The print on the newspaper blurred. Harold stared, unseeing, his mind kilometers away. For much of his morning meal, he had absently read the same line, each time his attention drifting away from the article and back to the encounter with Lord Driffield, followed closely by a recounting of Abhijeet’s tale from the parlor maid. There was a great deal to analyze. Every memory of his wife was unpacked. Every look. Every word. He recalled each time he had watched her for signs of affection for the earl, even at their wedding breakfast, and each of those times he had seen only a blushing young lady with gaze fixed on her husband.
Through two cups of coffee he revisited their wedding night. How daft could he have been?
“If you’re not going to read the paper I so painstakingly acquired for you, pass it my way,” Abhijeet said from across the table.
Harold looked up, eyes unfocused, his mind lingering on other matters.
“Pass it.” Abhijeet nodded to the paper and beckoned with his fingers.
Pushing it across the table, Harold walked to the sideboard to refill the coffee. Not that he needed a third cup, but it was so weak he might as well have been drinking flavored water.
The two men broke their fast together in the second-floor sitting room adjacent to the dressing room so that Harold could confer with his valet before the meeting with the solicitor. Harold needed to focus. Once he instructed the solicitor, his hands would be tied. His hands were already tied, truthfully, for he could not disobey his father, nor did he possess any legal power over the finances, but he was hopeful he could reconfigure the numbers with a touch of cunning. He just had to focus.
Abhijeet poked at the newspaper, The West-India Monthly Packet of Intelligence. “Nawab is raising trade taxes again.”
“How trustworthy is news from the west about the goings on of the east? He raised trade taxes before we left. The information could be dated.” Harold took his seat and buttered a piece of toast.
“Undoubtedly a new tax.”
“Splendid.” Harold groaned. “Do you think the captain will raise his demands again? I told Father I didn’t trust the man.” Dipping the toast into his now cold eggs, Harold tried to enjoy his sawdust-flavored breakfast. No offense to the cook. Nothing had flavor while his mind was so unpleasantly occupied.
“The captain has risks of his own,” Abhijeet said. “The next article mentions traders’ shifting allegiance by fair or foul means. Our intrepid captain risks a run in with the East India Company, as well as the authorities in China. With each new risk, the price rises. And now the tax to contend with.”
“More credit than I afford him. What assurance do we have the investment is safe? None. It is one thing to trade in tea with reputable traders, quite another to trade in opium with a man motivated by greed. Cargo chartered by Englishmen with shallow pockets is too easily acquired by the Company with deeper pockets.”
“Here. Read.” Abhijeet pushed the paper back across the table.
Resuming where he had tried to read earlier, Harold focused his attention on the article. His valet understated the situation. Rumors were that the smaller trading ships “lost” at sea were not in fact lost but being made examples of as a threat for the larger trading ships to heed—join the Company or face the same fate. Countless captains became faithful by coercion, allowing charters only by the Company and forfeiting any capital earned from non-Company investors. It was the stuff of stories, no proof to any of it. But that was the funny aspect of stories. The more ridiculous, the more likely true.
Harold exhaled from his cheeks. There was nothing he could do. He might as well set fire to every penny in their account. As far as he could see, there were one hundred thousand reasons not to invest in opium trading and only one reason to do so. Luck was not a sound reason. Yet he had no authority to do anything other than act on his father’s wishes.
Tossing the paper aside, he reached for the ledgers he was to give to the solicitor on behalf of his father. How many times had he and Abhijeet already combed the numbers?
One hundred thousand.
An awe-inspiring number.
That was not the number of times they had examined the ledger in search of a loophole that would allow Harold a way to reconfigure the amounts without legal or paternal repercussions. That was the cost of the charter.
Hazel’s dowry, he saw, was twenty thousand. What had Hazel’s dowry been before his father’s extortion? Two thousand? Five thousand? Mr. Trethow had anticipated Hazel’s marriage to Harold, a promise made between friends, nothing to do with wealth. The tragedy? Harold would have married her without a dowry. Guilt of his father’s deeds weighed heavily on his shoulders.
