The Earl's Secret Passion (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 1)

by Gemma Blackwood

  "Now," he said, taking a seat. "I expect you have some questions for me."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Robert had never had a more baffling welcome than the one he had just received. Mr Clearwell had the appearance of a sweet old man, but the behaviour of a paranoid invalid. Robert watched with trepidation as Mr Clearwell poured himself another glass of sherry. The last thing they wanted was for the man to drink himself into incoherence.

  "I understand that you once painted a picture of my great aunt, Lady Letitia Hartley," he said. Clearwell gave a gloomy nod. "That painting is now in the possession of the Duke of Loxwell. How did it fall into his hands?"

  "A simple question that warrants a simple answer. I gave it to him."

  "What induced you to give a portrait of Lady Letitia to her enemies?"

  Mr Clearwell shook his head sadly. "They were not her enemies at the time." He rubbed a weary hand across his forehead and sighed. "If I may, my lord, I will begin at the beginning. There was a time, when I was a young man at the beginning of my career, when I was befriended by one Lord Thomas Balfour. Lord Thomas fancied himself a budding patron of the arts, you see, and I flatter myself that I was one of the more talented painters in this part of England. We met at an exhibition of my work and he commissioned several pieces from me in the months that followed. He was a kind and gentle soul, as one would expect from his love of art. He treated everyone with respect, from the lowest villager to the Dukes who were his father's peers. But I think I do not overstate matters when I say that he and I were true friends, despite the difference in station.

  "When it happened that Lord Thomas fell in love, he came to me even before his father. 'Clearwell,' he said, 'I want you to paint her.' I thought he meant a miniature for a locket, but Lord Thomas had grander designs. He brought the lady to me and had me paint her wearing his ring. I was surprised by how young she was – only sixteen years old. The treasured darling of her family – there was no hope of her father agreeing to her marriage before she turned eighteen."

  "It was Lady Letitia," said Cecily. "I recognised the Balfour ring in the portrait. Oh, I knew it! I knew they were in love!"

  She was so proud of herself for solving the mystery that she practically glowed. Robert could not stop his eyes tracing lovingly over her beaming face, even though he knew Clearwell was watching their every move with his painter's eye for detail.

  "If Lord Thomas had one flaw, it was impatience," said Clearwell, making no mention of what he saw between Robert and Cecily. "He did not want to wait until the lady's father saw fit to part with her. Lady Letitia, too, was just as eager to be wed. They made a plan here in my cottage to elope together."

  "How romantic!" Cecily breathed. "And, oh! How sad!"

  "Sad is not the word." Clearwell's voice cracked with a half-forgotten grief. "The next news I heard of my friend was that he had been killed in a carriage accident."

  "And Lady Letitia was with him!"

  "The poor girl," Robert murmured. "To watch her lover die on the brink of happiness… Small wonder she was driven mad."

  "You are jumping ahead of me, my lord," said Clearwell. "My story has not yet reached that unhappy conclusion. Now, the moment I heard of Lord Thomas's death, I went to Loxwell Park to offer my condolences. Naturally, I brought the painting I had recently finished for him. I did not think of collecting my commission, mark you! Only that, since it had been ordered by Lord Thomas, it was right to gift it to his family. Knowing that the then Marquess, Lady Letitia's father, did not approve of the love between the young pair, I could not deliver the painting to him." Clearwell rubbed a wrinkled hand over his leg as he spoke. Robert guessed that he was suffering from some arthritic pain, though he was too proud to show it. It reminded Robert of his father: a thought that now could not occur without a pang of regret. "I had not yet heard," Clearwell continued, "of the bad feelings which had sprung up between the two families. Their children had loved each other, but they did not know it. Lady Letitia's family claimed she had been kidnapped by Lord Thomas. The Duke and Duchess, quite naturally, denied the accusation. They blamed the Hartleys' carriage for their son's death."

  "And it was in the middle of this trouble that you appeared, with the painting?" Cecily's voice was full of sympathy.

