Spring in Hyde Park

by Jennifer Moore

  The Desperate Debutantes. On the hunt. Again.

  A pack of hungry tigresses was less persistent.

  And, like tigers, the debutantes had a keen nose for male English blood.

  Glancing around, Colin refused to panic. They were just women after all. And more than one of them, which was a blessing. They could hardly entrap him as a group.

  Could they?

  Heavens, but he would appreciate a moment’s peace.

  The morning had dawned bright and clear, beckoning him outside for a brisk morning walk. He should have thought to bring along a footman.

  The giggles grew louder. Now what?

  A large window near him stood ajar. Without thinking, he pushed the window open and climbed inside, darting to the side, pressing himself against the wall just in time. Footsteps sounded on the gravel outside.

  “I could have sworn he came this way.” Muted voices carried inside.

  He peeked cautiously out the window.

  “Gracious, Lord Blake. Have you come to burgle the breakfast silver?” a calm, feminine voice asked. “Or is Stratton Hall being invaded?”

  Suppressing a yelp of surprise, Colin whirled to face the room. Took in the large oval dining table. The sideboard laden with covered dishes. The smell of freshly brewed coffee. The sunlight flooding the room from two large windows.

  Ah. He was, indeed, in the breakfast room. Two women sat at the table.

  Miss Heartstone sipped her morning tea. Amusement evident in her warm, brown eyes.

  Her companion—Miss Rouger? Miss Ruster? No, no. Miss Rutger! Hah!—merely glanced up from the newspaper she was perusing and then went back to reading.

  Colin tugged down on his waistcoat. Cleared his throat. “Given that I am a man of integrity and not taken to thievery, I believe I will go with the latter, Miss Heartstone. Invasion it is, I am afraid.”

  Amusement moved from her eyes to pull at her lips. “Yes. The wilds of Warwickshire have ever been treacherous.” A particularly loud burst of laughter drifted through the window. “I do believe there was report of marauding widows recently. They arm themselves with fruitcake and platitudes.”

  “I daresay it is more the daughters of such women who concern Lord Blake,” Miss Rutger said without looking up from her reading as she stirred more sugar into her teacup.

  “Mmm.” Miss Heartstone leaned closer to her companion. “I hear they travel in vicious packs.”

  “Yes. I believe they took down an unsuspecting baronet just two days ago near Charlecote. They had the poor man trussed and carried before the local vicar before he could raise the alarm.” Miss Rutger nodded, matronly mobcap bobbing up and down.

  “Lord Blake cannot be too careful.”

  Colin chuckled, relaxing. “True enough.” He chanced a glance through the window. He thought he saw a flash of muslin retreating down the drive, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Feel free to take refuge as long as you would like. We shan’t betray you.” Miss Heartstone neatly spread strawberry preserves on a toast triangle. “Have you breakfasted yet, my lord?”

  He had. But, suddenly, the thought of leaving the breakfast room to wander the estate, dodging the pack of Desperate Debutantes . . .

  Sigh. He would infinity prefer to sit and enjoy more mature, charming, chaperoned company.

  “I believe a cup of coffee would serve me well.” He strode over to the sideboard and poured himself a cup. And then added a crumpet and a rasher of bacon to his plate.

  He sat down at the table with his back to the windows, facing Miss Heartstone. The soft morning sun streamed through behind him, bathing her in light.

  She looked every inch the wealthy heiress. Gleaming chestnut hair meticulously styled, a wide green ribbon threaded through her curls. Her sprigged muslin morning dress perfectly cut to her figure, a generous fichu of Venetian lace tucked into the bodice. Really quite pretty, now that he thought about it.

  She looked sensible.

  He was sure if he told her such, she would take it as an insult. Most women would, he supposed. But given how few people—men or women—truly were, being deemed sensible could only be a rare compliment.

  If LTF had a sister or daughter, would she be sensible, too?

  “Are you enjoying your stay, Miss Heartstone?”

