So a beauty Miss Trethow may have become, but a woman she had not. Immature, vapid, and silly, the antithesis of his desired wife, an antidote to sensibility. He may be only a few years older than she, but he felt like a fossil.
Not for the first time since his father announced he would write to Mr. Trethow to discourage the childhood match did Harold wonder how the family had taken the news. No doubt with enthusiasm. Miss Trethow was the type of girl foolish enough to think marriages ought to be love matches. How fortunate, then, that he had not traveled to Cornwall to court her.
He refocused on the guests, his ears perked to learn more about them. Only his eyes, those traitorous eyes, found their way back to Miss Trethow, insistent on admiring her even while his mind disengaged from her.
Lady Melissa Williamson’s suite rivaled Hazel’s, confirming for Hazel that the Collingwoods had, indeed, set Agnes in their shabbiest of guestrooms. It was a slight, to be sure. Hazel hoped Agnes did not notice.
Although, now that she made the observation, she would swear the corner of the wallpaper behind the dressing table peeled, a mustard yellow peeking from the edge. Perhaps the Collingwoods did not use these rooms often.
“With our help,” Melissa said to Agnes, “you’ll be engaged before the end of the week.”
Hazel beamed at her friends, excited to set their matchmaking into motion. “We must convince him to marry you before he speaks to his grandmother rather than after. With us at the ribbons, we’ll steer you straight for love.”
All titters and blushes, Agnes looked from one to the other of her friends. “We exchanged poetic declarations of love today in the library, enough to make you both green with envy. Even you, Melissa. He wants to marry me. I know he does.” She fingered the edge of the blanket wrapped about her legs. “Do you truly believe he’ll make a formal announcement at the party?”
“Yes!” Melissa and Hazel said in unison.
“With the right persuasion, he could marry you during the party. Wouldn’t that be grand?” Hazel tucked her feet beneath her bottom, snuggling deeper into the chair in front of the fireplace. “The timing is perfect. A last day elopement. Or if he can find a way to get the license without your father’s permission, which I’m positive he could, then the two of you could marry before the end of the party, all the guests here to celebrate the nuptials.”
“Do you think it possible?” Agnes asked wistfully. “I would never have to return home. It would be perfect timing. And together, he and I could convince his grandmother that we’re well suited and that I would make the best Lady Driffield.”
Melissa cast them a rueful smile. “And then our goal will be to matchmake Hazel.”
Agnes giggled anew, her giggles increasing when Hazel harrumphed. “The delectable Lord Kissinger could be a contender—what a delightful conversationalist he was at supper this evening, and how lucky was I to sit between him and the Earl of Winthorp—but we needn’t bother matchmaking. Hazel’s already met her match. Mr. Horrid Hobbs.”
Melissa frowned. “Now that you’ve seen him, do you hold to your conviction that the two of you wouldn’t suit? Personally, I thought him handsome and well mannered.”
Agnes answered for Hazel with a fictionalized telling of Mr. Hobbs’s hobbies of cataloguing mushrooms and collecting wigs. Had it been earlier that day or any day before, Hazel would have joined in the fun. In truth, now that she had seen him, she was not so sure.
Mr. Harold Hobbs was a curious contradiction. In one part, he was wholly unfashionable. His attire was plain, although well-tailored. He wore neither wig nor powder, his russet hair bagged and bowed in dishevelment, strands frizzing their escape in unruly curls at the nape of his neck. His complexion was as sun bronzed as a sailor’s, his shoulders broad, and his chest expansive. He overshadowed the other men at the table.
Yes, he was wholly unfashionable.
And yet arresting.
Hazel’s stomach had fluttered at the first sight of him. She was simultaneously intrigued and appalled.
The contradiction was that despite his unfashionable physique and presentation, he was the poshest man at the table. Hazel both hated him for it and fell a little in love with him. He wore no smile, revealed no emotion, and acted a proper toff. But there was a poise to him, a natural polish and grace no one else at the table embodied. No artifice, no pomp, no flair. He was the most aristocratic man present, despite his being at a table of earls, viscounts, and barons.