  "The Duke took it from me without a word of what he had planned. If I had only known…" Clearwell shook his head wryly. "I might have saved myself a great deal of trouble, and Lady Letitia too. The Duke used the portrait to accuse me as her secret lover. I lost all my standing among the gentry. My career was nearly ruined by it. And as for the young lady…"

  "She was maligned at the height of her grief by the very family she had tried to become a part of. At only sixteen!"

  "I visited her, you know," said Clearwell. "It was the least I could do after the pain I caused her. If they knew of the rumours surrounding us at the house of invalids, they never mentioned it. I visited her every month. When she was finally carried off by a bout of influenza, I was at her side." His voice began to waver. "Shall I tell you the last thing she ever said to me?"

  Robert was not sure he wanted to hear it, however much it might ease the old man's mind. He preferred to shy away from darkness. Cecily, however, got up from her rocking chair and went to Clearwell's side.

  "Please, tell us. Lady Letitia's story ought not to die with her."

  "She said, 'Do not be distressed, Andrew. I am shortly going to see the dearest friend I have ever known.'"

  "The poor lady," Cecily murmured. She offered Clearwell a handkerchief, which he used to dab his eyes.

  "Well, that's over and done with," he said, with unconvincing brightness. "As are most of my trials and woes, thank goodness." Having cleared the pain of the past from his mind, his expression grew shrewd and knowing. "Your own troubles, I think, are yet to come."

  "I think you have guessed what circumstance brought a Hartley and a Balfour to your door," said Robert.

  "I only wish it were not so plain. Looking at the pair of you transports me fifty-five years into the past. I have no advice to give you. If I had any power to change the mind of a Duke and a Marquess, I would have done it all those years ago."

  "You have already helped us immeasurably," said Cecily. "All that we would ask of you is that you will come with us to speak to our fathers when the time is right. Your story might help us set aside years of feuding."

  Clearwell's shoulders sagged in relief. "Then you do not intend to elope?"

  Cecily caught Robert's eye. He understood her concern. It did not seem right to lie to the old man, especially not when he had told them so much.

  "We will keep our feelings for each other a secret until our families are reconciled," he said, taking the burden of dishonesty on himself. Cecily was twirling a strand of hair anxiously around a finger. Although he regretted her discomfort, Robert took it as a good sign. While their love affair had necessitated deception, Cecily clearly prized honesty.

  "I will not allow history to repeat itself," said Mr Clearwell, with all the authority of his age. "Earl or not, I will not hold with another elopement. Not after the trouble the last one caused."

  "Rest assured, that is not our aim," said Robert.

  He was not at all afraid of discovery. By the time Clearwell heard that an elegant young couple were staying at the local inn, they would be safely on their way to Gretna Green.

  "I did not like lying to him," said Cecily, as they walked back to the inn, arm in arm. "Would it not be better, now that we know the truth, to go to our parents and see if we can bring things about the proper way?"

  "I will not force you to elope with me," said Robert, though he could not hide his disappointment. His need to claim Cecily as his own grew stronger with every passing moment. It was already an agony of time until the happy moment came. He was not sure he could endure waiting longer. "But it seems to me the path of least risk. Once we are married, our families cannot tear us apart. It will be much less difficult to deal with if we ca
n present it to them as a fait accompli."

  "You are right," sighed Cecily. She let her head fall onto his shoulder. "At least, I am too tempted by it to think you are wrong."

  They had reached the entrance to the inn, where a sign bearing a white swan swung gently in the breeze.

  "Shall we go in, Mrs Somerville?" asked Robert, with a wry smile. Cecily's eyes were wide and blue, half hope and half fear.

  "Why not, Mr Somerville. Why not?"

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  To Cecily's relief, Robert waited downstairs at the bar while she bathed and dressed in the simple cotton nightshift they had bought from the innkeeper's wife. Cecily was grateful that the woman had been discreet enough not to ask too many questions. They had told her a story of getting lost on the road while their luggage was taken ahead by carriage – a flimsy deception, but one that would suffice for a single evening. In the morning, they would stop off at another, busier town, in the hope of buying clean clothes and other necessities in the market. Then it would be onto the mail coach and off to Gretna Green.

