Once Ruined, Twice Shy

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  Deep down, he felt himself partly to blame for Josephine’s death, although he had no proof she’d set her horse at that gate because she was angry with him. Even though they’d argued, she had no reason to destroy herself. Her former sweetheart, Frederick Ebbworth, had returned from the grave to claim her. She was happier than Conall had ever seen her before.

  That man! Why had Ebbworth wasted a whole year after his supposed demise at Waterloo to return to Wiltshire and claim Josephine for his bride? Conall surmised it was so he could set himself up well enough to win Josephine’s parents’ approval. Yet in all that time, he’d never once contacted her to let her know he was alive. Then there was the additional mystery surrounding his name. Why, when Josephine had come to break off her engagement to him, had she referred to Ebbworth as ‘Andrew’? Then corrected herself so self-consciously?

  But this was not Josephine. This woman could be healed. He gazed down at her pale complexion as he walked alongside the litter, making sure to keep the damaged side of his face turned away. She might be in shock, and he didn’t want to make matters worse by frightening her with his disfigurement.

  The rescue party reached the house. “Take the young lady upstairs,” Conall ordered. “If you need help to keep the litter level, rally the gardeners. Gaisford, will you ride for Dr Hayward? Thank you. Rudman, stable this horse, if you please.”

  When his housekeeper emerged from her office below stairs, Conall motioned her forwards. “Apologies, Mrs Wilkins. We have an unexpected guest.”

  “Indeed, so. For how long, may I ask?”

  “I have no idea.” Strewth, he didn’t even know the injured woman’s name. “That will be decided once I have spoken with the young lady, and we have the doctor’s pronouncement. Which room is closest to readiness?”

  “The Tapestry Room, sir. Shall I have a fire lit?”

  Suddenly a cacophony of chimes and bongs filled the air, as the two clocks in the hallway announced the hour of ten. Like an echo of their greater masters, smaller clocks from other parts of the house tinkled out their agreement.

  Blast. He should be settling down to the household accounts for an hour. Now everything would have to be postponed until he had resolved the problem of the fallen rider.

  “Yes, yes, light a fire, if you will. Do whatever you can to make her comfortable.” He stood in the middle of the hall and stared about him. Had everything been done that was necessary? Could he get back to his work now, and achieve something positive while they awaited the outcome of the doctor’s visit?

  His servants had vanished off to perform their duties. The litter had successfully made the turn at the top of the first floor and was being navigated up the next flight.

  Conall clicked his tongue. He couldn’t let the poor girl be dumped in a strange room in a house where she knew no one except himself. If it had been Josephine carried in on that litter, or Mama, he’d never have left their side for an instant.

  The accounts would have to wait. With a heavy sigh, he pounded up the steps two at a time and was just about to follow the litter into the Tapestry Room when his mother appeared in the passageway.

  Lady Emily, Dowager Countess of Corsbury, fluttered her hands at her son. “Good heavens, Conall, what’s all this kerfuffle?”

  “This young lady fell from her horse. Halfway down our avenue.”

  His mother blanched. “Is she… is she—?”

  “No, she’s not dead.” He watched as the footmen manoeuvred their charge through the doorway of the nearest guest bedroom. Fortunately, it was wide, having been made to accommodate the ridiculous skirts worn by ladies earlier in the preceding century.

  “Badly hurt?”

  “I hope not. She can talk sensibly, but her back hurts, she says. I’ve sent for a physician.”

  The colour returned to his mother’s cheeks. “That’s good news, then. Who is she? Where’s she from?”

  “I don’t know. Under the circumstances, we dispensed with introductions.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Later. She should be settled before she’s questioned. If Dr Hayward is available, he’ll be here very shortly. Now, will you take tea with me?”

  “But it’s not yet eleven. I’m meant to be doing my accounts at the moment.”

  “You have no heart, son of mine. How can you think of accounts when you have an injured person in your house, and my nerves are stretched almost to breaking point by this calamity?”

