Hestia was left alone with the servant, who helped her roll over onto her front, then opened up the writing box and positioned it for her so she could compose her note to Frederick at the Red Lion.
She must also pretend to write a note for the Danceys, who she’d claimed to be visiting. It was easy enough—she folded an empty page and addressed it to Thatcham Hall, care of the Red Lion, Laycott. Frederick had already stated he’d be on the lookout for these notes and would intercept them before they reached the landlord. If things went awry, he would do whatever explaining was necessary—she mustn’t worry herself about it.
She then began the letter to Frederick.
My Darling Frederick,
You will be pleased to hear I am still in one piece, and have been welcomed into the Methuen family with open arms.
She chewed her pencil. Methuen’s fiancée had died a week before the wedding. He’d loved her dearly—even if he had stolen the woman from Frederick, the loss to him must have been unbearable. How could she, in all conscience, further torture a man who was already broken?
I have hurt my back, but it is only a sprain and will need a little rest. As soon as I am well, I shall return to Bath. Alas, I do not feel able to be a party to your scheme any longer. Having met Methuen, I now believe you and he should sort out your differences face-to-face, as one man to another. If he uncovers our plot, his rage will be terrible, and his revenge worse. Therefore, I implore you, abandon this scheme. We will talk further after I am well enough to return to Bath. In the meantime, I shall continue to befriend him and will do my utmost to ensure that when the two of you meet, he will be receptive to what you have to say, and will cease hounding you.
I am sure you will see this is the best way forward.
Your ever-loving Hestia
She folded the letter, her heart thundering as she pictured Frederick’s face when he read it. But he’d come around given time—he was a sensible man, even if he did have a tendency to get into a passion about things. If they could persuade Methuen to release the pressure and ameliorate their financial worries, Frederick’s mood would be significantly improved. He might once again be the courageous, carefree young man with whom she’d fallen in love.
Hestia rang the little bell by the bedside to signal she’d finished her letters. Her gaze fell on the laudanum mixture on the table. A little oblivion would be most welcome while she waited for Frederick’s reply, instead of agonising over how he would respond.
No. It was time to grow up and face the consequences of her actions.
Whatever those might be.
Chapter 6
Luncheon was completed. His accounts, though rushed, had been done, and it was time for Conall to walk over to Home Farm and find out how the wheat was doing. The poor weather recently had stunted its growth, but he was hoping now the sun had returned, it would show an improvement. After that, he’d return home and examine the greenhouses, to ensure they contained enough fruit and vegetables to keep the household in good health.
Only… it wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to go up and gaze at the sleeping Miss Norton again. Her brown hair and dark lashes reminded him of Josephine’s colouring—not fashionable, but striking nonetheless. Hestia had less refinement about her, but in a way that was good—her attractions called out to him directly, as a man, rather than as a gentleman. The fact of the matter was, he found her damnably attractive.
Lingering in the hallway, watched by a hovering footman ready to provide hat and coat in the blink of an eye, he made his decision.
“I shan’t be going out immediately, Gaisford, thank you. You may return to your duties.”
As Conall mounted the stairs, the striking of the clocks assaulted him, goading him to change his mind and return to routine. He battled the guilt—and won, entering Miss Norton’s room without knocking a few moments later.
He’d expected to find her asleep, comfortably drugged against the pain, but she was lying almost flat in the huge bed, staring wide-eyed at the velvet canopy above.
His cheeks heated. “Oh, forgive me. I hadn’t expected to find you awake. I only meant to make sure you had everything to hand which you might need.”
She turned her head towards him and smiled. Her mouth was small but perfectly shaped—like a Cupid’s bow—and looked silken as rose petals. It would be a teasing mouth to kiss.
Curse it! The first young woman he’d seen in months and his thoughts were already taking an ignoble direction. Perhaps he needed to find himself a mistress. He was only eight-and-twenty, and despite the demolition of his heart, his body was still virile.
“You look pale. Can I fetch you anything?”
“I have all I need, thank you. Although I shall be happier when my things are brought from the inn.”
“That should not be long now. Do you wish to sleep?”
She shook her head, her smile fading. “My thoughts refuse to allow it.”
That was an ailment he understood well enough. And he’d evolved many strategies for dealing with it over the last year. “Then I shall fetch a book and read to you. Either something to entertain and distract you, or a weighty tome that will bore you into somnolence. My library is chock-full of the latter.”
Good—her smile had returned.
“No, wait. I know what will amuse you. Have you heard the story of Princess Carraboo?”
“Of course. Everyone’s heard it. At least, most who live in the West Country, and read the journals.”
“And listen to gossip. It amazes me how such a fraud can be perpetrated—someone purporting to be what they are not, and hoodwinking others.”
That delightful mouth had thinned. He’d said something wrong. “You’re in sympathy with her, then?”
Miss Norton’s brow furrowed. “The world is full of people trying to better themselves. The lady in question chose a particularly imaginative method of doing it.”
His head went back. “By wearing bizarre clothing, speaking mumbo-jumbo, and claiming to be an abducted princess from a remote island in the East?” It was laughable. He couldn’t understand how anyone had been taken in by the so-called Princess Carraboo.
