Watching her lover sleep, she recommitted every detail of his angular face to memory, knowing she might never see it again. As she dashed unbidden tears away, her mind cried out the one question she hadn’t dared ask.
Do you love her?
The answer came immediately, as if he’d heard her in his sleep.
I would not be here if I did.
Late in the afternoon, he woke and ate, then sat patiently while Katy smoothed the tangles from his hair and fastened his garters.
“You’d make some man a good wife,” he told her, as she turned his cuffs and buttoned his waistcoat.
Her laugh sounded brittle. “Would have made, you mean. Aye, well, fate and me mum chose otherwise for me, Mister Adams, and I’ll not be crying over spilt milk.” Bending over him to tie his neckcloth, she blew a tendril of hair off her brow and looked him in the eye. “Besides, your decision to travel the rutty road of holy matrimony wouldn’t necessarily be mine.”
When the time came for him to go, he pressed folded currency into her hand, closing her fingers on it for her when she made no move to hold it.
She stared blindly at his waistcoat. “I’d not accept this but for Madame Claire.” Her eyes rose to meet his. “Do you understand, Mister Adams?”
Without replying, he drew her to him and pressed his lips into her hair.
She watched him walk to the door, her energy ebbing with each step he took, her face a mask with a plastered-on smile.
Stepping onto the gallery, he returned only the ghost of a smile, then slowly and quietly shut the door.
Katy gazed numbly at the closed portal. After a long while, she opened her hand and unfolded the crinkled currency. She stared at it for a moment, then fell to her knees on the rug, and was sitting there when Madame Claire knocked at the door and let herself in. Without a word, Katy handed her the money.
The madam stared at it, then at Katy, and shook her head, her smile nearly cracking her rouged face. “Mon Dieu, girl…he left us fifty pounds!”
“Aye. A farewell gift,” Katy said tonelessly, and burst into tears.
SIX
Thorne’s pre-dawn arrival at Wycliffe Hall guaranteed a cold hearth in his study. Crouched there with the bellows, he heard something clatter on the desk behind him.
“Bloody hell!” He shot up from the hearth.
“Pardon, M’lord.” The maid clutched hard at her skirts and curtsied, then turned to flee.
“Combs.”
She halted, facing the door.
Thorne went to the desk, where a tray lay on the blotter. A puddle of tea surrounded a cup in its saucer. He looked at the maid’s rigid back. “This will never do, Combs. Perhaps if you weren’t always in a hell-for-leather hurry to leave my proximity…Combs?”
“Aye, M’lord?”
“While there’s nothing objectionable about your aft exposure, I prefer seeing your face when I speak to you.”
Squaring her shoulders, she turned around, then dropped a stiff curtsey. “Begging your pardon, M’lord.”
Thorne regretted detaining her the instant he saw her pale cheeks and puffy eyes. He decided to berate her for her carelessness and pretend not to notice anything amiss.
“Your demeanor, Combs, suggests something amiss…some tragedy in your family, perhaps?” Ah, Neville, you’ve flipped your nonexistent wig!
“No, M’lord.”
“Has some wrong been done you?”
“No, M’lord.”
Belatedly, he tried to distance himself. “No doubt Dame Carswell can assist.”
An anguished look crossed the maid’s face. She dropped her head into her hands.
Distance was forgotten as Thorne came around the desk and offered his handkerchief. “Here now, no need for tears. Sit down for a moment.” Daft, Neville. You’re well and truly daft!
He shut the door and guided her to a chair, noticing that she dabbed at her tears with the square of linen but refrained from blowing her nose into it. Very dainty, this one.
Her sniffling quieted. Thorne sat down at his desk and regarded her warily. “I assume from your reaction that Dame Carswell cannot be of help in the matter.”
The maid took a deep breath. “She is part of the matter, sir. You see, I was ill this morn, as I have been several mornings of late. Dame Carswell has noticed, and today made some very intimate inquiries of me. She thinks”—Combs swallowed audibly—“that I am with child.”
Thorne grappled with inexplicable dismay. “And the father?”