She had not wanted to encourage him and so had avoided meeting his eyes. Her gaze, however, had a willpower of its own, for it found its way back to him time and again throughout the meal, roaming his direction even when she aimed for Lord Brooks or Lord Kissinger.
Had Papa not pressed her to make a favorable impression or reminded her of the childhood dreams he shared with Lord Collingwood, would she have given Mr. Hobbs an encouraging nod? She suspected she would have. Since supper, she reminded herself he was everything she did not want. She wanted passion. That man, that strait-laced bore who showed no flirtation, no emotion, no reaction, not even an assessment of her figure, could not offer passion. Not that a maiden of seventeen knew anything about passion. She had never even been kissed. But she knew of it and knew there was a deeper mystery to it than even she could dream, for the looks she spied passing between Melissa and Chauncy spoke of the passion she wanted. Looks that spoke of a love so deep and eternal that nothing could break the bond, not even death.
That was what she wanted.
Passion.
Agnes’s rising from her chair and folding of the blanket interrupted Hazel’s musings. “Go on, then,” Agnes said, shooing Hazel to the door. “You heard Melissa.”
Hazel had not. She glanced to Melissa with a nod to pretend she had been listening.
Melissa’s mischievous smile revealed what Hazel had missed even before her words said it. “Don’t be so shocked that I’m going to his room rather than him coming to mine. This is, after all, an advantage of a love match.”
The next morning was the first day of the hunt. The gentlemen had gathered early for the much-anticipated ride to hounds on the north side of the estate. The ladies, after sleeping late, now milled about both inside and outside, entertaining themselves with lawn bowls, archery, poetry, and whatever else it was women did to find pleasure amongst their numbers. Lady Collingwood played the dutiful hostess, initiating games and circulating between guests outside and inside.
It proved the perfect opportunity for Harold to visit Nana.
He cut across the lawn with a nod here and wave there, his destination the wilderness walk through the woods. The path would fork at approximately a quarter of a mile, splitting one way to circle the lake with its boathouse and lakefront vistas, and splitting another way to the dower house. His grandmother had always preferred to reside in the dower house, demanding her independence. Before Harold left for India, she had grown increasingly forgetful but without cause for concern, a far cry from the condition in which he found her on his return home. Her state had shocked him, to say the least. Nana may live with a full staff and companion, but she was in no state to live independently, certainly not with only a companion whose responsibility it was to keep her company, not serve as a nursemaid.
If Harold had anything to say about it, she would move into the main house before the month ended. His father would object. His mother would object. Nana would object. Harold would not take no for an answer.
The lawn gave way to trees, English Oak and Common Beech towering in splendor with their autumn foliage, golds, coppers, purples, and reds painting the canopy. The park woodland consisted of a combination of native and non-native trees cultivated or hybridized, gathered from the world travels of the sixth Baron Collingwood, Harold’s great grandfather, and gifted by gardeners of neighboring parks, such as the newest acquisition, the Holm Oak, courtesy of the head gardener at Mamhead Park, Mr. W
illiam Lucombe.
Hours he could spend studying the texture of the bark, admiring the veil of leaves, contrasting the uniqueness of the various genera. Countless pages in his sketchbook captured the tapestry of light dancing in the shadows of the forest floor. Long years he had spent away, too long. As much as he already missed India, nothing could replace the parkland at Trelowen.
The underbrush would crunch and crackle beneath his buckled shoes should he veer from the path, but the groundskeeper kept the walk clear, only hardpacked soil underfoot. Had the gardener not done his job so efficiently, Miss Trethow would have heard Harold approach before he saw her. He had the pleasure of first sight. Leaning against a tree trunk, she stared at the handkerchief in her hand. From this distance, she looked to be tugging at the threads of the embroidery, unraveling the work one string at a time.