  Conall gave up the battle. When Mama required his presence, he was generally obliged to give it. Tea would help his nerves too, and they could find some topic of conversation to distract him from his memories of Josephine. His mother knew well enough not to mention the subject these days.

  He would deal with the issue of the young woman later, depending on the doctor’s prognosis. To his shame, he found himself conflicted over whether or not he wanted it to be a good one. Should the pretty stranger be forced to reside under his roof for a day or two more, he wouldn’t mind at all.

  She was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in a long time.

  Chapter 5

  When Hestia awoke, it was to a feeling of hazy euphoria. She was warm, comfortable— except for a slight twinge in her back—and Frederick was gazing down at her with a look of such softness on his face.

  Wait. This man was not Frederick; he was too dark. She let out a gasp of horror.

  Immediately, a firm, masculine hand took hold of her own.

  “Don’t be alarmed—you’re quite safe. I am Conall Methuen, and you’re in one of the guest rooms at Spyle Court. You tumbled off your horse into a rhododendron. Remember?”

  She nodded, and the euphoria was replaced by despondency. So, she’d really done it. She’d gone along with Frederick’s scheme—now she was going to have to make the best of it.

  She blinked away the blurriness that swam in front of her eyes, and gazed at the man seated by the bed. His left side was turned towards her. It was hard to read a man’s soul when you could only see half his face, yet what she saw did nothing to dispel Frederick’s description of Methuen as a hard-hearted churl and a relentless enemy. His square jaw looked set as if he were clenching it, and his mouth was a thin, unsmiling line. The one eye she could see was dark-lashed, and almost black in colour, so she couldn’t tell where the pupil ended, and the iris began. A thick eyebrow edged a shapely, intelligent brow, and Methuen’s nose had that patrician straightness much favoured amongst the English aristocracy. He looked every inch the ‘cold fish’ Frederick had described, but the heat of his hand was a puzzle. As was the fact that he hadn’t yet removed it.

  “I’m Hestia Norton. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I apologise for the dramatic circumstances and hope I haven’t put you out.”

  He patted her captured hand with his free one. It was, she noticed, gloved, whereas the other was not. The same warmth, a little dimmed, radiated through the black leather.

  “I ought to make you my bow since we’re making introductions. But under present circumstances, I shall desist. It can wait until we are both standing on our own two feet.”

  A line had appeared between the edge of his mouth and his cheek. The ghost of a dimple? How handsome he might be if he smiled.

  She had given him an invented name, culled from her surname of Normanton. Though Essex and Wiltshire were a long way apart, she had no wish to be identified as the disgraced daughter of Colonel Normanton, a naïve young woman who’d run off with a common soldier. Her parents must never know the extent of her shame, must never find out she was not married to her seducer.

  “How do you feel?”

  At least in this, she need not be deceitful. “I have the pain in my back still, though it’s much diminished. Laudanum, I assume?”

  He nodded. “Dr Hayward departed an hour and fifteen minutes ago. He has left a bottle and dosing spoon for you when the pain becomes unbearable, or when you need to sleep. Bed rest has been advised for the pulled muscle in your back, fo
llowed by gentle exercise—walking for preference. As soon as the pain is under control, we may restore you to your family. Although, I can’t say I’ve heard of any Nortons hereabouts.”

  This was it. This was where the duplicity proper began. If only she felt less muddleheaded, she’d be able to think of a way out of it, another excuse to make. But no. There was too much at stake. Frederick had said he’d marry her, even if she failed in this enterprise. But if she didn’t hoodwink Methuen and stop him thwarting Frederick’s financial ventures, what would they have to live on?

  She removed her hand from Methuen’s, lest he feel it trembling. “I don’t live here—I have come to visit friends of my family. I’ve never been to their house before now. The stage arrived so late last night, I was forced to put up at the inn rather than complete my journey.”

  “Have you far to go? I will do what I can to help you. Where’s your luggage?”

