Hell, he’d been running for days already. She had been there for three whole days and he’d made a plethora of pathetic excuses not to visit, until he had realised sometime around three this morning as he had awoken in another cold sweat that he needed to do so before Flint and the others arrived. He didn’t want them to see that mere bricks and mortar could render him so sick and panicked he could barely function. He needed to harden himself to the place before he was in any fit state to work collaboratively with others within its haunted walls. This had been his idea.
One of his stupidest.
In the distance, someone stepped out of the stables and waved. There could be no turning back now. That simple wave would start a flurry of activity within the house. Servants would be warned, scurrying to welcome him. The new housekeeper, the woman who had prompted him to make this foolhardy decision in the first place, would be at the front door to greet him.
A cold trickle of fresh perspiration made its way down his spine. He didn’t want her to see how much this place panicked him either. Perhaps if he kept this first visit short and sweet, he could wear his detached lawyer’s mask for the duration?
And perhaps pigs might fly.
The second he stepped into that cavernous marbled hallway he would be confronted with the staircase. Then the events of that dreadful day a decade ago would all come rushing back. The anger, then the numbness which still shamed him. That caused the oppressive guilt he always carried with him but buried in work. He’d buried it so well with so much work, he had barely thought about it in years.
There would be no burying it today because there was no way of avoiding that blasted staircase. Even if he blindfolded himself he would sense it. Picture her last moments before she plunged helplessly to her death.
‘Good morning, my lord.’ Closer, he recognised the new groom as one of Lord Fennimore’s agents and raised his hand quickly in an approximation of a cheery wave. A little too quickly because it made him instantly bilious.
This was nonsense! A man halfway through his thirtieth year shouldn’t be so petrified of visiting an empty house. And it was an empty house and not Pandora’s actual blasted box, so he needed to stop thinking about it in those terms. What was done was done. Dusted.
Buried.
Hadleigh gave himself a stern talking-to as the agent took his horse and he walked on alone the short distance to the house. Near the entrance he dithered, considering if for this first visit he shouldn’t ease himself in by entering through the back via the kitchens or, if by some miracle they were unlocked, the French doors leading into the morning room. That had been his mother’s favourite room and the place they had spent many a happy hour. Just the two of them. Avoiding talking about his father or the increase in his erratic behaviour because it was easier to pretend everything was fine...
‘Lord Hadleigh!’ Her voice stopped him staring resolutely at the gravel and made the distasteful decision for him. ‘I wondered when you might make an appearance.’
Reluctantly he looked up. She was stood at the top of the colonnaded steps which led to the enormous front door, smiling. Wearing a pretty blue dress unlike any of the dour dresses he had seen her in before. The colour suited her. The style suited her more. The demure, long-sleeved bodice fitted her trim figure perfectly, showing off her splendid bosom to perfection. A bosom, which to his shame, he had contemplated a great deal since he had seen it dusted enticingly with flour. The blustery autumn breeze plastered the skirt to her body, giving him a tantalising hint of the rest of her figure properly for the first time. A petite hourglass finished off with a very shapely and surprisingly long pair of legs. For a split second the sight made him forget where he was.
Then reality came crushing back like a tempest.
‘My lady... I mean, Mrs...’ Good grief, with all the stress of being here he had completely forgotten her new alias. Hendon? Henry? It began with an ‘H’, he was certain. She must have seen him floundering.
‘Under the circumstances, with the lines between my old life and my new still so blurred, maybe it would be easier to simply call me Penny.’ She was smiling again, attempting to stand still, but practically bouncing with a suppressed energy he had never seen in her before that warmed his heart. She was happy. He might be in hell because of it, but he had made her happy. ‘Come in! I’ve been itching to show someone. I think you’ll be delighted with our progress.’
Like a man headed to his own execution, he slowly took the short steps to the threshold of the house and then took a deep breath. Penny—he liked that name, liked the sound of it on his lips—had skipped on ahead and was stood in the centre of the cavernous atrium. Behind her, on either side, were the stairs. Two unyielding marble flights, flanked with the intricately carved ebony banisters his mother had once helped him slide down, curved around in a sweeping arc before meeting at the landing above.
She was everywhere, his mother. He could hear her echoing laughter in the walls, picture her dashing down those stairs to greet him. Arms wide, smile wider. Picture the grisly scene of her body broken on the hard marble floor at the base. Neck broken. Dead eyes staring lifeless.
He shivered.
‘It’s still a tad cold in here, isn’t it? I think it will take another couple of days at least to heat the walls properly.’ She touched his arm and that anchored him to the present. He wanted to grab her hand, absorb her strength and stay there. ‘Especially here in this vast space. Marble is notoriously cold and unforgiving.’ Indeed it was. Catastrophically unforgiving. ‘Would you like some tea or some refreshments before we take the tour or after?’ Despite standing next to him, she sounded so far away.
‘After.’
Best to get the hideous experience over and done with before he did part ways with his breakfast.
