by Darcie Wilde
Because Harry got ideas stuck in his head, and Harry hadn’t told her he’d left his job, or his family.
Thirty-Four
“Leannah,” said Harry. “Would you like to drive us this morning?”
They were getting ready to leave for her father’s house. Leannah was in the act of tying the blue ribbon on her new bonnet into a love knot under her ear as she turned toward him. Her face did not look loving. She looked tired. Which, Harry supposed, was only to be expected. It had not been their best morning, or their best night either.
Since his disturbing conversation with Nathaniel, Harry had been attempting to come up with some excuse to avoid this visit. He’d spent hours walking up and down the streets, trying to tell himself nothing Penrose had said meant anything. The man might be a bloodhound in the halls of government and a damned spy for hire, but he didn’t know everything. Penrose didn’t know Leannah and how good and beautiful she was, how perfect.
But wasn’t that exactly how Harry had described Agnes Featherington?
The effort he’d spent in trying to banish these cowardly and unworthy thoughts had left little energy for conversation with Leannah when he returned to their rooms, especially when his greatest news—that he had new employment—was not something he could share. After all, he’d never gotten around to telling Leannah he’d quit his father’s employ in the first place. He hated the feeling he was keeping secrets from her almost as much as he hated the growing suspicion that she was keeping secrets of her own. He couldn’t stop thinking about the ring, and Genevieve’s meeting with Dickenson, and this other fellow, whom Leannah had never mentioned. Why hadn’t she told him about Valloy? He’d told her about Agnes, hadn’t he? And why hadn’t she told him that that Valloy knew Dickenson?
What else was she hiding? Harry hated himself for wasting even a single second on the question, but it had become like a wasp buzzing about the room. Now that he knew it was there, he could not ignore it.
Damn Nathaniel Penrose anyway. Leannah was already nervous enough about taking him to meet her father, and here he was making the whole thing worse because he wasn’t man enough to dismiss his friend’s ludicrous insinuations.
“You wouldn’t mind me driving?” Leannah asked gravely. She knew something was wrong. She’d known it since last night. For the first time since the Three Swans, they hadn’t made love. He hadn’t gone so far as to sleep in his own bed, but he’d held her in the dark and waited for his desire to rise, and it hadn’t. He’d felt her warm curves. He’d felt her breath against his cheek, and the brush of her skin against his as she finally curled up beside him to sleep. The whole time, he’d been silent and sorry, and nothing else.
“I don’t mind you driving in the least. In fact”—Harry reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a slim package wrapped in brown paper and white ribbon—“I got you these.”
Leannah took the package, undid the ribbon and pushed aside the layers of tissue to reveal a pair of bright green gloves. He’d had them custom dyed that exact color to match her eyes. They were smooth, supple leather, with wide cuffs and palms of double thickness. The shopkeeper told him they were made for those unconventional ladies who liked to ride to the hounds.
“They’re beautiful, Harry,” Leannah murmured, but she didn’t look at him. Harry felt his heart twist uncomfortably. She sounded far too unsure. This was his fault. His and Penrose’s. He must find out what was going on. He must get this mess with Dickenson and this Valloy character cleared up. But how could he dig into it without wounding Leannah’s feelings any further?
Leannah drew the gloves over her hands. They went on smoothly and they fit perfectly. She held both hands up and there was longing in her eyes.
“Harry . . .” She turned her beautiful, hungry eyes toward him. Just a day or two ago, he would have teased her and demanded some token of thanks that would have left them both breathless. But that hunger he saw in her now was not for affection, or even for simple laughter. It was for something deeper, and she was afraid that something would never be found.
“Harry, everything will be all right, won’t it?”
Harry swallowed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
She had an answer. He saw it. No matter how she tried to close herself off from him, he could still read the truth in her lovely face. But she just turned away to pick up her reticule. Harry bit back his worry and his words, and followed her out the door.
* * *
For a wonder, Gossip and Rumor behaved themselves the whole winding way through the streets. This miracle owed not a little to Leannah’s expert handling of the mettlesome team. Harry sat beside her on the box, and watched her work the ribbons with renewed respect. He also watched how she relaxed, even smiled, as she drove. The air of worry was slipping away as she navigated the traffic, alternately encouraging and scolding her team. Harry felt himself relax as well. This was more the thing. Soon, they’d be joking and laughing again. Soon, everything would be as it should.
The street where Leannah’s family lived was a narrow one. London’s soot had dimmed the brickwork and stoops on the houses, but that had not happened without a fight. Harry saw several raw-boned women out with buckets and brushes trying to scrub away the worst of it. The people who stopped to look at the gleaming barouche were respectably dressed, but all about them was just a little worn, and just a little tired. The children clapped and laughed at the high-stepping team, as if it was a treat to see such animals. It was hardly poverty, but it was a place where people feared it was easier to fall in the world than to rise.
When Leannah brought the carriage to a halt in front of one of the tall, narrow houses. Harry jumped down to help her down from the box. She handed the reins to the groomsman who’d come with them from the Colonnade. Harry found himself looking about sharply. The children were not the only ones who watched the carriage. Disheveled men lurked about the board fences and in the shadows of the alleys, eyeing carriage and horses, and Leannah herself, like they were contemplating their market value.
