by Cindy Anstey
* * *
Robert dug into his breast pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. It looked clean. Well, fairly clean … but then it was hard to see in the weak moonlight. Probably just as well. Passing the cloth to Lydia, he fought an overwhelming urge to take her in his arms. He had come to the realization that Lydia was right; not about husbands—he was certain that Lord Aldershot was not her best match. No, Robert’s realization was that Lydia was, indeed, facing a changed future—though not necessarily a bleak one.
“I’m quite certain that Mr. Drury will no longer be a problem.”
She laughed again, though Robert could tell it was through tears. “Yes, he will be out from under my roof before you can say guilt by association.”
“What about your uncle?”
“No, he is being paid by the estate until I’m one and twenty. He’ll probably stay, more’s the pity.” She sighed deeply. “If I had been the son my father wanted, it would not matter—”
“I am glad you are not a man, Lydia. I quite enjoy your company just as it is.”
“Thank you, Robert.”
He could hear a smile in her tone.
“You will come to visit me, won’t you? Even if the world forsakes me.”
“Of course. Though I refuse to talk of ribbons and gewgaws to make up for your lack of womanly society.”
The idea of offering Lydia his hand, as an alternative to spinsterhood, was on the tip of Robert’s tongue. Such a proposal was one that might be expected of any gentleman in circumstances such as these … the lack of chaperone circumstances, not the abduction/jumping from a barn circumstances. Still, Robert wasn’t certain how Lydia would perceive such an offer. And if he were honest, he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the idea, either.… Though the thought of being riveted to Lydia was by no means abhorrent—quite the opposite.
It was a strange position to be in. Logic allowed that he would one day marry, and yet it was not something that had enticed him: too busy by half—yes, too busy demonstrating his superior qualities as a clerk to secure an apprenticeship. All things in order—career first, marriage second. It wasn’t until meeting Miss Lydia Whitfield that Robert began to reflect on when that second step might take place.
While Lydia was a wealthy young woman with an acceptable lineage and an excellent reputation, her marriage prospects were far higher than Robert Newton, third son of the Earl of Wissett. There was no possibility of a romantic association at all. The vast differences in their situations would label him a fortune hunter at best, a kept man at worst, should he put his oar in the water. Even their newly formed friendship was a little untoward, but it had been born on a very unusual day.
And yet, it was not a gentlemanly inclination that was bringing the subject of marriage to the forefront of Robert’s mind. No, indeed.
Robert was acutely aware of Lydia’s proximity; her lower limbs were mere inches from his. With every breath, she shifted slightly, and they brushed together in a delicious, delicate touch of which he was acutely aware.… With a mental shake, Robert concentrated on the hard, cold surface on which they were sitting. Lumpy, uncomfortable … rough … and, umm, scratchy, inflexible …
“Perhaps we might talk of muslin and silk, then.”
“Only if required. I am not well versed in—” Robert shifted slightly, trying to put a little distance between them—to allow for clarity of thought—then changed his mind and shifted back. He quite liked the distraction.
“Robert?”
“Yes, Lydia.”
“What are we sitting on?”
“A rock?”
“No, indeed. I believe it might be a wall. Are there any headstones behind us? There, what is that shape?”
Robert swiveled and jumped down from what was now apparently a wall. Taking a few hesitant steps, he groped and discovered—a headstone. Off to the left … and right … there were others. “Yes, it would appear that we are among the dead. But worry not—”
“Oh, that is marvelous. Let me check. I will just skip to the other side of the road.” And so saying, Lydia did just that. “Robert, come look.”
Puzzled, Robert vaulted over the wall and met her on the far side. As he approached, he could see that she was pointing—gesturing—at some object. Upon closer inspection, he found it to be a mileage marker. Bath was still about six miles distant. It was rather disheartening to his tired, aching muscles.
“Isn’t that marvelous.” Lydia almost sounded giddy.
“No, actually. I was thinking the opposite. I thought we were a lot closer to Bath than that.”
