"You are seeing things which simply aren't there," he said, and made to lead Thunder along the path. Hart jumped in front of him and slammed the palm of his hand into Robert's chest.
"How can you betray our family so?" To Robert's amazement, Hart's voice was trembling with emotion. "You have always taught me that loyalty and family are everything. Now you're sneaking off to Loxwell Park to cavort with that – that –"
"Watch what you say next, Hart," Robert warned him, unable to bear the thought of Cecily being insulted. "Watch yourself very carefully."
"That Balfour," Hart spat. "I know you went after her the night of the masked ball. What dark magic has she worked on you?"
"Be careful how you speak of her!"
"I'll speak however I like about the Duke of Loxwell's strumpet of a daughter."
Robert's hand raised itself of its own accord. His fist clenched, and he only stopped it from landing on Jonathan's face with a great effort of will.
"Are you going to strike me, Robert?" asked Hart, not even flinching. He did not sound angry so much as hurt.
Robert sighed and lowered his fist. "That was a warning, Hart. Don't tempt me."
To his shock, Jonathan answered by shoving him hard in the chest. Caught off-balance, Robert took a step backwards, clutching at Thunder's haunches to keep himself upright.
"Tell me you're ruining her," Hart demanded. "Tell me that father put you up to this. Tell me that all you mean to do is seduce her and leave her disgraced."
Robert knew he could floor his brother with a single punch, but he was not prepared to let anger get the better of him. He gripped Jonathan's arms and forced him to leave off his pushing.
"At this moment," he gritted out, "Cecily's honour means a great deal more to me than your pretty face, Hart. Have a care what you say."
Jonathan howled with rage and, unable to wrest his arms from Robert's grip, instead lowered his head and drove it forwards to catch Robert in the nose. Robert ducked at the last minute and, letting Jonathan go with a speed that made him stumble, brought up his fist sharply to catch him under the left eye.
Jonathan crumpled to his knees with a shout of pain. Robert's rage melted away.
He knew all too well how he would have reacted if faced with the same situation not a month previously. Hating the Balfours was what a Hartley did. There was no way around it.
But Cecily had managed to overturn everything.
"Are you much hurt?" he asked, putting a hand on Jonathan's shoulder. Hart shrugged him off.
"You've blinded me," he groaned.
"Nonsense." Robert bent down and lifted Hart's hand away from his face. "You'll have a fine black eye, that's all."
"My face, Robert! Why'd you have to hit me in the face?"
Robert helped him to his feet. "Steady, now. Take it easy." He put one of Hart's arms around his shoulders and took Thunder's reins with the other hand, walking slowly down the path which led to the Hall. "We'll tell father you took a tumble from Thunder into a tree."
Jonathan didn't answer. For a moment, Robert thought it was simply because he was angry. Then, following his brother's gaze, he saw that the ring on its chain had been pulled from beneath his shirt in the scuffle. He stopped walking.
Hart reached out and peered at the ring with his good eye. He turned the ring this way and that so that the Balfour crest glimmered in the sunlight. "Tell me it isn't love, brother."
"It isn't any of your business."
"If you feel nothing for her, this is a singular piece of good fortune."
Robert snatched the ring back and tucked it back under his shirt, where it felt cool and heavy against his skin. "How so?"
"Think of what father could do to the Duke's reputation with that ring!"
"That is only if he gets his hands on it, which he will not," said Robert. "I'm not afraid to black your other eye."
"And I'm not afraid to take a beating. Tell father what you've done, Robert. He will understand, as long as you're honest. You won't be the first to have his head turned by a pretty girl, but now – now that you have their ring –"
"I can't, Hart," Robert sighed. "That's not what I intend to do. In fact, it's the precise opposite. And if you oppose me in this, I'm afraid I'll stop at nothing to have my vengeance on you. That's a promise I don't want to keep."
Hart pulled away, touching his left eye gingerly. It was already turning purple. "Then it is love," he said flatly.
"It is."
"I'm afraid I have no sympathy for you." Hart shook his head wearily. "Love is for common people, Robert. Great families have better things to do with their time. Have you already forgotten how close our own sister came to ruin, and all because of this – this silly fancy called love?"
"You did not always think of it so poorly," Robert reminded him. Hart's face twisted into a snarl.
"I know better than anyone how love can wreck a man," he said darkly.
"Then you will not bring the same ruin on my head," Robert urged him. "Don't tell father."
Hart put his arm back around Robert's shoulder. "I won't."
"Thank you, Hart." Robert's breathing eased. He clicked his tongue to Thunder and made for the house once more.
"It's not because I'm afraid to fight you."
"I never dreamed it was."
"It's because you're going to give me your best hunting rifle."
Robert stopped in his tracks. The rifle in question was a beautifully-made weapon of steel-grey iron and polished English walnut, inlaid with a delicate design in silver wire. It was one of his most prized possessions. "You can't be serious!"
"Deadly serious." Hart managed a grin, though his blacked eye must have hurt him dreadfully. "Come now, Robert, what's it to be – the rifle, or Lady Cecily's honour? You can't have both."
Robert groaned. "You are a cruel man, Hart."