  “Certainly. Lord and Lady Stratton are always accommodating hosts. Are you enjoying your stay, my lord? Or have the marauding misses spoiled it for you?”

  Colin gave a reluctant chuckle. “I am far too much a gentleman to offer an opinion on that score, Miss Heartstone.”

  “Portraying yourself as kindhearted will only encourage them, my lord. Set their hearts aflutter.”

  “Are you suggesting a campaign of cold, ruthless behavior?”

  “It would serve you well.”

  “Adopt a cruel persona? Like Ivanhoe or Lord Ruthven from ‘The Vampyre’?”

  A slow, delighted smile lit her face. “I do appreciate a gentleman who has a thorough grounding in the, uhmm, great classics of modern literature. However, I fear being thought a vampire will most likely only heighten the ladies’ interest.”

  “I concede your point.”

  “You simply must assure them you are neither a gothic creature nor a hero from a novel by Sir Walter Scott.”

  “Perhaps more like a bumbling fool from a Shakespearean comedy?”

  “Precisely. Less Ivanhoe, more Bottom, if you will forgive me.” Her eyes lit with mischief.

  He laughed in earnest.

  Sensible and clever. Yes, indeed.

  “And what about yourself, Miss Heartstone? I understand you have had your own share of . . . pursuers.”

  “Do you refer to the Gold Miners?” Miss Rutger interrupted, lifting her head from her newspaper.

  Colin lifted his eyebrows, catching Miss Heartstone’s spreading blush. “Heavens, Miss Rutger, what will his lordship think?”

  “That you and I are birds of a feather, Miss Heartstone,” Colin said. “I call my own group of—shall we say, admirers?—the Desperate Debutantes.”

  “Desperate Debutantes. I quite like that.” An impish smile danced across her face.

  “Gold Miners is clever.”

  “Thank you. I had also considered Treasure Trappers.”

  “Also excellent. Mob of Marriageable Misses—that was one I rejected.”

  She tapped her chin with a finger. “Yes. I can see why.”

  “You can take alliteration too far.”

  “Agreed.”

  She shot him a delighted grin. Gold hints popping in her warm eyes.

  By Jove, she was lovely.

  They chatted about pleasantries after that. Yes, Lord Stratton was a recent acquaintance of his. The weather was excellent for early March. Naturally he would be joining them tomorrow to picnic amongst the snowdrops in full bloom in the south fields. Miss Heartstone enjoyed being outdoors.

  Through it all, she gave polite, crisp answers. Wit and humor showing through each reply.

  A footman entered midway through their conversation, carrying letters on a silver platter. He presented them to Miss Heartstone.

  “Thank you, John.” She took the letters and flipped through them, noting each address before tucking them away in a pocket.

  Colin couldn’t shake the nagging feeling they had met before. But where?

  “I must say, Miss Heartstone. Have we met?”

  Was it just his imagination, or did she freeze momentarily?

  Breathe. Belle firmly reminded herself. Do not overreact.

  It was a simple question. And, given their past interactions, a reasonable one. “Why do you ask, my lord?”

  “You seem somewhat familiar, that is all.”

  She pasted her brightest smile on her face.

  “I am sure all young women look alike. We just blend together into a blurry mass—”

  “No. ’Tis something else. I’m not quite able to place a finger upon it.”

  Right. Time to change the t
opic before she was forced to outright lie to him. Part of her desperately wanted him to remember, but who knew what his reaction would be.

  “What are your current plans, now that you have returned to England?”

  She forced herself not to notice how his elegant, long fingers moved as he spoke. She tried not to adore the low timbre of his voice, edged with something faintly foreign—evidence of his time spent in India. She most certainly didn’t admire how the morning light behind him amplified the gold highlights in his chestnut hair. Or how his blue eyes animated as he described his platform for the House of Lords.

  Or the weight of his letter burning in her pocket.

  She most studiously ignored the painful ache spreading out from her heart again. Stupid, hopeful thing.

