Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5)

by Emma V. Leech

Brother,

  I hope you are well and enjoying your time at Holbrook. I was sorry that I missed seeing you once again before you left. Do give my regards to Miss Smith and all our friends. Eliza sends her fond regards as well. We hope you will come and visit us very soon.

  I have not had the opportunity to speak to you privately since we returned. The school has kept us very busy, alongside a dozen and one other projects Eliza is determined must run alongside it. I swear I have never met a more exhausting woman in my life. As a private conversation with you at present is not possible, I felt it best to write and let you know I saw Wolf when I was in France. He is well, and the same as ever, though I have the unsettling suspicion that he is growing bored. Though I pressed him, he will not allow me to repay my debt to him in another manner, as I had hoped. At some point he determines to return to England, and he will be a guest in my home. I cannot begin to imagine the trouble this will cause, but I pray, brother, that you will stand by me (I do not ask that you do so publicly but in spirit at least) when the time comes. I shall need all the friends I can get.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau to his brother, Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen – translated from French.

  15th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

  Florence checked her appearance in the mirror before hurrying to find Evie. Happily, her sister was already at breakfast, looking pretty and as fresh as a spring morning in a pale green riding habit.

  “Hurry up, Flo,” Evie chided her. “We’re supposed to be leaving in ten minutes.”

  “I’m here!” Florence exclaimed, accepting a cup of tea. She reached for a warm bread roll and tore it in two, buttering it too thickly in her haste. Not that she cared. “Is everyone else down already?”

  “Everyone except Louis, of course,” Evie said, rolling her eyes. “Actually, I’m wondering if I should send someone to knock for him. He hates getting up early, you know.”

  “That’s because it is a dreadful habit and bad for a delicate constitution,” the man himself said, looking as immaculate as ever in his riding attire, even as he smothered a yawn. He sat down and declined breakfast with a grimace, but accepted a cup of coffee.

  “You’re not delicate, only idle,” Evie remarked.

  “Evie!” Florence exclaimed, a little shocked at her speaking so rudely to him.

  She knew that Evie and the comte were friends, but her sister’s manner towards the man seemed far too easy. The teasing way they spoke to each other revealed a close relationship, more like with a brother than a friend, but if others who did not know them heard, they would assume a different story.

  Evie blushed and looked to the comte, who regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup and shrugged.

  “Well, you’re not wrong,” he said, grinning at the relief in her eyes. “But your sister is right too. You must watch that dreadful tongue of yours, child, or people will talk.”

  He drank his coffee, watching Evie, who sighed heavily.

  “I suppose,” she said reluctantly.

  They ate in silence for a while as the comte finished his coffee and got to his feet. He laughed again at the look of consternation on Evie’s face and reached out to tweak her nose.

  “Brat,” he remarked, before leaving them to finish their breakfast.

  Evie met Florence’s considering gaze, a surprisingly defiant glint in her own. “We’re friends, Flo. He’s all alone now his brother is married and busy with his own life. Louis doesn’t make friends easily, but… we get along. He can be himself with me because he knows I’m not interested in him like that. It’s… comfortable, that’s all.”

  Florence nodded, hearing the truth in her sister’s words. “I know, love. I just don’t want to see you get hurt, and you know people will think the worst if they see the ease of manner between you. My word, just hearing you address him as Louis would be enough to ruin you. You must remember to be more formal in company. Promise me you’ll be careful?”

  “I promise,” Evie muttered, looking very much as if she wanted to roll her eyes.

  They finished their breakfast and hurried out to the stables, where everyone else was already assembled. They were riding out to Hever Castle today, a trip Florence had been looking forward to. She’d not seen Henry since Sunday at church, but he was supposed to be accompanying their party today. Most of the men hereabouts had been out with their guns, since the twelfth of August had marked the beginning of the shooting season. Shots had been resounding constantly across the countryside and Florence had sent up a prayer to the poor birds, hoping more of them were surviving than it sounded like.

