by Issy Brooke
“Of course.” Whatever the unpleasant contracts that now bound them together, he was still a pleasing man and good company. She took his arm and they sailed down the wide stairs to meet the small, exclusive crowd.
* * *
She recognised most of the gathering from the dinner that Hugo had hosted previously. She nodded and smiled and let Hugo parade around, re-introducing her to this person and that. There was a tiny woman with no remarkable features whatsoever who was, apparently, a wealthy patroness of many charities and general philanthropist. There were a few interchangeable young bucks who stood around in a gang, all hanging on Hugo’s every word. She greeted Ewatt Carter-Hall carefully, but he acted as if they had been brought up together in the same house, and cheerfully introduced her to his wife, Freda, a beautiful young woman with a vacant air who blinked and stared and simpered and was immediately distracted by a butterfly that had flown in through the open windows.
A matronly woman leaned forward, and said to the small group, “What of the dreadful business in town this morning! Have you heard?”
Her question was addressed to their little gathering of five, but Hugo rolled his eyes and pulled his arm free from Cordelia. “Do excuse me,” he murmured, and abandoned her. He wandered off to join another small knot of people. In all, there were around two dozen present, all done up in their provincial best. The hall was decorated in the Regency style, yet it still retained a glamour even if it was not quite a la mode. The dark red walls were oppressive in the daytime, but at night, lit by the great cut-glass chandelier and many candles and lamps, it was a sparkling palace. The ornately carved frames of the huge paintings caught the light at odd, new angles and everything seemed slightly larger.
She watched Hugo go. She didn’t mind that he’d left her; he’d be back. He had a mission, of course. She turned her attention back to the people nearest to her. Everyone was now talking of the murder, though no one really knew anything definite.
“Didn’t the young man work here?” someone else said.
“I had heard so myself,” Cordelia said. “What did he do?”
The other guests shook their heads, murmuring. “He was a servant,” said one, their tone conveying their disbelief that they should be expected to know anything about what their staff actually did.
Now the attention was more fully focussed on Cordelia. The matronly woman assessed her curiously. “And how many years is it since the sad demise of your husband?” she asked.
“Five.” She had been twenty-eight. “We had been married less than a year,” she added, and was rewarded with the usual, predictable intake of breath.
“How perfectly tragic!” said one, a look on her face that actually said, “how perfectly thrilling!”
Certainly, the marriage had been tragic, though she wasn’t so sure if she could honestly say that about his death. She bit her tongue, and smiled politely. She was about to ask more about Thomas Bains, in the hope that someone would know something, but she was interrupted by the matron once more.
“And at last you are re-entering society,” she said, and shot a long and meaningful glance at Hugo Hawke’s back.
“He had been urging me to visit for some time,” Cordelia said. “I was becoming improper in my constant refusal. And naturally, as he is the trustee of my late husband’s estates…”
The matron raised an eyebrow as if Cordelia was obscuring her true intentions. It was true that Hugo had been pursuing her assiduously, and it suddenly struck Cordelia as amusing. She had not expected to get married at all, so her late wedding to Lord Cornbrook had been a surprise to all. And her experiences should have put her firmly into the camp of eternal widowhood. Yet today, she had been impolitely propositioned by Carter-Hall, and Hugo Hawke himself was now watching her from across the room, and stroking his moustache rhythmically. For Cordelia, the clock was ticking in many ways. They had not yet “discussed the delicate matter” but his wishes were perfectly clear: marriage.
“It is certainly indelicate to remain in grieving for too long a time,” the matron said. “A woman alone is an unprotected thing and prey to all manner of predators.”
A woman with any kind of fortune is definitely prey, thought Cordelia. She smiled once more at the matron and excused herself from the discussion. Her retreat was too abrupt and hasty, and she could see the looks that passed between them as she made her way towards the piano, but she did not care. Her happiness did not depend on the approval – or not – of some provincial tittle-tattlers. Not any longer, so she vowed.
She had intended to place herself near to the talented pianist and simply enjoy the music for a time, but she was waylaid when she was only halfway there by the eager figure of Hugo Hawke once more. He was holding two glasses of temptingly sparkling champagne and he pressed her to accept one.
“Cordelia,” he said. “I must apologise for abandoning you to those harpies. I saw Ewatt and had to catch him to arrange a card game later.”
“Mixed?” she asked hopefully.
“Regretfully not,” he said. “I know what a ferocious player you are, Cordelia, and I have no doubt you should bankrupt us all. But you would be the only lady, and we men get shockingly rowdy in our cups.”
“You would be amazed how rowdy I can be,” she said. Or how rowdy I imagine I might be, given a chance.
Instead of appalling him, it seemed to light a fire in his eyes. “No doubt,” he said, licking his lower lips. “Now, I know you are interested in the literary arts. Have I shown you the Japanese manuscripts in my library?”
“No, I don’t believe you have. That sounds fascinating.”
“Would you like to step into the library with me?”