"I keep a practical head on my shoulders. Which is more than I can say for you."
"Very well. The rifle's yours." They crested a rise in the ground, and Scarcliffe Hall in all its majesty lay before them.
"To think you actually want to make that Balfour woman the mistress of Scarcliffe Hall," said Jonathan, with a theatrical sigh.
"That's Lady Cecily, to you."
"That's my newest, dearest sister, I think you'll find. Assuming you plan to marry her." Hart shot him a quizzical look. "What on earth are you hoping to achieve, Robert? You know the Duke would rather see her run off with a highwayman than give her to you. And as for father…"
"Leave it to me, Hart," said Robert, with an air of confidence that he knew was as infuriating as it was unwarranted. "A little vendetta of mere generations is nothing in the face of –"
"True love?" Hart finished for him. "You sicken me." He lowered his voice as they approached the Hall, as though the stones might overhear him. "I'm not happy about this, Robert. There's a good reason the Balfours have been our enemies all these years."
"Trust me," said Robert. "Trust in me, and I'll bring all that to an end."
He only wished he could truly be as certain as he sounded. He really had no idea what he would do to persuade his father and Cecily's to drop their ancient hatred. Hart was right to think it an impossible situation.
But Hart did not have the benefit that Robert had, which was that of viewing his plight in the bright and hopeful light of love.
He would find a way. If only because he felt that he would wither and die if he did not, he would find a way to marry Cecily.
Chapter Seventeen
Cecily did not often visit the long, narrow gallery which housed her family's art collection. It was a place to take visitors on the occasions that her father wanted to make a particular show of his wealth. Jemima often went to study one painting or another, but, for once, Cecily did not want Jemima's help. This was a private mission.
Besides, Jemima was not a Balfour. Part of the family, yes, but not blood. She had never truly understood the feud. The way it had been taught to each family me
mber from the cradle. The insidious, inescapable certainty that the Hartley family was nothing but wicked.
Cecily had always thought of herself as an intelligent person. As she made her way past the rows of exquisite landscapes and portraits of ancestors long dead, she wondered how she had managed to be so thoroughly taken in by her own father's prejudice. She had always worked to treat everyone fairly, and had never looked down on anybody – save the Hartleys, whom she had truly believed deserved it.
Now, it felt as though her eyes were fully open for the first time. Everything was illuminated with a fresh, new light. Robert's father had never been a monster. Robert himself was the kindest, most wonderful man.
Lord Jonathan she could take or leave, but in her most charitable moments she allowed that he only acted as she would have done if he had crept uninvited into her home.
They were both to blame. Whatever the truth was, they were both equally to blame.
As a child, Cecily had memorised the names of the fine Dukes and Duchesses in the paintings she now walked past. They were as familiar to her as her own face. Many of them, in fact, bore a face that was similar to hers. In one white-headed old gentleman she recognised her delicate chin. In one lady's imperious blue-painted eyes, she saw her own.
It was a good feeling, this knowledge of belonging. Cecily felt for Jemima, who did not have the opportunity of communing with her own family history at all. But Cecily was not there to trace her own ancestry.
She was looking for a portrait whose face she did not know.
The Duke took careful care of his collection. He always said that he was not really its owner, but was simply caring for it until his heirs came to inherit. The frame of every painting bore a metal plaque displaying its artist and subject.
Cecily was certain that she would have noticed if one of the plaques read Lady Letitia Hartley. It would have been strange indeed to find a portrait of a Hartley inside Loxwell House.
No, she was looking now for a portrait that had been left unlabelled. Or, worse, deliberately mislabelled. It would be just like her father, with his overprotective nature, to shield her from any hint of their family's past wrongdoing.
Cecily made it almost to the end of the gallery before she found a likely candidate. A portrait of a young woman – she could not have been more than seventeen. She was wearing a white dress embroidered with pink flowers in an almost childish fashion.
There was something about her – the glint in her brown eyes, the tilt of her chin – that faintly reminded Cecily of Robert. But that could just as easily be imagination as anything else.
Cecily looked at the plaque beside the portrait: Young Girl, Andrew Clearwell, 1765.
There were any number of other Young Girls or Unnamed Ladies in the gallery, but something about this one spoke to Cecily. She looked closer, examining every inch for clues. The girl – could it really be Letitia? – sat on a garden bench, a bouquet of flowers in her hand.
That hand caught Cecily's attention. For a moment, she could not believe what she was seeing.
The girl was wearing a ring. It was too small to make out any inscription, but the two dots of scarlet paint were unmistakable.
A ring with twin rubies.
"Have you taken an interest in art, my dear?"
Cecily jumped back guiltily from the portrait as her mother walked down the gallery towards her.
"I was just…"
"This is a lovely piece, is it not?" the Duchess interrupted, joining her to look at the portrait. "I have often wondered what secrets lie behind her eyes."
"Yes, that's right," Cecily agreed. "That was what made me stop to look at it. She does look as though she has a secret."
"Has your father ever told you the story of this painting?" her mother asked, with a hint of sadness. Cecily hardly dared to breathe. She was frozen with indecision, unable to guess at the best way to encourage her mother to reveal the painting's history.
