“Tunbridge Wells, you say?”
“Yes, Mrs. Quinn. This past March, we went to Tunbridge Wells, and who should appear at the same hotel? His Grace.”
The ladies of the committee exchanged significant looks.
“He danced with Louisa three evenings in succession.”
“One wonders,” said Mrs. Pembleton, “why he did not make her a proposal.”
Edith would never forget Louisa’s despair of the duke, nor that her cousin Clay had pressured his daughter to bring the match around. As if she could have done so by being constantly reminded of it. “An offer was expected, and not just by my cousin Mr. Clay.” She lifted her hands. “The duke, as you have all observed, is a singularly reticent man.”
“Dour,” said Mrs. Anders. “A dour man.”
“No. No, not dour.” But in that she must relent. Mrs. Anders was correct. “Perhaps a little, but His Grace is a man who does nothing without great and long reflection. He went to Tunbridge Wells, after all, and he did greatly distinguish her there.”
“If he loves her,” said Mrs. Quinn, “he will see her again. He must.”
“Love.” Mrs. Herbert raised her delicate brows. “I tell you, love will have nothing to do with his marriage when he makes it.”
“Nothing else will do but for him to put everything in motion for his bringing home a bride,” Mrs. Quinn said.
“Where did you say your cousin lives?” Mrs. Thomas asked.
“Northumberland. Near Holmrook.”
“If it is true,” said Mrs. Herbert, “and I doubt very much that it is, he ought not have delayed in bringing the matter to a conclusion. He risks a great deal by waiting to declare himself.”
Mrs. Quinn set her chin on her palm and sighed. “A young lady might wait some time for the sake of a handsome duke.”
“Does anyone know if he’s called on the vicar recently?” Mrs. Anders asked. “That would tell us if we are on the right path, here.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Pembleton. “Oh, my. I hadn’t realized.”
“What is it?”
Mrs. Pembleton looked at each of the women in turn. “Yesterday I called on Mr. Amblewise, and he mentioned the duke had just left.”
“This is wonderful news. Wonderful. So encouraging.” Mrs. Thomas clasped her hands. “He told us, Mr. Thomas and I, that he expected to be at a property of his at the time of our assembly.” She gave them all a significant look. “A property of his in Northumberland.”
“Your cousin lives in Holmrook, did you say, Miss Clay?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Pemberton lifted a hand. “In Northumberland.”
“That means nothing,” said Mrs. Herbert.
“I do know,” Edith said, “that my cousin has invited the duke to visit them.”
“He’s called on the vicar. He will not be at Killhope for the holidays. What else could it be except that our duke is in love?” Mrs. Quinn rested a hand over her heart. “Ladies, here is our Christmas miracle.”
Chapter Four
‡
When Edith left the Thomases after the meeting, the weather was clear, and her spirits were considerably buoyed by such strong evidence that the duke was more serious about Louisa than she’d thought. He’d been invited to Holmrook for Christmas. He had told Mrs. Thomas he would not be at Killhope at the time of the assembly. He’d called on the vicar, Mr. Amblewise, only a few days in advance of when he would need to leave for Northumberland to make Louisa an offer of marriage.
By the time she reached the eastern outskirts of town, though she remained delighted about the duke and Louisa, the cold was now foremost in her thoughts. The wind had come up, and clouds obliterated any sign of blue skies. With the weather deteriorating like this, she would be a block of ice by the time she was home. She pushed her hands deep into her ermine muff and increased her pace. If she walked quickly, she could be home in under an hour.
She crossed the bridge over the Lyft and headed into the heart of town. She left her hood up, which kept her face and shoulders warmer, but also blocked her view of the road through town. Shop signs creaked ominously in the wind. At times the noise muffled the sounds of carriages and wagons in the street.
“Miss Clay.”
She turned, knowing whom she would see. The duke sat in a very smart curricle stopped at the nearest side of the street to her. His crest decorated doors of gleaming green lacquer. He’d put up the top to protect against the weather and turned up the collar of his greatcoat. He seated his whip and touched the brim of his hat. He managed to look dashing and forbidding at the same time.
She curtsied. “Your Grace.”
“You are walking to Hope Springs?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“In this weather?”
She glanced around and gave him a smile. “I haven’t any other weather to walk in.”
“I shall drive you home.”
There was no dissuading him, she knew that. He had made his pronouncement, and no one defied him. There was, as well, the simple fact that she would much appreciate a ride, for it had turned colder than she liked. “Thank you.”
He set the brake and dismounted. He was wearing his maroon boots, and they did look well on him. “No parcels, Miss Clay?”
She put her hand on his in preparation for stepping up. “I was at Mrs. Thomas’s. For a meeting to finalize plans for the Christmas assembly.”
“The Thomases?” He did not hide his astonishment.
“Yes.” She smiled at him. “Is it true you never attend the assembly?”
“In previous years, I have had prior engagements.”
Two steps up to enter, a quick grip atop the back of the seat, and she was on the bench. She imagined herself driving a curricle like this and thought the image rather fine. He swung up beside her. She gave him as much room as she could, but he was a man solidly built and wearing a thick coat. They would have a cozy drive to Hope Springs. “All the ladies think it a great pity that our leading citizen will not be in attendance. You will not reconsider?”