She led him down the hallway and he waited for more hideous memories to batter him, but bizarrely none came. His arms and legs felt leaden, his breathing shallow, his emotions numb. Something which bothered him more than anything. In all these years, he hadn’t grieved. Hadn’t shed a single tear. The tragedy had happened, he had calmly dealt with the aftermath in what he would later realise was a detached haze, then he had focused on his studies. Just like his callous father he felt nothing whatsoever. Neither of them had mourned his mother properly.
As if she sensed his disquiet, Penny never said a word or, to her credit, expected him to say anything. They stopped at the door to the drawing room and, before he could remember his manners, she opened it for him. ‘We have focused on what we presume will be the most used rooms first.’ The old ormolu clock on the mantel was ticking loudly. The familiar, but long forgotten, noise sounded hollow to his ears. Other than that, Hadleigh had no visceral reaction to the space. He was able to glance dispassionately over it as was expected.
It smelled of fresh beeswax mixed with the faintest whiff of lavender. The windows shone, letting in the crisp early November sunshine and making the room feel bright and airy. He recognised every stick of furniture, but perhaps not their exact position. She must have moved things around, he supposed, although to his eye, it all now appeared to be in exactly the correct space.
He found his gaze fixated on the thick woollen blanket draped neatly over the arm of a chair and decided he had no recollection of it ever being there. As if reading his mind, she explained its presence. ‘Big rooms like this can get chilly even when the fire is roaring. I thought Lord and Lady Flint might appreciate a few cosy, homely touches while they are residing here. I hope you don’t mind.’
Mind? Why would he? He had no opinions regarding this house other than complete abhorrence. He wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for her. His eyes listlessly lifted to meet hers and he saw her confusion. He’d allowed the silence to stretch too long when she was clearly seeking his approval. ‘Everything looks perfect.’ And he couldn’t wait to leave.
She beamed then and the numbness lifted.
She had dimples. Two adorable matching indents which framed a smile that turned her quietly pretty face into something quite beautiful. ‘Oh, I am so glad! On the one hand, I didn’t want to tamper with what was here when this house is so lovely, but on the other, I couldn’t resist gilding the lily with a few tweaks here and there... Come—I bet you are dying to see the rest.’
He was slowly dying inside, more like.
Everything he was, everything he enjoyed about life, was being slowly sucked out of him just by standing within these walls. Leaving a vacuum...of numbness. Odd, really, that he should feel so detached when everything that had happened here was so intensely personal—or at least should have been.
The next few minutes passed painfully slowly as she led him from room to room, pointing out her subtle changes or appraising him of how much work it had taken to bring the space back to its former glory. He managed to grunt one or two responses and hoped they were appropriate. Speech was hard when dread was strangling his vocal cords.
But, in truth, the rapid progress she had made surprised him, as did his reaction to it all. Hadleigh had expected to feel horror at everything, as the sights and smells of his childhood home conjured up all manner of uncomfortable memories. His calm detachment came as a relief. They were just rooms after all. Just furniture. Aside from his first glimpse of the staircase, the ghosts of his past remained blessedly silent and the lid remained firmly closed on the terrifying box of unpleasantness in his mind. To such an extent that the queasiness he had suffered since setting out at the crack of dawn began to wane and he started to believe he could do this after all.
‘This is my favourite room...’ She flung open the door to the morning room, then stood aside so he could enter first. ‘There was no need to tweak anything in here. Just a good dust and an airing...’ Every thus-far silent ghost suddenly bombarded him as they screamed and exploded out of the woodwork, so swiftly they caught him off guard. The pain was instantaneous and all-encompassing. ‘And of course these magnificent windows needed a significant amount of cleaning.’
In his mind’s eye he could picture his mother there. Hear every damned word of their last conversation. Stood staring sightlessly out of the window, the weight of the world on her shoulders, her posture shielding the faded, ugly bruise from his gaze. One palm flattened against the glass.
‘Leave! Come back with me to London.’
‘Out of the question. Your father needs me here.’
‘He is becoming dangerous. More dangerous than usual.’
‘He’s ill, darling—not dangerous.’ She had turned then and smiled in reassurance, all hint of the burdened woman banished solely for his benefit, touching the bruise and then brushing it off. ‘Let’s not confuse my innate clumsiness with anything more dramatic.’
That had always been her answer to every injury and bruise over the years. ‘Silly me. I walked straight into an open cupboard door. Would you believe I tripped over my own feet...my skirt...a floorboard?’
No. He hadn’t. Not once. Except while those occasional bouts of violence which occurred only when his father was home could be readily glossed over by his mother and to his shame he had let her, things had taken a more sinister turn and Hadleigh had been scared. ‘Besides, he needs me here. The physicians really don’t see him lasting long—no more than a year at most.’
There had been no love lost between his mother and his father, nor between father and son. His sire had been a difficult man to love. Dictatorial, aggressive, cold and unfeeling. Free and handy with his fists, especially after a drink. Nothing anyone did was ever good enough, but until his health had declined he had been largely absent from Chafford Grange and their lives.
