For a moment, he’d thought he’d snared a wood sprite, and all from a single comment about her shawl. Then, hearing Ursa, he’d turned away. And when he’d looked back, the sprite had disappeared.
He’d convinced himself that she hadn’t been real after all. Then, upon seeing her again, he realized that she had been—and still was—all too real. And regrettably, another Sinclair.
“It had never occurred to me,” he continued, “that the young woman I’d noticed in the garden was the Sinclairs’ other daughter.”
His father tapped the tip of the pipe against the side of his mouth. “The sisters hold no similarities?”
Rafe shook his head. “Neither in appearance nor in design. If you can believe it, Hedley wears rags. Whereas her sister had never worn the same gown twice.”
“Hedley?” His father lifted his brows. “You don’t refer to her as Miss Sinclair?”
“Surely you can understand that using that particular address would sour my stomach.” Rafe didn’t bother to explain it further. Calling Hedley by her Christian name was nothing more than a way of separating the two sisters in his mind. Not that he needed to separate them. Or that he spent time—not too much, at any rate—thinking about the differences between them. It was just a matter of convenience. Nothing more. The reason his thoughts kept drifting to Hedley was purely because of recent developments, he was sure.
“Opposites, you say?” His father turned his head toward the sound of a soft cry up the stairs.
Rafe followed his gaze and listened with an absent ear, his thoughts far away in Lincolnshire. “Quite. Hedley has pale features and an artless way about her, whereas her sister is both dark in her looks and in her demeanor.” He found the contrast in Hedley refreshing.
Even when she’d attempted to lie about having an ailing grandmother and four elder brothers, her cheeks had turned pink, betraying her. Ursa, on the other hand, had been able to lie directly to his face for weeks without batting an eye.
“If the girl is pale, perhaps she is sickly. That could explain why no one has heard of her.”
Rafe dismissed that with a wry laugh. An instant image of her bending at the waist with her dress dampened against her legs flashed in his mind. “No. There must be another reason because the young woman I met was quite hale. Her unspoiled complexion is more like . . . Devonshire cream or the moon when it crests the treeline.”
Except for when she blushed. And then her cheeks became tinged with the most extraordinary hue. He wondered if he could re-create that particular shade of pink in his glasswork.
“Are her eyes not that unmistakable obsidian like the Sinclairs?”
“No.” There was no trace of the Sinclairs in her eyes. For that, he was grateful because he couldn’t seem to erase them from his mind. Whenever he closed his eyes . . . “They are blue.”
“Bah. That is no answer to me. Blue is the same as saying that rain appears wet.” His father always appreciated exactitude when it came to color.
“Very well. They are blue, like cornflower petals beneath a veil of fog. Wide and guileless . . . ”
His father cleared his throat in some manner of approval. “And what do you plan to do about Greyson Park once you return to Fallow Hall?”
Rafe shrugged. “A stipulation of her inheritance states that she will lose Greyson Park if she marries. If you take my wager with Everhart and Montwood into account, it’s in my best interest to marry her off to Montwood, who is the only remaining bachelor.”
First, he would need to learn if she displayed a prowess for flirting in order to lure his friend. Then, perhaps, he would purchase a new shawl for her. Something that would set an enticing frame around her features.
“Aside from you,” his father corrected, pulling Rafe away from a silent attempt to define the exact shade of pink on her cheeks. “You are also a bachelor.”
He’d heard this before. “Yes, but I am a more permanent type of bachelor, Father. Surely you’d never expect me to marry.”
“I seem to recall a young boy saying something rashly similar about mounting a horse again after he’d broken his arm in a fall.”
Rafe scoffed. “I was eight years old at the time.”
“Ah, yes.” He lifted his pipe. “But you were ten before you’d ever set your feet into the stirrups. Such a stubborn child. Over these past years, I’ve often wondered if you were more concerned about wounding your person . . . or your pride.”
