“I’m so sorry I can’t go with you,” Alice lamented as she gazed at the sunny afternoon outside the parlour window. “But a waddle about the garden is all I can manage now. The idea of walking miles across the countryside carrying this….”
She looked down ruefully at her swollen belly, and Matilda laughed.
“Don’t be silly. As much as I shall miss your company, I am perfectly content to go alone, but are you certain you do not wish me to stay? I will happily do so if you prefer.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Certainly not, I am going to finish my novel,” she said, waving her copy of Castle Rackrent at Matilda defiantly.
Matilda snorted as she tied the ribbons on her bonnet. “You mean you will pretend to read two pages, and then have a nice little doze.”
“Well, honestly, you are the worst kind of friend. How dare you see through my cunning plan!” Alice huffed and folded her arms, though her eyes danced with amusement.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Matilda whispered, kissing the top of her friend’s head and leaving her to put her feet up and nap in peace.
Matilda strode out, enjoying the tentative caress of the sun upon her face. The day was chilly, but that touch of warmth on her skin was like a balm after so many weeks of cold. It was a promise that spring was around the corner, a promise that was illustrated by a few intrepid daffodils, blooming early, enticed by the last few mild days and a bright blue sky. By the time she reached the gates to the beautiful gardens that surrounded Hever Castle, her cheeks were glowing, and she allowed herself to slow her steps and simply to enjoy her surroundings.
As she approached the castle itself, she noticed a very fine carriage drawn up outside with four magnificent grey horses. Her heart sped a little as she realised it was familiar.
“Miss Hunt!”
A childish squeal of delight rang out and, a moment later, Matilda laughed as she saw Phoebe Barrington running full pelt towards her.
“Phoebe, slow down!”
That voice had Matilda’s head snapping up even as Miss Barrington barrelled into her, throwing her arms about Matilda. The impressive, romantically lovely castle that had stood for so many years might as well not have existed for all she could see of it. Montagu was there, immaculate and precise as always, and that was all she could focus on. His tall, lean figure commanded attention, the sun glinting on his pale golden hair. Angel or devil, she wondered. He was so beautiful her heart sang angel without a second thought, but she was not foolish enough to judge by appearances.
He is the kind of man who can do something quite unforgivable, and then beguile you into forgiving him.
His uncle had said that of him, had said his handsome face hid a sick and twisted nature. Matilda felt a shiver of misgiving but held Montagu’s gaze. His eyes were guarded as they always were, hiding his thoughts, keeping the truth from her. Still she stared, unable to tear her eyes away as he watched her from across the courtyard. Matilda smiled, trusting her own instincts even though she had been wrong before, unable to stop herself from finding happiness in seeing him again, before returning her attention to Phoebe. The little girl stared up at her, clutching her about the waist, eyes bright with excitement. Her bonnet had fallen off her head and hung from her neck by the ribbons.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hunt. My uncle said he had a surprise for me, but I did not realise it was you. I am so happy it is.”
Matilda laughed, watching surreptitiously as Montagu spoke a few words to the butler who had emerged from the castle.
“I rather think a visit to the castle was your surprise,” she said, touched that Phoebe was so pleased to see her.
“Oh, pooh, who cares about a musty old castle? I’d much rather see you.”
“You cannot argue with that, Miss Hunt.”
Matilda tried in vain to stop her heart thrashing about in her chest like a landed fish as Montagu approached them. Though she knew this was dangerous, knew it was a terrible idea, whatever the truth of the man before her, she could not regret it. When she had mentioned her walks about the castle grounds, she had known full well what she was doing, so there was little point in lamenting the fact that Montagu had acted as she had known he would.
“I do not care to argue,” she said, hardly able to hold his gaze she was suddenly so nervous. “I am flattered beyond reason, I assure you.”
“Can we see the castle now, Uncle?” Phoebe demanded, tugging at his hand.
Montagu raised an eyebrow at his niece. “I am not a bell pull, child, so please desist your infernal yanking on my arm, and I thought you had proclaimed the castle musty and uninteresting?”
