Hecate glanced at Finn. “Frank’s brother was lost at Waterloo.”
He crossed the room and slapped the lad on the shoulder. “Welcome, Frank. I lost a lot of close friends too, but not family. My heart’s with you and yours. And I’m very glad you’re here…we need a good set of strong hands, right? All of us who served under the Iron Duke qualify for that description.” He looked at Dal and then at Hecate, hoping they understood.
“Absolutely, Mr. Finn,” said Dal with gravitas. “There are many things I cannot do, since I have other matters to attend to.”
“It is kind of your family to spare you to us, Frank. And yes, you will be Frank to us all,” she noted his embarrassed look. “I’ve met your father, remember.Heis Worsnop to me.Youhave to be Frank. “I need a reliable footman, someone who can answer the door,” she refrained from glancing at Finn, “and take care of the house.”
“I dunno, Ma’am…I ain’t done much o’ that stuff…”
“No matter,” she answered breezily. “Everyone will show you how to go on.”
Dal nodded, as the door opened to admit Winnie Trimmer with a tea tray. “Ah, Winnie.” Dal took the tray from her. “This is Mr. Frank Worsnop. He’s going to be our head footman for now. Will you show him around?”
Hecate couldn’t hide her smile this time, as Winnie looked over the almost six foot of awkwardness that was Frank Worsnop, and let her mouth fall open. Then she recovered herself, blushed, and nodded. “Will ye come this way, sir?”
“Uh…”
“Go along, Frank. It will be fine.” Hecate made shooing motions with her hands.
“Yes, Ma’am.” He made to touch his cap, which wasn’t on his head, gulped, and then hurried after Winnie.
Hecate smiled at Dal. “A good lad, I think.”
Dal nodded back. “It will be most pleasant to have a footman, Miss Hecate. We certainly need one. The Fates have provided.”
“If he served in Belgium, he’ll do well,” added Finn. “A soldier’s discipline has produced many fine men.” He wrinkled his nose. “And a few bounders too, of course, but Frank looks as solid as they come.”
“I’ve met his family; Richard set up a memorial for Davy Worsnop, along with the other local lads around Branscombe Magna who were killed at Waterloo.” She sighed. “And I venture to guess that Frank is going to be yet another success with some local girls. If Winnie doesn’t get to him first.”
Finn rolled his eyes. “There’s something in the water here, isn’t there?”
Hecate wasn’t sure how to answer that, so she merely grinned. “Right then. Shall we get on with these plans? While it’s quiet?”
“I think we have the outlines settled,” said Finn, returning to the paperwork they’d spread over the small sideboard. He moved a branch of candles closer and glanced out the window. “Skies are getting darker. More snow, d’you think?”
She sighed. “Could be. Much too early, but this year? Who can tell.”
They bent together over the drawings, Hecate at ease now with Finn’s closeness, although her awareness of his heat, and his growing health, still caught at her senses.
He was almost healed, and yet his memories after Waterloo remained sketchy and vague. One or two things he’d said made her believe they were returning, but if he tried to remember, he ended up frustrated at himself. So she let time take care of it, secure in the knowledge that he would eventually regain his recollections.
She wasn’t sure, however, what they would contain.
Fate granted them another hour, before the front door knocker sounded once more. Hecate walked to the door of the parlour, pleased to see Frank, spruced up nicely with his hair slicked back, lift the large interior latch.
She wasn’t surprised to hear a woman’s voice, but when that woman walked into the hall, Hecate caught her breath.
“Good God.” She moved to Frank’s side.
“Miss Ridlington. I’m not sure if you remember me…”
“I do indeed. You are—were—a…close friend of my brother-in-law, Sir James FitzArden.”
The woman managed a little smile. “Indeed yes. We met in London briefly, when you were there.” She closed her eyes and swayed for a moment. Then opened them as Frank moved to take her arm. “I’m all right. Thank you, young man.” She lifted her chin and gazed at Hecate. “I’m Augusta Pierpoint. James sent me to you.”
“He did?” Hecate raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
“I suppose because I need your help. You see I’m not feeling too well at the moment.”
And indeed this was not the vibrant and notorious woman who had been James’s mistress. This woman was tired, pale, and thinner than she used to be. Her garments were creased, as if she’d travelled a long way and her eyes betrayed some inner anguish.
“How may I help you, Lady Pierpoint?”
Tears filled the woman’s eyes. “I’m not sure you can.”