“Not Bath, Robert. Look at the name on the bottom, pointing at the road running alongside the graveyard. I know where we are. Pepney is only two miles in that direction.”
Shaking his head, Robert allowed for Lydia’s confusion, likely caused by her distress. “But we are not for Pepney; we are for Bath.”
“Shelley lives in Pepney at Villers Manor. My good friend Shelley Dunbar-Ross and her new husband, Edward. She will take us in.… And Robert, she will help us devise a story. I know she will.”
“A story?”
“Yes, something to explain where I have been all day.”
“And all night.”
“Exactly. Oh come, Robert…” Taking his hand, Lydia started across the road, and then she stopped to stare, as if surprised, at the sight of their clasped hands. Lifting her eyes to his, she frowned. A mixture of emotions crossed her face, though none that Robert could identify. He hoped his own sentiments were as enigmatic, for he would not want Lydia to know of his sudden desire to bring their lips together. He swallowed with great difficulty and tried not to lean forward.
After an eon of seconds, she smiled. Better still, she did not relinquish her hold but tugged him off the Bath main road toward some place called Pepney. He grabbed Fanny’s reins as they passed or the mare might have been left behind.
* * *
Lydia’s enthusiasm took her a full minute down the road before recalling the purpose of Fanny. With a laugh, bordering on a giggle, Lydia allowed Robert to help her back up onto the horse’s back, where he joined her again. Their proximity was becoming quite natural and—dare she say it—inciting, likely something to do with the firm establishment of their … friendship. Yes, the familiarity of friendship.
For some reason, thinking about the change in their relationship made Lydia aware of her appearance. Covered in scratches and dirt, with more hair drifting about her shoulders than in her chignon, no bonnet, and no gloves, she must have looked a veritable hoyden. And yet knowing this did not embarrass Lydia; she knew it didn’t matter in the least to Robert.
Male friendship was a splendid and comforting institution—strange that she had had to discover it on her own. One would think that such a boon would be mentioned somewhere along the way.… But no, avoidance was more the order of the day. Such a waste. Protecting one’s reputation came at a heavy cost.
The ride to Villers Manor was more of a plod than a walk or trot—poor Fanny was feeling the rigors of the day, too. That, coupled with the fact that the moon had decided to play peekaboo behind a collection of clouds, and there were reasons aplenty for the longer-than-expected slog. It made for a slow pace, and Lydia was in danger of nodding off; she did not relish the idea of falling again.
“I have come to a conclusion.” Lydia tried to stifle a yawn.
“Have you, indeed?”
“Yes. I have decided that I do not like adventures or surprises. Highly overrated.”
Robert’s soft chuckle drifted through the dark.
“More of a misadventure, my dear Lydia, and certainly not a surprise, which are generally thought of as pleasant things. No, best label today a shocking misadventure and not rule out surprises altogether.”
“My father thought them overrated, too.”
“What? Surprises? No, no. Surprises are unexpected guests, a beautiful flower among the rocks, or a woodland trail that opens up to an astonishing vista.”
“Lovely when you put it that way, but there are some surprises that are not pleasant in the least.” Lydia’s thoughts remained fixed on her father. “Hence my lack of appreciation.”
“Such as?”
“Losing a loved one too soon.”
Her words were met with silence, and Lydia regretted leading their conversation into such deep waters. They were too weary, too overwrought. The nerves too close to the surface for any subject this weighty. “That was thoughtless of me,” she whispered, as much to herself as to Robert.
When he spoke, it was clear where her words had taken him—what memories they had dredged up. “I miss him, terribly, you know … my brother. And yet, I’m angry, too. I don’t understand it really. He is gone. Why am I angry with him? It is unreasonable.”
“And normal. My father was not the instrument of his own demise, and yet I blamed him for leaving me for years. It must be harder when you know that, had your brother made other choices, he might still be alive.”
“True enough. Lloyd did not have to accept the challenge. Even I know dueling is an exercise in stupidity—my oldest brother should have known it was dangerous and reckless.”