“Oh no, only in comparison to Miss Hunt,” Phoebe replied with perfect gravity.
Matilda stifled a laugh as Montagu’s lips twitched.
“I cannot fault your conclusion, Phoebe. She is far more interesting than a castle. Well, I suppose I might allow a young lady to visit the castle with me, but not a hoyden.”
He flicked at her tumbled bonnet with a negligent hand, one eyebrow quirking.
Phoebe gave a long-suffering sigh and rammed her bonnet back on her head, redoing the bow with a scowl of concentration.
“There!” she said, folding her arms and glaring at Montagu.
Montagu returned a pained expression. “Well, I suppose it is an improvement, of sorts. I dare not hope for more. Come along.”
Matilda watched, enchanted as Montagu held out his gloved hand and Phoebe took it, grinning at him with delight. Then Phoebe turned and held out her free hand to Matilda.
“Come along, Miss Hunt.”
“Yes, Miss Hunt,” Montagu replied, his cool gaze meeting Matilda’s, the challenge in them clear. “Come along. I would not like you to miss the tour.”
She took Phoebe’s hand, feeling a burst of pure joy as the little girl’s fingers curled about her own.
“Oh, this is perfect,” Phoebe exclaimed, tugging both at them at once, hurrying them over the drawbridge and into the castle.
Matilda did not dare look at the marquess, did not dare consider the dangerous happiness uncoiling in her chest, or that she wanted to agree with Phoebe’s words all too readily. It was perfect.
Chapter 17
Lady Helena Adolphus,
It seems that I must thank you for arranging the meeting with Lord Fitzwalter for me. From our conversation, I believe it was a success and he will speak to the duke. I am hopeful that your brother will recognise the extraordinary opportunity he is being offered.
I am in your debt.
―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Gabriel Knight to Lady Helena Adolphus.
24th February 1815. Hans Place, Hans Town, London.
Solo scowled at the settee before him as though it had done him a personal affront. When Mr Briggs had given him this address as the present residence of Lord and Lady Kline, he had already been shocked. The viscount, as Solo remembered him, had been a vastly wealthy, dashing young buck, exactly the kind of fellow he had expected to win Hyacinth’s hand. That she had agreed to marry a mere baron had surprised no one more than him. At that time, Hyacinth had been the height of fashion, a lavishly dressed leader of society. So to come here now, and discover the furniture—what little there was of it—in dire need of updating….
He shook his head. That was none of his affair. All he wanted was to uncover what had been said here, what exactly Jemima had discovered. Impatience gnawed at him. Though he’d been informed that Lady Kline was in and would see him, he’d been kicking his heels for almost half an hour now. He had just resolved to seek out the butler and enquire if there was a problem when the door opened.
“Solo! Oh, my darling….”
Solo stiffened as Hyacinth flew across the room, throwing herself into his arms in a flurry of silk and lace. She clutched at his jacket, sobbing against his chest, and Solo stared down at her with alarm and consternation, not having the least idea what to do with her.
“Hyacinth,” he said, after bearing the indignity for as
long as he could. “Hyacinth, please. Whatever is the matter?”
He took hold of her wrists and gently pushed her away from him.
“Oh, how can you say that, my love? Does your heart not remember all that we were to each other?”
She stared up at him, her dark eyes soft and tearstained, her lovely face not so very different from how he remembered her. The seven years since they’d parted had been kind.
“You are a married woman now, Lady Kline,” he said firmly, relieved to discover that his heart did not in fact remember, or at least, it remembered, but it no longer regretted.
Indeed, all he felt was a measure of distaste for such an alarming show of emotion over something that had ended a long time ago.
“Oh!” Hyacinth flounced away from him, holding her hands over her heart. “You are still angry with me, but I have suffered too, Solo. My sorrow would not allow me to marry you, but my heart….” She cast a look over her shoulder at him from under thick dark lashes. “My heart has ever been yours.”
