To Marry A Matchmaker (Historical Romance)
Page 17
‘Will you chase her to Gretna Green and demand that she marries?’
‘Until we know precisely what has occurred, I would suggest you keep your theories to yourself. You do know what they say about people who spread false and malicious tales.’ Robert turned on his heel. ‘Good day to you, madam.’
‘But Lord Cawburn was there just before she made her excuses.’ Miss Armstrong hurried after him. Her entire being quivered. ‘And as I was leaving, his man delivered a letter to you. From Miss Ravel, I’d wager.’
‘You are speculating, madam. Kindly refrain from doing so. A young woman’s reputation hangs in the balance.’
* * *
‘Where is Sebastian, Aunt?’ Henri asked going into her aunt’s inner sanctum. ‘The house seems strangely still.’
Of all the people she dreaded meeting after her encounter with Robert, it was Sebastian. Unless she was very careful, he would be able to discern in an instant what had passed between her and Robert. When she had gone into the drawing room, she had discovered several half-written letters demanding money and a whole sheaf of bills. She wanted to believe that her cousin was better than a common blackmailer, but she’d not expected the extent of his indebtedness.
Her aunt looked up from some shards of Roman pottery. ‘He has gone out. He has decided to do some visiting.’
‘Sebastian hates visiting. It will be the post inn.’
‘No, he definitely said visiting. My hearing is as good as it ever was. You wrong Sebastian, Henrietta. He does have a good heart and now that he is back here amongst people who love him, rather than in the wicked fleshpots of London, he will settle. Over the last few days, it seemed as if the little boy who used to bring me buttercups before breakfast had come back to me.’
A tiny prickle nagged at the back of Henri’s brain. Sebastian was plotting. Sophie. Today was the day she went out with Miss Armstrong. He was going to confront Sophie. Hopefully, this time, Sophie would be firm and actually tell him the truth. ‘Did he give any reason for this sudden desire to attend At Homes?’
‘I fear he thinks you have become awfully dull and censorious.’ Her aunt gave one of her silvery laughs.
‘Why have I become dull?’ Henri asked lightly.
‘He thinks you have made up your mind about him and are determined to see the worst. He wants to clearly demonstrate how he has changed and what a success he can make of his life.’ She put down the pottery shards. ‘He has sworn that he has given up gaming. And this time, I truly believe he will.’
‘It would be pleasant to think that he could change.’ Henri tapped her finger against the pile of letters. She had the uneasy suspicion that Aunt Frances was keeping something from her. Once Sebastian returned, she would speak to him about these letters. She refused to allow Aunt Frances or herself to become embroiled in some money-making scheme. It would be better for everyone if Sebastian had a new start somewhere else.
Her aunt reached for her teacup. ‘Has Mr Montemorcy gone? I had asked Cook to make cucumber sandwiches particularly.’
‘There will be more for Sebastian, then, as you seem to have given up on them.’
‘Sebastian keeps saying that cucumber is bad for my digestion. Now, why did Mr Montemorcy depart? Were you unkind to him, Henri? Do try to stay friends with him, Henrietta.’
Henri stilled. The rules for widows were slightly different from those for unmarried women, but even so, she had no wish to cause her aunt distress. As long as she was discreet and did not become the subject of common gossip, she was free to behave as she chose. ‘He departed a few moments ago as he has other business to attend to in the village. He only wished to assure himself that I was well and the journey back here had done nothing to harm my ankle.’
Her aunt’s gaze narrowed. ‘He has brought the roses to your cheeks. You are positively glowing. Male companionship is good for one. If I were twenty years younger…’
Henri ducked her head. ‘It’s more likely going without my bonnet. The sun always gives me a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of my nose.’
‘Henri, dear, you never go without your bonnet tightly fastened on your head.’ Her aunt raised a hand. ‘Mr Montemorcy is a good man. You could do worse than encourage him. His company obviously does you good. Your face was becoming quite pinched and sallow. Now, you appear in the best of health.’