“Pride can lead many of us astray. Such as wearing an orange waistcoat.”
As expected, Robert chuckled, but it was halfhearted and did not distract him from the topic of death and duels. “And now, Cassidy has been challenged. I can hardly believe it.”
Lydia did not know a Cassidy, and she was uncertain about asking to whom Robert was referring. But a query was not required, for as she considered, Robert continued.
“My good friend, Vincent Cassidy, with his devil-may-care attitude, has now put himself in harm’s way.” His voice oscillated in such a manner that Lydia was fairly certain that Robert was shaking his head. “He cuts up a lark with the best of them and is often too far in his cups. I suppose it was inevitable that he would cause insult at some point … but not inevitable that the insult would lead to a challenge.”
“Oh dear. He has been offered a duel?”
“Yes, indeed. And here’s the kicker: He knows not by whom or why.”
“Really?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“But, Robert, is that not a good happenstance? There is no commitment to an unknown person; the insult must be forgiven.”
“Apparently not. I thought the same, but Cassidy feels he must act honorably—show up at the appointed hour. And he will, unless I can discover the offense and smooth over the whole.”
“Perhaps he is confident to win?”
“I would think not. His swordplay is no better than mine—which is dismal at best. And as to pistols—let me just say we used to practice together, and we were adept at hitting the broad side of a barn, but nothing else. No, it is his ridiculous sense of duty.”
“Oh, Robert, that does not sound good.”
“I quite agree.”
They plodded on for some minutes, lost in thought, worry, and memories. Finally, they broke out of a copse and rounded what Lydia anticipated to be the last curve in the road before the Villers Manor gates. As expected, the great house was now visible beyond the fields, though half hidden by an avenue of trees down the winding drive. And yet all was not as envisaged. The manor was ablaze with light.
“Well,” Lydia sighed. “The good news would be that the Dunbar-Rosses are not abed. We will not have to rouse the house to be let in. The bad news would be that they are entertaining. I did so want to arrive quietly, didn’t want to be seen like this. Do you think we could sneak in through the service door?”
“Unless you know the servants well, they will take one look at us and turn us off for vagabonds.”
“Oh dear, that is true. I know Trenton, Shelley’s butler. She brought him with her from Tipsy, but as to the others … no, they would probably not know me.”
“Mrs. Dunbar-Ross’s butler will be at the front of the house, helping with the guests.”
Lydia nodded and turned Fanny toward the drive. “I can’t believe I’m suggesting this, but I will hide in the bushes while you speak to Trenton. If you use my name, he might be persuaded to inform Shelley that I am here or let us in through the servants’ door. What do you think?”
“I agree that you should stay to the shadows and that we should approach the front door. As to what and how I will persuade Trenton or Mrs. Dunbar-Ross remains to be seen.”
“Excellent. You can use your lawyer’s clerk countenance.”
“Not sure that I have an official aspect about me at present.”
Lydia sighed in agreement. As they approached the manor, the light shining through the windows helped illuminate their mucky glory. Though she couldn’t see Robert behind her, she knew him to look nothing like a respectable clerk or even a gentleman, for that matter. The dried blood on his neck was the most damning, giving him a thuggish aspect. And she did not look like the respectable Miss Lydia Whitfield of Roseberry Hall if the ruination of her skirts were anything to go by. Even poor Fanny was spattered with mud.
Tired and hungry and, now that she thought about it, cold … yes, chilled, right to the bone, Lydia longed for a glowing fire, a warm drink, safety, and comfort. She did not want to wait behind this bush, this … boxwood. She wanted to march through the front door and collapse in the drawing room.
But she had no choice. If she was going to protect her reputation, she had to abide while Robert tried to persuade a complete stranger to trust him. Then, Lydia smiled.
All would be well. Robert could charm anyone … including Shelley Dunbar-Ross, the most forthright of Miss Melvina’s young ladies. Yes, any minute she would be—
Lydia frowned. What was that noise? It sounded like a shriek emanating from the front door. She immediately stood, lifted her skirts, and ran.