He cleared his throat to announce his approach. Not before taking her in with a sweep from head to toe—as beautiful as she had been at supper, and no doubt as silly. She was shorter than he expected, or would it be more polite to call her petite? Her pleasingly plump torso tapered to slender corseting inches above wide panniers that flared in teal satin to meet shapely ankles, luckily for him visible because of her stance. There was nothing silly about her at present. No laughter or flirtation. With her head bowed, her bottom lip pouted, and her shoulders slouched, she was a woman in repose, a woman awaiting skilled, deft fingers to master charcoal against paper. As had happened at supper, his heartbeat accelerated.
When she gave no notice of his initial throat clearing, he tried again, louder.
Like a rabbit spying a fox, her head jerked up, eyes wide. Skittish, she stepped away from the tree and looked about her, as though scanning for a means of escape.
With a bow, he said, “Good morning, Miss Trethow.”
“Quite.”
She gave a nervous laugh, or rather it sounded nervous to Harold’s ears. Her eyes flitted between him and the surrounding woods. Were they not alone? Was she expecting someone?
“What brings you to the wilderness walk alone?” he asked.
“Your hair.”
His lips creased at the corners in a confused half-smile, half-frown. “My hair brings you here alone?”
She waved the kerchief, as if his response was illogical, not hers. “Your hair, it’s different.” A pucker formed between the thin arches of her brows.
“Ah, yes. I apologize if my appearance offended you yesterday evening. I had not intended to be late.”
His hair, as with his attire, was impeccable today. Nana would expect it, as would the guests. Powdered and curled in tidy rows above his ears and bowed at the nape of his neck, his hair made him look like a different man, although he refused to lighten his tan with cosmetics, making him not a completely different man from whom Miss Trethow saw at supper.
Hazel returned his half-smile with one of her own, the sight doing strange things to his pulse. “Do people often take offense when your hair is unpowdered?”
He made to answer then caught the twinkle in her eyes. She was teasing him! While racking his brain for a witty reply, he lost himself in her eyes. Never had he seen their likeness. They reflected the forest, an earthy green, darker around the outer ring. What was a man to say when caught unawares by such beauty?
Her laugh intervened. It was not the affectation from supper, but a deeper laugh of genuine amusement. An onlooker might assume he had made a witty retort after all. Rather than reply, he chuckled along with her, sharing the moment, feeling a thread of something between them, though he could not put a name to it. There was a chance she was laughing at him, but he thought not; rather she was laughing at a shared joke.
Then an idea struck him. Impulsive but desirable.
“I’m for the dower house,” he began.
Seconds before his invitation for her to join him reached his lips, he saw a movement in the woods beyond. A flash of white.
He squinted.
Lord Driffield, free of coat and waistcoat, sat upright from the underbrush, propping himself against the trunk of a tree.
Ah.
A lover’s tryst. Between Driffield and Miss Trethow. Harold’s jaw tightened and his fingers curled into fists.
This was none of his concern. He should bow and leave her to make her own mistakes. Alas, he could not in good conscience do that.
“Allow me to escort you back to the house before I continue for the dower house,” he said instead.
Miss Trethow’s laughter died. She hesitated, made to say something, stared at the handkerchief still clutched between her fingers, and then nodded. To his relief, she did not turn to look back into the forest. It was awkward enough for Harold. He did not wish for her to know he had seen her lover or caught them in the act of a clandestine meeting.
To his relief, Lady Melissa Williamson entered the wilderness walk before he felt obligated to make conversation. She smiled in greeting and reached out to take Miss Trethow’s hands, the passing of the charge from Harold to the baronet’s wife.
He did not see the Earl of Driffield on his return walk to the dower house. Another relief. Had he seen the man, he would have been hard pressed not to confront him. To say what, he was not certain, but to say something, for who else would champion a maiden?
It was not his concern, and he would do well to remember that.