Henri placed two pottery shards together. They formed a naked man’s torso. The best of health. It was as she feared—what had passed between her and Robert showed in her face. Sebastian would guess, but she doubted Aunt Frances would be that direct. A cold shiver went down her spine. But what would Sebastian do about it? Threaten her or, worse, Robert?
‘It must be the rest. I was obviously far too busy before the attack.’ She picked up a shard and balanced it in her hand, before adding it to her aunt’s current pattern. ‘You simply missed it before.’
‘No, it is something more.’ Her aunt tapped a long finger against her mouth and moved the shard to the side of the vase where it fit perfectly. ‘It is long past time that you remarried, Henrietta. You were not born to be a widow.’
‘I’ve no plans to remarry.’ Henri put a hand on her aunt’s shoulder. ‘Edmund is irreplaceable. I don’t want another husband.’
‘For an intelligent woman, Henrietta, you can be remarkably obtuse. Your mother was a silly vain woman who allowed you to indulge in mawkish behaviour. You make it sound like men are interchangeable cogs. No one is asking you to replace him.’
‘But Edmund…’ Henri waved her hand. Her insides felt empty. Surely her aunt had to understand that she had no wish to be disloyal. Or any wish to risk her heart again.
‘Edmund would want what is best for you. He loved you, by all accounts. If the circumstances had been reversed, would you have wanted him never to experience happiness, pleasure or even contentment again?’
‘Mr Montemorcy has not asked me to marry him, Aunt. Nor is he likely to.’ Henri crossed her arms. Robert had stated often enough that marriage was not in his future plans. She was not going to beg. ‘We are friends and we respect each other, but that is as far as it goes.’
‘Then you will hold all the blame for a narrow lonely bed.’
‘Aunt!’
‘They put Edmund in the grave, not you. You are not some Indian widow who is forced to sit on a burning pyre to prove your devotion. You should take a closer look at Mr Montemorcy.’ Her aunt gave her a piercing stare. ‘You might be surprised. He does have a rather well-turned calf. Youth is wasted on the young.’
Henri stared at her aunt, shocked. Not only had she noticed Robert’s legs, but felt she could comment on them! ‘Have you been taking sips of the cherry brandy again?’
‘I may be elderly, niece, but my eyes work.’ Her aunt gave a thoroughly unrepentant smile. ‘And as legs go, Mr Montemorcy’s are well worth noticing. And without his jacket on, you can see the muscles in his back rippling.’
Henri rolled her eyes heavenwards and tried to regain control of her breathing. Granted, her aunt was trying to matchmake, but the image she had just conjured up was a powerful one. ‘You do get the strangest notions in your head. I shall change and hopefully we can have a suitable conversation over lunch.’
‘Yes, your linen dress is showing a few moss stains on the skirt.’ Her aunt’s eyes danced. ‘It must have happened when you were gardening. You should take more care.’
‘I did rather too much gardening. I forgot to bring a cloth to kneel on.’ Henri brushed the moss stain on the side of her skirt. ‘The borders were neglected when I was at Montemorcy’s. There is still much to be done. I did not want to miss a single damaged bloom.’
‘If you concentrated more on Mr Montemorcy than on your gardening, he might have stayed.’ Her aunt popped a cucumber sandwich into her mouth. ‘He missed an excellent repast and it will have been your fault.’
‘I will remember that.’ She kept her shoulders down and her head up. She had to say something and she couldn’t
explain why it would be a bad idea for her to see Robert alone. Seeing him in company was surely permissible though. ‘Next time, Aunt, I will endeavour to make sure Mr Montemorcy stays for cucumber sandwiches.’
‘Will there be a next time?’
Henri leant back, remembering how Robert had kissed her nose before he left and how his hand had given her arm a light caress. A warm curl of desire wound its way around her insides. A next time? Her entire being demanded it, even though her head screamed that she should be wary. ‘I hope so.’
* * *
‘Has Miss Ravel returned, Downing? Is Mrs Ravel with her?’