Robert needed her.
Chapter 10
In which a conspiracy of silence is formed at the end of a most unusual day
The scene Lydia beheld on the threshold of Villers Manor was not what she had expected, though she hardly knew what to think. The shriek, for it was indeed a shrill involuntary cry, was not being issued by Trenton, or a housemaid … or even Robert, for that matter. The horrible sound was being produced by a blond female person hanging around Robert’s neck as they stood in the doorway.
Affronted by the vulgar use of her friend, Lydia marched up the steps and grabbed the arm of said person—and then stopped as soon as the lady lifted her head. “Cora? What? What are you doing here?”
“Lydia!”
Lydia stepped back to retain her balance as Cora threw herself at her. The shriek became a shout and then a laugh, and suddenly Lydia was bouncing. Cora proceeded to hop up and down for some minutes, which would have been acceptable had she not been holding on to Lydia at the time.
“I can’t believe it. You are here. I thought you killed,” Cora repeated at least twice before Lydia brought the jumping to a halt with a laugh of her own.
“Cora, dear. I am exhausted and confused, and you are not helping one iota.”
“Of course, forgive me. Come in. You must sit.” And with those words, Cora pulled Lydia past the threshold and Trenton, who had been holding the door open with a mild expression of interested disinterest.
Villers Manor was not much older than Roseberry Hall, perhaps a few decades at most, and it, too, wore its Tudor heritage with pride. Though the high stone walls of the entrance were now lined with dark wood panels, a huge traditional fireplace with a pair of stacked andirons occupied one end of the hall while a heavily carved staircase sat at the other. In a nod to comfort, a fringed Persian carpet covered the gray slate floor.
Once inside, Lydia’s gaze fell upon a dissimilar couple waiting near the staircase. Shelley had one hand to her lips and the other tightly clasped by her broad-shouldered husband. Her expression raced from dazed to euphoria and settled somewhere near jubilant. Shelley Dunbar-Ross was of a diminutive stature, but bound within her petite frame was a huge hear
t and ample emotions that were seldom hidden or reined in. One always knew where one stood with Shelley; prevarication was an art she had never perfected.
With a quick squeeze, Shelley dropped Edward’s hand and stepped forward to hug Lydia—without any bouncing. Finally, leaning away, Shelley held Lydia at arm’s length. She smiled and then grinned. “You don’t look your best.”
“I have had an unusual day.”
“Yes, of that there is no doubt.”
“You, on the other hand, are a marvel.” Lydia was not doing it up too brown; Shelley was dressed in an exquisite gown of apricot silk and Belgian lace. With amber at her neck and feathers in her thick auburn hair, she looked very different from the girl who had walked up the aisle a couple of months ago. “Marriage must agree with you.”
Shelley turned a flattering shade of pink and glanced over her shoulder to her husband. “I highly recommend the institution.”
Edward Dunbar-Ross looked startled, and then a slow smile spread across his face. While the tall gentleman was focused on his wife, Lydia had the opportunity to observe that wedded bliss had done the groom no harm, either. Lydia, who had previously thought Edward merely passable in countenance, was quite prepared to reassess the gentleman’s appearance. His dark hair was longer and without the former rigid styling; his eyes suggested a gentleness that hitherto was missing, and his shoulders, always broad and straight, were relaxed. Yes, there was something to be said about a love match; both parties were quite content.
“Do you have company?” Lydia interrupted their penetrating stare that was growing overlong and addressed the overabundance of candles. “We thought with all the lights … at this time of night … Are you entertaining?”
“Yes, indeed. My good friend Lydia Whitfield has just arrived. We have been looking forward to her company all evening.” Shelley turned to her butler. “Trenton, could you ask Cook for some chocolate and cakes? I don’t imagine she has gone to bed yet what with all this fuss. We will have a tray in the drawing room—”
“I can’t sit on your furniture in this condition,” Lydia interrupted.