by Brenda Hiatt
Bridgeport was choking with laughter, raising an answering glimmer in Elaine’s eyes.
She continued. “Father solemnly decried the heavy burdens suffered by good Christians in these decadent times—this was in our one interview on my seventeenth birthday; it was the only time we ever met that he was not censuring my behavior. It seems that having raised me so properly, he was left with the nearly insurmountable problem of finding me a husband. Not all gentlemen have seen the light of true redemption, you must agree. Poor Papa. He grudgingly accepted the existence of women only because he had found no other way to obey God’s command to multiply. But that marginal tolerance for his wife did not extend to a useless daughter. He wanted me off his hands as soon as possible, but was unwilling to spend a groat to do so. When your mother made her interest known, he jumped at the chance.”
“Why did you never mention this before?”
“You haven’t been listening, my lord. Given the reality of eight years ago, you are the last person I would have told. You were a bad-tempered stranger with no more interest in me than my father had, and I had been taught to remain silent when in the presence of men to acknowledge their supposedly superior status, speaking only in response to a direct question. I had not yet learned that Grimfield’s view of the world was far from universal—in fact, it was downright idiotic. But enough of ancient history. I am sorry to have disturbed your peace this morning. If you will excuse me, I must be going.”
“You mean to stay locked away in this wild corner of the land for the rest of your life then? You will never find a husband here.”
“Ah, men. So single-minded and so determined to assume that all women are alike. Not that it is any of your business, but I like it here. Shakespeare’s Polonius was wise. To thine own self be true. I have no intention of ever wedding. After living seventeen years enslaved to a man’s whims, the freedom of the last eight is too precious to cast aside.”
“Freedom?” he asked skeptically.
“Freedom from tyranny. When a person achieves control over another for whom he cares nothing, he is apt to become a tyrant. That is particularly true when the one in charge is selfish and believes himself to be infallible. He makes decisions and issues commands without considering the best interests of his subject. Never will I place myself in that position again.”
“But how can you call it freedom when it forces you to retire to so desolate a place?”
“Not everyone considers Cornwall an example of purgatory, my lord. Perhaps I will someday decide to visit other parts of the country. Or perhaps I will never tire of this corner. Let us simply leave it that I am happy.” She shouldered her bag and set off down the trail without another word.
Mark watched her go, greatly troubled by what she had revealed. He had nurtured his hatred long after the debacle of that day had fallen victim to newer scandals on the lips of the gossips. Now he wondered which of them was the greater victim.
Yet her words were too blithe. She could easily have informed him of her decision. Any street urchin would have delivered a note, as would the hackney driver who had carried her to whichever coaching inn she had used. Despite her upbringing, she should have known that no honorable gentleman would have forced her to marry under the circumstances she had just described. Understanding honor was bred into every member of society. Youthful naïveté was an insufficient explanation. She deserved to suffer for what she had put him through.
Sighing, he turned toward home. Burgess could collect Helen. He would not risk running into Miss Thompson again this day. He needed to settle his emotions if he were to successfully carry off his plans.
Nothing had changed. Despite her pronouncements of happiness and willing spinsterhood, she would fall in love with him. And Helen’s lessons would provide an excellent excuse to see the annoying wench often.
A loud crack exploded through the air. Leaves showered his head and shoulders, accompanied by twigs and chunks of bark. Jumping hastily aside, he looked up. A branch had broken loose from an ancient oak, its tip catching in a lower limb as it fell. As he watched, it tore free and crashed onto the path where he had been standing moments before.
Lady Luck still favored him. If it had not caught, he would be badly injured—or worse.
He shivered. Treselyan had many problems. Laxity on the part of the groundskeeper was one of them. The fallen branch was well-rotted and others showed long-standing damage. Frowning, he turned his steps toward the steward’s office.
Chapter Eight
Anne was frowning when she returned from the village baker’s. “Mrs. Hedges just told me the most fantastic story,” she reported, joining Elaine in the parlor. “She was in Bodmin yesterday.”
“What now?”
“Bridgeport not only left town to escape arrest for murder, but also to evade his creditors, having gamed away his entire fortune in the course of his dissolute life.”
Some memory again teased the back of Elaine’s mind. “So in addition to killing several people, including his own parents, and conducting at least one duel, he is now thought to be badly indebted. These stories must be exaggerations if not outright fabrications. He claimed at the squire’s that someone was deliberately attacking his reputation.” She tried to bring that elusive memory into focus, but it stubbornly refused to cooperate.
“True. It is difficult to reconcile indebtedness with the enormous expense of replacing the roof at Lady Helen’s home. Westron is not even his principal seat. I wonder where the tale started. There has been no mention of it in the London papers.”
“Nor has anyone returned from London recently. I suppose Lady Graceford might have heard some hint. She carries out a prodigious correspondence.” The dowager viscountess lived in state just outside of Bodmin and was often the source of scandalous stories. One of her life-long friends was Lady Beatrice, London’s premier gossip.
Anne shook her head. “I hope it proves false. I quite like Helen.”