Hedley dragged the heavy Turkish carpet up the stairs and paused to catch her breath. “Almost . . . there . . . ” she panted, wiping the beads of perspiration from her brow.
Then, she made the mistake of looking over her shoulder.
The majority of the carpet was still rolled in a log, taking up half the staircase. She issued a sound of disgust. This work was beyond exhausting. Yet she refused to stop. This was her home. She wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Ursa to arrive and threaten to take possession of Greyson Park. Hedley was prepared to fight for it.
At least, she hoped she was prepared. Battling her sister had always been next to impossible.
Ursa had learned the power of manipulation early on in her life. Not only that, but the family greed had the strongest hold on her. It was no secret why Hedley had never received clothes of her own. Ursa had blackmailed Mother with threats of revealing Hedley’s ailment to society, as well as the common suspicion that she was not a true Sinclair.
Wanting no reminder of Hedley’s existence to disrupt her position in society, Mother had submitted to Ursa’s demands time and time again, until there had been no further need for blackmail. Until it had become common practice to pretend Hedley didn’t exist. And soon enough, people simply forgot that she did.
Even the servants had grown used to looking through her.
“But that is over,” Hedley reminded herself. Grandfather had given her a home of her very own. Still, she wondered why. Now that he was gone, however, she would never know. Looking around at the slanted doorways and cracked walls, she smiled, regardless of the reason. Hers. This was all hers.
At least, for now. Until Ursa . . .
Before she could finish the thought, Hedley heard the unmistakable jangle of rigging. Her ears were always tuned to the sound of a horse and carriage. And each time she heard it, she relived part of her worst nightmare.
It took a moment before she could draw a breath. She told herself that it was merely Mr. Tims returning from the market. Then, however, she remembered that the caretaker’s rheumatism had a “fierce hold” on him today. Which meant that he would remain in his cottage for the day.
Perhaps it was Rafe Danvers, dropping by to notice her again. Yet that wish was altogether foolish and abruptly crushed the moment she heard Ursa’s unmistakable laugh.
A shock of panic froze Hedley to the spot. Earlier, she’d left the front door open to air the house. The last thing she wanted was for Ursa to see that as an invitation.
Another sharp peal of laughter broke through, sending Hedley into motion.
Scrambling down the stairs, half straddling the rolled carpet, she tried not to lose her footing. Her stockings snagged too many times to count. The hem of her dress ripped . . . again. And now, a hunk of tattered muslin drooped between her feet, tripping her as she rushed across the foyer and over the threshold. She slammed the door closed behind her.
At the end of the path, Ursa’s head quirked toward the sound. Her dark eyes narrowed. Slipping a hand into the crook of her husband’s arm, they continued forward with the appearance of having come all this way for a stroll.
Nathan Cole was a handsome, robust sort of man, broad shouldered and barrel-chested, with wavy light brown hair and a square jaw. He’d made a fortune in fur trading. Ursa could have done no better, especially when her husband’s calf-eyed gaze made him appear as though he worshipped the ground she walked upon.
Beside him, Ursa was as beautiful as ever. Dark, lustrous hair. Dark, exotic features. Dark, greedy soul.
“None other,” Hedley replied, hating that her voice quavered. If she had learned anything from her sister, it was that a hint of cowardice only whetted Ursa’s appetite. Therefore, Hedley stood her ground, hoping to hide the fact that her legs were trembling. The tremors were so violent that she feared the narrow stone landing beneath her feet would begin to crack.
“Mother said you’d turned quite cowish while I was away. Of course, I didn’t believe her. Until now. What have you been eating—aside from everything?”
Hedley drew in a breath. Her ill-fitting stays and dress cinched around her breasts like barrel straps. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Ursa, and you, Mr. Cole.”
“Miss Sinclair,” Mr. Cole said with a pasted smile, enunciating the r at the end of her name in a way no native Brit would.
“Dear, dear simpleton”—Ursa trilled another high laugh—“you should curtsy before us. Mr. Cole is fourth in line for a baronetcy.”
