Having taken the tray up to her aunt—and received a scolding because the cup she’d poured was too hot, too sweet, and too strong—Clara had just sat down to enjoy her own cup when there was a knock at the door. Benny jumped up, tail wagging in anticipation.
“What’s Izzy forgotten now?” she asked Benny with a smile, stooping to give him a pat before making her way to the door. Benny led her out impatiently, making Clara assume it was indeed a friend on the other side. So upon opening the door and discovering the imposing frame of the Duke of Hawkney on her doorstep, she might have been forgiving for falling into a swoon. She didn’t, thankfully, but her wits scattered and any intelligent remark she might have hoped to make flew away.
Hawkney appeared no less uncomfortable. He looked every inch the duke at his impeccable best, dressed in smart riding clothes, the exceptional tailoring doing wonderful things for a most impressive physique. Clara tried not to gawk, only slightly distracted by the sight of his massive black horse standing passively on the road. He’d tied the enormous animal to the garden fence and Clara prayed he didn’t walk off, for he’d take the entire fence with him.
“Good afternoon, Miss Halfpenny.”
Clara stared at him in confusion. Lord, but he was ridiculous on her aunt’s front doorstep. He was the kind of man who ought to be dressed in armour, leading thousands of men into battle. The rousing speech from Shakespeare’s Henry V flashed into her mind, and she could just imagine him ‘imitating the action of the tiger.’Inwardly, she recited ‘stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage. Then lend the eye a terrible aspect.’ A somewhat hysterical giggle rose in her throat and she forced it down with difficulty.
“I hope you are well?” he added stiffly.
Clara glanced towards the stairs, relieved her aunt was hard of hearing and praying the reverend kept her occupied as he’d promised. Stepping hurriedly outside, she pulled the door closed, having no intention of inviting his grace inside. How dreadfully rude, she thought frantically, and swallowed another absurd desire to laugh.
A look of frustration crossed the man’s face, but he ploughed on. “It occurred to me after the, er, incident yesterday, that you might not have brandy in the house. Howard, that is, my grandmother’s butler, led me to believe you live with your maiden aunt, and so…here.”
He thrust a bottle towards her.
Clara stared at it, bemused.
“You’ve brought me brandy?” she said, wondering if she’d fallen asleep in her chair and this was some manner of peculiar dream.
“I worried that you might have caught a chill after your walk home yesterday,” he said, looking increasingly aggravated. He sounded almost annoyed as he added, “You were so out of sorts I felt an irrational amount of concern that your wits had been addled by the confrontation. My valet recommends adding hot water, honey, and lemon.”
He clearly supposed it was her fault he had been forced to act upon his gentlemanly instincts. No doubt they were buried deep.
“Lemon?” Clara repeated, wondering if he supposed she had an orangery in the back of the cottage.
“Oh, that reminds me.” With this, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a lemon. “Courtesy of her grace. She hopes you make a swift recovery and expects to see you at the hall the moment you do. She demanded I tell you not to faint.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Clara said, indignant.
“That’s what I said. She seems to have the most peculiar notion that you are shy and retiring.”
Clara’s lips quirked. “I can’t imagine why,” she said faintly.
“Neither can I.” He studied her with an air of deep irritation. “Well. I am glad to see you are none the worse for your ordeal. I have written to the parents of both girls, reprimanding them for allowing two such ill-mannered creatures out in public. I hope they will not trouble you again, but I will thank you to inform me if they do.”
“Will you have them sent to the Tower?” The words escaped her before she could think better of them and she held her breath wondering what he might say.
Hawkney glowered at her. “Good day, Miss Halfpenny.”
“Your grace,” Clara said, cursing her inappropriate and ill-advised desire to tease the man as she sank into a low curtsey.
Unable to look away, she watched him mount his horse, all long legs and powerful physique, and experienced an odd thrill of pleasure at the sight. He gave her a curt nod before riding away, leaving Clara standing with the lemon in one hand and the bottle of brandy in the other.
Little Valentine, 18thJanuary 1816
Having walked from Willow Cottage, Izzy now stood at the crossroads. She ought to take the longer route, back past the church and over the bridge to get to The Mermaid. Glancing up at the sky, which was a brooding tumble of grey clouds, she calculated the risk of getting soaked. She’d probably just make it if she hurried. On the other hand, she could take the much shorter road through the woods, the one that ran close to The Dog and Duke. The pub was notorious for being frequented by smugglers, but during the day it ought to be safe enough, surely?
She knew which one she ought to choose.
Inevitably, she decided on the path through the woods, a decision she thought better of a little over five minutes later as the back of her neck prickled. Dead leaves skittered over the path, dancing in the icy wind that tugged at her bonnet. Stoppingin her tracks, Izzy turned around, staring up and down the path and into the gloomy, overgrown tangle of woodland. The skeletal branches of the trees creaked and clattered, one against the other, but otherwise she saw nothing. All the same.
“Who’s there?”
No answer. Well, of course there was no answer, she thought crossly, gazing along the path she’d just walked down. It had probably just been a deer or a rabbit, alarmed by her passing by. Muttering about her own stupidity, she turned to carry on her journey and let out a shriek of alarm.
There was a man standing directly in front of her.