“She made a spectacle of herself in order to entertain others. No worse than any actor, popular dancer, or mountebank.”
“She was an impostor, not a thespian. It’s not the same thing at all, Miss Norton. An actor is separated from his—or her—audience. She actually lived in the home of the people she duped, ate from their table, and took advantage of their hospitality.”
Miss Norton was looking daggers at him. He’d touched a nerve, though he didn’t understand the reason.
She wagged a finger. “And she entertained their friends by fencing, shooting, and—allegedly—swimming naked. Showmanship. Not impersonation. For if there is no such person as Princess Carraboo, the lady was no impersonator.”
He drew his chair closer, enjoying their discussion. “You seem to have some sympathy with the impostor. Who did she turn out to be in the end? Oh yes, a Mary Willcocks, from Devon. Why do you defend someone who attempted to make fools of her fellow men?”
Her dark eyes snapped with irritation. “Are you so high in the instep that you don’t care for the plight of lesser folk? She was but a poor girl trying to make something of herself. And yet you condemn her.”
That hurt. He’d never looked down on the lower classes. There were differences between their class and his, yes, particularly in attitude and intelligence— but then again, he’d met some very stupid aristocrats.
“You mistake me. I certainly care for the plight of lesser mortals. I’m just pragmatic about such things.”
“You make up your mind based on facts, not feelings, or compassion.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Rightly so. I could equally argue that you judge a person’s actions based on your feelings about them, rather than facts.”
Her mouth twitched at this. The stormy look in her eyes was replaced by a twinkle. “Then I shall dub you Mr Fac
ts.”
A chuckle escaped him. “Then I hope you won’t be offended if I dub you Miss Feelings.”
She smiled openly then, revealing a set of neat white teeth. He was dazzled by her radiant, flashing smile. He must try harder to tease her, so he might see it again.
“I regret not having fetched a book to read to you, Miss Feelings. We seem to be at odds when we should be making friends.”
Her slender hand reached out, touching him lightly on the arm. “Friends may call each other names, may they not? And they are just as likely to bicker as enemies are. The difference being that they forgive one another afterwards, and make up.”
He placed his good hand over hers. It felt so good to touch her—he’d forgotten how unbelievably soft a woman’s skin could be.
“I believe you are a woman with a great heart, Miss Norton. Perhaps you can teach a hard-hearted brute like me a lesson or two in compassion.”
“You do yourself an injustice, sir. You are compassionate, but keep it hidden.”
The atmosphere between them changed, like the sun going behind a cloud. He detected a tremble in her lip as her eyes grew moist.
His hand tightened over hers. “Are you in pain? Shall I measure out some laudanum for you? What must I do?”
She rolled her head back and forth. When she spoke, it was as if through a mist of pain. “Oh, Lord Corsbury, I am so sorry. There is something desperately important I have to tell you—”
A knock on the door sent him leaping to his feet, his heart pounding. He’d been so totally absorbed in their conversation, the interruption was a complete shock. Curse it! What a moment to choose. But perhaps she would unburden herself of what it was she desperately wanted to say once the unwelcome visitor had gone. He confessed himself eager to hear it—he didn’t like secrets. If Josephine had told him about her former sweetheart, perhaps he could have prepared for the man’s reappearance, come up with a solution to circumvent the tragedy that had ruined his life.
“A letter for Miss Norton, your Lordship. I believe it has come from the Red Lion.”
Conall handed it to her without looking at it. It was no doubt a reply from Thatcham Hall. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it. Unless it insisted she be taken up there immediately which—of course—was unthinkable in her current state.
“I shall leave you in peace to read your letter.” He made his bow, and left the room, but lingered outside a moment, overcome by the need to know whether or not she would be leaving soon. He’d just decided it best to walk away when he heard a stifled sob.
In a trice, he’d flung open the door, and returned to her bedside. “My dear girl, whatever is the matter?”
She was as pale as the sheet on which she lay—even her lips had lost their colour. Concerned at such a violent change in her demeanour, he seized her hand and chafed it. “Is it from the Danceys? What do they say? I know we’ve been enemies since they blamed me for their daughter’s death, but there’s no reason for them to take it out on you.”
She squeezed her eyes tight shut, and he was distressed to see a tear roll down her cheek.
“No, no, nothing like that.” The covers over her breast heaved with emotion. “It is… from my brother in Bath, and has been forwarded to me. It seems my mother has been taken ill.”
Holding her hand more tightly, he had to fight the urge to take her in his arms. “What ails her?”
“They are not sure. She just… collapsed. Oh, why did I have to have that stupid accident? I should be by her side right at this moment.”
“That cannot be helped. You’re no use to your mother as you are. But it is an incentive for you to heal quickly, is it not? Is there anything I can do?”
“I believe my brother has taken care of everything.”
“I’ll ask Dr Hayward to return on the morrow and update us on your progress. We’ll see if you’re well enough to get out of bed and find out when you can begin exercising. The sooner you’re better, the sooner you may return to Bath, and be with your mama. I beg you, don’t be alarmed. There are any number of reasons a person might collapse, not all of them terrible. So, we have a plan. Does that satisfy you?”