She knew, immediately, that the alcohol in his system was igniting the passion in his loins, and that he wanted to get her alone. She wondered if he even had any Japanese manuscripts. Anyway, did they not write on scrolls? She was unsure. Hugo’s eyes were dark and hungry. If she were lucky, he intended to inflict upon her nothing more than an excited declaration of love and proposal of marriage. If she were unlucky, he would skip the words and proceed directly to the physical. Neither option was appealing at this moment. She wanted to put her decision off for as long as possible.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” she said. “I would rather see them in daylight. The lamplight is not good for my aging eyes.”
“Aging!” he spluttered, but she was slipping away as he protested, and she didn’t look back though she heard him laugh. She felt bad for spurning him but it could never do. A drunken man was unpredictable.
Was she leading him on? She sighed, suddenly feeling crushed by the enormity of her impending decision. When the five years of grace were up, she would have to find somewhere to live. Her investments were making her a good income, but she had grown so attached to Clarfields. The expectation was that she would marry; and Hugo, the trustee, expected that she marry him.
She knew what she ought to do. And the second time around it should be easier. But it was not.
She wove her way through the large hall of the manor and out through a sun room onto the darkening terraces. Unescorted, unaccompanied, she knew that scandals could attach to a woman such as herself.
Maybe she should not have come. She should have remained at Clarfields, where she was secure, and had Hugo come to discuss her future there. By coming here, she was adrift and without all her comforts and familiar staff. Yet she could stay cooped up in her own house no longer. Her options for visiting others were limited; her family dead, and just the hint of scandal still attaching to her from her marriage. She could visit her late husband’s distant relatives, but they were less appealing than her mad aunt in Yorkshire.
The cool air ruffled her ringlets, and she stood by a stone urn, her hand resting on the top as she gazed out into the layers of grey and shadow that made up the garden at night. The moon was only a slip of a crescent, and half-hidden behind scudding clouds.
She was startled when she heard a gentle footstep be
hind her, but it was Hugo once more, this time clutching a whole bottle of champagne, freshly opened, wispy pale clouds still clinging to the glass. “Would you care for a drop more?” he asked.
“You will think me a frightful lush,” she said as she proffered her glass.
He shrugged. “I admire a woman of appetite,” he said meaningfully. “What a peaceful night. Warm, too.”
“It is. And you have a beautiful house.” Houses, she added in her head. You have what is mine. Mine! Clarfields.
“Thank you. Cordelia, if I may be so bold to speak freely?”
Her heart sank but she inclined her head. This was it. “Of course.”
“I am a man of action. I don’t have the flowery words or gift of rhetoric like some men. You’ve spoken with Ewatt. I can’t charm a woman like he can. I like drinking and riding and travel and playing cards and laughing very loudly. I like my house and my life and my friends. I am blessed. Blessed in all things but one…”
She could not help but let her eyes flick over his body, downwards, and she was delighted to see that he darkened slightly, a blush visible even in the dusk, when he realised where she was looking. “Madam!” he spluttered, suddenly taken aback.
She feigned innocence. “Go on,” she murmured sweetly.
“I mean to say, that is, that I have enjoyed your company these past few days.”
“And I yours.” To a point. He was amusing enough. She fell silent as he searched for words.
“And … that I am trying not to be such a hothead,” he said in a rush. “So, please, do stay in my house for as long as you please, if you are comfortable here. I know we have another matter to discuss… but all in good time.”
That was it? She was almost disappointed, though she had not been looking forward to the conversation. She smiled with genuine warmth. “Thank you, Hugo,” she said, boldly using his first name. “I have no doubt that everything will resolve to our mutual benefit.” She meant only to speak politely but it sounded, once uttered, like an acceptance.
And it triggered him to move in a little closer and she wondered, suddenly, if she had misjudged the whole thing and he was, indeed, about to leap upon her bodily. But at the same instant, their attention was jointly caught by a rustling in the buddleia and rhododendron bushes that lined the edge of the lawn below.
She dropped her voice. “What was that?”
He moved to her side but in a pleasingly protective way. She liked the smell of his cologne. “I would not be afraid of the murderer,” he murmured. “Not here. It is far more likely to be one of our resident hedgehogs.”
She hadn’t even thought of the possibility of a murderer on the prowl until he said that. She shook her head. “Oh, hedgehogs? I would like to see.”
He took her empty glass and placed it on the low wall with his own, and the bottle. Together, they hunched over and stalked silently down the steps, the wine in their blood making them giggle and exaggerate their movements. Her thin satin pumps were no protection against the stray stones on the path and she quickly moved onto the neatly trimmed lawn.
As they drew nearer to the looming black bush, Hugo put out a hand and pulled her back, by the elbow. It startled Cordelia and made her squeal, and the leaves suddenly shook hard, with an answering squeal from deep within the foliage.
