by Nichole Van
Or was something more afoot?
Why LHF’s reluctance? Why the secrecy? Was his business partner the man Colin had taken him to be?
Or was the matter simpler than that? Perhaps his friend was not a prompt correspondent? When in India, it had taken nearly a year to send a question and receive a reply. Who knew how long LHF contemplated his questions before taking pen to paper?
But, no. LHF’s letters had always come with regularity over the years. Besides, the man had responded quite quickly to Colin’s first letter after returning to London, so why was he taking so long—
Patience.
For now . . . Colin just needed to trust and be patient.
He kept repeating the mantra to himself.
He knew LHF. He did.
He might not know the man’s face or name, but he did know LHF’s heart. The man who shared money so charitably, who dealt with Colin so honestly, could not possibly have played Colin for a fool all these years.
He had to be a man of honor. A gentleman.
There had to be a logical explanation.
Though given the strange turn of events, Colin wasn’t sure he believed his own words anymore.
How long could he remain so optimistic? How long before LHF’s odd silence created a permanent wedge between them, if it hadn’t already?
Colin strode across the broad front lawn and into the grove of trees beyond. The butler had given him detailed directions for reaching the field of bluebells and the picnic.
And, indeed, a well-worn path cut through the trees. Birds fluttered among the branches. A cool wind rustled the bare bushes, brisk and invigorating. Colin inhaled deeply.
Walking deeper into the woods, he wondered how far behind he was, part of him wishing he had brought along a footman, anyone, to act as a chaperone. This was the last place he wanted to encounter a pack of Desperate Debutantes. Or, worse, a solitary one.
They had become more and more ridiculous. Colin had taken to locking his room whenever he left to dissuade the bolder women.
He picked up his pace.
As he rounded a bend, a scrap of white fluttering on the ground caught his attention, stark and bright against the damp earth.
Later, he decided Fate had led him to that moment. To turn his head in just the right direction. To see the folded paper nestled on top of brown leaves and fallen branches.
He picked it up and turned it over.
Every last bit of air left his lungs in a shocked whoosh.
The direction was clear.
To LHF
Care of Mr. John Sloan
Solicitor
London, England
Blake signed in bold letters across the bottom right corner supplied the postage. Fingers shaking, Colin opened the letter. The date and first lines jumped out at him:
London, England
June 14, 1823
Dear sir,
I yet await a response. Your continued silence puzzles me. I have called you a friend, and you have always dealt honorably with me . . .
Colin read the entire thing. The lines he had written just days before. Nothing more or less.
How—?!
He stood in statuesque silence for far longer than was manly.
His first thought was simple. Had he not sent the letter after all? Had it just been resting in his pocket all this time and fluttered free?
Colin pondered that for a moment, studiously recalling his actions.
He had penned the letter at the desk in his London townhouse. Sanded the ink. Folded and sealed it with a thick glob of red wax. Franked the front with his signature. Placed it in the stack of other letters to go out with the evening post.
Another quick glance at the front revealed an inked postal date, another point of proof.
Yes. He was positive he had sent the letter.
His mind raced, struggling to put the sequence of events into proper order.
But nothing settled into place.
Only two facts stood out to him:
This letter had originated with him.
But its presence in Lord Stratton’s wood was not his doing.
Colin neatly refolded the letter and carefully tucked it into the inner pocket of his tail coat. He walked up the path, more briskly this time, mind churning through the logical possibilities.
How had his letter ended here? Had it gone astray? Had LHF never received it? Had it been returned to Colin due to the muddle of Mr. Sloan’s illness? And then somehow escaped to roam free in Stratton’s forest?
That last seemed . . . less likely.
Perhaps?
Or . . . someone had stolen the letter and planted it here for Colin to find, knowing he would be coming up the path to catch up with the rest of his party?
That seemed needlessly melodramatic, not to mention, completely pointless. There was nothing to be gained or lost through the discovery of the letter. Besides, aside from Mr. Sloan, his own solicitor, his man-of-affairs, and several secretaries, no one knew about LHF. Their relationship was anything but common knowledge.
No.
The farther Colin walked, the more he kept circling back to the idea of Occam’s razor—the simplest solution to a problem was the most likely one.
The most straight-forward explanation for the presence of Colin’s letter?
LHF himself had been or still was at Stratton Hall.
LHF had received the letter and then accidentally dropped it himself while out walking, which could explain why LHF’s reply had been delayed.
But the letter was quite crisp. Unspotted from rain, which given that it had rained just two nights past . . .
LHF had been in the vicinity quite recently.
The very thought made Colin’s heart speed up.
Who was he? A local man who liked to walk the earl’s garden paths? Or was he a guest of Stratton’s house party?
The latter seemed the most likely scenario. Occam’s razor again.
To think, he might have been talking with LHF over dinner the previous evening without even knowing it.
The air around him suddenly felt too heavy to breathe. Obviously, LHF knew who Colin was, so why not reveal himself?
His stomach gave a painful lurch.