His butler stood in the hallway, looking at him. His face became grave. ‘Not precisely, sir. Mrs Ravel is here, but has been indisposed all day with a headache.’
‘Sophie is here.’ Robert tried to look around Downing’s bulk. All the way back from Market Square he kept telling himself that Miss Armstrong’s notions were fustian nonsense. Sophie would not be as foolish as to actually elope with Sebastian Cawburn. Doctor Lumley had caught her eye, and she’d learnt her lesson about rakes and other ne’er-do-wells. ‘She has to be here.’
‘Miss Ravel returned earlier in a dishevelled state, but she has departed again with her basket. I believe she had some visiting of the infirm to do. Miss Ravel seeks to emulate Lady Thorndike by taking an interest in the general populace rather than simply attending frivolous At Homes.’
Silently Robert cursed Sophie. She obviously had decided that she had had enough of Miss Armstrong and her social pretensions. However, it didn’t explain the basket. Where had Sophie gone? Had she quarrelled with her stepmother as well? But then why did she not wait for the carriage? He drew a steadying breath. Miss Armstrong had put ideas into his head. He required facts rather than speculation, innuendo and gossip. Calm cool logic and digestion of facts rather giving way to sentiment.
‘Did she say where she was going? Or how long she might be gone?’
‘No, sir, but she did leave this.’ Downing held out a sealed letter. ‘With instructions to hand it to you personally on your return.’
With impatient fingers, Robert broke the seal.
The bold lettering stood out. She was sorry to cause him pain, but she had decided her future was best spent with the man she loved—Viscount Cawburn. She trusted that he understood, but by the time he read this, she would be well on her way to being married. She had decided to elope just like dear Henrietta Thorndike had done. Dear Henrietta Thorndike. Perfidious exasperating Henrietta Thorndike, who had just happened to utterly and completely unexpectedly melt in his arms this morning. Henri, who had seemed perturbed about a family matter this morning. Dear Henrietta Thorndike, who on the evening of the ball confessed to having meddled, but he had ignored it. Just as he had ignored a hundred other little insignificant details she had said. That she liked to keep secrets, or that they needed to suspend the wager or that Mrs Ravel always had a headache after a dinner party. And last night they had dined at the Croziers’. Cawburn had known when to strike. Isolated incidents? Or part of a deliberate plan?
Robert felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He’d thought her a friend. His father had insisted on applying cool logic to women and had warned him about the folly of trusting women. He’d allowed his emotions to cloud his judgement.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Downing asked. ‘You have turned pale.’
‘I’m fine, Downing.’ Robert crumpled the piece of paper between his fingers. He didn’t want to make a hasty judgement. He needed to weigh all the evidence first. ‘Get me Fredericks. And get the carriage ready to go. We leave within the hour.’
‘Is Miss Sophie all right, sir?’ Downing’s face creased with concern. ‘She is a great favourite amongst the servants. I did not really think anything was amiss. Lord Cawburn, after all, is Lady Thorndike’s cousin.’
‘I do hope so, Downing. I most sincerely hope so.’ Robert tried to concentrate. Panic would not help matters. He needed to go about the search methodically and rationally.
‘And one other thing, sir.’ Downing’s voice floated down the corridor. ‘Cook reported to me that Miss Sophie came into the kitchen before she left. A large cast-iron frying pan has gone missing. Cook thought you ought to be informed. She’d like it returned. It is her favourite.’
‘I cannot see what use my ward would have with a frying pan, particularly not if she is eloping. Cook must be mistaken.’
‘Very good, sir. I will inform Cook of her mistake.’
‘Where is Fredericks? Fredericks! I have need of you!’ Robert thundered. His voice echoed up the stairs, mocking him.
‘Mr Fredericks is out in the garden. I’ll fetch him.’ One of the upper-stair maids peeked over the banister at him.