But then he had spent longer stretches at home and things began to change—more for her than Hadleigh. He had his mother to thank for that. She did a splendid job of keeping the pair of them apart until he had learned fairly late at what cost. He had been fifteen. No longer a child, but nowhere near an adult. He had tried to intervene once he realised the awful truth, planned several ways of permanently stopping his father from raising his hand to her again, but ultimately had always fallen short of succeeding. Just a frightened boy attempting to be the bigger man, but never quite rising to the challenge.
Right and wrong.
Good and evil.
The law and the lawless.
That was the problem with all his solutions. They jarred with his fundamental beliefs, all the things that made him...him. With hindsight which came from a decade of seeking justice, he should have shot his father that awful summer of eighteen hundred and five. The man had been all alone on the turnpike which clipped the furthest edge of the estate. Roaring drunk after another night of hedonism. The moon was full. He had a clear line of sight. Thanks to their close proximity to the capital, this busy road was a notorious spot for footpads. And despite practising hundreds of times for this exact opportunity until he could hit anything dead centre the first time with his first shot, squeezing the trigger of his gun to kill a flesh-and-blood man rather than an inert, lifeless target proved to be too difficult.
Instead, he had run, thrown his stolen pistol in the lake and by the time he had come home, his father had taken his drunken anger out on his mother again. He had found her weeping in the kitchen, a cold cloth pressed against her blackening eye.
‘I should have lit a candle before I came downstairs...silly me. Would you believe it? I hit my head on a sconce.’
A lie he should have spared her, simply by taking that shot.
Instead, that fateful day had taken his feet down a different path. If he couldn’t break the law to protect his mother, he would use the law to do it. From then on, he had been single-minded in his pursuit of that lofty goal, losing sight of the here and now while he chased the all-consuming promise of the future he intended to shape. That was why he had chosen to be a prosecutor rather than a defending attorney. In the decade since her death, he had used the system to defend other defenceless women, whether that be to seek proper justice after their deaths or to help free them from the prison of a toxic marriage or, at the very least, ensure they received adequate financial compensation for their suffering. Penny wasn’t the first woman who had received some of his father’s fortune and he sincerely doubted she would be the last. Whatever it took to right the wrongs.
‘I cannot leave him to die here all alone. He’s scared. It’s so sad to watch. The illness is confusing him.’ She always called it the illness, preferring that to the truth. But then syphilis sounded so distasteful and his mother had not wanted the servants to know why their master could no longer control his own bladder or recall where he was.
‘Then I’ll stay home. I’ll help you.’
‘What? Defer your studies? Out of the question. Everything is fine, darling. Or at least as good as can be expected under the circumstances. It’s not as if you can do anything which will alter the course of things and most days now he doesn’t remember his own name, let alone yours. I promise I will send word as soon as the end is close.’
She had walked to the chair he was sat in, cupped his face with her hands and kissed him on the forehead. ‘It was lovely to see you today, Tristan. An unexpected and wonderful surprise. But it’s getting late and you know I hate to think of you riding back to town in the dark. Be a good son and don’t add to my worries. Besides, I am sure there is some lovely young lady desirous of your swift return.’ There was. There always was. Although the lusty widow who had warmed his bed that year was a good decade older than he had been. ‘I am sure she’s missing you terribly. And do stop fretting about me and your father. There are servants watching his every move, the physician comes every other day and I am never left alone with him.’
Because it was simpler to accept those lies than deal with the truth and upset with his stubborn mother, he had left and put it out of his mind as he always did. That was the easiest
and simplest option. Bury himself in his studies so he could fix things for her and every other voiceless woman properly—legally—for ever once he was qualified.
A week later, he received word of her death. Ostensibly an accident, but he knew in his heart of hearts that his father had pushed her down those stairs because the servants had heard his sire’s nonsensical shouting in the small hours shortly before they found her. He also knew that he could have prevented it simply with his presence. An extra pair of eyes and ears to protect her. But he had been too eager to hurry down the path that called to him, when his studies could and should have been deferred that year for obvious reasons.
‘Is everything all right?’ A voice, not his mother’s, dragged him out of the pit.
‘Yes... Yes, of course.’
‘I think you do need that cup of tea now. You have had a tiring journey.’ Penny was regarding him with confusion. Had his lawyer’s mask slipped? Had she witnessed the terror and disgust on his face when he had been trying so hard to keep it bland? ‘I’ll send for some. Why don’t you sit down?’
‘No!’ The atmosphere and the newly settling numbness were suffocating him. ‘Please...don’t trouble yourself.’ He needed air. Miles of open road. The ability to turn back the clock. Cold settled in his spine while hot perspiration suddenly appeared on his skin.
‘It’s no trouble at all. And I absolutely insist. A wise man once told me everything is better after a cup of tea.’ She threaded her arm through his and, as if realising this room had something to do with his current state, tugged him back into the hallway, closing the door and trapping the ghosts inside. ‘I’ll have it brought to the drawing room. If you don’t mind, I will join you as I have some questions regarding Lord and Lady Flint and the overall organisation for the next few weeks.’
The Determined Lord Hadleigh Page 10
