Looking over the man’s shoulders at Hazel, Nana said, “You always spoil my fun, Helena.”
Chapter 14
Empty London streets greeted Harold that evening, his second evening in town. He had made excellent travel time, arriving on the third day, far better time than he had made on the prior trip, but then he did not have a wife waiting at home on the previous occasion. His valet and trunk beat him by an hour, much to his surprise and Abhijeet’s conceit.
Supper at White’s awaited him. Drowning his guilt in the best meal London had to offer was his plan. On the morrow, he would meet with the solicitor to sort out the accounts, distributions, and investment, so for now there was nothing to do except eat his guilt over leaving Hazel at Trelowen and knowing his father’s trickery of the Trethow family. Hindsight showed him he should have insisted she join him, commanded she join him. At the very least, he could have asked. His implications of her coming along had seemed clear at the time, not so upon reflection.
The first night in London had him tossing and turning, despite his exhaustion from the trip, for he could not remove the vision of her sitting at home, dejected, ignored by his parents, regretting the marriage. So alone she must feel. So rejected.
His thoughts ran a darker course this evening. Would she take advantage of his absence to write to Driffield? Try as he might to heed Patrick’s advice to rid himself of thoughts of the Earl of Driffield, the ghost of the rake haunted the shadows of his mind, leering and jeering, free to carry out his wicked plans now that Hazel was safe under the guise of marriage. Adultery happened every day, after all. Marry for family, status, and wealth; love could be found elsewhere. Harold could not return to Trelowen fast enough, if for no other reason than to assure himself she was still there.
What he did not expect that evening was a run-in with the devil himself.
As though summoned by thought, the Earl of Driffield walked out of the card room as Harold reached the top of the hall stairs by the dining hall at White’s. The two locked eyes.
Harold curled his fingers into fists. Driffield showed no signs of recognition.
With a curt nod, Harold entered the dining hall and made for his reserved table, hoping that would be the last he saw of the villain. Of all people! The odds were astounding. What the man could be doing in London, and so soon after the hunting party, Harold could only guess. Gambling, among other vices?
For the stretch of a glass of wine, he brooded. But oh ho, a happy thought intruded—if Driffield were in London, he could not be in Devonshire serenading Hazel. Happy thought indeed! His smugness lingered only long enough for his meal to arrive, for as soon as he skewered his meat for the first savory bite, Lord Driffield approached the table, pulled out the chair across from Harold, and sat without invitation.
Fork suspended, Harold stared. Blinked. Set down his cutlery.
“Have you heard,” Driffield asked, “that White’s is rumored to relocate next year?”
Harold frowned. “I’ve not.”
“Now you have. A house on the east side is the rumor.”
“Ah.” He resumed his meal, taking a meaty bite and chewing slowly, his eyes trained on his opponent.
Could he call the man an opponent? Harold was the victor, was he not? If one called marriage victory, then he was the winner and Driffield the loser. But did the earl see it that way?
Driffield nodded to a waiter for a drink. “I assume you’re here for the opium deal.”
Harold stabbed another piece of meat.
“Lord Collingwood promised to move swiftly by sending you to arrange for the investment. I admit I had hoped our paths would cross. I have questions about the deal, specifically about the disbursement of profits when this succeeds.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to communicate all questions to my father. I’m only the messenger.” His appetite waned each time the man spoke. A small favor the topic was the investment and not Hazel.
“My questions are simple enough, even for you.” Driffield gave a slow smile, a cunning smile.
With a dab of his napkin, Harold once more set aside his cutlery, his appetite lost. He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.
For twenty minutes while his supper turned cold, Harold fielded questions about the deal. Which ship? Who was the captain? Where were the ports? How many others invested? On and on the man questioned, every movement that of a hunter assessing his prey, but Harold suspected it an act—the man was nervous about the deal, in need of money, perhaps in as much need as his own father. A risky gambler he was rumored to be, and Harold had just seen him coming from the card room. The man needed money. Fast. And in large quantities.
Driffield’s motive clear, Harold relaxed. This was the last man he wanted to converse with, and he did not particularly care for the conversation topic, but it could have been worse.
Once the waiter cleared Harold’s plate, Driffield rose to leave.
Smoothing his coat, he said, “Good talk, Mr. Hobbs.” He turned away and took a step before swiveling back. “On second thought, I should take this opportunity to thank you for cleaning up the…inconvenience. It’s men like you, Mr. Hobbs, we can count on to smooth…indiscretions.”
As Driffield turned away again, Harold stood so quickly his chair rocked, nearly toppling. He took two steps to the earl, his hand touching the man’s coat sleeve. Driffield looked down at Harold’s hand, his eyes narrowing.
In a low rumble, Harold said, “If you bother my wife, you’ll answer to me.”
So tense was the air, Harold felt a bead of sweat form at the base of his spine.
The earl cocked his head to one side. “Your wife?”
Through gritted teeth, Harold said, “My wife.” His hand remained on the coat sleeve.