  Cecily could not quite believe that, in only a few short days, she would be a married woman. Events had moved so quickly that she felt she was continually running to keep up with them. How short a time it was since Robert had been her most hated enemy! And how dear he was to her now!

  If you had asked her a month ago whether such a material change were possible in so short a time, Cecily would have laughed. Now, she knew that miracles could happen.

  The miracle of her marriage, though… That was another matter entirely. Cecily considered herself a bold sort, but this was a vast undertaking, even for her.

  She was glad that Robert was so understanding of her confusion. He was kindness itself. She knew how deeply, how passionately he wanted her – that had been made perfectly clear. She felt the same longing herself, and struggled against its strange power. It was so much easier for men to accept their desires. Society demanded that women should be sweet, innocent and silent; ready to accept an advantageous marriage and never dreaming of a lover's tenderness.

  But the feelings Robert had awakened within Cecily were too strong to be denied. Better yet, they did not seem sinful or wrong. There was a rightness, a purity, to her love for him that told her that she was right to give up everything to be his. Even the risk of scandal could not sully it.

  It was with these convictions firmly in mind that Cecily sat down to make the most of the dying light at the window and write a regretful, yet hopeful, letter to her father.

  A knock at the door gave her some relief from working out how to begin.

  "Are you decent?" Robert called softly.

  "Come in!"

  He let himself in, closing the door and prudently locking it, then came to stand behind her and began massaging the tension from her shoulders. Cecily sighed, feeling herself unwind under his strong hands. "You are writing to your father?" he asked, seeing the salutation that was all she had managed to put down.

  "Is it wrong? I cannot bear to leave him with no word of me. He was beside himself that night I spent at Scarcliffe Hall."

  "No," said Robert, planting a kiss on the top of her head. "I think it is quite the right thing to do. I only wish I could bring myself to write to my own father, but I am still too angry with him. If he is worried, let him stew over it!"

  "Lord Jonathan might appreciate a word from you."

  "Hart will be chiefly concerned with what I have done with his horse. I will have to ask the innkeeper if there's a village boy I could engage to ride up to Scarcliffe Hall once we are ready to switch to the mail coach."

  "It is so different for gentlemen," Cecily sighed. "No-one doubts that you are capable of taking care of yourself. I, on the other hand, have been running away from chaperones all my life."

  "Let this final flight be the last one," said Robert. "You will have more freedom as my wife, I promise you. I prize your independence as highly as you do."

  Cecily tilted her head upwards to kiss him, but, before their lips met, they were startled apart by a knock at the door.

  "It will be the innkeeper's wife," said Cecily, trying to hide her nerves.

  Robert opened the door. Cecily let herself breathe when she saw that it was indeed the innkeeper's wife who had disturbed them.

  Her relief lasted only a moment.

  "Pardon me, Mr Somerville," said the woman, sounding uncertain of the name. "There are two very fine ladies downstairs who are looking for a young couple. I thought perhaps it might be you they were after."

  "That is quite impossible," said Robert. Cecily was impressed by his calmness. "As I told you, we became lost on our way elsewhere and did not expect to stop here for the night. No-one knows we are here."

  "That is precisely why I thought I ought to warn you," said the innkeeper's wife. "The two ladies would not give me any names, sir. They seem to be looking for two people who are travelling in some secrecy."

  "Then I wish them good fortune in their search," said Robert, making to close the door.

  "Cecily!" A desperate voice drifted up from the stairwell. "Cecily, if you are here, I beg you – do not hide yourself!"

  Cecily gripped the edge of her chair, feeling sick. "It is my mother," she whispered. Robert froze with his hand on the doorknob. The innkeeper's wife pursed her lips.

  "I will tell the ladies that I was mistaken," she offered. "Mr and Mrs Somerville do not fit their description at all."

  "That is kind of you," said Cecily, standing up. "But I will go down and speak to them myself."