  There was quite a party for their trip and the weather promised to be perfect, for it was warm and bright, but with a playful breeze that rustled the treetops and kept the heat from being oppressive. Florence had also worn a green riding habit, but hers was a slightly brighter shade than her sister’s. She had a matching hat, which she wore at a jaunty angle with a plume of yellow feathers. Mama had said she looked very dashing.

  The stables were all a-bustle as everyone waited whilst the grooms dashed back and forth, ensuring all the guests were mounted correctly for the day. Florence hurried over to Grace as soon as she saw her.

  “Are you well?” she asked in an undertone, noting she was not in her riding habit.

  Grace smiled and nodded. “I shall travel in the coach with Lady Montagu and the children,” she said, reaching out and taking Florence’s hand. “Don’t worry so. Let us enjoy a lovely day. Please.”

  Florence stared at Grace in wonder. The girl was facing an unimaginable future, yet she stood with dignity, determined to enjoy her last weeks of freedom.

  “Very well,” Florence said, squeezing her fingers.

  She turned to see Mr Oak watching them, a look in his eyes she could not decipher. Henry arrived then, moving to greet Mr Oak, who nodded at him.

  “A fine day for it.” Henry gestured to the clear blue sky above them.

  Mr Oak gave the sky a frowning glance.

  “For now,” he said ominously.

  Henry laughed, looking perplexed. “Sterling, there’s not a cloud to be seen.”

  “There will be a storm before evening.”

  “You can’t possibly know that,” Henry replied, his scepticism obvious.

  Mr Oak just shrugged, his gaze drifting to Grace once more. Florence frowned, moving away from him, unsettled and uncertain as to whether she liked the fellow or not. He was always so aloof. Hearing her name called, she hurried over as her horse was led out for her.

  Florence was delighted when she saw the beautiful palomino mare with a golden coat and white-blonde mane. The horse was lively, dancing a little in her eagerness to be off as the stable boy brought her out.

  “Can you handle her?”

  Florence turned to see Henry regarding the mare with a slight frown. For a moment she bristled with irritation that he believed her incapable, but then she realised he was concerned for her safety. The thought warmed her, and her annoyance dissipated.

  “Yes. I’m a proficient rider, I assure you.”

  Henry nodded and went to turn away.

  “Won’t you help me up, please?” she said quickly, not about to let the opportunity slide.

  He stopped and Florence stared back at him, challenge in her eyes. Something stirred in those hazel depths, and she felt her pulse quicken as a smile played at the corners of his mouth. There was something predatory in that not–quite-smile and Florence swallowed, a little less sanguine now. She stood, waiting for him, assuming he would make a step of his hands to help her up, as was usual. He did not. Instead, he strode towards her, grasped her by the waist, and tossed her into the saddle.

  Florence squealed and grasped the horse’s mane to steady herself. Not that she was in danger of falling as his large hands still gripped her waist.

  “I’m so sorry, did I startle you?” he asked, all innocence, the rat.

  Doing her best to catch her breath
, Florence made a performance of checking her hat was in place and gathered up the reins.

  “Not at all. Thank you, Mr Stanhope,” she said, irritated to discover she was breathless.

  “You’re welcome, Miss Knight,” he said, smirking a little.

  Florence relaxed. At least now he would walk away and see to his own mount. She hooked her leg over the fixed head of the side saddle but instead of walking off, Henry hiked up her skirts to reveal her ankles and made it his business to place her supporting foot in the stirrup.

  “Mr Stanhope!” she hissed in outrage. “I am perfectly capable of arranging…”

  He looked up at her and the words died in her throat. His hand rested on her ankle still, the warmth of it burning her even through the soft leather of her ankle boot. There was a look in his eyes that made her want to leap down from the horse again and press her mouth to his. Her stomach got that peculiar fluttery sensation that always began when he was near, and she prayed no one was looking, for she was certainly blushing. At last he dragged his gaze from hers and was suddenly all business, tugging her skirts into place to cover her ankles.

