“How extraordinary you thought to look there.” The baron leaned against the doorframe.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” She snapped it open and glared at him from over the top.
He gave a benign smile and offered her his arm. “Shall we join the others in the ballroom?”
With a stiff nod, Hetty accepted. He stepped beside her, and she rested her hand on his sleeve, aware of the sensual slide of fine cloth under her gloved fingers. Her skirts rustled against his leg as they walked down the long passage with the beeswax candles burning in their sconces scenting the air.
“Do you know, Miss Cavendish, I found your groom most remarkable.”
Hetty swallowed and wished she could go home. “You did?”
“The way he cares for animals, particularly.”
“Yes, he has a gift with them,” she added, warming to her subject. Simon was a master with horses after all.
“I’ve heard it said that Englishmen love their horses more than their women.”
“Indeed?” She removed her hand. “You should not believe all you hear, my lord. Why, I’ve heard it said, that the French are overdressed flirts? Most unfair I feel sure.” She offered a regretful smile.
A grin turned up the corners of his mouth and sparked in his eyes. “Most unfair. But as I require staff for the Hall, I must warn you, I may try to steal Simon from you.”
So that was what this was about. She must stop them from meeting. “Simon will never agree. He is very loyal. I would advise you not to bother.”
He smiled with an apologetic shrug. “At least I have been honest.”
“Honesty does not necessarily guarantee good manners, my lord.” They had reached the ballroom. Relieved, she saw her father approaching. “Ah, here is Father. It must be time to leave.”
Her father thanked their hostess and excused himself to organize the carriage.
“I advise you to accept Mr. Oakley’s offer, my dear.” Lady Kemble pinched her lips. “He is more than acceptable, and your unfashionable height will bring few opportunities your way.”
“Thank you for your advice, Lady Kemble.” Hetty tried to ignore the sting of her words. “’Tis of no consequence, as I never intend to marry.”
Lady Kemble’s titter died away when the baron approached.
“How can you be sure of that, Miss Cavendish?” he asked. “You might meet your perfect match.”
“It is my wish to pursue literary endeavors like my aunt.” She now not only looked like a spinster, she sounded like one. It was his fault. His amused gaze unsettled her. It was unfair, one didn’t insult a baron, and it would be all around Digswell tomorrow. “Aunt Emily has a remarkable circle of friends and acquaintances in London.”
“A remarkable endeavor.”
She curtsied. Did he find her foolish or worse, dull?
He bowed before returning to speak to his hostess.
Some hours later, when Hetty had settled in bed, her uneasy thoughts refused to allow her to sleep. She stared into the dark, recalling her conversation with the baron and their dance. It appeared he hadn’t recognized her, and this unfortunate business would be at an end once she’d dealt with his wish to meet Simon, and a plan emerged. She would send Simon away on an errand. Then she would don the groom’s attire and waylay Lord Fortescue before he arrived at the house. Her disguise would be safe in the shadowy stables. Once she’d assured him that he need not pursue the matter and refused any offer of employment he might make her, she could whip up the back stairs and slip into a morning gown. A lace cap would hide her hair. Convinced she could make it work she yawned, and closed her eyes, drifting off.
Chapter Six
The following evening,after a day spent in fruitless search of his portmanteau, Guy wandered the Rosecroft gallery of portraits recognizing a feature or expression in some of his ancestors. His father had told him much of their history. He paused before a portrait of his father as a young man and his throat tightened. His father looked lighthearted, a lively humor shining in his blue eyes. Guy took a deep sip of the fine claret his butler had brought from the cellars, then continued on along the corridor which led to the west wing.
Art that his father had listed were missing from the walls, Meissen and Sévres china gone from the cabinets. Valuable items meant to be handed down from generation to generation, gone. There was a story here, and he wanted to hear it, but so far Eustace had managed to avoid his probing questions. He’d complained of the ague and retired to his rooms. Something was very wrong. Guy needed to delve deeper into the reasons behind the estate running at a loss. How was it possible for this to happen, with all the money his father had sent from France over the years? Could it be that Eustace had financial problems? Did he sell these pieces to pay his debts? Surely not, there must be another explanation. His father had written to Eustace, so he knew there was an heir who would one day come to England.
Guy sensed his father’s presence more strongly here in England. He was saddened, not only because Eustace had so obviously mismanaged the finances—despite the comfortable living the estate had afforded him, but also, because his father had walked away from so much that had mattered to him. The portrait gallery displaying Fortescues over several hundred years had struck at the very core of who he was. It was the same for his father. Strathairn had told him what had taken place before Guy’s father fled England’s shores all those years ago.
When a brash young blade, his father had flirted with a married lady and stirred the ire of her jealous husband, Earl Spender, who had demanded satisfaction. Friends had tried to persuade the earl to walk away, for the sum of it had been a brief kiss in the moonlight, but the countess had a history of dalliance, and her husband intended to make an example of Guy’s father.
The two men and their seconds met at dawn in Hyde Park. As the earl was known to be a poor shot, Guy’s father intended to delope. Earl Spender’s shot went wide. His father fired into the ground, trusting the seconds would then call a halt. But the earl insisted on a second shot and fired first. When Spender’s bullet grazed his father’s cheek, he fell back, and his pistol fired, ending the earl’s life. Before daybreak, his father had left England, never to return.