The first time they’d met, six years ago, Mr. Cole had been seventh in line. Hedley couldn’t help but wonder if her sister had since killed off the other three. In fact, Hedley could almost hear Ursa laughing over the dead bodies as she crossed their names off a list. “Only three more to go, darling,” she’d likely say while blowing a kiss to Mr. Cole.
Hedley did not curtsy. Even though she wasn’t at all certain about the rules of society, she instinctively knew that Ursa did not deserve one. Not only that, but she didn’t trust her legs not to buckle beneath her. “If you came all this way for a visit—”
“Not far at all,” Ursa interrupted. “You see, we decided to stay with Aunt Corliss. Her home is not four miles away. It is such an easy distance, in fact, that we may drop by whenever we choose.”
Hedley’s stomach churned. “Greyson Park is in no state for company. It had been abandoned and untended for too long.”
“Hmm . . . yes. And doesn’t that make one wonder why Grandfather would choose such a place for you?” Ursa’s mocking gaze swept over the façade. “Truly, this is not an improvement over the attics at Sinclair House. You should return home, where you belong, and leave this hovel to rot. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Cole?”
Nathan Cole cast an appraising—and far less condemning—gaze over the structure. “Greyson Park is not as fine as Sinclair House. Although if we were to find that it is still part of your dowry, then we could tear this down and build a hunting box.”
Tear down Greyson Park! A new shock of terror gripped Hedley’s lungs in a vise. She staggered back a step until she was pressed against the door. Even though she was outside, she felt like a cornered stable cat. It took a good deal of effort not to bare her teeth. “Ursa never wanted Greyson Park.”
Mr. Cole did not respond. Her sister’s lips slowly spread into a smile. “I want it now. That is all that matters.”
“All that matters is my name on the deed,” Hedley replied.
Her sister’s eyes glinted in the sunlight. “I thought perhaps you would be smart enough by now to realize how pointless it is to fight against me. But I see nothing has changed.” She clucked her tongue. “Part of me is glad, you know. I so enjoy teaching you your place.”
“My place is here.”
Ursa looked up at her husband and batted her eyes. “Darling, doesn’t she sound just like that parrot we saw on our travels—the one that kept repeating the same inane phrase over and over again?”
“Yes,” he answered with a pitying glance at Hedley. In that moment, she realized that Mr. Cole believed she was the family lunatic, one who did not know her own mind. “I believe the bird’s owner kept it locked in a cage all its life for its own protection.”
Locked away . . . Hedley swallowed. Her throat had gone impossibly dry. She was unable to say anything before Ursa and Mr. Cole turned and walked the path toward their carriage.
Leaning against the door for support, Hedley realized she couldn’t fight them alone. She needed help.
Unfortunately, the only person who valued Greyson Park as much she did was Rafe Danvers. But if she asked for his assistance, she might end up losing her home anyway.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sky darkened ominously as Hedley approached Fallow Hall the following morning. She didn’t want to enlist Rafe Danvers’s assistance, but Ursa had left her little choice.
Hedley didn’t believe there was treasure at Greyson Park. She’d searched every room she could. There were a number of them, however, with the doorframes tilted in such a way that wedged the doors in their jambs. No amount of budging had worked so far.
She’d like nothing more than to open every door, just to prove to Ursa that there was no treasure. Yet even Hedley knew that if Ursa was determined to find treasure at Greyson Park, seeing empty, treasure-less rooms would not deter her. Not at all. Because then, Ursa would simply tear it down. She would stop at nothing.
As if sensing her thoughts, Boris offered a supportive woof beside her.
She wished he’d been around yesterday. Although he’d likely gone into hiding the moment he’d heard Ursa’s piercing laugh. Now, pausing in front of the wide oaken door, Hedley scratched Boris behind the ears.
A large iron knocker in the shape of a ring of twisted rope hung from the center of the black door. It almost resembled a noose. Her throat seemed to tighten as she reached for it. Could she really go through with this?