  “Still at the inn in Laycott. I hired a hack this morning to carry on, as I was told I’d not far to go still, and it was a lovely morning for riding—for a change. In truth, I thought I’d reached my destination, but clearly, this is the wrong house.”

  “Where were you aiming for?” He rubbed his left hand against his right, massaging it. What lay beneath that concealing glove? Had he lost the use of his fingers as well as his eye?

  “Thatcham Hall. The Dancey family lives there. You must be near neighbours, I suppose. Though I confess, geography is not my strong point.”

  He stiffened, both hands clenching together. Anger flashed across his countenance, but in an instant, it was gone, to be replaced by a look of polite enquiry.

  “Indeed? I regret I no longer have anything to do with that family. As far as the Danceys are concerned, you’re currently among enemies.”

  “Oh?” Frederick had already told her about the enmity, although he’d not given her the story behind it. He had merely said she must claim to be a guest of the Danceys of Thatcham Hall. This would prevent Methuen from making any further enquiries about her, as he no longer spoke to that particular family.

  “Never fear. I shall consider you unsullied by their evil influence, and I hope you’ll maintain an open mind about me.”

  That dimple appeared again. Suddenly she wanted to see him full face, estimate the potential of that nascent smile.

  “So, shall I send to the Red Lion for your luggage? Or are you at the Angel?”

  “The Red Lion, please, sir. I’d better try and pen a note to them myself, that they may surrender the trunk to you.”

  “And shall I return the mare to them as well?”

  He’d better not. No one at the inn had any knowledge of Sheba, as Frederick had ridden the horse to Laycott from Bath. If Methuen discovered she’d lied about hiring the horse from the inn, she’d be exposed immediately.

  “Oh, no, please. If it’s no trouble to you, I would appreciate it if she might be stabled here.”

  He flexed his mouth. “You won’t be riding again for a while. Not with a side-saddle, at any rate. I detest the things. Dangerous contraptions. The Danceys lost a daughter in a riding accident—but I suppose you will have heard all about that.”

  There was a ferocity in his gaze that made Hestia shiver inwardly and pray she was making her story convincing. He was not the kind of man one wanted as a foe—as Frederick had already discovered.

  “I have heard of it, yes. A tragedy of the utmost proportions. I never knew Miss Josephine myself, but I’m sure she was a great loss.”

  Methuen leapt to his feet and stalked across to the fireplace. A cheerful blaze had been lit in the hearth—presumably for her benefit. He tugged on the bell-pull, then paused awhile, contemplating the flames. As Frederick had predicted, the mention of Josephine by name provoked a profound emotion in Conall Methuen. He must have loved her dearly. Or hated her. Frederick had been vague about the details.

  “I’ll ring for some paper and a pencil. You might find it more comfortable if you roll onto your stomach to write your note. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost time for luncheon, and I have much business to attend to first. I’ll have some soup sent up for you—unless you prefer something more solid? Perhaps both, so you have a choice. The laudanum is on your bedside table, along with fresh water. I beg you, take no more than a spoonful of the mixture unless the pain is severe. Good day to you.” Without meeting her eye again, he gave her a brief nod, and was gone.

  She was still pondering the strength of his reaction when she heard voices in the passageway, followed by a gentle tap on the door and a woman’s voice saying, “Are you awake? May I come in, my dear?”

  “Of course. Please enter.”

  A middle-aged lady, well-dressed and noble of bearing, entered the chamber.

  “I do apologise for putting you in here, as it is quite archaic really, but this room has been the most recently spring-cleaned. The tapestries, you know, have to be taken outside and beaten. Carefully, of course, as some are centuries old.”

  Hestia realised she hadn’t taken in her surroundings at all. Since her arrival, the only thing she’d looked at had been… Methuen.

  “Oh… I… I hadn’t really appreciated—”

  “Don’t try to move, Miss Norton, or you will strain your back further. Yes, Conall told me your name. You’ll doubtless have guessed I’m his mama.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Lady Corsbury. I’m so sorry to have put you to any trouble.”