“The busybody?” Driffield frowned. He stared over Harold’s shoulder in thought, then with a brusque laugh looked back. “Yes, we can always count on men like you.” Shaking his arm free of the grasp, he patted Harold’s shoulder. “If there’s one thing I can promise you, Mr. Hobbs, it’s that I have less interest in your wife than I have in a broodmare for my carriage.” With another laugh and shake of his head, Driffield strode out of the dining hall.
Abhijeet wiped a cloth over one of Harold’s riding boots. “Curious.”
“It is, isn’t it? His expression when I mentioned my wife…it was as though he didn’t know her. When he remembered, he called her a busybody. What do you make of it? A red herring? A forgettable flirt?”
Harold sat in the dressing room an hour after his encounter with the Earl of Driffield. His valet listened to the exchange with interest.
Abhijeet ran a final stroke over the newly polished boot before swapping it for the other. “I hesitate to say this. I don’t wish either of us to misinterpret a situation about which we already know the facts, but rumor belowstairs has changed course.”
Resting his forearms on his thighs and lacing his fingers, Harold prompted, “Tell me.”
“I’ve not said anything since all is better off forgotten and rumor adds to more rumor.”
Harold circled his hands as if he could reel the information out of his valet.
“It’s the parlor maid, sir. She believes Mrs. Hobbs is innocent. Claims to have attended a Miss Plumb in the reception room adjacent to the parlor while the earl and Mrs. Hobbs née Trethow were compromised together. Answered the bellrope, Polly did. Says Miss Plumb was in a state of chaos and pleading to summon Lady Williamson. Polly did just that. Her ladyship escorted Miss Plumb to the guest wing, and that was that.”
The tale hung in the air. Harold covered his face with his hands, trying to make sense of what Abhijeet revealed in light of Driffield’s reactions.
Without moving his hands from his face, Harold asked, “Do you suppose Miss Plumb was serving as sentinel? To allow alone time between Driffield and…”
&nb
sp; “If Polly is to be believed, it was the other way around. She didn’t like to speak ill of an unmarried woman, but she insinuated that the condition of Miss Plumb’s dishabille did not speak well of the situation.”
“What the devil happened in that room, then?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Abhijeet admitted. “It’s one reason I never shared what I heard. Complicates what doesn’t need to be complicated. Two women in the parlor with one gentleman? Not something to be said to the husband of one of those women.”
Harold slid his hands down his face as he peered up at his valet. “The devil.”
Abhijeet bowed his head to concentrate on extracting a scuff from the boot.
“No. No, she was serving lookout,” Harold muttered more to himself than to his companion.
A flash of memory. A memory that had haunted him just as Driffield had. Walking the wilderness path, he had come upon Hazel, seemingly alone in the forest. Then he had spotted Driffield in the distance. A lover’s tryst. The whole scene unfolded in a far different way than he had first seen it, with Hazel serving sentry for her friend’s tryst with Driffield, Miss Plumb hidden by the undergrowth, supine before Driffield.
The devil.
Why would Hazel not tell him the truth? Why allow herself to be ruined to save the guilty party? Ah, foolish questions. She would still have been ruined. Why not confess after marriage? Then, when had he ever given her a chance or a reason to trust him? Even after marriage, she protected her friend’s honor.
All speculation. He would know nothing until he confronted her. But he knew he was right.
The blazing fire warmed the drawing room of the main house, a coze contrasting the frosty deluge outside.
Hazel stared aghast at her mother- and father-in-law. “She could have died!”
Helena flicked her wrist. “So dramatic. After a time, you’ll become accustomed to her need for attention.”
“Her need for—” Hazel bit back her anger-weighted tone. The last thing she needed was to insult her new family or appear ungrateful for all they had done for her and the Trethows. She took three deep breaths and said, “I’m concerned for her safety and wellbeing.”
Lord Collingwood eyed the clock. “Yes, well, we’ve offered for her to move in, but she won’t hear of it. Too independent, too stubborn.”
Helena chortled. “You both forget. She already has a companion. We needn’t worry. The companion keeps her content. If you’re concerned, simply instruct the companion to keep a better eye on her. That makes perfect sense to me.”
Toeing the line of insolence, Hazel replied, “The companion wasn’t the least concerned about Nana’s whereabouts. A good companion would have accompanied her.”
“Independent and stubborn,” Lord Collingwood muttered, leaning an elbow on the arm of the chair, ready to rise.
Lady Collingwood shook her head at Hazel as though pitying a puppy who had messed on the rug. “It’s all so clear. Don’t you see? The companion needs instruction. Remind her of her position and instruct her to follow Nana. She’ll understand and obey.”
Meeting adjourned, read Lord Collingwood’s expression.
Why it should fall to Hazel to have a word with Miss Pine made little sense. She had been an official resident of Trelowen for eleven days, not exactly an authority who wielded control over the companion’s position. The mere thought of confronting Miss Pine and ordering her about made Hazel’s stomach churn. A sniff and shrug would be the response.
Hazel spent a sleepless night, struggling against the recurring vision of Nana rooted at the edge of the lake, despondent, waiting for her husband. The next morning was the first opportunity for Hazel to return to the dower house, the rain having abated in the wee hours. When she arrived, Mr. Somners escorted her to the first floor. The Dowager Baroness Collingwood’s bedchamber took Hazel by surprise, although after the time spent together, she need not be shocked. While the furniture was sparse, the paintings were not. If wallpaper adorned the walls, Hazel had no way of knowing. Every inch of every wall was covered by gilded art, the subjects varying from the estate’s lake to the baroness herself.