Before she found her answer, Boris yawped.
In the next instant, the door opened as if under his command. A stately, somber-faced man, dressed in black finery and a pristine white cravat, answered the door. In such attire, she knew he couldn’t be the butler. The butler at Sinclair House—in fact, all the servants—dressed in green livery and appeared as if they all belonged to a traveling carnival.
Therefore, this man must be one of the other gentlemen living here. “Yes, miss?”
Hedley glanced down to her shoes. Though soiled from the wet path, the red color offered a sense of assurance. After yesterday’s reminder of how little she knew about the proper rules of society, she did what she imagined anyone in her position would do. She curtsied.
It wasn’t until her knees were bent, with one leg positioned behind the other, that she realized she didn’t know how long to hold a curtsy. Just in case, she remained that way while she spoke. “Miss Hedley Sinclair of Greyson Park to see Mr. Danvers.”
The man’s thin gray eyebrow twitched. “Right this way, miss, if you please.”
“Thank you.” Assuming it was safe to rise, she did so. Boris traipsed in ahead of her, while the nice gentleman stepped aside and even held the door for her.
Gray stone walls rose up to a lofty arched ceiling. Above her, an immense chandelier hung suspended from a black chain with myriad branches shooting off from the center like a dark spider web. The front hall opened up like the chapel at Sinclair House. Only the chapel was far more ornate—with plaster moldings, gilded mosaics on every wall, and harp-playing cherubs overhead—to the point of being suffocating. She found the dark, masculine simplicity of this hall appealing.
The gentleman escorted her inside. She wanted to ask his name but to inquire seemed to go against what Rafe had said about proper introductions.
“Please wait here in the drawing room, Miss Sinclair,” the man said and summarily disappeared.
A wide expanse of windows took up the far wall, revealing a view of the darkening sky. The rolling green landscape gradually blended into the budding treeline that separated Fallow Hall and Greyson Park.
From this vantage point, her home looked like a quaint cottage with tiny curls of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. In truth, the manor was much larger than even she warranted, and it had turned out to be quite a bit to manage for one person. With seven rooms on the ground floor and eight bedrooms upstairs—not to mention the ce
llar, the cook’s chamber, and the butler’s pantry—she still hadn’t cleaned it all. As for the attic, she was determined never to step foot in there.
Distracted by her thoughts, she turned away from the window and sat down on the midnight blue sofa. Opposite her stood an immense glass-fronted armoire. Inside, an assortment of colorful vases, crosscut stemware, and bowls that resembled flowers captured the meager light from the window, transforming the cabinet into a wondrous display of color.
Captivated and unable to sit still, she crossed the room for a closer look. She didn’t dare open the cabinet doors. Instead, she simply looked her fill, gazing from one shelf to the next.
“Mr. Danvers for Miss Hedley Sinclair of Greyson Park,” the gentleman announced from the door, inclining his head.
Hedley quickly curtsied again and rose just in time to watch Rafe Danvers stroll into the room. Instantly, her heart squished in that pwum-pum-pum sensation. His hair fell in rakish waves over his forehead, and his darkly rich brown eyes were lit with a devilish gleam that made her stomach bobble.
“Why are you curtsying to Valentine?” he asked, his mouth curling into a smirk. “While I’m certain it’s high time someone paid him respect, I do not believe he expects the guests to address him as if he were lord of the manor.”
Hedley felt her cheeks grow warm. So then, he was the butler after all? But with his impeccable dress and manners she . . .
She looked down at her worn clothes, to the frayed hem of yet another dress that was beyond mending. It had once been a cheerful buttercup yellow but was now the color of a dying leaf from an overwatered plant. Soon enough, this garment would meet a similar fate.
She hoped that Valentine had simply recognized her as a recluse with no social graces, instead of someone who intended to mock him. “Please forgive me. I meant no offense.”
“None taken, miss,” he replied with the same stoicism as before. Then, without another word, he turned and left her alone with Rafe.
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