  The woman moved closer, and Hestia could make out the similarity to Conall. But whereas his face was carved in determined, masculine lines, hers was soft and gently rounded. The dark eyes and brows were the same, and even the same dimple was present, but there were strands of white in the countess’s hair, giving her a most distinguished look.

  “It’s no trouble at all.” Lady Corsbury took the seat recently vacated by her son. “I’m only too glad to have some company. Life in the countryside can be quite stultifying at times. I’d far rather be in Bristol, or London this time of year, but Conall prefers Spyle Court.”

  “A woman of your means can go where she pleases, surely?” Hestia hoped that didn’t sound rude, but if Methuen was dictating what his widowed mother might, or might not do, it was a blot on his character.

  “Oh, no—you’ve mistaken me. I remain here for Conall’s sake. He is not what he was, you see, and I prefer to be with him, lest he sink any lower. You find me blunt—I can tell from your expression. Forgive me—I am what I am, and I say what I think. Unless my nerves are bad, which they were this morning. I feel much better now I can see your condition for myself. You aren’t badly broken, and will surely mend.”

  The Dowager Countess seemed pleasant enough. Not exactly the sort to spawn a monster of such proportions as Frederick had suggested. But love and hate made people behave against their usual natures.

  “Your son is unwell?”

  “Only sick at heart. Last year he was to be married. His fiancée died a week before the wedding. He tries to hide his grief, but I know he struggles still, and there is deeply buried anger there too, though I don’t fully understand the cause. Tell me, have you ever lost a loved one, my dear?”

  Hestia bit her lip. She’d never had any ‘loved ones’ before Frederick. Her relationship with her parents was pragmatic, not affectionate, and she’d had no siblings for rough-and-tumble, or with whom to feud and then make up. When she started her family with Frederick, things would be very different from her own childhood.

  “I have not.”

  “Then I’m glad for you. I care for my son a good deal, and when he suffers, so do I.”

  Oh, to have such love from one’s mother! Hestia’s eyes moistened as she regarded Lady Corsbury.

  No, she mustn’t be foolish and soften her heart towards him. She was here to perform a duty. But the fact that Methuen had lost his fiancée just a week before their wedding was appalling. Frederick hadn’t mentioned that part of the story. How did anyone get over such a thing?

  “You
are wondering how we have coped—I can see. Come now, I didn’t make mean to make you melancholy. You’ve injured yourself, and my purpose in coming here was to cheer you up. I assure you, we manage well enough. Conall busies himself about the estate and over his figures— he barely leaves anything for his steward to do. So long as he can exhaust himself during the day, he slumbers peacefully at night without tossing and turning and recalling those dreadful memories.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, was your son in the army? I see he’s been injured in the eye and bears a damaged hand also, which seems to pain him.”

  “An accident with a pistol. God sends great trials, even to the best of men—which my son undoubtedly is.”

  There was a knock at the door. Lady Corsbury rose as a servant entered, bearing a portable writing slope. The girl bobbed to her. “Your pardon, my lady. I have brought the writing things for Miss Norton.”

  “I’ll leave you to arrange yourself comfortably so you may write your letter. The Danceys will want to know what has become of you. Although you had better ask the people at the Red Lion to forward it. Conall won’t allow anyone from Spyle to go near Thatcham Hall—he can’t bear to have the place mentioned. A very unnecessary stance, in my view, but it can’t be helped. I’m assuming you have nightclothes in your luggage?”

  Hestia nodded. She’d been put to bed in her shift, which was of very thin material.

  “Good. But don’t hesitate to ask for some of mine should you run short of linens. I can have my maid take them in for you.”

  “You’re too kind, your Ladyship.”

  “Emily. You may call me Emily, or Lady Emily if you’d rather. Now, don’t overtax yourself—and move very carefully about the bed. You have one of the biggest in the house, so there should be plenty of room to manoeuvre without hurting yourself.”