As it turned out, silence was the best option she could have chosen. "This girl is actually one of the Hartley family. It's a little mysterious, how the painting fell into our hands."
"What was her name?"
"I believe it was Lady Letitia. She was the young girl who got mixed up in that nasty business which…" The Duchess's voice trailed off. Perhaps she felt she was saying too much. "You know I don't like to disagree with your father, my dear. There was a time when I fought with him quite strongly about this business with the Hartley family. He always said I did not fully understand it, and I must admit that I could never see why such long-ago wrongs should make for present misery. But he had his way. He always does, you know. And I will be the first to admit that the Marquess of Lilistone has not made himself amenable to forgiveness."
"Perhaps we should offer to return the painting to the Hartleys," Cecily suggested. "That seems a kind gesture, even if the kindness is not returned."
"It never really belonged to them. The painting was given to your great-grandfather – sold, rather. The story goes that the artist brought it to this house after being slighted by Lady Letitia, who he had fallen in love with. The old Duke was looking for any excuse to take his vengeance upon the Hartleys after they lay a claim of kidnapping against poor Lord Thomas, and he bought this painting as evidence that Lady Letitia was not the innocent she claimed to be."
"Was it true?" Cecily asked. She tried to keep her gaze from leading her mother to the ring on Lady Letitia's finger. She had still not quite made up her mind what that ring meant…
"I cannot say. Your father says so, and I do not see the good in disagreeing with him. Both Lady Letitia and Lord Thomas are long dead."
"And the painter?"
The Duchess gave Cecily a sharp look. "You are very curious today, Cecily."
"Oh, there's no particular reason for it," said Cecily airily. "I only feel that it isn't quite right that I should have so little understanding of my own family history. Especially now that the Marquess is back at Scarcliffe Hall. It seems to me that the old trouble is coming back to haunt us, and, unless I know what it is, I cannot defend myself against it."
The Duchess glanced up and down the gallery to check that they would not be overheard. "You truly are my daughter," she said quietly. "I know what you are thinking. Surely, there must be some way to ease the tension between your father and the Marquess? Believe me, my dear, I tried myself. I even traced the accused painter down to Brampton village, not ten miles from here. When your father found out…" She closed her eyes at the memory. "It was the first time I saw him truly angry. I would not wish that on you for the world, Cecily. Take my advice and stay out of it. It will only bring you harm."
"I won't think of it again, Mama," said Cecily. The lie came so smoothly and easily that it astonished her. She was used to telling small white lies to her parents – they made it so much easier to get her own way – but this was the first time she felt she had really engaged in an outright deception.
She kept her face carefully composed to hide the guilt which wrenched at her.
"Now, I did not come here to speak about old paintings," said the Duchess. "I wanted to let you know that your father and I have agreed that your friend the Countess of Streatham may visit with us for as long as she pleases. The poor girl has had such bad luck, to be widowed at such a young age! Anything that we can do to help her, we will. So be off with you and write to her directly! I don't want your father to find you here with Lady Letitia's portrait."
"Yes, Mama." Cecily bowed her head obediently and left the gallery. She turned back at the doorway to find her mother contemplating the portrait herself, deep in thought.
It was comforting to know that she and Robert might yet find an ally in her mother. She did not dare risk telling her yet, but perhaps, when the truth came out, she would only have one parent to do battle with.
Cecily went immediately to her rooms to write a letter to Isabella and, more importantly, to Robert. She would have to think up some clever bribe to cajole Jemima in
to taking it to the oak tree.
But when she sat down to write Robert's letter, she found that her mind was in too great a turmoil to set her thoughts down clearly. What did it mean, that Lady Letitia was wearing a ring that belonged to her kidnapper's family? Why had that ring been hidden away in Scarcliffe Hall?
Could it be that Letitia and Thomas had not been enemies, but rather…something entirely different?
Cecily set down her quill pen. Perhaps she and Robert were not the first Hartley and Balfour to fall for one another. But, if she was right, the first attempt to unite their families had resulted in undying hatred.
What would become of her and Robert, in the face of such a tragic history?
Cecily set her doubts aside and wrote down what she had learned as coherently as she could manage. She had already put her faith in Robert. She would have to keep that faith burning brightly.
Chapter Eighteen
Robert had not kept his promise. He had found the letter left in the hollow of the old oak tree, and read it many times, but he had not yet burned it. He could not bring himself to do so until every word was committed to memory. He had passed the night with the letter under his pillow, as though the ink and paper were enough to fill his dreams with Cecily. When he awoke in the morning, having slept dreamlessly, he was bitterly disappointed.
Cecily's plan was simple. She would ride out that morning with the obliging Jemima as her companion, but, instead of making her way around the Loxwell estate, they would take the main road to Scarcliffe Hall. Robert would meet them along the way in his fastest carriage, which would take all three of them to Brampton, the village where Andrew Clearwell lived. They would ask around until they found his house and, once he was discovered, they would question him about the origins of the portrait of Lady Letitia – and whether it really was the Balfour ring that she wore.
The Earl's Secret Passion (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 1) Page 10