She did not know where to look first. That was until her gaze fell on the French Rococo bed in the center of the room. Propped on countless pillows, each as ornate as the bed frame, and enveloped by blankets sat Nana, looking one-part regal and one-part worryingly frail. As soon as the door closed, the baroness waved Hazel to sit. A chair had been positioned next to the bed, awaiting her arrival, alongside a table with a tray full of elderberry biscuits. Hazel could not resist a smile.
After kissing Nana’s cheek, Hazel fluffed her skirts and sat, wasting no time to ready the tea as though it were a normal day and a normal visit, not the morning after chaos or in a bedchamber with a weary widow who bore sunken eyes framed by dark circles. The episode had taken its toll. What Hazel wanted to know but dared not ask was if this was the worst incident or merely one in many.
Words raspy, akin to claws against fabric, the baroness asked, “Are you shocked?”
“By what, Nana?”
“The tea tray. That I knew you were coming. You’re far too early for our appointment.” Before Hazel could answer, Nana winked. “I have spies everywhere. I knew you were on the way before you had left the house.” Her chuckle dissolved into a wheezing cough.
“I see you’re in good spirits today,” Hazel said once Nana stopped coughing long enough to lay her head against a pillow, a satisfied smile curving her lips.
“You’ve fallen for my ruse. How else was I to get you into my bedchamber to show you the paintings?” She arced her arm at the walls. “They’re all tokens of love from my husband. Our world memorialized by his hand.”
What Hazel wanted to do was look at each painting, one at a time, no matter how long it took, but now was not the time, not with the pressing matter of Nana’s safety.
“When you’re feeling spry, you must tour each painting with me,” Hazel said, working herself up for the task at hand. “For now, drink your tea, and tell me when the physician is coming.”
“No physician. A walk in the cool air does the body good, balances the humors. A sedentary day with pleasant company is all I need. Now, are you going to put those biscuits on the plate, or shall I starve?”
By Nana’s maneuvering, the conversation turned to pleasantries, paintings, and pillows. Hazel would not be distracted from her mission, although she wondered if it were too soon to broach the matter. No matter how much the baroness smiled or how many jests she shared, no matter how cheery her disposition between bouts of wheezing, Hazel was not fooled and would not be deterred. If rejected, she would try again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after.
Her chance presented itself when Nana said, “A pity we could not proceed today as planned. I had hoped to show you the sneak-and-peek servant hall behind the first-floor saloon. I wager that’s a feature Helena excluded when she showed you the house.”
“About that…” Hazel folded her hands in her lap to still the tremble of anticipation. “I’ve been thinking. Since you have so much to teach me and show me, would it not be easier if you lived with us at the main house? Not to say you cannot retreat to the dower house whenever it pleases you, but it seems a shame for us to be so far apart when there is a perfectly lovely room down the hall from me waiting to be adorned by all these paintings. An ornamental ceiling, latticed casement windows with a splendid view. We would be doors apart rather than a forest apart. At least for the winter months?”
Nana rested her saucer atop a pillow, laid her head back, and closed her eyes. For so long was she silent that Hazel began to suspect she had fallen asleep. Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths.
“The yellow room or the green?”
“Either? I had thought the yellow cheeriest.” Hazel laced her fingers, anxious and hopeful.
Another stretch of silen
ce passed, filled only by the rasping inhale of those slumberous breaths. “Harold tried this, as well, I’ll have you know.”
“To convince you to choose the yellow over the green?”
Nana wheezed. “I’ll tell you what I didn’t tell him. I believe you’ll understand. A woman should. No one wants to live where they are not wanted. To be a nuisance. To be powerless in one’s own home, scorned or ignored. A fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone, least of all myself. And before you protest with what I would have expected from my grandson had I told him this—all that rubbish about how I really am wanted and not a nuisance—know that I would have believed him had he said it, for he would have meant it, but what good would it have done me had he left for India again? A young gentleman has no use for his grandmother, even if he means well.”
A coughing fit interrupted her. Hazel refilled the teacup and held it out, but the baroness waved it away.
Rubbing her chest, Nana continued, “We have much to accomplish, you and I. Mentoring from inside this mausoleum is impractical and undesirable. Until you become so busy that I collect dust, I’ll take the yellow room.”
Hazel exhaled her worry. How easy this had been! She had expected an epic battle of dueling words.
Nana added, “My companion may have the green room.”
“And about that…” Hazel took another breath, readying once more for battle.
“Don’t say it. You can’t abide her. She may be Friday-faced, but she doesn’t fuss as would another companion. I can’t stomach being fussed over. I won’t have it.”
“But, Nana, your safe—”
“I won’t hear it. I’ll not have a do-good following my every step. Miss Pine serves me well and reads a good tale. The green room, please.” She paused, then clapped her hands and chortled. “The green room for Miss Pine. What a lark!”
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