“Vinnie, give over,” Aubrey replied, helping himself to a plate of kedgeree before realising he didn’t want it. Vinnie’s description might not be pleasant, but it felt too accurate for his liking. He pushed the plate away with a grimace and drank his coffee instead.
“Well, if you are all going to be so grumpy, I’m going upstairs to see Gee-Gee. At least she appreciates my company.” Vinnie got to her feet and stalked off.
Aubrey sighed, relieved she’d gone, though he felt a little guilty, but he was in a foul temper, and the sooner he could get out of the house, the better. He’d spent hours yesterday searching the streets of Dover until well after dark and then waiting for Alfie to collect the pony and cart before realising he never would. Then he’d endured a most uncomfortable ride home, lit only by moonlight, not getting back until the early hours of the morning, cold and tired and furious with Alfred bloody Marwick.
Well, the bastard would not escape him in Little Valentine.
“Your sister has a point. You do not look in prime twig this morning,” Hawkney observed, scrutinising Aubrey over the rim of his cup. “Wheredidyou go yesterday? I am told you did not return until four in the morning.”
“Would you like a written report of my whereabouts, your grace?” Aubrey replied tersely, getting to his feet. “Or am I correct in thinking I am a grown man and entitled to go about my business, whatever it might be?”
“Oh, quite correct,” Hawkney replied, putting down his coffee cup as a footman set a plate with a large sirloin and fried potatoes before him. “It’s just my wretched curiosity at work. You know I cannot abide a puzzle, but your affairs are your own, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Aubrey replied with a snort, knowing full well that Hawkney made it his business to know everything about everyone, interfering devil. Well, not today.
“I was considering a ride out after breakfast. I’ve been cooped up with grandmother’s damned land agent all week and I’ve barely seen daylight. Care to join me?”
Aubrey shook his head in response to the casual invitation, far too concerned with his own affairs to consider spending time with his overbearing relation. He supposed he ought to make peace with his sister before he went out, but then he intended to track down Alfie Marwick and indulge in the pleasure of wringing his neck.
“No, sorry. Things to do. Good day to you, Hawk.”
“And to you, cousin.”
Little Valentine, 18thJanuary 1816
Miss Clara Halfpenny strode out along the beach, relishing the icy wind in her face as her little dog Benny gambolled beside her. She had escaped the confines of her aunt’s cottage with glee on instruction from Reverend Honeywell. The wonderful man had called upon her unwelcoming aunt and quietly instructed Clara to escape while she could. He was a dear fellow, so very kind, and that he had known she was going mad with loneliness since Clementine, Bea, and Mrs Adamson had all up and married, was just further proof of his goodness. His daughter Izzy was lovely too, though Clara wished she did not feel so much like a charity case, for she found it hard to believe Izzy visited for any other reason.
Nonsense, she told herself firmly. Izzy was her friend, and so were Clemmie, Bea, and Anne. Yet it was an idea shestruggled to hold on to, having been considered nothing but a burden ever since she had arrived in the world. Her mother had married beneath her, to a dashing army officer, a move that she lived to regret, as did her husband. It was not a happy marriage, and the addition of a daughter did nothing to improve matters. Her less than doting mama running off with one of her father’s friends hardly helped.
As following the drum was no life for a small girl, Clara had been shunted from one relation to the next, taken on begrudgingly and used as unpaid labour. Her timid attempts to make herself part of the family, to join in conversations or offer an opinion about anything, had been crushed time and time again, often with undisguised cruelty, until she stopped trying. Until she forgot how.
“Here, Benny!” she called as the little dog got too far ahead of her. There were others walking on the beach this morning, drawn out of doors by a faint glimmer of sunshine and a small patch of blue sky. “Not enough to make a Dutchman’s trousers,” she told Benny sadly as he trotted back, for the clouds were gathering once more.
Benny yipped, uncaring whether or not it was sunny, just excited to be out of doors.
Clara laughed, the sound dying in her throat as she caught sight of a man farther along the beach. Tall and imposing, he was leading a black horse, and she knew who he was at once. The Duke of Hawkney. Her heart thudded uncomfortably, instinct urging her to shrink back, to turn away and become invisible. Aunt Edna’s shrill voice echoed in her mind—don’t draw attention, you’ll only make a fool of yourself. No one wants to know what you think. Why would they?
Anxiety prickled down her spine as she remembered her last run in with the horrid man. Not that she had known who he was. When she had realised he was a duke, a man powerful enough to crush her like an ant beneath his boot, she had been horrified. Frightened, too. Now, her palms grew damp in the confines of her leather gloves and she reached for Benny, gathering the wriggling dog against her for comfort, heedless of his wet, sandy legs.
Turn around and walk the other way, she told herself.You’ll only make things worse if he acknowledges you. You’ll blush and stammer and he’ll laugh when he realises you’re nothing but an insignificant mouse.
Yet then she remembered the quelling way he had silenced her after she had scolded him for his rudeness.
That’s ‘your grace.’
There had been such weight behind the words, the heft and power of generations of men, more than enough to conquer one as small and insignificant as Clara.
“Oh, Miss Halfpenny!”
Clara jolted, torn from her thoughts of the duke by another, even less welcome arrival.
Miss Marigold Chesson’s parents ran The Swan Inn, a respectable place, though not half so upmarket as Mrs Chesson would like to believe. Her only daughter was spoilt, vain, and took a good deal of pleasure in malicious gossip. She was the kind of girl that made Clara tongue tied and stupid. The realisation that her best friend, Miss Twort, was with her, only aggravated the situation.
Sarah Twort was twice as wide as Miss Chesson, though that was not difficult as Marigold was painfully thin and as straightup and down as a ruler. Her mousy hair was tightly coiled in spring-like ringlets that did nothing to soften her narrow face.
“Goodness, Miss Halfpenny, aren’t you cold? That cloak looks like it has seen better days. Especially now that dirty creature has wiped his filthy paws all over it. Don’t you have anything better to wear on such a cold morning?”
Miss Chesson may have imagined her expression to be one of friendly concern. To Clara, it looked akin to that of a bird of prey viewing a lone mouse and only needed a glimpse of talons to complete the impression. Before Miss Chesson had posed the question, Clara had been perfectly warm from the exertion of her walk and the sheer pleasure of being out of doors. Now, she shivered.
