“Is it, sir?” Cuthbert’s gaze was hard. “Y’ stole a great deal more from her than she from you.”
Wellesley’s face darkened. “You forget your place, John.”
“Sure, Yer Grace.” Cuthbert did not back down. “Way I see it, though, y’ need remindin’ that you’ve a position t’ uphold here too. And if I recall, as lord o’ this here Abbey you’ve an even greater duty than my sort t’ be honorable to ladies.”
“A thief is hardly a lady, John,” Wells bit back, feeling provoked.
“’Course, Yer Grace, I thought her but a thief too at first, only by the time y’ took her honor, sir, y’ knew full well she were a lady.”
Cuthbert abruptly strode out, leaving Wells livid.
The very next day, Wells demanded his steward hand over Charles’s response to her sister. Cuthbert did, grudgingly.
Eleanor,
I scarce know what to write you, but I shall visit as soon as possible, only until then promise me you will not kiss John Cuthbert again. Swear it, Ellie, not until we’ve had a chance to discuss this change in you. Give me your word, sister, because it is a serious matter, more serious than you know, with greater repercussions than you know. And though you may think me innocent of such matters, I am experienced enough to have kissed a man and rued the day myself. But I shall leave that talk for when I see you.
Rued his kiss? Really? Wells sat up in his chair, gripping the letter tight.
I am grateful you and Father weathered the storm, and grateful Cuthbert thinks you well stocked in food and peat. I do not blame him or you, Ellie, for what happened over Christmas. I ask only that you not encourage him further. If he cares for you at all, he will keep his distance, respectably. I ask only that you also do the same. Would that I were home with you and not so far away! Mother would be so displeased with me right now, I cannot bear to think on it. She would be displeased on so many counts I cannot even tell you them all, for you would surely think less of me too. Some days I think the very worst of myself, yet at other times I feel just as you wrote: ‘what is wrong and what is right is only our perception in the moment.’ There aremoments, Eleanor, when I have fallen very low. There are moments, too, I’d not trade for all the world.
I shall try to come by week’s end, and come alone, that we might speak. Until then, Ellie, I beg you to remember the love of your family. To love a man is one thing, but men’s hearts are too oft fickle. Father and I will never abandon you. Our love for you is absolute.
Charles
Wells handed Cuthbert back the letter, saying not a word, nor did his steward, who simply took it and walked out. And which damn kiss did Charles rue? His, or had she kissed another? He thought it unlikely she’d been with any man before him; she’d been a virgin after all, but perhaps she’d had a village beau. And as for fickle, well, he could say the same for women—more so! London had taught him firsthand just how fickle the female heart could be.
Wells sat a moment longer in his chair before the parlor’s fire, mulling the situation between Cuthbert and Miss Eleanor. Charles had said not a word to him, not even hinted aught was amiss. She was likely waiting to speak with her sister first. Perhaps he should accompany her on her visit, occupy her old man so she could talk to Eleanor unencumbered. He didn’t want Cuthbert tagging along, and if he were honest with himself, he didn’t like the idea of his mistress traipsing through that much snow on her own either, not after the accident she’d had the last time she’d gone home.
Yes, he would accompany her. It was for the best.
“My lord, I really don’t see why you need to accompany me.”
“Humor me, woman.”
“I believe I do nothingbuthumor you.” Charles frowned, irritated Lord Wells still did not trust her enough to call on her family alone.
“Then you may humor me further.” He took her arm, the basket in his other, and proceeded to march her through the Abbey’s snowy courtyard. It had been two days since she’d received Eleanor’s letter.
Two terribly long days.
“They are surely staring at us,” she whispered at him.
“Who, Charles—staff? I doubt very much they’ve pressed their faces to frosty windowpanes in order to spy on us, not when there’s work enough inside to keep them busy.” She felt his grip tighten. “You worry too much.”
“You worry too little,” she grumbled, but by then they’d left the courtyard and were on the snowy path heading out. Slowly she began to relax, the air crisp, the sun glinting diamonds off the snow, her arm tucked warm into his lordship’s own. How could she not enjoy the moment, as it were? And yet . . .
“I shall occupy your father if you like, Charles, that you might converse with your sister in peace. Can he play chess still? That ought to divert him from making a scene.”
“Did he make a scene when you visited before, sir?” She was mortified by the thought. “I do hope not. It so embarrasses Ellie when he does.”
“Not too bad, no” his lordship reassured, “though I imagine he can be worse.” She thought Wells looked a little sheepish telling her this.
“He can be difficult, yes. I wish sometimes he’d . . .” She stopped herself. “Never mind, sir, he is who he is now. It is no one’s fault.”
***
Wells took care not to reveal how much he knew from her letters. “He must have loved your mother very much,” he probed, “to be so affected by her death.”