Looking as surprised as he at the question, Combs closed her eyes. Tears seeped from under her eyelids and slid down scarlet cheeks. “Toby. Mister Hobbs.”
Thorne’s stomach knotted. He tried to keep his voice even. “And what has he to say? Have you told him?”
She shook her head. “I dare not. He’ll be angry. He’ll deny it at any rate.”
“Why?” Thorne demanded, scarcely believing he’d asked, or what he was about to ask. “Is there some possibility he is not the father?”
Combs stared at him, a hollow look in her dove-gray eyes. “I swear to you, M’lord, with God as my witness, I have never been with another man.”
Thorne looked away, then rose from his chair and strode to the window, hands clasped behind him. “Then Hobbs knew.”
“Knew what, M’lord?”
He quietly cleared his throat. “Knew that you were still…a maiden.” He could feel Combs’ hot blush as if it were his, and wondered again why he’d felt compelled to make such an inquiry.
“Y-yes, he knew,” she stammered softly.
“How long ago did he seduce you?” Again he could hardly believe the question had passed his unaccountably dry lips.
“‘Twas a fortnight before you returned from university, M’lord.”
It was the first time Thorne had detected any bitterness in her voice. He assumed she resented his prying—and why not? He was quite disgruntled by it himself. He turned to face her.
“Please understand, Combs, that my inquiries are not of a seedy nature. I’m neither deviant nor voyeuristic. Nor am I busybody or gossipmonger, in fact I rather pride myself on minding my own affairs and giving those of others a wide berth. I simply ask in the interest of a man who has served my family well for more than half his life.” There, that should do. But no, he wasn’t finished—and she knew it, judging by the sudden steel in her bearing.
“Were you forced?” he asked, his voice going hoarse. “And was it just the one time? Sorry, Combs, but I must have the lay of the land before charging in”—on your white steed? sneered his conscience—“with indictments,” he finished, snapping his mouth shut.
“I consented.” Despite her flaming cheeks, she spoke with no shame. “I have not been with him since. I did try to speak with him, but that made him angry. It seems I was mere diversion, despite his endless attempts to woo me and his hints at marriage.” She swiped at a fresh tear with the balled handkerchief in her fist. “Begging your pardon, M’lord, I was a fool, and I’ve no right to self-pity, much less to indulge it in your presence. By your leave, I shall get on with my duties now.”
“In a moment, Combs. I’d be remiss in my own duty to let this go unsaid.” Thorne rounded the desk and perched on its edge. “Hobbs,” he said grimly, “has a reputation for breaking hearts and maidenheads from Northampton to London and back again. Several times over.” There, that was turning the knife, but Combs didn’t flinch. Thorne paused, unnerved by her guileless gaze, then made his voice brusque. “Nonetheless, Hobbs is a top-notch stableman, the creme de la creme of horsemen. I cannot afford to lose him.”
Nodding, Combs looked away.
“However, I shall speak with him.”
Her eyes flew to him and widened. “No, M’lord, you mustn’t, I…I cannot ask that of you.”
“You didn’t ask. Humor me, Combs. I’ve my own reasons for wishing to talk to Hobbs. You may go now.”
She rose from the chair and curtsied. “I shall fetch another tray, M�
�lord. Your breakfast is cold, thanks to me.”
“I didn’t ring for breakfast, Combs. And ‘twas I who detained you.” He sat down behind the desk. “Bring it, then. Try not to sneak by me this time.”
“Yes, M’lord.”
Glimpsing a smile as she turned to go, Thorne regretted having to ask one more question. “What has Dame Carswell to say of your situation?”
Combs turned to him, her smile faltering. “She says, M’lord, that if I am enceinte, I shall have to seek employment elsewhere.”
Thorne observed the maid silently for a moment, then said, “We shall see about that.”
*
“Murdered?” Thorne echoed in disbelief. “Tom Barker had a way of offending, but I can’t say he deserved strangling, at least not to the death.”
“Whoever killed him didn’t profit,” Arthur said. “He was bellyaching over his empty purse when he left Duncan’s that night.”
“Tom’s mates knew his well only ran dry when the coin ran out. So if robbery was the intent, ‘twas likely a stranger. Has Smythe sent for the constable?”