The dowry did not include Mr. Trethow’s investment capital, making the combination a shocking enough figure to have Harold questioning if his father had bankrupted Trethow. Even these two figures excluded the percentage of annual income Trethow contracted to go to the Trelowen estate coffers. Elbows on the table, Harold rested his forehead against his palms, staring at the ledger until it went out of focus.
Chapter 15
Hazel ate another biscuit out of obligation. It would be unconscionable for Nana to be the only one noshing. At the rate her grandmother-in-law consumed the sweet delights, encouraging Hazel to join her each time, Hazel would need a new wardrobe before her luggage arrived. The number of biscuits had increased by leaps and bounds in the three days Nana had lived at the main house, no longer a treat reserved for afternoon visits but a near constant companion for the baroness. Biscuit eating had become a new way of life.
Hazel licked a crumb from the corner of her mouth, one-part mmming and one-part ughing. Was it possible to tire of a favorite treat?
“Why my son has dismissed so many servants, I can’t understand,” Nana said, complaining after a morning spent introducing Hazel to the staff for the second time in as many days. “When Horace ran the household, there was none of this stinginess. Take that as a lesson. One can never have too many servants.”
Hazel nodded then redirected. “What did you think of the supper party?”
From Hazel’s perspective, it had been divine, as had the company since Lord Kissinger made a point to sit beside her and engage her in conversation for the whole of the evening.
Nana wrinkled her nose. “Gauche. What was the intention of all the greenery? Of all the candles? I expected the dining room to burn down. One whiff of a breeze and the candles would have taken the ivies. Here’s another lesson for you. There’s elegance in simplicity.”
The drawing room door opened, catching the attention of both Hazel and Nana.
Mr. Quainoo bowed. “The luggage carriage has arrived.”
It took Hazel a moment of blank staring for his words to register. Her luggage! From Cornwall! Oh, at last, she would have her wardrobe and whatever possessions Papa had sent. Had he thought to send her journals? What about her jewelry? There was the desk set Cuthbert had given her for her sixteenth birthday—had Papa sent that?
As she rose from the chair in eagerness to intercept the trunks, Mr. Quainoo added, “A Miss Plumb arrived with the luggage. Shall I show her in?”
Hazel blinked. Agnes? “Yes, of course, bring her without delay.”
She sat and stared wide-eyed at Nana whose expression mirrored hers.
“Who is Miss Plumb, dear, and why has she arrived with your luggage?”
“A friend,” Hazel said without reminding her that she had met Agnes only two weeks ago. “Although I wasn’t expecting her, certainly not with my trunks.”
Perplexed but delighted, she stood again when the drawing room door opened. Agnes’s presence was not the only surprising aspect. Her pale and haggard complexion shocked Hazel; had she not slept since leaving the hunting party? Agnes’s eyes brightened when she saw Hazel.
Arms outstretched, Hazel greeted Agnes, embracing her before tugging her over to the baroness.
Agnes curtsied with a shy smile. Nana nodded but showed no signs of recognition. Hazel would not blame it on poor memory since Nana had only briefly met Agnes at the wedding breakfast, a morning in which the baroness had met a great many new faces for which she could not have cared a fig to meet.
The three sat together, Hazel offering tea which Agnes declined, Nana making polite conversation. Agnes was less than forthcoming. Time and again she caught Hazel’s attention with beseeching looks, clearly hoping for a private word. As much as Hazel adored Nana, they could not very well speak candidly. No, that was not true. She could. Nana would not judge anything the two shared, but Agnes would not know that.
With a cheery smile, Hazel said, “You’ve traveled so far. I hope you’ll stay the night. Mr. Quainoo can prepare a room.”
“That’s precisely what I had hoped, to be honest.” Agnes stared at her hands.