Solo watched her and discovered he felt very much like he was being treated to a performance. He remembered that coquettish look. It was one he’d often seen during their courtship, usually if she was being denied something she wanted. Yet he’d never viewed it so dispassionately before. How strange, that this woman who had made him wild with desire and jealousy now seemed only a stranger acting a part. Had she been acting then, too? Had none of it been real for her?
“It would seem there is a deal of debate about that fact,” he said, finding himself amused by the flash of anger in her eyes.
It was quickly hidden, the heartbroken ingénue reappearing with startling speed, but he had seen, and he knew in that moment that all Jemima had told him had been true.
“Your little friend has been telling tales,” she lamented, eyes cast down. “Have you forgotten me, thrown me over for that dull little creature, when I have loved you all these years?”
“Yes, I have forgotten you,” Solo said, finding he was rather enjoying himself. “And she’s not the least bit dull. In fact, she’s rather extraordinary. I still cannot believe she came here all alone just to get me to see sense.”
“Sense?” Hyacinth repeated, her indignation apparent. “You mean to say you can forget my brother, forget what you did? You broke your promise to me! He’s dead, is he not?”
A stab of pain lanced through his chest at her words and Solo knew he would never be entirely free of the guilt he felt over Barnaby’s death. It had not been his fault, though. The thought was a new one, one he had dared not consider before, too weighed down by depression to allow himself such a glimmer of hope. If he had not been injured, perhaps he could have saved Barnaby, but the injury had been unavoidable and what followed had been fate. Barnaby had ever been a romantic fool, too eager for glory to stop and think about his own safety, let alone that of his men.
Solo could see that now in a way he had not seen it before. He still hated that his career had ended too early, that the war had continued without him, and so many of his friends and colleagues had been lost, but it could not have been helped. It was not within his power to change any of that. Life dealt you the cards, and you had to play the game as best you could. He’d been sitting out for far too long, too afraid his cards had no value, his hand not worth the trouble of playing, but he’d been wrong, terribly wrong.
Suddenly, he was seized with the desire to see Jemima.
Hyacinth flew at him, her hands grasping the lapels of his coat. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that means nothing to you? That I mean nothing to you?”
The door opened and Viscount Kline entered the room. He paused for a moment, taking in the picture before him.
“Hyacinth, put the poor man down. You’re making a scene.”
“Oh, you’ve not begun to see a scene,” Hyacinth sneered at her husband, and the pretty mask she wore so well fell away.
Solo could see something cold and calculating that made him shiver. Once again, he took hold of her wrists, moving her away from him.
“I will never forget your brother, Hyacinth. Barnaby was my dear friend and I shall always mourn his loss, but I did not die that day, and I am tired of living as though I did. I came to tell you I bear neither of you any ill will for whatever passed between you whilst we were engaged, but neither do I feel the need to keep my vow to never marry.”
“You faithless wretch!”
Lord Kline burst out laughing at his wife’s heartfelt exclamation.
“Oh, ho, that’s a good one, Hyacinth” he said, almost doubling over with mirth. “Give us the waterworks next. She’s dashed good at them, Rothborn, just watch.”
“I hate you!” his wife cried with passion, before turning to glare at Solo. “Both of you!”
She ran from the room in a flurry of skirts and lace, and Solo found himself alone with Viscount Kline. The humour on the man’s face evaporated, and Solo hardly recognised the fellow he’d known. He looked older, weary and jaded. Would he have looked like that if he’d married Hyacinth?
“I shouldn’t blame you if you called me out. I know I deserve it,” Kline said, his expression bleak.
Solo shook his head, contemplating the scene he’d just witnessed. He suspected such scenes were not unusual in this house. “I think perhaps you’ve suffered enough.”
Kline gave a bark of laughter, which might have been the least happy sound Solo had ever heard.
“You have no idea, but believe me when I tell you, you are a lucky man. Your Miss Fernside gave us what for, I can tell you. Held her head up like a duchess and told us what she thought of us. Didn’t turn a hair when Hyacinth said she’d ruin her, either. My wife, the little darling, threatened to tell the entire ton Miss Fernside was your whore, and do you know what she said?”