“It is not a matter to be reconsidered. A previous engagement is just that.” The duke reached underneath the seat and took out a blanket. He shook it out and laid it over her legs, leaving it to her to cover her lap more fully.
“Thank you. You would attend, then, if you found you had no such engagements?”
“I cannot say. Perhaps.” He settled onto the seat and took up his whip. In such close quarters, there was no help for the fact that his shoulder and thigh pressed against hers. “Why did you walk there?”
She considered an untruth, but could not bring herself to lie to him. “I do not yet own a carriage.”
He flicked the whip, and the horses started. Two bay geldings, matched in all particulars, including, she realized now, gait. His other hand tightened on the reins. “Why not?”
“It is an expense I had rather avoid just now.”
“A necessary one for a woman who is sole head of her household.”
She bowed her head and looked at him sideways. She did not expect him to be looking at her, but he was. “You are correct,” she said. In all likelihood, this man would soon be her relative. “No one could be more correct.”
“Which begs the question, why do you not have a carriage?”
“The expense. Taxes. I’d need another groom. I should want something smart, too. I know I would, and so I would spend too much. Then there are horses. They, too, are an expense.”
He sent her a skeptical look, and she deserved every bit of that scorn. She did. “Have you spent all your money, then?”
“Of course not.”
“I repeat my query.”
“I confess it, Your Grace. I am over my head in this matter. Drowning.” He would soon be in the place of head of her family. Its ranking member, once Louisa was his duchess. “My cousin Clay never let me drive, and I wouldn’t know how to choose the right horses, the best for my money, and I don’t wish to be taken advantage of. Suppos
e I buy a young horse when in truth it is not? I might buy a horse with a bad gait or a roarer or one not suited to a carriage, or that’s bad-tempered or doesn’t like women.”
“Miss Clay—”
“One hears such terrible stories about old horses sold as young ones, or that have infirmities or other disorders foisted off on unsuspecting buyers. My own father famously paid over four hundred pounds for a stallion he meant to put to stud. The horse died of old age a week after the purchase.”
“If you feel you would fall prey to such schemes, seek expert assistance.”
“Who am I to ask? I have been in Hopewell-on-Lyft a month. I do not know anyone well enough to ask for such help.” She leaned her head back. “It isn’t only horses, but everything. Everything. With every potential expense set before me, I fear I’ll make the wrong choice.”
“I doubt that.”
“No?” She sat straight. “I do. I doubt passionately that I will choose correctly.”
He shook his head. Was that pity? Disgust? She could not tell.
“I ask you, what’s to prevent me from losing my head and spending every penny I have on foolishness and fripperies?”
That earned her another scornful look.
“Cousin Clay was forever reminding me that my father had a fortune once and lost it with one terrible decision after another. He overspent, his investments went bad, he did not save, and then he married my mother, and that was unwise as well. I cannot tell you how unwise that was, according to him. Now I cannot shake the conviction that I, too, will find myself destitute and dependent. Again.”
“Have you invested any of your money?”
“No.” She wished she could melt into the fabric of the chair.
That answer earned her another astonished glance. “None at all?”
“Some in the five percents.”
“There’s that, then.”
“Not enough. Not enough. What if I invest badly? Or not wisely enough?”
“I see no evidence you spend beyond your means.”
“You don’t know that.” Where their bodies touched at shoulder and thigh, she was warm. Her feet were no longer as cold as they had been, and the blanket over her lap kept her legs warmer, too.
“No,” he said after a short time had passed, “I do not.”
“I bought insurance. Fire insurance.”
“On Hope Springs?”
“Yes.” Her stomach clenched. She did not wish to have a conversation that exposed her as baldly as this. All her faults for him to see.
“Fire insurance is not a reckless purchase.”
“It might have been.”
“Allow me to observe that your difficulty is not the decisions you make, but the ones you do not. You have not made purchases you ought to.”
“I’m hopeless. Hopeless, I tell you.”
He continued, unperturbed. “Delaying necessary purchases when you have the funds to make them is a false economy. If you fail to repair a leak, you will have a greater expense in future.”
“I’ve already repaired the roof. And a chimney. And rebuilt the dairy.”
“Do not despair. You are able to take decisions.”
“I had not expected all those expenses at once.”
He did not speak again until they were past The Duke’s Arms, and Edith, having concluded the subject was dropped, turned her thoughts to happier ones of fashioning bouquets of mistletoe.
At the base of the hill, he gave his whip the lightest touch, and the horses moved in identical strides. A curricle like this, with horses as perfectly matched as these, would be a dream to own. How could she not look smart in such a curricle?
“I will assist you.”
“Gathering mistletoe, do you mean?” But, no. He could not mean that. She’d not told him of her need to gather mistletoe.
He gave her a puzzled look.
“Pay no attention. I’ve let my thoughts run away with me. I offered to gather mistletoe from Hope Springs as decorations for the assembly. But you could not have meant that, for I hadn’t told you of my plans. What do you mean, you will assist me?”