  She pointedly reminded herself of her situation. Yes, unbeknownst to him, Blake was one of her best friends. But if she ever told him the truth about LTF, he would assume she had played him. And, perhaps, in a sense she had.

  The pain was merely the poignant reminder that her friendship with him had a price. And if she had to pay in heartache, so be it. She did not regret her actions.

  She just needed to ensure that he never found out.

  Chapter Five

  STRATTON HALL, WARWICKSHIRE

  MARCH 17, 1823

  I do not wish to trespass upon your good nature, dear friend, but as I have arrived much sooner than anticipated, I would welcome the chance to wait upon you. I fear your natural modesty and goodness of heart wishes for anonymity, but I sincerely desire to talk with you face-to-face. I want to learn your name, shake your hand, look you firmly in the eyes, and thank you for your friendship. Please tell me when and where such a meeting could take place. I am yours to command—

  The bedroom door cracked behind Belle, causing her to hurriedly stuff Blake’s latest letter into her reticule.

  “Are you ready?” Miss Rutger stepped into the room, pulling on her gloves.

  “Of course.” Belle took a steadying breath, adjusted her reticule, and turned to face her friend.

  “Still reading that letter, I see.” Miss Rutger missed nothing. It was what made her such a dear friend, most of the time. “How will you respond?”

  Belle shrugged.

  “Did not Mr. White apologize for being ill and delaying sending the letter on to you? I anticipate that the sender of your letter will want a quick reply.” Miss Rutger raised her eyebrows, shooting a cautious glance through the still open door behind her.

  Belle had been gratified to realize that Blake had written to her immediately upon arriving in England. He did value their friendship in truth, not just in polite platitudes on paper. She needed to reply to him, but she would give herself one more day to gather her thoughts.

  Footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by eager voices. A bonnetted head poked into Belle’s room.

  “Are you coming, Miss Heartstone? Miss Rutger? We don’t want the gentlemen to start without us.” With a giggle, the young ladies continued on down the hall.

  Miss Rutger turned back to Belle, a smirk on her face. “And by gentlemen, I think they mean Lord Blake.”

  “Poor man.”

  “They are a determined lot. Shall we go save him?”

  With a grin, Belle snatched up her reticule and hurried out of the room. A long walk, snowdrops, social chatter, and a picnic.

  And hopefully somewhere in the mix, she could decide how to best let Blake know his friendship with LTF was at an end.

  Without shattering her heart in the process.

  Colin hurried down the front steps of Stratton Hall, boots tapping, walking stick swinging broadly, his long overcoat lapping at his heels.

  The morning post had arrived just as everyone had gathered in the large entry hall, intent on their walk and picnic. Two items from his solicitor required his immediate attention, delaying him from attending the picnic.

  Colin ignored the flash of disappointment at not finding a letter from LTF in the lot. More than enough time had passed for his friend to pen a reply. And still nothing.

  Did LTF not want to meet him? Or was his friend actually not a prompt correspondent? When in India, it had taken nearly a year to send a question and receive a reply. Who knew how long LTF contemplated his questions before taking pen to paper?

  Patience. Colin just needed to trust and be patient.

  He strode across the broad front lawn and into the grove of trees beyond. The butler had given him detailed directions for reaching the field of snowdrops. And, indeed, a well-worn path cut through the trees just beginning to bud, tinging everything in subtle green.

  Though still early spring, birds fluttered among the branches. A cool wind rustled the bare bushes, brisk and invigorating. Colin inhaled deeply.

  Walking deeper into the woods, he wondered how far behind he was, part of him wishing he had brought along a footman, anyone, to act as a chaperone. This was the last place he wanted to encounter the pack of Desperate Debutantes. Or, worse, a solitary one.

  He picked up his pace.

  As he rounded a bend, he noticed a scrap of white fluttering on the ground. Stark and bright against the damp earth.

  Later, he decided Fate had led him to that moment. To turn his head in just the right direction. To see the folded paper nestled on top of brown leaves and fallen branches.