“Splendid. I’ll let him know, and to prepare an extra seat at supper.” Turning to Nana she asked, “Would it be too much of a burden to ask you to tell Helena of our guest while I take Miss Plumb upstairs?”
In short order, Hazel and Agnes walked arm in arm up the staircase, neither speaking. The trouble was, they could not very well seek refuge in Agnes’s guest room since the staff would be preparing it, nor could they speak in Hazel’s room since the luggage would be carried there without delay. The parlor was in poor taste since that was the setting of tragedy. The most private room she could think of was the sitting room she shared with Harold.
Not until they were settled in the snug did Hazel prod.
“I’m all shock and amazement you’re here!” She reached over to squeeze Agnes’s hand. “Only two weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. I had hoped you would come, but I never expected it to be this soon. Why didn’t you write to say you were coming? How in the world did you find your way onto the luggage carriage?”
Agnes cast her eyes down and chewed her bottom lip. Hazel could not recall when she had seen a shy or sheepish Agnes. All was not right with her friend. Was it Mr. Plumb? Was it Lord Driffield?
“Father found out about my governess and the gardener,” Agnes said, her navel-gaze unwavering. “He dismissed them both without reference.”
Hazel nodded, patting her friend’s hand and wondering what the governess and gardener’s affair had to do with anything.
“When she told me she was leaving, the two setting off for Hampshire where the gardener’s cousin has promised him a new position, I begged her to take me along. It wasn’t until we were at a posting inn to change horses that I realized the luggage carriage in the stable yard was from Teghyiy Hall, your luggage. Mr. Holderman, the gardener, had words with the coachman to arrange for me to travel to Devonshire with him instead.”
“You traveled alone?”
“Yes. Well, no. My lady’s maid accompanied me.”
Hazel had more questions than answers but knew not where to start. “Your governess should never have let you travel alone, even with your maid. She’s fortunate she’s not here, or I’d have a firm word with her.”
“Don’t be angry. I was no longer her charge, and it was my idea so I wouldn’t inconvenience them.”
“Inconvenience them!” Hazel sputtered. “It was her obligation as a fellow human being to see you to safety.” Fuming, Hazel muttered to herself, “I’m not sorry to see her go.” Then with a look at her friend’s ashen complexion, she said, “Oh, but who cares about the governess? Why did you leave so hastily? It was a foolish thing to do, and I don’t mind telling you that because I care about you and your safety. Has Mr. Plumb’s temper flared? I wish you would have sent word instead. I could have arranged for a visit, all proper. Now…” Her words trailed. Now…what?
“I’ll not go back. Ever. If I can’t stay here, I’ll—I’ll find somewhere else. I need only enough for the post, and I can go to Melissa.”
Alarmed, Hazel clasped Agnes’s hand in a vise-like grip. “Enough of this nonsense. You’re safe here. What’s happened?”
Agnes gave her hand a half-hearted tug then dissolved into tears. The tears turned to sobs. The sobs turned to hiccups. Hazel remained still, enveloping the cold, limp hand with her warm palms.
“I’ve missed my courses,” Agnes stuttered between choked sobs.
Frowning, Hazel studied her friend’s profile. What course? Then it hit like an oar to the head. Her menses cycle. But Agnes was not married…
In the length of a minute, Hazel struggled with tumultuous emotions. Shock at the news. Disappointment that her friend had never confided in her. Appalment that Agnes would do such a thing. Anger that Agnes had ruined herself, not just with love for the wrong man but ruination before marriage when she knew the risks. Pity for her friend’s plight. Determination to find a way to help.
But first… “You can’t be certain,” Hazel reassured with a lighthearted laugh to brighten the melancholy. “It’s only been two weeks since the hunting party. My courses are rarely punctual. You’re only a little late.” She patted the clammy hand.
Agnes shook her head, her face blotched with red and lined by tears. “I’ve missed three courses.”
