‘A letter, Captain. The General said you were to have this at once.’
Rawden waved away the soldier, tore open the letter and read it quickly. All the breath seemed to exit his lungs at once. He crumpled the letter into a ball in a clenched fist and turned to Hardy.
‘We are going home tonight.’
‘Why the sudden haste?’
‘News from England. It seems my days as a drunken, whoring reprobate are over.’
Hardy frowned. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’ he said.
‘I need some air,’ said Rawden, and he rushed out onto the landing, slamming the door behind him. For the longest time, he was frozen, unsure what to do or how to feel. He roused himself out of his shock, and high-pitched giggles followed his headlong flight down the stairs, away from Hardy, the whores, the four walls which suddenly closed in on him.
He burst out into the sunshine, blinking, bile souring his mouth, his heart a thudding fist against his breastbone. Damn his life, damn his vicious, spiteful bastard of a father for dying, and most of all, damn the promise he had made to William, which would force him to be something he was not and never would be – a gentleman.
There was nothing to do but get on with it. No matter how much he loathed the idea, he was going to pay a visit to this money-grubbing, gold-digger, Miss Grace Howden.
Chapter Fourteen
Grace stared out of the window. The house had become a prison, for Uncle Charles would not allow her to go outside for any other reason than to visit with the old lord he sought to marry her off to. And as she had steadfastly refused to even meet him, Uncle Charles’ irritation had grown until he had bullied and shouted and stomped and declared her an ungrateful good-for-nothing whose stubbornness would be the death of him.
She dearly wanted to go for a walk and remember happier times with Will, walking by the river as the swans glided by. His eyes had been alight with admiration, his tone gentle, hanging on her every word. Though she had been guarded, careful not to offend with her forthright opinions, she had enjoyed those quiet, calm moments in a sea of uncertainty.
A discreet knock had her turning to see a servant. He was new to the house and very young, a nervous little fellow called Dawson, who got scant kindness from his employer, nor Withers, the butler, who had taken to bullying him mercilessly. Dawson’s main qualification for his position was that he was cheap and desperate for employment and a roof over his head.
‘A gentleman caller, Miss Howden,’ he announced, falling over his words. ‘He is downstairs and begging an audience with you. Shall I send him up?’
‘Who is it?’
He reddened. ‘I…erm…he did say his name, but I…, oh dear, I seem to have forgotten it on the way up the stairs.’
Grace tried not to give in to irritation. ‘Then I will have to guess it, Dawson. Was he young or old?’
‘Oh, not old. In the prime, I would say. Indeed, he is a very imposing man. Tall, well dressed,’ he offered finally, with a timid smile.
Thank goodness it was not old Lord Harcroft come to ambush her. Perhaps it was one of William’s comrades from the barracks, come to talk following Uncle Charles’ visit.
‘Send him up, and tell Mrs Talbot to bring tea.’
‘Very well, Miss.’
The servant hurried off, and Grace smoothed her hair and stood to receive her visitor, acutely aware that she was wearing an old tatty dress and that her hands were covered in ink stains from reading the morning’s newspaper.
When her visitor swept into the parlour, her spine stiffened.
‘So glad to find you at leisure this morning, Miss Howden,’ declared Caville Sharp, flopping into a chair beside the fire as if he owned the place.
‘What are you doing here?’ she cried.
He put his head to one side and shrugged. ‘Why, I am come to call and enquire as to your welfare, Miss Howden. I understand that you recently received some distressing news. As soon as was seemly, I have come to condole with you.’
Seemly? What did he know of that? With disgust and a sinking heart, Grace realised that he had been waiting in the wings for dire news, like a vulture, and now he had come to scoop her up in his claws.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she said.
‘Yes, you do, so let us not pretend you did not harbour some vain hope of making a union with William Voss. An earl’s son. You aim high, don’t you?’
‘I do not need your condolences, not that they are sincere in any case, and your presence here is no more welcome than last I saw you, Mr. Sharp.’