Elaine agreed. They chatted for some time on the doings of the villagers before she excused herself to do some sketching. There were only two poems left that she planned to illustrate.
Bridgeport glared at the missive in his hand. It was a hurried note from Lord Carrington warning him that several people had decided to keep him company.
“Damnation!” he snorted in disgust. Not that he disliked socializing. It was one of the reasons he lived in London. But he was enjoying the peace of Cornwall, and none of his imminent visitors was particularly congenial.
He read the note again. Richard had been hard pressed to recall how the idea for the party had arisen, but he had decided to join them because he knew that Mark would need help and would appreciate at least one friendly face.
Scanning the names, Mark agreed. He could picture exactly what had happened.
Lord and Lady Means. In addition to the lady’s continuing efforts to lure him back to her bed, her husband was nearly run off his legs and probably needed to rusticate for a time. Leaving town during the very costly Season would reduce his expenditures. Living off someone else’s generosity would be even better. Descending on Mark was probably Lady Means’s idea, tossed out at some dull rout or during the fashionable hour in Hyde Park.
Mrs. Caroline Woodleigh would have welcomed the trip. He should have formally broken with her before leaving town, but he had not, naïvely hoping she would turn elsewhere in his absence. Stupid! He should know better by now. The only people who willingly cut connections with him were fiancées and cuckolded husbands.
Mr. Peter Hardwicke was a surprise. He might also be rusticating, especially if he had continued haunting the tables. But journeying all the way to Treselyan made such innocuous intentions suspect.
Mark had not forgotten that day at White’s. Nor could he ignore memory of the next morning. Hardwicke had arrived to settle his bets, ashen faced and still suffering the effects of several bottles of brandy. Mark would have liked to accept only half of the debt, but there was no way to suggest such
a thing without insulting Hardwicke’s honor. Peter had paid in full, though it stripped him of every shilling he had recently inherited from a nabob uncle, leaving him nothing but the allowance he received as his father’s heir. Mark had allowed him to rant about the game and even hint at unscrupulous play, only making a single mild disclaimer in the face of words that normally would provoke a duel. Now he wondered if that was what Hardwicke had wanted. Why was he coming?
The others on the guest list were hangers-on—Caroline’s companion, Miss Westmont; Lady Means’s niece, Miss Throckmorton, who had lived with her aunt since the death of her parents; and Richard’s very green cousin, Reggie Taylor. Leaving the cub behind without supervision was bound to lead to trouble.
“Devil take it,” Mark growled, scanning the list again. The numbers were uneven. And how was he to cope with a house party when he had virtually no servants? It was too late to bring in more from London, or even from Plymouth. Could he find anyone in Bodmin who would accept this isolated posting on a temporary basis? Bowles had reported no luck.
After another burst of invective, he went to find Burgess.
Elaine wiped the frown from her face, replacing it with a neutral expression as she exited Mr. Holyoke’s office.
“A gentleman was inquiring about Mr. Merriweather this morning,” he had informed her once their business was concluded. “He is traveling with Mr. Thornton, who is visiting the area and hopes to meet his illustrator.”
“What?”
“Not to worry, Miss Thompson. I informed him that Mr. Merriweather was away. But I thought you should know that Thornton is somewhere in the neighborhood. Unfortunately, his friend did not mention where.”
“It would not matter. Even if I met him socially, there would be no threat to my identity.”
But she was curious and more than a little nervous as she left the office. It was natural for Thornton to wish to meet her, particularly if he was in the area already. She would very much like to meet the poet herself. Where might he be staying?
But she dared not ask, for no hint of his presence had come to her ears.
And that was decidedly odd, now that she thought of it. He was not an unknown. Why was there no rumor that so famous a poet was visiting Cornwall? Mrs. Hedges had not said a word, and she was always the first to know everything. Was it possible that he was traveling incognito?
She puzzled over that question as she headed for the bookshop to pick up the drawing materials that should have arrived by now.
Turning a corner into the town’s main street, she gasped. An exquisitely dressed gentleman was crossing the road a block away, looking as out of place in Bodmin as a porpoise would on the moor. He was dressed in a light blue coat and silver pantaloons, his cravat so tall that it elevated his chin until he was nearly staring at the sky. One gloved hand held an elaborate cane as he minced in exaggerated affectation. She recognized him—Mr. Harold Parrish. His estate ran with her father’s.
Had Lord Grimfield discovered her whereabouts and asked his young neighbor to verify the information? Despite her claims to Bridgeport, she was not sure that her father would ignore her if he knew where she was. She was legally of age, but his rigid ideas about duty and a woman’s place in the world often countered both custom and law.
Elaine ducked into the bookseller’s and tried to control her shaking hands. Surely this was coincidence! After eight years even her father should have written her off. And Anne would have heard if any rumor of her location had surfaced at home, wouldn’t she? She still corresponded regularly with the cousin who was married to Grimfield’s vicar. Mrs. Alden reported all the local gossip, knowing that Anne had met most of the residents. Her letters meant that Elaine knew more about her old neighborhood now than when she had lived there.
