by Hale Deborah
“Who else do you think? He came to me this morning as bold as brass and asked if he might borrow a sum of money against his expectations of winning the wager—cocky cub! Said he needed it to purchase a ring for his intended. I suppose if he marries into a rich family he won’t need to make a fresh start abroad.”
Leonora rose and took several steps away so Sir Hugo would not detect the subtle signs of her distress. “Did you give him the money?”
“What else could I do? This wager of yours is as good as won—has been ever since Morse called out young Nettlecombe. By Jove, I had no idea he’d serious designs on his heiress creature. I suppose you egged him on.”
“I did not.” No, indeed. She’d been too busy playing dog in the manger.
“Well, I won’t pretend to approve.” Rising from his chair, Sir Hugo shook his newspaper at her.
Did he seriously think she’d pushed Morse into this alliance? Then again, perhaps she had.
Sir Hugo stalked off, muttering to himself. “What’s this creature got to recommend her besides her fortune? Why, in my day, folks didn’t go ’round wedding to improve their…” His grumbling trailed off down the corridor.
Like an autumn leaf falling to earth on a breathless day, Leonora settled into the chair her uncle had vacated.
So Morse had gone and done it, after all. He’d proposed to another woman and she had pushed him to it with both hands. Goaded by her own frustrated desire, she had lashed out at him—flinging accusations she had no right to utter. Her own motives were far from honorable, after all.
Restless and fighting for composure, she sprang from the chair and paced to the window. Outside, May’s golden sunshine warmed the honey-colored buildings of Laura Place. A carriage trundled past, its matched team shaking their chestnut manes in the breeze. Even a young barrow boy pushed his cart with a jaunty step and cried his wares in a cheerful singsong. All of Bath contrived to mock Leonora’s dark, tempestuous spirits.
She heard the door open behind her and Morse’s voice. “Sir Hugo, would you care to see…”
Schooling her face to counterfeit serenity, she turned to face him.
“Oh, Leonora. Excuse the intrusion.” He pocketed a small box and beat a retreat from the sitting room. “I was told I would find your uncle here.”
“He was here reading his paper until a few moments ago.” She chose not to mention that Sir Hugo had departed ranting against the folly of Morse’s engagement. “Please don’t leave.”
Morse stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Chagrin and defiance warred for control of his too candid features. Clearly he expected her to erupt in fury.
“You’ve heard, then?” he asked. Her show of composure must not be good enough.
“Uncle told me.” She fixed a smile on her lips, sincere in wishing him well if nothing else. “Congratulations. I hope you and Miss Hill will be very happy together.”
Morse appeared to be weighing her words for mockery. “It isn’t the money, you know.”
How Leonora wished she could believe that. Could Morse be so blind to his own motives?
“And it isn’t revenge,” he added with bitter assurance.
“Of course not. I should never have said so.” Another thought ambushed her. If Morse was prompted to wed for wealth, did it matter so much, provided he was true to his wife—treating her with kindness and respect?
“You weren’t the only one whose tongue ran away with you.” He flashed her a fleeting, wry grin. As near as he could come to an apology, she guessed. Like her, he must still believe the pith of his accusation.
“Uncle told me he advanced you the price of a ring.”
Morse nodded. “This is as good as an admission he’s lost the wager. That must make you happy.”
“It does.” At least, it should have.
“Would you like to see it?” He pulled the tiny box back out of his pocket.
Leonora nodded, feeling like a criminal about to receive her sentence. Harsh, but just.
As Morse held the ring out for her inspection, she stared at it, nestled in velvet. At least she would feel no envy of Miss Hill sporting this gaudy piece of jewelry upon her finger.
Morse appeared to read her thoughts. “Not the most modest expression of the jeweler’s art, is it?”
“It’s very…” She searched for an inoffensive truth. “…large.”
“It’s what Frederica wants. She pointed it out to me the last time we passed the jeweler’s on Milsome Street.”
Leonora backed away. “That’s good, then.”
“Well, I should go find Sir Hugo and show it to him.”
