Chapter Seven
Gene pulled thecurricle into the small town of Kingsbridge. He left the horses with his groom, and with a sinking heart, made inquiries and was directed to a building farther down the street.
Hat in hand, he entered and was taken to a small room. The attendant removed the covering. The man’s hair was wet, and Gene couldn’t discern the color. He looked down at what remained of the body and shook his head. “It is not Lord Felsted.”
“Are you sure, Your Grace? Remaining in the water for some time…”
“No.”
“You might like to see his clothes.”
Gene nodded unemotionally.
They placed the clothes on a table before him. He turned over the fine-quality fabrics. Excellent tailoring, but nothing he recognized. Again, he shook his head.
“Perhaps if you were to go to the tavern. Have something to drink, then return?”
Four hours later, Gene drove his horses through the gates of Halstead Hall. It was late afternoon, and the sun sank over the woods, painting them in pinks and oranges. The view had always pleased him, but he noted it dispassionately as he threw the reins to the groom and strode to the house.
His secretary entered the library where he sat nursing a brandy. “You wished to see me, Your Grace?”
“Yes. We have a funeral to organize, Blake.”
“I’m deeply sorry, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
Gene had struggled to believe it was Harry. Except for the boots. He hadn’t looked at those before. Harry was fond of those boots fashioned by Hoby. He’d discussed the care of them with Gene’s valet only a few weeks before.
Dressed in his riding clothes, Gene went to the stables and mounted Caviar. With his two favorite hounds at his heel, he rode hard over the estate. He didn’t return until the moon had risen to light his way, and he’d walked the last two miles home to rest his horse, his dogs following, tongues lolling. But the strenuous exercise hadn’t tired him out. Not nearly enough. He retreated to the library where a fire had been lit for him. He stared into the flames.“Enough,”he said loudly into the empty room. One of his dogs sleeping by the fire sat up, shook his head, and laid down again with a groan.
Gene nudged him affectionately with his foot.
Harry would wish him to get on with his life.
He leaned back in the wing chair, a glass of brandy in his hand, and thought about Mellicent’s lovely brown eyes.
*
A month later…
“Do I haveto attend the dance at the assembly on Saturday evening, Mama?” Mellie asked again, hopeful of a different reply. She had no intention of marrying, so it was a complete waste of time. But of course, she couldn’t tell her parents that. They still had hopes for her.
“It is best to show yourself in society, my love. Let people see you are not pining away. Your father has noticed how sad you’ve become. Most unlike yourself. He’s commented on it. Wear your prettiest gown, the one with the yellow sash. Dancing will lift your spirits.”
Mellie doubted anything would lift her spirits ever again. And certainly not anything that might happen in Dorchester. “Hardly anyone will be there.”
“Not everyone is in London, Mellie. Your father wishes it. There are gentlemen there he wants to see. Do it to please him.”
Mellie sighed. She was such a trial to her parents. Perhaps she should go to Scotland and live with her sister. “Very well, Mama.”
Her father walked into the morning room, a letter in his hand, his face wreathed in smiles. “I have splendid news.”
Mama rose and hurried over to him. “What is it, my love?”
He gave a long, relieved sigh. “Lloyd’s has agreed to pay the insurance.”
“Oh, Papa. How wonderful,” Mellie cried, coming to hug him.