“Three?” She stared, confused again. “Three? As in you’ve not had a cycle for three months? As in…”
Agnes chewed her lip again.
“But you’ve said nothing until now!”
“I didn’t think I would have to. He was supposed to propose at the party. We were supposed to be married without my ever having to return home. Once married, it wouldn’t matter.”
So much to digest. Hazel tried to wrap her mind around all of it, but struggled. This whole time, Agnes had known and kept the secret. It had not merely been about love. Good heavens.
Squaring her shoulders, Hazel asked, “Have you told him? Does he know? I’m sure if he knew, he would break his betrothal to Lady Whatshername, despite the scandal, and risk of a breach of promise suit. It was likely a betrothal arranged by his family.”
“He knows,” Agnes said in naught but a whisper.
When she did not volunteer more information, Hazel gave a curt nod and said, “We’ll resolve this. I don’t know how, but leave it to me. For now, you’re safe at Trelowen.”
Trelowen looked just as he had left it, only a might colder. It was far colder in Devonshire than in London, too cold for October. He buried his hands under his arms and shivered his way from the stables to the house, his first stop to be his dressing room, second stop his father’s study to announce the accomplishment of the deal, third stop his wife. Sometime during the day, he should find his mother and call on Nana, but he had a mind for no one except Hazel. If he did not have to stop at the dressing room or his father’s study, he would be all the happier, for Hazel had been his one and only thought for days on end, the rose-cheeked, bright-eyed woman who just might fancy him and only him.
He quickened his pace. Did the stables have to be so far?
He rushed past Mr. Quainoo with a nod, not quite hearing what the man said about the drawing room, and took the steps two at a time to his dressing room. He paused to listen at the connecting door to the shared sitting room but heard not a stir beyond. Hastening to the dressing room, he groaned to realize he had beat Abhijeet to the estate. His shave would have to wait. A hand to his morning stubble assured it light enough not to be seen only felt, a prickly scratch against his palm.
With a tug at the bellrope, he ordered a bath, then dug around for a change of clothes. The wait was interminable. To bide time, he jotted a note for his mother, a note to Nana, a note requesting to meet with his father, a note requesting Hazel’s company in two hours, and finally a note to Patrick that he would pay a call in a day or two.
At last, the bath was ready.
Did he hum w
hile he bathed? He might have done. Not a joyous occasion to know he had shipped off their money in a deal sure to ruin them; yet he hummed nonetheless. A smile tickled his lips a time or two. Hazel. Soon now. So soon he could taste the moment approaching. His first sight of her would be like nothing he had ever experienced. He would see her as she was, his wife, his loyal wife, the potential love of his life. He might have even given the water a bit of a splash in his eagerness to see her.
Half an hour later, he stood on the other side of his father’s desk, breaking the much-anticipated news. Lord Collingwood celebrated with a glass of brandy and a drumroll to the desktop. We’re set, my boy. Mark my words! was uttered a half dozen times. Harold reserved his opinions on the matter for his future discussions with Abhijeet and Patrick.
At last. Time with Hazel arrived.
He rubbed his hands together as he left the study and headed back to his bedchamber. His note had instructed to meet in their shared sitting room.
One hand on the door handle, the other fidgeting with his poorly knotted cravat—how he wished he could have arrived better dressed by his valet’s expertise—he hesitated outside the sitting room door. The moment he had been waiting for. To behold the woman he could not wait to woo, a process he had started before leaving for London and a process he aimed to continue, this time without the shadow of fear or jealousy. He closed his eyes, listened to the increasing beat of his heart, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Empty.
His smoldering gaze, prepared to charm her, flattened to a frown. A note on the table awaited his attention.
Come to the drawing room.
Not the romantic return he had envisioned. In truth, he doubted he would have had the courage to pull her into an embrace at first sight. That did not stop him from fantasizing about it or being disappointed that he would miss the opportunity of daring passion. The drawing room was no place for kissing.
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