No wonder she was reluctant to return here.
Leannah opened the door to her father’s house. The hall was dim and there was no real foyer. Battered matting covered its scuffed boards. The housekeeper, an elderly dame in a stiff, dress of black crepe bustled up.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rayburn!” she cried. “We didn’t expect to see you today!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Falwell,” replied Leannah. “This is Mr. Rayburn. We’re here to see Father, if he’s awake?”
“Oh, yes, yes, he is indeed. I’ll go at once and let him know you’re here.”
As Mrs. Falwell busied herself collecting their hats and coats, Harry became aware of being watched. He looked up, and saw a boy of about twelve years hanging over the railing on the top floor. This must be the brother, Jeremy. Harry tipped the boy a salute, and received a narrow-eyed glare in return. He felt his eyebrows rise. A moment later, Genevieve, moved into his field of view. She grabbed the boy by the shoulder and hustled him away, giving him a shake in the process. But she did not get either one of them away fast enough that Harry missed how Genevieve beckoned to her sister.
Leannah didn’t miss it either. “Go in, Harry,” she said. “I need to have a word with Genny.”
“All right.” He took her hand, now free of her new green gloves. He looked into her eyes, searching for something—some sign to tell him that Penrose’s suspicions were unfounded, as they were, as they must be.
But all he saw was that she was tired, and that her smile, though cheerful, was more than a little wary.
Harry let go of her hand before she could feel that his own had gone quite cold and turned to follow the housekeeper.
“Mr. Morehouse prefers to spend his mornings in his study.” Mrs. Falwell spoke those words with an air of both pride and apology. If Harry had judged the narrow house right, there were not many other places he could spend his mornings.
The room was small and while the furniture in it was good,
it was all worn. Still, everything in it bore signs of recent and thorough cleaning. The drapes, which were a truly unfortunate color, had been drawn back to allow what little sunlight the neighborhood afforded to shine into the room, and the good fire in the hearth made the place snug.
“Mr. Rayburn.” The room’s sole occupant got stiffly to his feet. Octavian Morehouse had once been a tall man, but he was now stooped and frail. His skin hung loosely off him, as if he’d recently lost a great deal of weight. Despite this, his step was spry as he came forward to take Harry’s hand. If his grip was weak, his gaze was steady and his eyes clear. His dark coat and trousers both looked new. Harry suspected that, like the housekeeper’s crepe dress, they had been purchased within the last few weeks.
“I am delighted to be able to shake your hand, sir,” Mr. Morehouse went on. “Will you sit? It’s too early for wine, of course, but would you care for some coffee? I know it should be tea, but coffee is a habit I acquired as a younger man, and I haven’t been able to give it up.”
The door opened, and Leannah slipped in. Harry saw at a glance she was paler than when they walked in the house. Whatever Genevieve had told her, it was not good news. He caught her eye, but she shook her head minutely. Harry’s disquiet increased, but he said nothing. He did, however, glance at her hand. The ring was still missing.
“I’d be glad of some coffee,” he said to her father. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll pour.” Leannah crossed immediately to the coffee service that had been set out on the desk, as the room had no table for the purpose. While she poured, Harry and Mr. Morehouse settled themselves on the sofa.
“Now.” Mr. Morehouse smiled genially. “Let us not stand on ceremony. It’s of no use to us here and now. Thank you, my dear.” Mr. Morehouse smiled up at Leannah as she handed him his cup. “Leannah has told me what happened, and my brother and my younger girl have both confirmed it. We needn’t pick over the details. You have married my daughter, and you did so honestly and willingly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leannah handed Harry a cup of coffee, black and unsweetened, as he preferred. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but she turned away quickly, moving to fix her own cup.
“Will you tell me something of yourself?” asked Mr. Morehouse.
“Gladly.” Harry drank the coffee, which was hot and good, and began to recount the details of his life; his youth, his schooling, his travels, and his position at the warehouses his father owned. He talked a bit of his father and mother, of his sister and her marriage to the future Baron Eddistone. In short, he offered up the sorts of remarks that he would have in more ordinary circumstances made upon offering for Leannah’s hand.
All the while, Harry watched Leannah. She lingered over fixing her own coffee. She stepped out into the hall, presumably to speak with a servant, and returned a moment later. She sipped the cooling coffee without sitting down, and added a little more milk and a bit of sugar and sipped again. She refilled her father’s cup, and then Harry’s.
She said nothing, but her restlessness spoke for her. Something was profoundly wrong.
But what could it be? Her father gave every sign that he was enjoying the conversation. The questions he asked were easy, comfortable ones—about Oxford, about travelling, and business. If Leannah hadn’t told him the old man had been ill, he would have believed Mr. Morehouse to be nearly as hale as his own father. He was thin, and there was a tremor in his hands that occasionally rattled his cup against its saucer, but his eyes were keen and his mind seemed perfectly sharp and attentive.