So Mr. Parrish’s business must have nothing to do with her. But she took no chances, remaining in the shop for half an hour. By then he was nowhere to be seen.
She was exiting the linen draper’s when Bridgeport cannonaded out of the employment registry next door, nearly knocking her down.
“Sorry. Good afternoon, Miss Thompson,” he said.
“Of course! He is your cousin,” she murmured in relief, hardly aware that she was talking.
“Well that certainly puts me in my place,” he snorted dampingly.
She glanced up in surprise. “Pardon me, my lord. I had not meant to speak aloud. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“One of those heavenly days that cannot die,” he quoted with studied enthusiasm and a pointed glance at the threatening overcast.
“Wordsworth,” she identified instantly.
“Who is my cousin?”
“You don’t know?” A new frown formed on her forehead.
“This conversation is ridiculous,” he complained, steering her into a nearby confectioner’s shop. “Suppose we begin again. Good afternoon, Miss Thompson.”
“Good afternoon, my lord. Fancy running into you in Bodmin. Has Treselyan already grown so dull that you must seek the society of the largest town in all of Cornwall?”
“You tread upon my patience.”
“Shakespeare, Henry IV. Forgive me, Lord Bridgeport. My mind seems to be unsettled today.”
He raked her with a comprehensive stare. She did appear unnaturally discomposed. “Bad news, Miss Thompson?”
“Not really. I was just wondering if perhaps I was wrong about my father’s lack of interest. Our neighbor was mincing down the street an hour or so ago. Since he appears so out of place here, it occurred to me that he might have agreed to check up on my whereabouts. But then I remembered that he is your cousin, which must explain his presence.”
“Harold?” His voice held both surprise and displeasure.
“Exactly.”
“I had no idea he was in the area. And I’ve no particular wish to see him. Can’t stand his affectations.” Or the way he was constantly asking for loans.
“Tulip of the ton,” she agreed. “Does he lisp as well?”
“Incessantly.”
Elaine laughed.
Mark suddenly straightened. “Of course! You would be perfect.”
“How oft the darkest hour of ill breaks brightest into dawn,” she murmured.
“Good God! Euripides.” He looked amazed.
“Sir Jeremiah shares his library with us and often spends an evening discussing books we have all read.”
“I had not remarked him as being particularly bookish.”
“Why should you? He would hardly launch a discussion of Greek poets or Roman philosophers with a man whose reputation encompasses only sporting and debauchery and who is suspected of committing all manner of crimes. Nor are you prone to airing your own unexpected education from what I have observed, though frankly I have never understood why gentlemen would rather be thought empty headed than knowledgeable.”
“Stop!” he pleaded. “You’ve shredded my character enough for one day.”
“How poor are they that have not patience,” she mourned, shaking her head sadly.
“Saucy wench. Shakespeare, Othello, act II, scene 3.”
“Show-off!”
“Quit sidetracking,” he begged. “You may be able to help me with a small problem. I just received word that a group of so-called friends will shortly descend upon me for a stay of undetermined length. I have been trying to find enough servants to handle a house party—and having abominable luck. But that is not what I wanted your assistance with,” he quickly added when she frowned. “Not only are these people uninvited, but the group contains equal numbers of men and women. With only myself in residence, the party will be uneven. Perhaps you could join us.”
“Not a very flattering offer,” she said with a grimace.
“I did not intend to insult you, Miss Thompson,” he disclaimed immediately. “This has overset all my plans, you must understand. I have no experience organizing house parties. Nor does Mrs. Burgess. I desperately need someone to act as hostess.”
“And how
would I have learned to run a society gathering?” she scoffed. “You would be better off inviting Mrs. Hedges.”
“Good God! How can you even suggest such a thing with a straight face?”
Elaine laughed. “At least she would jump at the opportunity. It would allow her to verify all the rumors. And I think she would enjoy rubbing elbows with so scandalous a set, for all she deplores your morals.”
“You cannot be seriously suggesting I invite her!” His face was taking on a greenish tinge. “Please, Miss Thompson. Help me out. I quite look forward to seeing your exquisite beauty arrayed at the foot of my dining table or posed behind a tea tray in my drawing room. The house will seem warmer if you will only bless it with your presence. It will quite break my heart to be turned down.”
“Considering that this plan occurred to you less than five minutes ago, I find that rather hard to believe. You are doing this much too brown. Praise, like gold and diamonds, owes its value only to its scarcity.”
“Samuel Johnson. Perhaps I am tipping the butter boat a bit too far. But I would very much like you to join this party.”
“I cannot consider it unless Anne comes, too. But that would merely throw the numbers off in the other direction.”
“You are adamant about that?”
“Absolutely. Given your reputation and that of your associates when I was in London, I can hardly trust my own to a party of strangers who feel close enough to you to drop in uninvited,” she stated.
Bridgeport frowned. He could probably invite Sir Jeremiah. With this new information concerning that gentleman’s character, it might be interesting. On the other hand, the baronet had shown a partiality for Miss Thompson that Mark did not want to encourage. It would interfere with his own plans for his former intended.