Solo felt his blood run cold, realising just what Jemima had been subjected to here, and how he’d treated her by way of thanks.
The viscount kept talking, unaware of everything Solo was feeling. “She said she pitied Hyacinth for not understanding the value of what she’d lost, that she loved you and would endure anything to be with you. Miss Fernside looked Lady Kline in the eyes and invited her to tell her vile tales to whomsoever she pleased, because she didn’t give a damn.”
Solo felt his throat grow tight. She had said that she’d come here for him, and risked everything for him, and he had thrown it all back in her face. He looked up as the viscount approached him, his expression grave.
“I don’t know what the past years have been like for you, Rothborn, but I know I’d swap with you in a heartbeat. If you have an ounce of sense, you’ll forget you ever knew Hyacinth and marry your Miss Fernside before she can get away from you.”
“Yes,” Solo said, discovering his voice was a little unsteady. “Yes, I believe I shall do just that.”
He held out his hand to the viscount, who looked rather surprised but shook it warmly.
“Thank you,” Solo said, smiling and feeling as if a weight had been lifted from him for the first time in almost a decade.
“Don’t thank me, the lord knows I deserve nothing more than perdition,” Kline replied drily. “But I think you know well enough where your gratitude lies. Give Miss Fernside my kindest regards, Lord Rothborn. I am privileged to have met her.”
***
24th February 1815. Hever Castle, Edenbridge, Kent.
“Why did Anne Boleyn get her head cut off?”
Matilda frowned at Phoebe, wondering how best to answer that question. Montagu was on the other side of what had been the Boleyn’s private parlour in the west wing of the castle. The atmosphere was heavy with history and Matilda had a sudden surge of melancholy, imagining Anne Boleyn as a little girl much like Phoebe, running in and out of these rooms with no idea of what her future held in store.
“I’m not sure we will ever know for certain,” she said, aware that Phoebe was a child, albeit a bright one. “But she played a dangerous game for high stakes. She became
queen, but there was a dreadful price to pay for that. I do not know if she became greedy and plotted treason, as history would have us believe, or if a powerful man wronged her simply because he could.”
“She was wronged. She became a pawn in Thomas Cromwell’s game, and she died for it.”
Matilda looked around at Montagu in surprise. “You know this?”
Montagu shook his head. “No. It is only my opinion, but there is evidence of a sort, if one cares to look for it.”
“What evidence?” Matilda demanded, fascinated.
The marquess moved to the window and looked out. “A letter to Charles V from Eustace Chapuys. Chapuys told Charles that Cromwell had said il se mist a fantasier et conspirer le dict affaire, which has been translated as ‘he set himself to devise and conspire the said affair,’ suggesting that Cromwell plotted against Anne.”
“Good heavens,” Matilda said, her hand going involuntarily to her throat. “I had no idea.”
Montagu shrugged. “It is only a theory.” He looked up to see her clutching at her neck, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I think you are safe from the axe, Miss Hunt.”
She flushed and returned her attention to the painting she had been studying.
“I’m famished,” Phoebe complained, whose enthusiasm for the castle was waning.
“You astonish me,” Montagu replied, tweaking at the ribbons on the little girl’s bonnet. “Anyone would think you did not consume enough to keep Wellington’s army provisioned for a week when you broke your fast this morning.”
Phoebe laughed and threw her arms about him, staring up beseechingly.
“Unnnncle…” she whined, drawing the word out.
Montagu tutted, though the warmth in those usually cold eyes was evident. “I believe Mrs Appleton may have provided a basket….”
Phoebe gave a yelp of delight and ran from the room before Montagu had even finished speaking. He sighed.
“She’s delightful,” Matilda said, unable to hide her smile.
Montagu winced, blond brows furrowing as Phoebe’s footsteps thundered away from them, but he appeared pleased by the comment. “I think so, but I’m afraid I let her get away with murder. Heaven alone knows what kind of lady she’ll grow up to be. I shall have to pay some poor fellow to marry her the moment she comes out. I shudder to contemplate it.”
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 19