Leannah had brought him here to meet Mr. Morehouse, to charm him and be charmed, and yet every single action she had taken since they arrived said something was going badly wrong. It made Harry look again at her father and listen closely to his easy questions. He had met charming men with something to sell, and plenty of them. He did not forget for a moment this man had gone so far as to sell his young daughter for money. He did not forget one word of what Nathaniel had told him about the line stretching from crooked Dickenson to the speculator Valloy to Mr. Morehouse.
What was it he was failing to see? What was happening on the other side of that door, and what had Genevieve told her?
“Well now, Mr. Rayburn . . . hang it all, may I call you Harry?”
Harry started. He’d been concentrating so intently on Leannah, he’d entirely lost track of what Mr. Morehouse was saying. “Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. Now, Harry. The circumstances are maybe not what I’d have hoped for, but I trust my Leannah. She’s proved her good sense time and again and you are her choice. There’s no stronger recommendation that could be made in your favor—no, not if the Prince of Wales himself came into the room and spoke your name. But I’m a man accustomed to making up my own mind, another habit not easily put aside. Oh, don’t worry.” He laughed. “Your speech, your bearing, the story of your life, all commend you to me, as do your actions on behalf of my family these past days. I am content with my daughter’s choice, Mr. Rayburn—Harry. I am most content indeed.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall endeavor to be worthy of your good opinion, and Leannah’s.”
Mr. Morehouse nodded. “I know that you will,” he said firmly. “Therefore, we must look to the future. I have no doubt, that my daughter, and others, will have informed you that our family recently suffered a great reversal of fortune.”
Harry glanced at Leannah. She had finally sat down, but her eyes were lowered toward the coffee cup she held in both hands.
“The fault was mine,” Mr. Morehouse went on. “There’s no good in denying it. But we were not left entirely with nothing. There is a piece of land that . . .”
There was a crash. Harry jerked his head around. Leannah was on her feet. Coffee ran down the front of her skirt and the cup lay in pieces at her feet. She had not just dropped it, she had dashed it to the floor.
“Leannah!” cried her father. “Good heavens, what’s the matter with you? Let me ring for the girl . . .”
“Why was he here, Father?” she demanded.
“Who, Leannah?”‘
“Mr. Valloy, Father. Why was he here?”
Thirty-Five
Leannah watched, entirely unmoved, as her father’s face turned chalk white. “Who told you Mr. Valloy had been here?”
It was Genny. Genny had signaled from the top of the stairs that she needed to speak with Leannah, and her eyes had been so wide and her face so pale, Leannah knew that something important had happened. Nothing less could have induced her to send Harry in to meet her father on his own.
Genny had drawn her into their old bedroom, and gripped both her hands.
Lea, I think we’re in trouble.
“Never mind who told me,” Leannah said sharply. “Is it true?”
“Yes, of course it is.” The air of confused innocence on his face was almost too much to stand. “Leannah, let me ring for the girl. Your skirt . . .”
She slashed her hand through the air to cut him off. “What did Mr. Valloy say to you?”
Father didn’t answer her. Instead, he turned to Harry. “Perhaps you should excuse us, Harry?”
“Leannah?” breathed Harry.
Yes, let Harry leave the room. It would be better. She did not want for him to see her like this, or for him to hear her say what she must. She could not stand to watch his love and respect falling away, not just yet.
She nodded her agreement without looking at him. Harry got to his feet and crossed the room. He paused beside her. Just a day ago, he would have kissed her cheek. Now he only took her hand. His fingers felt cold against hers. She lifted her chin and stared straight ahead. She could not look at him. She would not. She had known what would happen if she brought him here, and now it had. She had opened the door and let in their ending.
Harry closed the study door behind him, and behind her.
“Now, no more evasions,” Leannah said to Father. “Why did Mr. Valloy come here? What did he want with
you?”
“Leannah, please, don’t look at me so. I accepted nothing. I swear upon your mother’s grave I did not.”
“He offered you something? What was it? Money? A position? You must tell me!”
His whole frame trembled as he collapsed slowly onto the sofa. It was as if the weight of his years bore him down.
“Close the drapes,” he murmured. “Please close them.”
Impatient, furious, and afraid, Leannah wrenched the drapes back across the windows. The ancient velveteen tore in her grip, leaving the ends flapping loose and ragged from the rings. She ignored this fresh bit of ruin as she whirled around.
“Now, tell me!”
Father coughed. He coughed again, and when he spoke he spoke to the fire in the hearth.
“Mr. Valloy came, I think, three days ago. I was . . . surprised to see him.” Father tried to lift his coffee cup again, but his hand shook too badly, and he set it down again. Leannah did not move. She must not let herself take pity on him, not now, not ever again. I should have known this before I ever brought Harry here. This is all my fault. This is what comes of trying to hide from who I really am.
“I had expected him to be angry,” Father said. “I wasn’t sure what to say to him, since I knew so little of what had happened between you and him, and you and Mr. Rayburn.”
Again, my fault. I wanted to keep you separate from my new life. I didn’t want to risk you becoming agitated, or tempted by what was happening. Leannah hung her head. “Go on.”