Chapter 6
According to Harold’s valet, the household was short-staffed. Lord Collingwood had admitted to dismissing the steward, but the dismissals ran deeper, all in an effort to avoid unnecessary expenses. Yet the man used beeswax candles. Harold scoffed. This was one of several points of contention he aimed to discuss with his father before the partygoers took to the lake for an afternoon of boating and lakeside strolls.
The most pressing matter was Nana.
She had greeted him in good spirits yesterday morning. All would have appeared well, nothing unusual, had she not mistaken him twice for his father, mid conversation no less, and thrice made whispered accusations that her companion was a man in disguise who plotted to steal her jewels. In the lightest of manners, he had indicated how welcome she would be at the main house. She saw straight through his machinations. For a quarter of an hour, she had lectured him on the need for a woman to maintain independence. She refused to be fussed over. She was not old. She did not need a nursemaid. How dared her green grandson think he knew what was best for a mature woman who knew her own mind.
Chastised, he had kissed her cheek, wished her well, and returned home to mull over a plan that would not insult her or undermine her wishes.
Yes, there was much to discuss with his father. Lord Collingwood’s study, accessible from the entrance hall by way of a reception room, faced the Elizabethan knot garden through a semi-circular bow window with diamond-shaped, latticed windowpanes. While the reception room was a manly monstrosity of dark woods and animal skins, the study was a garish rococo with pastel blues, gilded scrollwork, and ornamental plaster. A fortune had gone into renovating the room to the baron’s liking, albeit a decade ago. A fortune that should have been spent on the home farm.
Harold visualized the study and how the discussion might take place as his purposeful strides took him across the upper gallery, down the main stairs, and into the entrance hall. Before he reached the reception room, he heard muffled voices coming from the study. Nudging the anteroom’s door open, he peered in. Empty. The door to the study ahead was closed. He shut the reception door behind him and perched on the edge of a chair. Within the walls of the reception area, the voices were no longer muffled, not loud, merely hearty.
Father and Mr. Trethow.
It was not eavesdropping if he was waiting in good faith to speak to his father and if the present company happened to be speaking at an audible volume. Or so he assured himself.
“After all our years of friendship?” Mr. Trethow was saying
. “What if I increased my contribution? I could pull from the estate. I could pull from the estate if the deal is guaranteed.”
“I won’t have it, Cuthbert. Never mix friendship and business. I couldn’t forgive myself if aught went wrong. No, no, not even if you doubled the offer.”
“If I tripled it?”
Harold ground his teeth. It took all his willpower not to burst into the study and point a finger at his father. The man was fleecing his childhood friend. Although he had known his father’s intentions even before the guests arrived, hearing it happen infuriated him. But what could he do? His hands were tied. Aside from the initial supper when he first set eyes on the guests, he had avoided observing the interactions between his father and the gentlemen, especially the private conversations. Even during last night’s port, he had excused himself to join his mother in the drawing room to entertain the ladies. In the end, it did not matter who or how many men invested, for his father would do what he wanted as long as he found a way to cover his portion of the capital. Harold’s hands were tied.
Saving his conversation for later was best. He need not discuss anything with his father in this state of outrage. When he stepped into the entrance hall, Mr. Quainoo, the butler, was waiting, coat in hand, anticipating Harold’s next move.
“You’re a mind reader,” Harold said.
It was a good thing Harold had brought the butler with him—along with Abhijeet—when he returned from India, for that was another staff member, an essential staff member, who had been missing from the roster, dismissed along with who knew how many others. Mr. Quainoo had been a postillion in India. Taken from his home in Africa as a young boy, he had made a life for himself in India until news came he would be sent to the West Indies as a laborer. But the man was shrewd. When Harold offered him a position as coachman, Quainoo said he would take butler or nothing. Harold would not deny he had been nervous on the return home, expecting mass confusion when the new butler met the residing butler. Luck had been on their side.
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