  “Enjoy the ride, Miss Knight,” he said curtly, and walked away.

  Good heavens.

  By the time they set out, Florence had composed herself once more, though she could not keep her eyes from Henry, who seemed to be making a project of staying as far from her as possible once again. This time, however, the thought made her smile. He was not indifferent to her. The look in his eyes earlier had shown her that, which meant he was avoiding her for an entirely different reason.

  Except… he’d said he’d been unkind to her because she reminded him of someone else, someone who must have hurt him very badly. Had that been the reason he’d left England all those years ago? Had a broken heart driven him away? If that were the case, then had that look been for the woman he’d loved before, perhaps loved still? Or had it been for her?

  “You look very serious.”

  Florence looked up to see Vivien’s twin brother, Ash, regarding her with interest. She smiled at him warmly. Ash was a good friend and she liked him very much. She trusted him too, so….

  “Ash, do you know anything about Mr Stanhope?”

  Ash shrugged, giving her a quizzical glance. “Not really. I mean, I saw him now and then before he left the country, but I was only a boy then.”

  Florence nodded. “But have you heard anything, about why he left, I mean? Was… Was there a broken love affair?”

  Ash frowned, considering this. “Yes, now you mention it. Wasn’t he jilted by his fiancée? Yes, that’s it. She eloped with some titled fellow instead, just days before they were due to wed.”

  “Oh,” Florence said, her heart aching. If that were true, Henry would not only have been heartbroken, but he’d also have been mortified. It was the kind of blow a young man’s pride would struggle to recover from. “Do you know who the lady was?”

  Ash shook his head. “You be better off asking your mother. She’d know.”

  Florence nodded, having no intention of asking Mama. She was far too perceptive, and Florence did not want her putting a spoke in her wheel if she did not approve the match. Far better it were a foregone conclusion. Florence turned back to Ash, discomforted to discover he was watching her with interest.

  “Something to tell me, Flo?” he asked, lifting one dark eyebrow. His golden skin glowed in the sunlight, his thick black hair tousled and gleaming blue like a crow’s wing.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, striving for nonchalance.

  “Oooh, I see it,” he said, giving a low chuckle. “You’ve a tendre for him.”

  “No, I….” Florence began, and then gave up with a huff. “Well, perhaps I do.”

  Ash grinned at her. “I knew it.”

  He turned to regard Henry, who was riding a little ahead of them to their right.

  “Don’t look,” Florence said urgently, which had no effect whatsoever on Ash, naturally.

  “I suppose I can see the appeal,” Ash said, considering. “A handsome fellow, sophisticated and urbane. All that self-assurance and experience must be a lure. Hmm, I wonder if I ought to try to look older.”

  Florence snorted. “From what I hear, you do not need the help.”

  Ash turned back to her with a wide-eyed look of naivete that was patently false.

  “Moi?” He placed a theatrical hand to his chest, which was currently encased in a garish purple waistcoat with red silk spots on it.

  “Yes, you. So stop smirking at me. Oh, promise you won’t tell anyone, Ash, please?”

  He shrugged. “Viv will know. I can never keep secrets from her.”

  “Oh, Ash, please! Try, will you?”

  “What’s it worth?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows at her.

  “Ash!” she said in alarm, but the devil only laughed at her.

  “Oh, stop fretting. I shan’t say a word. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Florence let out a slow breath and smiled at him. “Thank you, Ash. You’re a good friend.”

  “I know,” he said with a sigh, before winking at her and riding ahead to join the men.

  It was a lovely ride to Hever, and there was plenty of time to explore and see the castle before lunch. Florence wandered from room to room, enjoying the history of the place that had been Anne Boleyn’s home, but the castle was not so quiet and romantic as she remembered from a previous visit as a child. The north-east corner of the castle had collapsed under the weight of a large fifteenth century chimney which had been built on top of the kitchen flue. Now builders worked to move the kitchen into the Great Hall, as the tower was showing signs of cracking. Just another phase in the life of this historic building that had stood for centuries. How strange to think it would still be standing, proud and immutable, generations after all those here today had turned to dust. It made one think about time, about what one wanted from life, and about taking chances.

