by Ann Clement
But it was not Percy, she realized. It was Sir George. Her father was shouting something louder and louder…then, somehow, he grabbed her and was shaking her, his furious face looming inches above hers.
“Let me go,” she screamed. “Let…”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Words died in Letitia’s throat when a hand cupped her cheek. She thrashed her head, but the hand did not go away. With the greatest effort, she forced her heavy eyelids to open.
Josepha’s face, not her father’s, loomed above hers.
“Wake up, my dove.” Josie’s voice cut through all the noise of the dream vanishing from her head. “It will do you no good to sit here instead of resting in your bed. You gave me such a fright when I found your room empty. Did you have a bad dream?”
Letitia tried to shake her head and winced at the discomfort in her neck.
“No, Josie. Not bad, just strange.”
She glanced at the wall. Lady Hanbury regarded her with her frozen smile again while Duke sat quietly by her side, as before.
“Do you know that this is Sir Percival’s mother, Josie?” she asked, pointing to the portrait. “She was my father’s distant cousin. He brought this painting here after the purchase of Wycombe Oaks. Does it not seem strange to you that Sir George would sell the portrait of his wife together with the house? Well, maybe not.” She shrugged. “After all, he sold all other family portr—”
Loud shouts, eerily reminiscent of her dream, broke into the room from the street. Someone called her father’s name. The intruder shouted loud enough to be heard not only through the closed windows, but probably all the way across Park Lane to the Serpentine.
“Stanville, you cheat and liar! Reveal yourself!”
Wide awake now, Letitia sprang up from the armchair.
“Do not go near the window,” Josepha said hurriedly. “Someone may mean his lordship harm and throw a stone at it.”
But Letitia had already moved the curtain enough to peek out. The darkness outside yielded only the shadow of a male silhouette hovering at the foot of the front stairs.
“Stanville, you bastard!” he bellowed. “Do not think you can hide from me and from justice. I see the light in your room. Come out, you coward, or every paper in town shall have a story to put on the front page tomorrow!”
Letitia gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth, letting the curtain go. The man in the street was certainly in his cups. There was a hint of slur in his speech and unsteadiness in his stance. Oh, where was the night watch to arrest him for his drunken behavior? Thank God, many houses were still empty after their owners’ exodus to the country for the summer. Maybe the drunkard would go away.
But he immediately dashed her hopes.
“Stanville, stop hiding like a woman! You conniving cheat, come out and face the truth after twenty-five years. Your life in hell is not enough to pay for what you did!”
Twenty-five years? Was this a coincidence? Somehow the reference to the long-gone past struck a note of premonition in Letitia’s mind. Her heart slammed. Twenty-five years. She had to find out what the stranger was talking about.
She grabbed the candleholder she had come with to the study and dashed out of the room. Josepha, hissing like a frightened cat, followed close behind. But the pull of the stranger’s words was stronger than fear.
When Letitia reached the foyer, Jasper, together with another footman, was unlocking the door. No doubt they meant to deal with the drunkard. The last latch clicked open to the accompaniment of another challenge coming from outside.
“Let him in,” she commanded.
Both men jumped, startled. Obviously, no one expected her to come downstairs.
“Her ladyship should stay away,” Jasper suggested. “This man may be dangerous. He’s been here twice already and left his card for his lordship. I told him not to come back for a fortnight, and yet he’s back only a week later.”
“Let him in, please,” Letitia repeated. “He will not fight both of you in the house.”
“My lady, the—”
“Come on, Stanville! Show your face at last!” came another shout from the street. “Or perhaps you have no face to show after what you did to Hanbury?”
Hanbury? His words had the effect of the experiments with electrical current Letitia had read about. They jolted her with nearly supernatural force from the bottom of the staircase toward the door. She covered the short distance in seconds and, before either footman had a chance to intervene, pulled the door wide open.
The man in the street swayed in unison with the swinging motion of his arms, while he tried to articulate another challenge wrapped in insults. He froze halfway through the movement.
For a few seconds, they watched each other. The stranger dropped his arms at last and stood still while the latest mumble died in his throat. In her white robe, a shawl over her shoulders and a single candle in her hand, she probably made him think she was a ghost, not a real person.
He soon confirmed her supposition.
“Who are you?” he asked as loudly as before, but she did not miss the slight shakiness lining his words.
“I believe you should introduce yourself first, sir,” she replied, infusing her tone with hauteur. “But perhaps you are afraid to do so, given your despicable manners. I will answer your question then—I am Lord Stanville’s daughter. Come in.”
He gaped at her uncertainly for a moment, then bowed in a rather wobbly manner.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Parker,” he muttered. “Why does not Stanville answer the door himself?”
“My father is not here.”
The stranger straightened. She had become accustomed to the darkness by now and did not miss the expensive cut of his clothes. Her sudden appearance must have sobered him better than anything else might; he seemed to be losing his foxed attitude, although his stance still betrayed a serious camaraderie with a bottle earlier in the evening.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Parker,” he repeated, the slur retreating from his speech. “Perhaps I ought to come back in a more acceptable fashion when your father is back in town.”