“I’m not sure that would be wise, just now.”
“Oh?”
“He seems put out about your engagement.” She shrugged. “I can’t think why, except that it shows he’s lost the wager.”
Pocketing the ring again, Morse brightened. “Algie, then.”
Leonora nodded. “He’s sure to be excited about it.”
With a brief wave of parting, Morse quit the sitting room. He was back again before Leonora had time to slump. “I could use your help.”
She raised an eyebrow, afraid her voice might betray her.
“I still need to ask Mr. Hill for his permission, and I’d just as soon not run into his wife before it’s all settled.”
“You’ll have to run into her sooner or later, Morse, if you mean to marry her stepdaughter.”
“I know that. But I plan to steer clear of her as much as possible. At least until after Frederica and I are married and you’ve won your wager.”
“Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of that.” If Pamela Hill recognized Morse and broadcast the news, her good-as-won wager would be forfeit. “How can I help, Morse? You and I have worked too hard to see it all come to naught this late in the game.”
His features thawed into a genuine comradely smile. “I knew I could count on you, Leonora. If we put our heads together, I reckon we can come up with some way to save the situation.”
He fairly radiated trust in her. If only…
Leonora tried to force the thought from her mind, but it would not accept banishment.
If only she had been able to trust him as he so obviously trusted her.
“Good luck with your mission, old girl.” Morse treated his co-conspirator to a sardonic salute. “I’ll be watching for your signal.”
It felt good to be on the same side again. Though he could think of few worthier opponents than Leonora, Morse vastly preferred being allies. Still, he could not subdue a wish that they might have been the closest of allies. Always and forever.
She cast an anxious glance at the Hill abode, third from the end of this prestigious row of houses. “What if something goes wrong? Suppose I can’t keep the ladies occupied? Suppose Mr. Hill decides to join us?”
“Take a deep breath.” He reached out to pat her shoulder, then pulled back his hand at the last minute. “You made a tolerable gentleman out of a rough-and-ready soldier, remember? You’re equal to whatever life pitches at you, Leonora Freemantle. Don’t ever forget that. Once you signal from the parlor window, I’ll slip in and speak to Mr. Hill.”
“Right.” She sucked in a deep draft of air, then blew it out again, not very steadily. “We’ll meet back here, afterward.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
He should have waited for her. The conviction buffeted Morse as he watched Leonora approach the Hill’s town house. In time she might have come around. Once he’d proved his gentlemanly veneer ran deeper. He’d let his too sensitive pride and his volatile temper get the better of his good sense. Now he must salvage as much as possible from the situation—Leonora’s school and her independence.
He watched the parlor window, his uneasiness swelling by the minute. All Leonora’s supposings of possible disaster stalked his thoughts, along with a few perverse imaginings of his own.
Then he saw Leonora silhouetted in the parlor window, pretending to admire the expensive view Camden P
lace afforded Bath’s wealthiest visitors. She had accomplished her mission. Now his turn had come.
The butler answered his quiet knock. “Come to call on Miss Frederica, have you sir?”
“No.” The word exploded from Morse. “Don’t disturb her on any account, will you, Hardy? It’s Mr. Hill I’ve come to see.”
He pulled the ring box far enough out of his coat pocket to proclaim the nature of his errand.
The butler’s tufted eyebrows shot up. “Mr. Hill will be delighted to receive you, I’m sure.” His voice fell to a confidential whisper. “You certain about this, Captain Archibald?”
Though his hackles rose with a Rifleman’s instinct for trouble, Morse pretended to chuckle off the warning. “Come now, Hardy. You should be telling me I’ll be a lucky chap to win the hand of such an estimable young lady.”
“Aye, sir. You’re right, of course.” The little man’s face drained of color. “I meant no slight on Miss Frederica. Pardon me for speaking out of turn.”
“No offense taken, Hardy. I know how confirmed bachelors hate to see any defection from the ranks. Many’s the time I’ve counseled prudence to some besotted fellow.”