“I will assist you in the purchase of a suitable vehicle, the appropriate cattle, and in the hiring of an additional groom.”
Yet more evidence of his intent to marry Louisa. If she were to find herself his relation, why, of course he would assist her. A man like him would consider it his duty. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“I will present you with several choices and give you my reasoning for them. Once you’ve decided, I shall procure you the horses.”
“That’s generous of you.”
His sideways glance told her he knew the reason for her hesitation. “Tell me what expense you cannot bear to exceed.”
“Twenty pounds.”
He laughed. “Will you drive a cart? Or a wagon? Pulled by an ass?”
“No.” Her stomach clenched again, but then, if she could trust anyone’s good sense and advice, it was the duke’s.
“Well, then.”
“I considered a curricle, you know. I think I should like one exceedingly.” She ran a hand along the top of the door on her side. “Yours is so dashing.”
“A curricle, Miss Clay, and suitable cattle will set you back more than twenty pounds.”
“I do not need a coat of arms on mine. Nor gilt paint.”
He turned down the drive to Hope Springs. “If you spend less than two hundred pounds, you will have nothing but regrets.”
“Two hundred pounds?”
“For an amount nearer to what you wish to spend, I recommend a gig and a single horse.”
“That will do, then.”
He stopped his curricle before the house. “Very well, then.”
Chapter Five
‡
Oxthorpe finished with Goodman two hours earlier than usual. They’d got through all his legal correspondence. Replies to letters requiring a response had been drafted and were ready to prepare for his signature. He’d reviewed ledgers and several investment proposals, all of which he had rejected. Goodman cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Why the devil did the man look as if he stood poised to drink hemlock?
“About your attendance at the upcoming festivities?”
“What festivities?”
His brow furrowed. “At St. Melangell’s, sir.”
Oxthorpe examined the point of his pen and, not to his credit, dissembled. “One’s attendance at church is hardly festive.”
“The Christmas assembly, Your Grace. At the parish hall.”
“What about the assembly?” He no longer attended the assemblies. Not any of them. He donated generously. That was enough.
Goodman tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat and cleared his throat again. “But, Your Grace.”
“Yes?”
“I have heard from several sources that your attendance is considered a positive fact.”
“Your sources are incorrect.” He dipped his pen in the inkwell as if he intended to write out one last letter. Goodman did not move. “I am otherwise engaged on the evening in question.”
“Your Grace…”
He did not so much as glance at the man. “Good day to you, Goodman.”
His solicitor bowed and took his leave. The door closed softly after him, and Oxthorpe found himself alone. Just as he preferred.
He put down his pen then picked it up again. Deuce take the Christmas assembly. He’d gone once and had been expected to enjoy himself. He had not.
He stared at the sheet of paper before him, his pen poised as if he were about to put ink to paper. He did have correspondence that ought to be written in his own hand. Letters he owed to friends and his few surviving relations, all elderly women. The invitation from Mr. Clay required his personal response. Or, he could make his too-long delayed call at Hope Springs.
He had, in one of the drawers of his desk, the details of two suitable choices of conveyance for Miss Clay. These must be acted up
on quickly if she was to secure her choice. Therefore, he was doing his duty by calling on her ahead of other tasks that were before him.
He cleaned and put away his pen and capped the ink, then assembled the documents he’d compiled and gathered for her. He gave Mycroft instructions to have his horse brought around and went upstairs to change. If, while he was changing, he was more particular than usual about which breeches and coat, which gloves and whether his hair had been sufficiently tamed, his valet had no complaint of him for it. He wore his new boots.
With the documents tucked away in his coat, he went to the stable block. One of his grooms waited with his mare at the ready. Five minutes later, he was riding toward the border with Hope Springs.
There was no reason to believe he’d find Edith at any of the oaks on her property. It would be foolish to check, since such a detour would take him a quarter of an hour out of his way. His mare, however, divined that his intentions and his desires were not the same, for she took the path toward the oaks, and he did not dissuade her.
He did not believe in fate, but good fortune? Yes.
She had told him she would be gathering mistletoe, after all. It would be his misfortune should he arrive at Hope Springs and find her out. If she was not at home, he must either wait or return to Killhope and delay his business with her, to her detriment. In light of that possibility, a thirty-minute delay in reaching Hope Springs was an excellent hedge.
He came over the rise and saw first the dark green shadows of the wood, then, among that dusky green, a flash of gold. His breath caught. If this was Edith, he hoped to God she was not in those dense oaks with no one to see to her safety. Not with the self-styled New Sheriff of Nottingham harassing and robbing both travelers on their way north or south as well as the good citizens of Hopewell-on-Lyft. A man desperate enough to train a gun on innocents would think nothing of trespassing on privately held, enclosed lands.
As he drew nearer, he made out a ladder leaning against the thick branch of an oak. The top of the ladder disappeared into the tree. To the right of the ladder was Edith’s maid, looking up at the trees and whomever was on the ladder. Whether he’d seen the maid’s gown when he saw that flash of gold, he could not say.
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