  "Are you certain?" asked Robert, in a low voice. Cecily could not meet his eyes. She knew that she would not have the strength to run away with him if her mother begged her not to go. Robert seemed to know it, too. He stepped aside with a sigh. "It's your choice."

  Trying not to quaver under the knowing stare of the innkeeper's wife, Cecily walked past Robert and onto the landing.

  At the bottom of the staircase, Jemima and her mother were waiting with upturned faces and worried expressions.

  "Cecily!" The Duchess ran up the stairs and flung her arms about her daughter's neck. "What have you done, my dearest? What were you thinking?"

  "I am sorry, Ceci," said Jemima. "When you did not come home, I could not lie to your mother. I was worried for you myself."

  "Perhaps you should go into the room," suggested the innkeeper's wife. "I have other guests in the house, you see, and I think you will not wish to be overheard."

  Cecily took her mother's arm with one hand and Jemima's with the other. "There is someone I would very much like you to meet, Mama," she said, leading them into the room.

  Robert's composure under stress was beginning to be the thing Cecily most admired about him. He gave no indication of a man surprised mid-elopement, but greeted the Duchess as graciously as though they were meeting in a ballroom.

  "It gives me the greatest pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Your Grace," he said, kissing her hand.

  The Duchess pressed her lips together into a tight, thin line. "I wish I could say the same, my lord."

  Robert did not allow even the faintest shadow of embarrassment to darken his features. "It was my intention and Cecily's that we should visit Loxwell Park the moment our business was concluded."

  "Visit?" The Duchess repeated faintly, while Jemima made a noise of inelegant scorn.

  "Ha! I knew it. Of all your boneheaded schemes, Ceci, eloping must be the worst. And with him!"

  "And with me," Robert repeated gravely. Jemima squared her shoulders and faced him, unabashed.

  "I am not afraid of you, my lord. Your title demands my deference, but your behaviour means I should be ashamed to give it!"

  "Then it is true?" asked the Duchess, clutching Cecily's hand. "You mean to elope with this man?"

  "Mama…" Cecily found she could not find the words to defend herself in the face of her mother's despair.

  Fortunately, Robert had not lost his self-possession. "We are
in love," he said, placing a hand on Cecily's shoulder. "And, since there was no hope of our families approving the match, we took the steps we felt necessary."

  "Love?" the Duchess repeated, as though the word had lost all its meaning. "What is love to us, Ceci? Your father is Duke of Loxwell. You were always destined to marry for advantage – for money, for a title, for political gain." She covered her mouth with a hand to hide the trembling of her lips. "I never thought to dream of love for my only daughter. Was I remiss?"

  "Mama! No, never!" Cecily embraced her as tightly as she could. "No-one could have predicted this."

  "I predicted it," said Jemima, flouncing down into the chair at the writing desk and fixing Robert with a murderous glare.

  The Duchess clasped Cecily's hands. "Do you still intend to run away with him? Even now, seeing how it will wound me?"

  Cecily knew that everyone in the room was looking at her. Jemima, with reproach; her mother, with anguish; Robert, with hope and fear.

  "I chose to run because I saw no other way forward," she said, choosing her words carefully. How to balance Robert's heart against her mother's? She had no desire to hurt either of them, and knew that, by her choice, she must. "If there were any other way, I would take it."

  "But, my darling, you did not explore every option," her mother chided her gently. "You did not come to me."

  Cecily raised her eyes. "You will give us your blessing?"

  "With all my heart," said the Duchess, extending a hand to Robert. "On the condition that you do not run away together. You must stay at Loxwell Park, my daughter, and together, we will find a way to persuade your father to give up this petty feud."

  "You have tried that once before, to no avail," Cecily reminded her.

  "I was a younger woman then, and did not have the conviction of a marriage of many years," said the Duchess firmly. "If your father will not see reason, why, he will be made to see it. I have the greatest motive to inspire me now – my own daughter's happiness!" She turned to Robert and lifted her chin imperiously. "I expect you to make her happy, young man."