“You do understand then, sir.” Hardy worked up a shaky smile. “A man gets more than his lady when he weds into a rich family. You’ve always seemed like a good fellow, sir, and…”
Whatever the butler meant to say, he did not get the opportunity.
At that moment, the library door swung open and Mr. Herbert Hill strode out. Though less than average height, he was stout through the chest, as though accustomed to thrusting it forward in pride or belligerence. His coat boasted the most expensive tailoring money could buy, but the garish pattern of his waistcoat suggested more gold than good taste. His sharp-featured countenance was weather-beaten and his hands betrayed a history of manual labor.
He advanced with his hand outthrust. “You must be the Captain Archibald I’ve heard such a great deal about.”
With a grin and a shrug Morse shook the older man’s hand. “I suppose I must.”
Mr. Hill glowered at the butler. “What took you so long showing Captain Archibald in? Flapping your jaws, I suppose. The captain’s an important man. He doesn’t have time to be remarking on the state of the weather with a servant who’s too bloody familiar for his own good.”
The butler bowed his head before this abuse. “Yes, Mr. Hill. Very good, sir.” If his employer had emptied a bucket of slops on top of him, poor Hardy could not have looked more thoroughly humiliated.
“You mustn’t blame your man for my eagerness to talk, Mr. Hill,” Morse insisted with forced heartiness. “The fact is, I couldn’t help boasting of my errand.” He patted his bulging coat pocket. “Might I have a private word with you, sir?”
Mr. Hill’s foul humor with the butler passed like the sun emerging from behind a thunderhead. “That you may, Captain Archibald. Come right this way, sir.”
He ushered Morse into the library.
“I hope you won’t take it amiss, if I say I’ve been expecting this interview, Captain Archibald. Our Frederica’s been filling my ears with your praises ever since the wife and me arrived from Sheffield.”
What if Mr. Hill should refuse his consent? This faint ray of hope suddenly tantalized Morse. Unlike jilting Frederica, Mr. Hill’s veto would not create a scandal that might spell doom for Leonora’s wager.
“Your daughter is very kind and perhaps too partial.” Morse took a seat. “Given your position, I should understand entirely if a prudent father frowned on the match.”
Mr. Hill held up the brandy decanter. When Morse shook his head, Frederica’s father poured himself a small glass. “What makes you think I’ll be disposed to deny you, when my young lass has her heart set on you?”
Morse scrambled to frame his argument. Whatever others had reported about him, he did not want to lie outright. “Well, sir, while I would do my utmost to provide for your daughter, I’m little more than a crippled soldier without prospects.”
“Don’t worry your head about money, son.” Mr. Hill plumped himself down in a chair opposite Morse. “By and by, Frederica will have more than enough to keep you both. And if you do your duty and present me with a litter of fine strapping grandsons, I may well settle the bulk of my fortune on you. Any fool can make money. What I want is to see my kin sitting in the Lords, or commanding His Majesty’s Guards.”
In rising from obscurity to make his fortune, hadn’t Herbert Hill proven himself the equal in merit of any peer? Not to his own satisfaction, apparently.
“Though I take pride in my family,” Morse measured his words, “we are not as wellborn as your present son-in-law.”
“Useless Eustace, you mean?” Mr. Hill sneered. “What good’s a title without a son to carry it on? Besides, you’re being too modest. Modesty is a singular fault in a gentleman if you ask me. I’ll hear no more of it. As far as I’m concerned, you and my daughter are engaged to be wed.”
He thrust out one meaty hand. “Welcome to the family—son. Let’s go find the ladies and drink a toast.”
Morse shot to his feet. “I can’t…just now, sir. I have urgent business elsewhere, but I couldn’t delay speaking to you. You’ve made me a very…happy man. I assure you I’ll do my best to make Frederica happy, as well.”
Feeling like a hobbled stallion who’d just been purchased for stud, Morse escaped from Camden Place and waited for his rendezvous with Leonora. His one shard of hope lay crushed beneath the heel of Frederica’s forceful father.