Cordelia took two paces back, quickly, cannoning into the solid body of Hugo who was instinctively coming forwards; she cried out, “Oh!” as two figures stumbled out of the bushes. Just as quickly, another large dark figure emerged from a path that went between the house and the bushes, and leaped between them all, arms outstretched, as if to protect Cordelia from the two figures that had been lingering.
There was confusion.
“Mistress!”
“Ruby!”
And the cloaked man in the hat, standing in the centre of them, growled out, “Ruby, you harlot – and who is that you are with? Bert the footman?”
Hugo pushed himself in front of Cordelia, but he seemed confused as to who he ought to be defending her from. He made a circle with his hands, as if to take them all on in a boxing match. He did look dashing. Cordelia giggled.
She stepped forward and pulled his upraised fists down, and spoke to the cloaked man. “Oh, Geoffrey. Look at you. What are you doing there?”
“I was looking for this errant minx,” he said defensively, pointing at the white-clad and now-shivering maid. Even in the half-light of the gathering night, she could see that Ruby was in some disarray.
Cordelia sighed. “Ruby, get inside. Go up to my rooms, now.”
There was no argument, and the maid bolted for a back door. The footman, likewise dishevelled, stood stock still for a moment, but Geoffrey grunted and he, too, ran, straight across the lawn and towards the stables.
“What larks,” Hugo said, gathering his wits. “Bert! I didn’t know he had it in him. Remind me to check the state of his livery tomorrow. Cordelia, your maid is a live one, is she not?”
“She is, indeed. And I shall see to her directly.” She tried to throw a stern glance at Geoffrey but he tipped his head up so that she faced only his jutting chin, his features in darkness.
“Geoffrey, you may retire.”
“As you wish.” He paused for a moment. If he was waiting for thanks, Cordelia thought, he shall wait for eternity. It is not that I am not grateful, but this was not his place.
The moment stretched out, until Hugo coughed, and finally Geoffrey tipped his cloth cap with a perfunctory flick of his wrist, and withdrew into the shadows once more.
“It is good that he keeps an eye on the maid,” Hugo remarked as he led Cordelia back up onto the terrace where they rescued their wine and poured more.
Cordelia didn’t reply. It was a wonder that Ruby wasn’t with child several times over. A wonder? A blessing. Or a curse.
And it was a wonder, indeed, that Geoffrey was keeping an eye on her.
If it was, indeed, Ruby that he was so assiduously watching.
Chapter Ten
Ruby and Cordelia drove in the freshly-painted carriage to town the following morning. The journey was short and silent, with Ruby staring at the floor and Cordelia leafing through a novel that was packed, cover to cover, with rich colonels and trembling maidens. It was the sort of entirely unsuitable novel she had hoped to confiscate from her servants, but when none had obliged – among them all, only Stanley read books, and the boy favoured stern religious tracts and The Bible – she had had to purchase the books herself from a club.
They came to a halt. Cordelia was ready with her bonnet and gloves, her hand on the side of the window, but there was a longer than usual delay before Geoffrey opened the coach door.
“My lady,” he said, his bulk filling the doorway, “it’s rather busy.”
She put a gloved hand on his shoulder and peeked past him at the general bustle in the town. “It’s hardly Oxford Street,” she chided him. “And I have a need for dark blue ribbons. Come, now. Don’t fuss. Take the horses to the inn. Ruby and I will explore the market, and then we shall dine at the inn. If you could go in and secure a private room for us, that would be marvellous.” Her hand tapped him encouragingly until he moved out of the way.
There was no difference between road and walkway in this country town. The lady and her maid inched their way along, and it was a small mercy that the way was dry, mostly. Only the spots where horses were standing had to be avoided; not so much for the emissions of the horses, but the spilling of large quantities of water made the ground muddy and churned.
“He does take some liberties,” Cordelia muttered to herself, pulling a strand of black cotton from her white glove. It had come loose from Geoffrey’s many garments.
Ruby was still alongside, wearing her usual pale gown with a pretty but worn yellow embroidered shawl around her. “It is only that he cares for you, my lady, and better that than an indifferent servant.”
I wonder which you are, Cordelia thought. I think you will be whatever suits
you at the time. “Yes, you are right, my dear.”
There was nothing more to say. Cordelia had spoken very sharply to Ruby in the morning. She had hoped to discipline her the previous evening, soon after her transgression in the bushes with the footman, but Ruby had been in hiding and for a while Cordelia assumed she had run away. However, in the morning she had emerged from the small anteroom where she had her bed, as if she had been there all night, and set about laying out Cordelia’s toilette as normal.
It wasn’t so much the shenanigans with the young man, Cordelia thought. She had explained as much to Ruby. It was the embarrassing lack of discretion that was the problem.
* * *
Cordelia bought ribbons, a bonnet and ordered some ham to be delivered to Hugo’s kitchens. Likewise, the haberdashery would be taken by a boy to the house, leaving Ruby and Cordelia free to wander unencumbered. They were surprised to see Geoffrey standing in the place they had left him, close to the town square.