“Perhaps,” Letitia rejoined. “However, since you have already intruded upon my sleep, you will oblige me, sir, and come in and talk to me tonight.”
It was not an invitation. It was an order.
The stranger still hesitated.
“The business I have is between me and your father. I cannot see how I should involve you in what is a rather ancient history.”
“And yet you seem to be willing to involve all the newspapers in town. I believe I have the right to expect from you an explanation, sir.”
He shuffled his feet without moving forward.
“It is not appropriate for a young lady to be involved in such sor…I mean, in this particular business.”
By now, Letitia’s curiosity was stretched past the point of endurance. She would ask the footmen to bring him in if he continued in his refusal.
“It is rather too late for your concern, is it not?” she pointed out. “Besides, I am a married woman. You may calm your trepidation about my maidenly sensibilities. And you shall tell me the reason for your breach of peace. Or are you a coward instead of my father?”
He finally moved and slowly walked up the stairs, though his movements betrayed apprehension. The sight of two footmen behind her back must have shouted warnings in the dark.
His wariness became even more pronounced once he crossed the threshold and the heavy door closed behind him.
Letitia could not help feeling some satisfaction. Intimidation seemed to do wonders on occasions.
“Come along,” she said in a clipped tone, not even trying to sound friendly. “You too, Josie,” she added and glanced at the footmen. “We shall not be long. Please wait.”
They bowed in response. She turned and began marching
towards the staircase. The stranger, now meek and silent, breathed laboriously behind her back with each step up.
When they entered her father’s study, her initial observation was confirmed. His clothes bespoke wealth and fashion. He was about her father’s age, or so she supposed, but he looked better than her father, his figure still lean, his dark hair lightened by an occasional sun-bleached streak and a suggestion of grey around the temples.
She put the candlestick down on the desk and stood silently, watching him.
He took the hint.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said and inclined his head. “I am Sir Philip Ashton, once Lord Stanville’s close acquaintance. Please accept my deepest apology for the ungentlemanly behavior you have been forced to witness. Had I known you were the only resident here, I would have stayed away, along with my grudges. I do beg your forgiveness. I hope you will believe me, ma’am, when I assure you that this is not the usual way in which I confront others. I was certain I saw his carriage pulling in earlier this evening, just as I was leaving Hyde Park, but now I realize it might have been yours.”
Letitia would not let him off the hook so easily. “You inquired earlier about my father’s whereabouts, I’m told. You knew he was not due in town for another while. Why not approach him in one of his clubs once he returned? Why the haste of hauling him out of bed in the middle of the night when you had so many other possibilities? At the least, you could have sent him a letter.”
“This is all very true,” he replied, “and upon some reflection I should have done exactly that. All I have for my defense is that I returned to England after twenty-five years in India only ten days ago. And only a few hours ago, I discovered that an old business involving your father has been left unfinished. Or, more precisely, it was not finished the way we were promised it would be.”
“The business that involved Sir George Hanbury,” she said. “You are, no doubt, referring to the sale of Wycombe Oaks all those years ago.”
Her words clearly surprised him. “Sale?” He creased his brow. “Is this what happened? And you know about it? Perhaps I am mistaken, then. Perhaps Stanville repented and then persuaded Hanbury to sell the estate to him. Perhaps he did nothing to earn my scorn. But he had to have done so after I left the country, or I would have known. This is not how he obtained Hanbury’s pile in the first place and how I remember the events of that night twenty-five years ago.”
His words suddenly frightened her. What happened before her father bought Wycombe Oaks? Lord, what was Sir Philip talking about? Her father’s treatment of the estate, his evident dislike of Percy, his unexpected visit to Bromsholme after her letter—all indicated that there was much more to it than a simple business transaction. She had always sensed that.
Letitia glanced at Sir Philip, who regarded her with some curiosity. She burned with the need to know what sort of unfinished business between Sir George Hanbury and her father had been festering for twenty-five years. Or why it compelled a member of society to abandon all rules of decorum and create a scene in the street in the middle of the night.
“Do you know, sir, who this lady is?” She pointed to the portrait on the wall.
“Lady Stanville, I suppose.” He appraised the figure in the painting and then her, as if comparing the faces. “You favor your father, ma’am.”
“This is not my mother,” she replied. “The sitter is Sir George Hanbury’s wife.”
Sir Philip turned rapidly, focusing on the painting again.
“God Almighty,” he muttered. “So it must be true. George would never part with his wife’s portrait willingly. Stanville never kept his word, then.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was still dark when Percy turned his curricle out of the inn courtyard and onto the turnpike, determined to reach London as early as possible. He had already wasted two nights, forced to pause each time for a few hours at an inn. Lettie was almost half a day ahead of him, although he had been closing the distance. Not only had he a faster vehicle, but he drove it with all the recklessness of a contestant in a race to Brighton.