A nod was the best reply she could manage. As he looked at her, wiping away her tears and trying to conceal her suffering, one of the bands protecting his heart snapped, and a fizz of anticipation invaded his stomach. He’d not felt this close to a woman since Josephine. How foolish of him to think he could manage forever without such feminine company.
The upsetting letter had fallen on the floor. He picked it up, only to have it violently snatched from his hand.
“Pray, don’t trouble yourself, sir. You’ve done so much already. I don’t want to burden you with my family’s problems as well as my own.” She tucked the letter beneath the blanket and gazed at him mournfully.
“I wasn’t going to read it. I was just going to replace it on the nightstand for you.”
“Forgive me. I’m all at sixes and sevens. Of course, you didn’t intend to pry.”
He reached for the laudanum bottle and glass. “You might benefit from a small dose I think, to calm your nerves.”
She nodded. Having poured the medicine, he then had the pleasure of inserting an arm beneath her shoulders so he could prop her up enough to drink it. He loved the feel of her head on his arm, and the way her dark curls spilled over his sleeve. Once she’d drunk the contents of the glass, he laid her down with the utmost tenderness and reluctantly took his leave.
Outside the door, he paused once again and had to admit to himself that he’d lied to her. Despite her charms, there was something about Miss Norton’s precipitous arrival in his life that didn’t feel quite right.
He had every intention of reading the letter which had upset her so.
Chapter 7
As soon as she awoke, Hestia felt under the covers for Frederick’s letter. Thank heaven, it was still there. Oh, but his timing had been perfect—had the letter arrived a few moments later, she might have already disclosed their plot to Lord Corsbury.
Now, alas, that option was no longer available, and she felt wretched unto death. Frederick couldn’t love her. No man in love with a woman would send such an ultimatum—despite his declaration that it was best for both of them.
He had refused to believe Methuen could be negotiated with. He insisted on the plan remaining in place. She must search the earl’s papers and discover anything she could relating to Frederick’s finances, especially the purchase of stocks and shares. He was beginning to suspect Methuen might be deliberately liquidating companies in which he owned shares. If she could find out on which companies the earl had his eye, Frederick would sell his shares early and get a better price for them.
This all sounded like sense. But even so, it was something that could be discussed openly between the two men—in her opinion. Not only had Frederick refused to countenance her idea, but he’d also added insult to injury by threatening to send her back to her family if she didn’t comply.
Which meant she would be an outcast, for her parents were far too keen on their hard-won respectability to countenance the return of a ruined daughter. And if Frederick wouldn’t take her back, as either mistress or wife, she’d have nowhere to live. She’d be destitute.
So now, she couldn’t possibly disclose the whole horrid scheme to Methuen, or she’d end up with nothing. Unless she could think of an alternative—not easy to do when she was in pain, and her brain was clouded with laudanum.
For this reason, every time the earl came to see her in the ensuing week, she pretended to be fast asleep. She really couldn’t face him, couldn’t talk to him again, until she knew what she was going to do.
She was still no closer to a solution when Dr Hayward arrived one gloomy afternoon and announced she should get out of bed and walk around a little, lest her muscles waste from lack of use. She need not push through the pain but must try and increase the length of her walks every day.
A stick was provided, and
Methuen and his mother, who’d gathered to hear the physician’s pronouncement, jockeyed over who should escort her on her first perambulation. He won, saying if Miss Norton chanced to stumble, he would be better for her to fall upon than his mother. The Dowager Countess made her apologies to Hestia but assured her that her son could be trusted to be a steady prop.
Once this was decided, both parties left her room so she could be dressed. It took a little while before she got used to her feet again, but as soon as she felt capable, she dismissed the maid and fished Frederick’s letter out from under the bed-clothes.
Where to hide it, where Methuen would never think to look? Not that she suspected him of wanting to spy on her, but it would be terrible indeed were he to uncover her duplicity. She eventually settled on the back of a small portrait of some Methuen ancestor, which was slightly loose in its frame. Turning it over, she inserted the letter between the backboard and the frame, then replaced the portrait on the wall. No one was likely to move the picture for months, especially as the room had already been spring-cleaned.
She wandered across to the window and peered out at the cloudy day. Hard to believe it was July already. Such a pity there was no sunshine—but she wasn’t going outside, not yet. It might be a while before she was fit enough to attempt the stairs and wander through the gardens.
Gazing around the room, she was puzzled to find no mirror. She had to hope the maid had done a good job of her hair, or Methuen would think she looked a fright. She took a few deep breaths. Knowing he was waiting outside, ready to accompany her, filled her with trepidation. He must remain unsuspecting of the reason for her presence here, or she’d be homeless and helpless in no time at all.
“Good afternoon, Miss Norton.” He made her an extravagant bow. As she bobbed in response, he flashed her a disarming grin. “I promised you would have my proper bow, in all its glory, when we were both on our feet. Now, that auspicious moment has arrived.”
Once Ruined, Twice Shy Page 4