newer coat with it. But this one was what I wanted when I returned here ten years ago. And it has been a part of me since. I’ve probably abused it much more in those ten years than my father ever did in his time. Yet it still holds together.”
Letitia looked at the fawn-colored fabric, then at Percy’s dark hair whipped around his face by the increasing breeze, and his strong profile. He chewed on the grass absentmindedly, his gaze fixed somewhere on the horizon, as if he’d momentarily forgotten about her presence. If he had, she was not sorry. His account resonated familiarly with the feelings she carried along with John’s knapsack.
Then Percy glanced at her and smiled. “Did I frighten you that day on the outcropping?”
“You did,” she admitted. “I thought you were a highwayman.”
He paused for a second before throwing his head back and laughing heartily. His laughter was loud and carefree and somehow transformed him. This was the first time she’d seen him so relaxed.
Some residual stiffness seeped out of her too.
“I beg your pardon,” he said after a moment. “Had I known I gave you such a fright, I would have introduced myself properly.”
“Why didn’t you? Surely you knew who I was.”
“I did. It wasn’t difficult to guess. Are you still upset about that?”
“No, though I was at the time. I wouldn’t have had a prayer if you’d turned out to be a real villain. You must grant me a reprieve. I’ve never faced a highwayman before.”
“Gladly.” He chuckled.
Gradually, the amusement fled his face, but he didn’t avert his gaze. Its intensity made her powerless to turn away from him too. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.
Letitia squirmed on her perch, uncomfortably aware of the fluttering butterflies in her chest. She forced herself to break the spell he was casting over her.
“Why did your father sell Wycombe Oaks to my father?” she asked.
Percy stiffened. How could he answer that?
He turned away from her lovely
face, toward the sea of wheat swaying in the wind, and thought of the night twenty-five years ago when his father sat in the Wycombe Oaks library, crying like a child, holding Percy in his arms, and desperate for the consolation his six-year-old son could hardly give him. He remembered his father’s unbrushed, loose hair framing the haggard face, his bloodshot eyes full of tears and his voice broken with misery.
“Percy.” The words came out in gasps between the sobs. “I lost Wycombe Oaks. Oh God, I lost our home, your home. We will have to move out on the morrow.”
“What do you mean, Papa?” he asked, frightened by the fierceness of his father’s suffering. “How did we lose it?”
“Oh, son, I can never forgive myself for what I did to you.” Sir George wept, his forehead on his son’s small shoulder, his breath sour with gin. He was hugging him so hard Percy could barely breathe. “I put Wycombe Oaks against Lord Stanville’s stakes at cards yesterday and lost it! He now owns this house and everything in it.”
At six, Percy had a very vague idea what card games meant.
“But why?” he asked, a little teary himself, giving in to his father’s violent despair. “Cannot you give him something else instead? Why does he want our home? If Lord Stanville doesn’t have one, maybe he can come to live here with us?”
His father shook his head still resting on Percy’s shoulder.
“No, son. I can only give him what he won. I must give him what he won. It is a debt of honor, and a gentleman always pays his debts of honor, even if that means he is ruined.”
“Are we ruined, Papa?”
“No, Percy. We still have Bromsholme and Windborough. But Wycombe Oaks has been the seat of the Hanburys since King Edward IV. It is a shame to lose it the way I did.”
“Don’t cry, Papa, we will go to Bromsholme.”