Arthur nodded.
“And our vigils?”
“Ongoing, ‘til last night. The mists were so bloody thick a score of lanterns would have been of no use. I trust you enjoyed your stay in London?”
Thorne’s gaze fell to his paperwork. “‘Twas pleasant enough. Radleigh and Gwynneth will arrive in a fortnight or so. I understand preparations are already underway.” He raised his eyes inquiringly.
“Aye.” Arthur looked chagrined. “Bridey and Carswell are nearing full tilt.”
Thorne chuckled. “Never mind, they’ll see it through to the finish, and things will be all the better for their scrapping.”
*
Hobbs’ ropy sinew rippled with each stroke of the curry brush. “He’s a fine animal,” he said without looking up. “As partial as I am to Bartholomew, this one nigh puts him to shame.”
Raven stood unmoved by the praise except for an impatient swipe of his tail, his coat glistening blue-black in a shaft of sunlight.
“Put to it, I’d have to agree,” Thorne said, glancing at the big red gelding, his father’s favorite. He watched Hobbs at work for a few more minutes, then broke the awkward silence. “I’ve spoken this morn with one of the maids. Combs by name.”
Hobbs’ hesitation was barely noticeable as he knelt to brush Raven’s foreleg. “And why should that interest me, M’lord?”
“Only because it seems she’s with child, and you are the father.”
Hobbs turned, amber eyes narrowing. “Never one to mince words, were you, M’lord.” He tossed the curry brush into a pail of soapy water. “She’ll have to prove it to me,” he flung over his shoulder. “If she can.” He led Raven to his stall.
Thorne kept his voice level. “She claims she was a virgin when you bedded her.”
“True.” Hobbs shut the stall gate and leaned against it, eyeing Thorne with frowning curiosity.
“She also says it happened only once.”
“Aye. Your point, M’lord?”
Thorne could barely contain his sarcasm. “Once is enough, if I remember my biology correctly.”
“True, but the sword was out of the scabbard when…well, you catch my drift. Let’s just say I kept my wits about me. See here, M’lord, I’ve admitted to bedding the woman. She’s easy on the eyes, and eager enough between the sheets. Unfortunately she was besotted with me, as happens particularly with women newly broken, and when she realized I’d no intention of wedding her, she was outraged.”
“You mean devastated.”
Hobbs shrugged. “Call it what you will. At any rate, she likely sought consolation elsewhere and got a bit more than she bargained for. And now she seeks revenge by pointing the finger at me! Well, it won’t work, I tell you.” He snatched up a tack rag and began shining a saddle on the workbench.
Recognizing Robert Neville’s saddle, Thorne felt a grudging appreciation that Hobbs had enough respect for him to maintain it.
“By your leave, M’lord, I’ve work to do.”
“Hobbs.”
The stable master looked up to meet Thorne’s piercing regard.
“Combs vows you’re the only man who’s ever bedded her. I believe her. And if you’re half the man I’m told you are, you’ll do what is right.”
Hobbs boldly returned Thorne’s stare. “As I said, M’lord—she’ll have to prove it.”
SEVEN
I must apologize for my unladylike behavior in the coach. I have since made confession and through proper penance am absolved. You shall never again witness such a shameful display of boldness from me.
I look forward to our arrival at Wycliffe Hall in August, where I hope I am still welcome.
Father has stepped out again tonight. I fear he is at the gaming tables and will arrive home inebriated as he does often here in London. God be thanked, our coachman stays at the ready to take him home.
Today Caroline Sutherland escorted me to Madame Charlotte’s shop in Regent Street for my fittings. Caroline’s husband is often away, and I think she is lonely, so I am glad to keep her company.
In closing, I ask that you think of me kindly, as I think of you.
I remain your betrothed,
Gwynneth Lynnette Stowington.
Baffled, Thorne scanned the letter once more. He and Gwynneth had shared a mere kiss. Confession! Would she run to the priest with an account of their every intimacy? Surely not after they wed.
The library door opened; Elaine Combs entered with tea. Thorne folded Gwynneth’s letter and slipped it into a pocket. “Sit for a moment, Combs, please.”