  He picked it up, turned it over.

  And felt every last bit of air leave his lungs in a shocked whoosh.

  The direction was clear.

  To LTF

  Care of Mr. Jeremy White

  Solicitor

  London, England

  Blake signed in bold letters across the bottom right corner supplied the postage. Fingers shaking, Colin opened the letter. The date and first lines jumping out at him:

  London, England

  February 19, 1823

  My old friend,

  I would love to see the surprise on your face when you receive this letter. Yes, as you have most likely deduced, I have returned home to England sooner than anticipated . . .

  Colin read the entire thing. The lines he had written only weeks before.

  How—?!

  He had sent the letter. Of that he was certain. Right?

  It hadn’t just been resting in his pocket all this time and fluttered free. He forced himself to remember.

  He had penned the letter at the desk in his London townhouse. Sanded the ink. Folded and sealed it with a thick glob of red wax. Franked the front with his signature. Placed it in the stack of other letters to go out with the evening post.

  This letter had originated with him. But its presence in Lord Stratton’s wood was not his doing.

  Colin stood in statuesque silence for far longer than was manly.

  This was . . . unexpected.

  He neatly refolded the letter and carefully tucked it into the inner pocket of his tail coat. He walked up the path, more briskly this time, mind churning through the logical possibilities.

  The letter had somehow dropped from his own pocket? He had already ruled out that possibility.

  Someone had stolen the letter and planted it here for him to find, knowing he would be coming up the path to catch up with the rest of his party?

  That seemed needlessly melodramatic and unlikely. Not to mention, completely pointless. There was nothing to be gained or lost through the discovery of the letter.

  No. The most likely scenario was the simplest.

  LTF had been or still was at Stratton Hall. And he had received the letter and then accidentally dropped it himself while out walking. Which could explain why his reply had been delayed.

  But the letter was quite crisp. Unspotted from rain, which given that it had rained just two nights past . . .

  LTF had been in the vicinity quite recently.

  Who was he? A local man who liked to walk the earl’s garden paths? Or was he a guest of Stratton’s house party?

  The latter seemed the most likely scenario.

  To t
hink, he might have been talking with LTF over dinner the previous evening without even knowing it.

  Obviously, LTF knew who Colin was, so why not reveal himself? The man was either too humble for his own good, or something else was afoot.

  His stomach gave a painful lurch. Was their friendship not what Colin thought it to be? The thought . . . hurt.

  Colin’s heart pounded in his chest. Thoughts intent on the path before him.

  He blundered into something soft and warm. The smell of lavender swirled around him.

  His hands automatically extended in an attempt to hold himself and whatever he had bumped into upright, fighting to keep them both stable.

  Which is how Colin found himself embracing Miss Heartstone in the middle of the Earl of Stratton’s forest.

  Belle had lost her letter. She had fallen behind everyone else, intent on reading it one more time, trying to compose a reply in her head.

  But one of the Gold Miners had decided to fall back, hoping to catch her alone, no doubt. Fortunately, Miss Rutger was on to him.

  They both converged on Belle, who had hastily folded the letter and returned it to her reticule.

  Only now the letter was not there. She must not have secured it properly. The wind or some errant movement had dislodged it.

  She had been scouring the sides of the path, searching for a telltale flash of white, when she bumped into something hard and unyielding.

  Blake.

  Who was now holding her, her face buried in his cravat.

  The shock of his arms around her. That sense of strength and gentleness that was uniquely his. The smell of wool and sandalwood that engulfed her.

  The sheer stunned joy of being in the one place she had dreamed of being for more years than was wise . . .

  “I do beg your pardon, Miss Heartstone.” He instantly set his hands to her shoulders, burning her like firebrands, and peeled her off of him.

  Was it her imagination or did his hands linger?

  He bent to pick up his top hat that had tumbled off.

  “I was not looking where I was going. Again, I am most sorry. Are you quite all right?”