  Lost in her own thoughts, Florence found she was wandering by herself, having been abandoned by Ash and Vivien for dallying too long as she stared out the window at the view over the moat and the landscape beyond. She was in the west wing now and remembered this was where Anne Boleyn’s private parlour had been. As she got to the doorway, she stopped with a little gasp, struck by the scene before her.

  Montagu was here with his wife, the two of them in a fervent embrace. Florence stared in shock, taken aback by the obvious passion between them. Goodness, they had three children, two of them full grown, and yet the love and desire between them seemed undiminished.

  “Shhh,” murmured a voice in her ear.

  Florence’s heart jolted as a flutter of warm breath moved over her cheek. She turned to see Henry watching her with amusement. He pressed a finger to his lips and took her hand, curving his fingers around hers. With a tug, he pulled her away, not speaking until they were out of earshot. He guided her to the morning room: a cosy, dark, and intimate room with ornate panelling.

  “Do you know their story?” he asked, still holding her hand. “The Montagus, I mean.”

  Florence was riveted by his touch. He wore no gloves, and she could feel how warm he was. She wanted to remove her own gloves so badly she hardly understood the question he asked, but forced herself to concentrate.

  “Of course. The Duchess of Bedwin wrote about it in The Eagle and the Lamb. Everyone knows their story.”

  He nodded, smiling. “Then you must know this was one of the places they met, before they married.”

  “Ah,” she said, letting out a breath, understanding now. “I had forgotten. How romantic.”

  He gave a short laugh and let go of her hand.

  “You don’t think so?” she asked him.

  “Of course, it’s romantic now they are happily married. At the time I doubt it felt romantic at all—rather desperate, I should think—but I had forgotten how important a great romance is to girls.”

  “To girls?” she repeated, quirking an eyebrow at hi
m. “I hardly think it is only important to girls, and, besides which, I am not a little girl, Mr Stanhope.”

  He snorted at that and moved to the window, staring out. “Is that so? No doubt you think you’re all grown up, but you’re not.”

  Florence regarded him curiously, noting the tense set of his shoulders. He had brought her here instead of taking her to be with the rest of their party. She could see most of the others were outside now, enjoying the sunshine. How strange men were. It was clear he wanted to be alone with her, but it made him uneasy, so he tried to keep her at a distance whilst bringing her nearer. Foolish man. She smiled and he turned, noticing her expression.

  “What?” he demanded.

  Florence shook her head, not about to share her observations. He glowered at her. The urge to laugh was tempting but she fought it, moving to the fireplace. She took off her gloves and touched the initials carved into the stone. H.W. for Henry Waldegrave, whose family had owned Hever Castle from the fifteenth century until the early seventeen hundreds. She traced the H with a fingertip, up and down, caressing the cool stone. He watched her, his gaze following the path of her finger.

  “Have there been any more strange goings on?” Florence asked, needing to break the peculiar atmosphere. It was becoming hard to breathe. “Things that go bump in the night?”

  Henry hesitated and she felt her heart skip as she realised there had been. He frowned, saying nothing, which seemed answer enough. She hurried towards him.

  “What?” she demanded. “What now?”

  He gave her an impatient glance and shook his head. “I shan’t tell you, for you’ll turn it into some Gothic horror.”

  “Mr Stanhope, you are the most pig-headed man. Can you not see? I don’t need to turn it into a Gothic horror, it’s already begun. What has happened?”

  She stared into his hazel eyes, noticing this close that they were a complex shade of gold and bronze and amber. His skin was darkly tanned, and she could not help but wonder if he was that colour all over. After a long moment, he let out a breath.

  “Someone poisoned one of my sheep with rhododendron leaves, and there have been more corn dolls. One was hanged by the neck on my front gates and I….”