Her quickly masked relief at getting off her feet did not escape Thorne. He wished he could offer her a biscuit and some tea without her thinking it odd or improper. “I’ve spoken to Hobbs,” he told her quietly. “The result was not what I’d hoped.”
“He denied it, didn’t he.” She bit her lip. “Forgive me, M’lord. I’ve forgotten my manners again.”
“I can’t say I blame you…and your manners are fine.” He studied the face of this woman whose beauty seemed refined and classic instead of striking, and whose speech oddly lacked slurred vowels or truncated suffixes. “So fine,” he murmured, “that I have wondered just how and where you acquired them.”
Her hands tightened in her lap. “Thank you, M’lord.”
Damnation, would she reveal nothing about herself? He couldn’t just come out and ask, and she knew it. He decided to be blunt. “Hobbs wants proof he is the father.”
The maid stared at him blankly.
“Combs?” Sweet Jesu, he was too blunt; she was going to faint.
She blinked. “Forgive me, M’lord. I was trying to think how I might possibly prove such a thing.”
Thorne slowly let out his breath.
“By your leave, M’lord”—the maid abruptly rose and curtsied—“I shan’t take up any more of your time. Dame Carswell will be looking for me. But I appreciate what you did for me.”
“I did nothing for you, Combs.” Thorne felt suddenly glum. “At least nothing to appreciate.”
She looked indignant. “You saved me certain humiliation and perhaps abuse, for I hear Hobbs has a fearsome temper.”
“Then avoid him.”
Her startled expression told him how imperious he’d sounded. “I shall, M’lord.” She hurried toward the door.
But he couldn’t let her go, not yet. “I told you in our last meeting, Combs, that I couldn’t afford to lose Hobbs.”
She stopped and turned to look at him, her expression inscrutable. “Aye, M’lord, I remember.”
“I tell you now,” he said, his throat tightening, “that if the man ever lays a hand on you, I will personally thrash the devil out of him and then throw him out on his ear, sans letters of recommendation, and it will be arranged so that he can find no better situation than that of groom, shoveling dung in only the poorest of stables without any prospect of advancement.”<
br />
They stared at one another, servant and master—she looking startled, he stunned by his own intensity.
“You may go,” he said presently. His voice had nearly recovered its normal timbre.
A while later, after a double shot of whiskey, his heart recovered its normal rhythm.
*
6 August, 1728
My dearest lord,
I received your letter today. You say you have a surprise for me. Might it be you have given some thought to conversion? The thought of attending Holy Mass and taking Holy Communion with you gives me great pleasure. Of course such a decision is entirely yours, for only you can know your heart in such matters.
My wedding frock is nearly finished. Madame Charlotte has outdone herself, from all accounts. My trousseau is complete as well. I shall certainly bring more than the one trunk with me this time!
I shall close now, and courier this today.
Fondly,
Gwynneth Lynette Stowington
Arthur looked down into his ale. “And so it begins,” he said with a snort.
“What begins?” Seated across a table at Duncan’s, Thorne tucked the letter away.
The steward took a long draught before replying. “Wycliffe Hall’s transformation.”
“Into what?”
“A deuced nunnery.”
Thorne chortled. “Then I’ll be its priest and we’ll all go to the devil.” Seeing Arthur wasn’t amused, he sobered. “Bear up, my friend. True fanaticism would put me off, but this smacks more of sentimentality—attending church together and so on. Gwynneth isn’t about to convert my household.” Thorne grinned. “Though Bridey would prove an easy mark. She’s forever begging the saints to preserve her.”
Arthur smile looked uneasy.
“‘Tis my conversion Gwynneth wants,” Thorne assured him, “and damned if I’m willing to pay the Crown double taxes for the privilege.”
“Any more than you’re willing to pay to keep a priest in the village?”
Thorne narrowed his eyes. “You’re a shrewd one, Pennington, never let it be said otherwise. But roughly a third of our tenants are dyed-in-the-wool Catholics, say what they will. And happy tenants mean larger profit. You know it, and so did my father.”
The Heart Denied Page 6