The longer this situation stretched on, the more Colin worried that their friendship was not what he had thought it to be, that LHF was not a man of honor.
The thought . . . burned.
Betrayal tasted acrid and sour in his mouth.
Why would LHF behave in such a fashion? The man knew Colin wished to meet him. He knew how much Colin trusted him, valued his friendship.
So . . . why?
Colin’s heart pounded in his chest, thoughts intent on the path before him.
He blundered into something soft and warm. The smell of lavender swirled around him.
His hands automatically extended in an attempt to hold himself and whatever he had bumped into upright, fighting to keep them both stable.
Which is how Colin found himself embracing Miss Heartstone in the middle of the Earl of Stratton’s forest.
Belle had lost her letter. She had fallen behind everyone else, intent on reading it one more time, trying to compose a reply in her head.
But one of the Gold Miners had decided to fall back, hoping to catch her alone, no doubt. Fortunately, Anne was on to him. They both converged on Belle, who had hastily folded the letter and returned it to her reticule.
Only now the letter was not there. She must not have secured it properly. The wind or some errant movement had dislodged it.
She had been scouring the sides of the path, searching for a telltale flash of white, when she bumped into something hard and unyielding.
Blake.
Who was now holding her, her face buried in his cravat.
The shock of his arms around her. That sense of strength and gentleness that was uniquely his. The smell of wool and sandalwood that engulfed her.
The sheer stunned joy of being in the one place she had dream
ed of being for more years than was wise . . .
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Heartstone.” He instantly set his hands to her shoulders, burning her like firebrands, and peeled her off of him.
Did his hands linger? Or was it simply her excited imagination wishing for more?
He bent to pick up his top hat that had tumbled off.
“I was not looking where I was going,” he said. “Again, I am most sorry. Are you quite all right?”
Belle used the opportunity to glance up the path behind him.
No flash of white anywhere.
Where had her letter gone? Though thank the heavens it wasn’t fluttering around here for Blake to see.
He was brushing his hat and fussing with his walking stick.
All his normally cool composure gone.
Belle figured now was not the time to mention he was adorable when he was flustered. Men didn’t appreciate being referred to as adorable. Or flustered, for that matter.
“I am quite fine, my lord.” Belle righted her bonnet, shook out her skirts. “See, no harm done.”
He paused and really studied her, raking her from top to bottom with his blue gaze, taking in her rose-colored pelisse with its row of pearl buttons and fashionably-ruffled edges. The matching bonnet perched on her head, curls escaping in an artful mass.
“Uh, you are quite alone, I see.” He glanced behind her.
He didn’t appear concerned, but Blake was excessively polite.
And what if he asked her why she was on the path? Would she tell him the truth?
Well, my lord, I seem to have lost the letter you sent to LHF—who is actually myself, surprise!—I don’t suppose you’ve seen it?
Oh dear.
Her stomach churned at the thought.
And Belle, who prided herself on her cool, level head, did the last thing she expected herself to do.
She panicked.
So instead of confessing all as her conscience urged her to do, she pasted a bright smile on her face. “Never fear, my lord. The Mob of Marriageable Misses isn’t far behind.” She waved a hand up the path. “I am merely the initial scout. They sent me ahead to assess the lay of the land. Get a sense of how best to confound the enemy. Though be warned, you have rarely seen debutantes quite so desperate.”
He at least had the decency to flush. Again, looking adorable in the process. Blushing also being top on the list of Things Never to Bring to a Gentleman’s Attention.
“Th-that is not what I meant.”
“Is it not?” She fixed him with her sauciest eyebrow.
His blush deepened. Still adorable. Drat the man.
“I promise to make no attempts upon your virtue,” she continued. “But once the Desperate Debutantes arrive, all promises become void.”
His shoulders relaxed. He gave a soft chuckle. The wind kicked up again, further ruffling his mussed hair, swirling his greatcoat around his legs. With a sigh, he settled his hat back atop his head.
“I am afraid you quite terrify me, Miss Heartstone. I feel I should raise the white flag of surrender.” He extended his gloved hand. “Truce?”
“Truce.”
With a smile, Belle took his hand, shaking firmly. Forcing herself not to shiver at the sensation of his fingers engulfing hers. At the strength of him. What wouldn’t she give for a lifetime of holding his hand?
To tell him that she loved him. Utterly. Completely. Wholly.
To hear him say those words in return.
She swallowed, tight and sharp.
He offered her his arm and gestured for them to continue up the path. She readily wrapped her gloved fingers around his elbow, reveling in the flexing muscles she felt in his arm.
The trees creaked and cracked in the slight breeze. Ravens cawed overhead.
Belle’s panic had faded in a steady sense of dread.
She had to tell him.
She cared too much about him to continue this charade. And she was not this timid person who shied away from doing what must be done.
Blake had taught her that much.
Just do it. Open your mouth and tell him.
You can do this.
You owe him your honesty.