While he waited for Fredericks, Robert withdrew the note from his pocket and rapidly scanned it again, searching for clues as to where the errant couple had gone. His ire grew as he realised the inconsistencies his initial shock had blinded him to. Despite the letter being in Sophie’s name, it wasn’t Sophie’s handwriting. And Sophie wouldn’t have called Henri Henrietta. Henri’s elopement with Sir Edmund Thorndike was not strictly common knowledge and he doubted anyone else would have mentioned it. There was something about the writing that reminded him of Henri’s. His stomach did a sickening lurch.
Robert strode to his study, withdrew the note he’d received earlier today asking him to visit Henri from the top drawer of his desk and compared it to Sophie’s letter. The same hand. Same author.
He tore through his desk, attempting to find anything else in Henri’s hand. A scrap of paper, anything. He came across the notice about the dancing classes. It was similar writing even down to the way the H’s were formed. Except Henri had denied all knowledge of the note earlier.
So who wrote them? Cawburn or Henri? Cawburn didn’t have the wit. It was Henri who was blessed with the brains, Henri who possessed a steely nerve. But would she do such a thing? His instinct screamed there had to be another explanation, but, furious and desperately concerned, he dismissed it. He could remember his father desperately seeking another explanation for his stepmother’s actions and ignoring the obvious. He’d always vowed that in such cases, he’d go with the cold hard facts. The handwriting was far too close. All the notes had to be written by the same hand.
He was seven times a fool to seek any other explanation. Thorndike was up to her pretty neck. It explained her enthusiastic reception earlier. It explained the note and so many things from her acquiescence to staying at his house to the sudden desire to learn more about the scientific method and logic.
Cold logic rather than emotion. Facts rather than feelings—he’d sworn that when he found out about the manner of his father’s death. He was never going to be deceived in the way his stepmother had deceived his father.
Robert slammed his fist against the desk. He had trusted her. He wanted to trust her now, but he had the evidence in front of him. He hated the black pit that had opened in his soul.
Thorndike had used him in the worst possible way. She served as bait and distraction in order to allow the pair to escape. And he had followed along, willingly, each step of the way. He could see it all now and the betrayal hurt far more than it should. He had been a lovesick fool and he’d danced to Henri’s tune. No more.
He took a breath of life-giving air. He’d warned her what would happen if she meddled in his private life and now she’d discover the consequences.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Sebastian has been gone all day. He is doing more than simply visiting. All the At Homes are finished,’ Henri remarked to Aunt Frances as they sat in the drawing room. The late-afternoon sun streamed into the room, giving it a golden glow. Everything about the afternoon seemed to be bathed in this wonderful light. She had never noticed how good it felt to be alive. It was as if she had been asleep for a very long time and now she was gloriously awake.
‘That colour suits you, Henrietta,’ her aunt said.
‘It must be the way you have done your hair. But your eyes seem more vibrant.’
‘It must be that. Artful disarray is all the rage this Season in London. Spend hours with a lady’s maid to achieve the effect of spending an hour’s gardening.’ Henri forced her lungs to fill with air and to think logically rather than panicking. She had washed her face and splashed cool water on her wrists, but her colour must still be flushed. First Lucia, the maid she shared with Aunt Frances, and now Aunt Frances had remarked how the gown suddenly suited her complexion far more.
Henri shifted uneasily, uncertain how this new life of duplicity and wickedness would be kept a secret from those closest to her. It had to be or she’d never be received in polite society again. As long as it was not overtly conspicuous, she thought they would be all right. And already her mind was trying to work out how and when they’d next meet.
She had not fully considered the consequences when she gave her mouth up to Robert’s on the evening of the ball. But there was nothing morally wrong with what she was doing as neither was married.
It was only now away from him that the doubts and fears hit her. And yet she knew if he came into the room, all thoughts of propriety would fly from her head. Even with Edmund, she had not felt this all-consuming attraction. With Edmund, she had been safe. Her white knight who rode to the rescue. He had been someone she had loved for a long time. He had made her feel as if she belonged, rather than being some unwanted encumbrance. Theirs was supposed to be a love to last for all time. She had planned it that way. Only it hadn’t. And even the grief had faded to nothingness. She could barely recognise the woman she had once been.