Chapter Eighteen
If Morse did not appear soon, Leonora feared she would wear a furrow in the Hill’s carpet from their parlor chaise to the window. Once she knew for certain he’d cleared the house, she’d be free to conclude her call upon Miss Hill, her sister and stepmother.
Leonora racked her brains to invent a novel excuse for looking outside yet again. No good rhapsodizing over the view. She’d done that often enough to justify Mr. Hill’s expense in renting these costly premises. Checking the weather had grown stale, too. Bath’s climate could be fickle enough, but today there was scarcely a cloud in the sky to warrant concern.
What was taking Morse so long?
“More tea, Miss Freemantle?” asked Frederica. Ill-disguised impatience with the length of Leonora’s stay sharpened her question.
Leonora pretended to not notice. “Just a drop, if you’d be so kind. What a lovely portrait!” She rose and walked to the mantel for a closer look. Her route there and back would take her past the window twice. “The work of Mr. Lawrence, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Hill did not bother to suppress a yawn. “My husband commissioned the painting shortly before we were married. The way he carts it along when we travel, he scarcely needs to bring me in the flesh. I’m heartily sick of the sight of it.”
It could not be very agreeable to face this constant reminder of her passing youth and beauty, Leonora realized. Lady Pamela’s most partial admirers would now call her handsome or striking rather than beautiful. The blame lay less with time than with her perpetual expression of haughty ill-humor and an intemperate campaign to stave off age with powder and paint.
While the sight of young Lady Pamela stirred the flames of her tightly suppressed jealousy, Leonora could not help pity the woman a little for having made the wrong choice. She’d been a fool to refuse Morse’s love in favor of a mercenary marriage. And she had clearly reaped the bitter harvest of her folly.
Picture yourself at her age, urged an insidious little voice deep within Leonora’s own mind. Will you be as ill content with the bargain you’ve made?
“Perhaps you’d rather have remained behind in Sheffield, Stepmother?” The peevish tone of Lady Fitzwarren’s question roused Leonora from her unwelcome musings.
“I’d rather have gone to London or Brighton, or somewhere fashionable,” snapped Mrs. Hill. “Bath has fallen from its past brilliance. It gets more poky and provincial with every Season.”
“Clearly you and
the town have much in common.” Miss Hill fired the broadside to cap her sister’s setup.
Leonora sensed this was but a minor skirmish in a long campaign of domestic warfare. If they engaged in such cordial hostility before company, she wondered what pitched battles must be fought over the privacy of their dinner table. She did not envy Morse having to find out.
“Have you so much in common with your precious Captain Archibald, my dear?” Clearly, Mrs. Hill could hold her ground against her stepdaughters. “Our Frederica has hopes of your friend, the captain. Did you know that, Miss Freemantle? No doubt he has expectations of her, as well.”
“Look at the time!” Catching sight of Morse making his way to their meeting place, Leonora could not wait another moment to make her escape. “I have several more calls to pay and I’ve trespassed upon your hospitality—”
Before she could dash off, Mr. Hill burst into the parlor. “Let the wine flow. We have good news to celebrate!”
He caught sight of Leonora. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. I’d no notion my ladies had company.”
“Don’t delay your celebration on my account. I must be on my way.” She managed to withdraw, though they urged her to stay.
Hurrying across the street, she slipped behind the hedge where Morse waited. “I’ve never been so glad to get out of a house in my life!”
Giddy with relief over her escape and the success of their plan, she clasped him in a brief, triumphant embrace. At least she meant it to be brief.
When she made a token effort to pull back, he held on to her.
“Morse.” Her intended protest emerged more like a plea.
She had no opportunity to correct it, for he gave her lips a far more pleasant occupation. Surely cool reason would soon assert itself and extricate her from Morse’s arms.
Wrong again.
A kiss unfolded between them. Gentle, laden with regret, but all the sweeter for that. They had kissed often enough in the past that Leonora experienced an overwhelming sense of homecoming. The circle of his arms had been tailored to her precise fit. The subtle interplay of their lips progressed like a dance—practiced to perfection, keenly enjoyed.