Sucking in a fortifying breath, she began, “My lord, there is something I wish to speak with you about—”
“Oh?” Was it her imagination or did Blake stiffen somewhat? “Must we discuss something?”
Uhmmm.
Not quite the response she had been anticipating.
“Well, yes, my lord, I am afraid I must.” Her hand surely trembled where she held his arm. Did he feel the depth of her emotions? “Before I say what I must, please know how deeply I admire you—”
“Have I told you about the weather in India?” Blake’s loud question caused Belle to jump.
What on earth?
The weather?
In India?
Why ever would Blake wish to speak of such a thing?
But hallelujah!
YespleaseletustalkabouttheweatherinIndia!
Would she have the fortitude to bring up the question again?
Colin blamed astonishment for his outburst.
Was Miss Heartstone honestly launching into her vaunted speech so soon, politely telling him that she was not interested in his attentions? Had his gaff of insinuating that she was trying to get him alone, like one of the Desperate Debutantes, really offset her so much? She had looked panicked there for a moment or two.
Would she summarily dismiss him before even giving him a chance?
He was half-amused, half-appalled. First LHF’s letter, and now this?
He and Miss Heartstone had just formed a truce, for heaven’s sake. A truce signaled the beginning of a relationship, not its end.
He had only begun to pay attention to Miss Heartstone. And more to the point, she hadn’t seemed to be averse to his attention.
“The weather in India is quite different from that of England,” Colin continued, wincing at the inanity of his own voice.
“Indeed.” The puzzled humor of her tone indicated Miss Heartstone likely saw his interruption for what it was. “With a truce in place, have we decided to talk about the weather?”
“It seemed a safe topic.”
Miss Heartstone walked calmly at Colin’s side. Her skirts brushing against his overcoat. The lovely smell of her lavender perfume hanging in the air.
A cool breeze kicked up in earnest.
Miss Heartstone cleared her throat. “Do you miss the heat of India, my lord?”
“Yes. No. . . . Sometimes.” He shrugged.
She said nothing. Her silence indicated she understood.
“On a gloomy winter’s day when everything is bare, I imagine I shall miss Calcutta—the humidity holding the scent of spices, monkeys chattering in the trees, the never-ending sea of green. Heat rising in an endless wave.”
He paused.
“But then the British countryside bursts into bloom and lambs drop in the fields. Wisteria hangs on vines and, well, it is impossible to miss India when faced with the beauty of a full-blown English spring.”
More silence, comfortable and easy.
“My father used to say there is nothing as fine as a sunny day in June,” she said.
They continued to talk as they walked.
Miss Heartstone relaxed more as they went, hopefully forgetting that she had intended to send him packing. He learned that she adored Sir Walter Scott but was less partial to Mrs. Radcliffe.
“Come now. The castle scenes in The Mysteries of Udolpho are bone-chilling,” he protested.
“I will grant you that, but I prefer my heroines with a little more pluck. Mrs. Radcliffe has them cowering in terror far too often for my liking.”
Which comment devolved into them discussing the virtues of various literary characters.
With every word out of her mouth, that sense of recognition grew. Colin understood it finally for what it was: intense attraction.
Miss Heartstone was
rapidly owning his heart.
No, not Miss Heartstone.
Belle. The nickname he had heard Lady Stratton call her.
Beautiful Belle.
It suited her in every way.
He admired how she didn’t chatter on aimlessly. Didn’t giggle. Didn’t flirt or try to take advantage of the situation.
No. Miss Heartstone was just . . . herself. Open. Honest.
They had not traveled far when Miss Rutger came up the path toward them, conscientious of her charge’s reputation.
Lord Odysseus was directly behind her, clearly frustrated that Colin was edging into territory that Lord Odysseus claimed for himself. The competitor in Colin welcomed the challenge. Belle was a prize worth fighting for.
It wasn’t until much later—after the picnic, the oohing and ahhing over the field of bluebells, Lord Odysseus weeping over the darling lambs toddling through the grass, the long walk back—that Colin finally asked himself the question that, really, he should have asked immediately:
Why was Miss Heartstone walking the path alone in the first place?
16
. . . please accept my sincere apologies, my lord. I remain ill and letters have been forwarded on to you in Cornwall, but now I have heard that you are at Stratton Hall, not Cornwall, so I cannot say when my correspondence will find you. Fyfe Hall has already seen the arrival of forty children with veterans and their wives. All is said to be well with the children, but an issue has arisen with the local magistrate that I was hopeful you might address—
—letter from Mr. Sloan to Lord Blake, partially written but not sent due to Mr. Sloan’s poor health
Colin flipped through the packet of correspondence again, hoping to find another letter from LHF.
There was none. Just tardy business items trickling in to him from Cornwall.
His mind struggled to piece together the giant puzzle—LHF’s continued silence, finding his letter in Stratton’s wood yesterday.
Colin felt more lost than he had in . . . years.
Part of his brain needled him, telling him that perhaps he should respect LHF’s wishes and let the man retain his privacy. But the longer their dance went on, the more concerned Colin became.