Following the itinerary of his own carriage proved easier than he had expected. He never thought he would thank Stanville for anything, but it turned out that his father-in-law had provided him—unwittingly, of course—with the perfect way of identifying his wife in a crowd of travelers. Her companion. Josepha’s darker face stood out everywhere. Thus he quickly discovered that Lettie was going south, confirming his guess that London was her destination.
He had driven hard that first evening after his confrontation with Ethel, but his progress had soon been hampered by darkness and rain. He had been forced to stop for the night sooner than he liked.
Sleep eluded him, of course. He had paced his small room at the inn, trying to come up with a sensible plan of action for the next few days, while time had moved with exquisite slowness. No matter how much he had willed the clock to reach the hour at which he could embark on his search again, that night seemed to be the longest in his memory. Finally, tired but unable to find peace, he had dozed off for a fitful nap laden with images of Lettie.
Every time he had woken up and glanced at the empty space next to him, vivid memories flooded his mind. How would he ever be able to fall asleep without her? For two nights in a row, he still had no answer to that question.
Determined to avoid third such night, Percy dressed and went to the stables at four o’clock to get the curricle ready. His groom, eyes glassy from sleep, perched next to the trunk, probably praying for his life every time he was jolted out of slumber on some stone or a pothole. His servant, Percy had been relieved to discover, was well versed in the art of survival. He was still next to the trunk every time they stopped to change horses.
Worry ate him alive. Where was Lettie, and what did she plan to do? Was she safe? He did not expect Stanville to give her shelter. The earl belonged to the generation that firmly believed in a woman’s complete subordination in marriage. Stanville would not raise one finger to help Lettie.
Where had she gone, then? He didn’t know if she had any friends willing to help. She had mentioned one or two who had married and moved away, but he didn’t know their names, much less where they lived. His anxiety grew exponentially.
Long hours spent driving provided ample time for more self-flagellation. His reason to marry Lettie had been purely mercenary. It even seemed at first like a sacrifice. After all, he was taking to wife Stanville’s daughter. What could he expect from a marriage with the devil’s spawn?
Certainly not that he would fall in love. Certainly not that he would feel alive and happy again. No, not just again. He had never known such vibrancy with Sarah. And yet, he threw out of his home his very soul mate, even threatened divorce! What would be Lettie’s life if that ever came to pass?
No wonder she fled from him, from his stubborn insistence on being right when he had been so terribly wrong. Worst of all, how could he have killed the trust and friendship they shared? Would she give him another chance to prove how much and how completely he loved and trusted her?
Her departure hurt him almost physically. She was the air necessary for his breathing, and he choked on the vacuum created by her absence.
Percy slapped the ribbons on the horses’ flanks, and they lurched forward in a more vigorous canter. Ah, damn it, he hoped his groom did not fall off after all.
In the end, his determination paid off. He reached Stanville’s town mansion by midmorning. Although he was quite sure Lettie would not seek refuge with her father, it was nonetheless better to eliminate this option before he started combing through the rest of the city in order to find her.
The footman who opened the door gave him a blank stare.
“His lordship is not home,” he said and glanced at Percy’s hand in anticipation of being handed a card. Would that not surprise Stanville? When Percy failed to produce one, the f
ootman proceeded to close the door. Percy quickly put his foot in the gap.
“Is Lord Stanville’s daughter here?” he asked.
A spark of caution and surprise flashed through the footman’s stony features, betraying him. Percy almost grinned with wild relief.
“No, she is not,” the man replied and looked pointedly at Percy’s boot.
Too late for denials. Percy was not going to budge until he found out where Lettie was. “She is my wife,” he said to the servant. “I am Sir Percival Hanbury.”
Another flash of surprise passed the footman’s face, but this time he did not take the precaution to cover it up so quickly.
“Is she here?” Percy pressed. “Has she left? For God’s sake, tell me.”
The footman took in his entire person, dusty boots and traveling clothes, then glanced down the steps at the curricle waiting by the curb, with the groom and trunk in the back, and nodded.
“Her ladyship was here last night,” he said. “But she left in great haste this morning. She did not tell us where she was going.”
Percy’s mouth went dry with biting disappointment. The black hole sprang open under his feet again. “Thank you,” he said. “She took her carriage, I presume. Do you know which way she went?”
The footman shook his head. “No, sir.”
Percy nodded and stepped back. The door shut in his face.
He climbed into the curricle and sat there, the helplessness of his situation closing in a choking vise around his throat again. He swallowed to loosen its grip. He was back to the unknown. Lettie had come here and left. He was just a few hours too late. How on earth was he going to find out where she went?
He had considered hiring Bow Street runners to find out where in town she could be staying. But it did not seem such a great idea anymore. The ground was burning under his feet. He did not want to idle away a day or two waiting in a hotel while others were trying to find out where his wife was hiding.