“Highwaymen frequent that route, my lady. One can’t be too careful.”
“I’m sure you are right.”
Within the hour, she had said her goodbyes. A footman opened the front door for her and she walked to the coach, already planning ahead. She had a handsome dress allowance, certainly enough to pay for two night’s accommodation. To simplify matters, she would stop at the same inns where she and Robert had stayed. Both were of the highest standard. Not that she cared for such things, but it would prove safer.
*
Robert arrived homeat dusk, his wet coat dripping chilly water down his neck and his Italian leather boots squelching and spattered with mud. It had poured during the race. The track obscured by mist, and Mercury, who took a dislike to the heavy going, ran a distant fourth. The horse pulled up sore and would need to spend time in the paddock. He had cursed himself a thousand times for his treatment of Kate that morning. Why on earth had he not just invited her to join him? He could have forgone a visit to the Jockey Club. It would have been a generous thing to do. Charley Bartholomew would have understood. And it would have pleased him to watch her enjoying herself. Then the awful scene would not have happened. Deuce it! He should have stayed and put things to rights.
Robert groaned at his cowardice. Yes,cowardice. It hurt to admit it, but he’d refused to face up to anything of late. Not so Kate. She had taken up the reins of her new situation in life with remarkable aplomb. She made a gracious marchioness. He’d failed her there, too. He should have praised her more often. When had he become so mean-spirited?
He shrugged out of his damp greatcoat. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. He would do so now. His anger at what he saw as her disloyalty when she’d colluded with his mother had melted away. And he could not find it in his heart to believe her of infidelity with Southmore or anyone else. That weasel might pursue her, but she would never welcome it.
Now capable of clarity of thought, he saw that he was at fault. But would she forgive him? He stripped off his gloves and handed Hove his mahogany cane, coat, and hat. “Where is Lady St. Malin?” he asked, combing his fingers through his hair.
A gleam appeared in Hove’s eyes. “Why, she’s gone to Cornwall, my lord.”
Damn the man, why did he look so self-righteous? Robert frowned hardly believing his ears. “Cornwall?”
“Her ladyship said she left you a note, my lord. Perhaps your valet has it?”
Dread rising in his throat to choke him, Robert ran upstairs, seeking Fenton. He found his valet at the clothespress sorting through his stocks.
Fenton turned. “I’d better have those boots, my lord,” he said with a grimace.
“Never mind that man, do you have a note for me?”
“Yes, I do, my lord.”
Fenton hurried to the bureau and snatched up the note. Robert scanned it quickly. The formal tone of the letter revealed little of her thoughts or emotions. He crumpled it in his hand as he paced the room. But he knew her state of mind all too well; had been aware of it for some time. Kate had wanted something from him. But for some obscure reason, he’d been unable to give it. She had wanted his love. He uttered a string of curses under his breath as he forced himself to face yet another truth. He had been angry in one way or another since the will was read. Did he want her to suffer as well for his past hurts? A prickle of shame ran down his spine. He rubbed the back of his neck to try to eradicate it.
Robert pivoted on his heel, filled with a new sense of purpose. Might something wonderful come from all this even now? He had to try.
His valet waited, looking expectant. “Pack my trunk, Fenton. For a lengthy stay in Cornwall.”
“Best remove those muddy boots, my lord. And change your clothes before you catch your death.”
Fenton’s mind ran along one track. But he was right; he couldn’t visit looking like he’d lost his senses, although he’d come close to it. He fell into a chair and held out his foot for the valet. Fenton straddled his leg and pulled. “Do you wish a bath drawn, my lord?”
“No time for that. Bring a basin of hot water.”
In fresh clothes, Robert left his chamber and descended to the salon. The days grew dark earlier now, and the candelabras had been lit. A fire burned in the grate. He pulled the bell and poured himself a whisky to settle his nerves before he left. The drink warmed his insides as he sipped it but failed to ease his angst as he stood before Kate’s portrait. How regal she looked, like the true marchioness she had become. Gainsborough had captured all those qualities Robert had resolutely ignored. Her calm good sense as well as her beauty. He had thrust away her every attempt at affection, spurning her concern for him, and her loyalty. What a fool he’d been. The door opened and the butler entered. “I require the phaeton, Hove.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Hove cast an approving glance at the portrait. “Lady St. Malin looks very fine, doesn’t she, my lord?”
“She does indeed. Was my lady accompanied in the coach?”
“Yes, my lord. I took the liberty of sending two of the footman and ensured they were armed.”
Robert nodded. “You did well, Hove. Tomorrow, I leave for Cornwall at first light.” Robert turned and left the room, he was filled impatience to be gone. But first he had something he must do.
Robert drove his phaeton to Portman Square. He had a lot to do to start putting things to rights and would begin with his mother. It troubled him when Kate said his father had left her penniless. He wished he had known that sooner.
As his horses trotted gracefully along the cobbled roads, unwelcome memories came to plague him. He tensed as his mind returned to his school days at Harrow. It all began not long after his father had died when the lads returned from holidays. Robert had remained at the school, still grief stricken and missing his father.
His mother visited to explain that her new husband considered it best if he didn’t come home for the holidays as they were settling into the new house and beginning married life together. Robert was asked if he understood. He said he did. But he hadn’t. His father had always taken him fishing at their country estate when he was home from school, and they’d ridden and hunted together. Naturally, some boys returned from holidays having heard about his mother’s marriage. And a few months later, when one of them discovered she was enceinte, it traveled around the school like wildfire.
Francis Braithwaite and the duke’s son, Clarence Brougham, stated it was not goodton, and decided to make an example of him. The torture began. Beatings where it didn’t show. They woke him at night to stand in a cold bucket of water while demanding Robert say that his mother was a harlot. He’d refused, sobbing at the rear of the sport’s pavilion where no one would find him, while taking his punishment and waiting for it to end. But then when two of them held him by the ankles from a second story window, he’d cracked. She’s a harlot isn’t she, the boy’s chanted. Say it or we let go. And Robert had said those words. He’d hated himself for it ever since. Couldn’t look at his mother without remembering the fear.
