What of Eileen Hodges’ hints that someone connected with the Hall was the father of her child? The scullery maid had accused the earl. Olivia nibbled the tip of her fingernail. Lord Thatcham couldn’t possibly be such a villain, could he? He was so kind and most fond of his wife. No. Olivia simply wouldn’t believe such nonsense. But then, someone was the father. Who could it be?
Olivia’s head was spinning. For a while, she’d suspected Mr. Roberts; the man was clever, and those easy smiles could hide a black heart. New, strong sensations had confused her. That stab of fear in the music room was just the overwhelming effect of the man’s presence. Lord Thatcham, surely a good judge of character, trusted his lawyer. She pressed a hand to a hot forehead. She mustn’t let imagination run wild or she’d suspect everyone. She’d think it was Mayhew, the butler, next.
What was Miss Dainty saying? “Major Lovell will arrive in time to dine with us tonight.” A sudden spot of pink on her friend’s cheek startled Olivia back to the present. Intrigued, and relieved to sense a possible new, less serious mystery, Olivia couldn’t resist an urge to tease. “Major Lovell? Is he a relative as well?”
Miss Dainty’s blush deepened. She fiddled with a pink sash, untying it and twirling the ends around awkward fingers until the satin was quite creased. “Oh, no. He came to the Hall as a child, but not recently. We saw him in town for the season last year. An aunt lives nearby and he sometimes visits.”
“Have you danced often with the mysterious Major Lovell?”
Miss Dainty took a moment to retie her sash, regained her composure, and gave Olivia a little push on the arm. “Don’t tease, Miss Martin. I can assure you Major Lovell is nothing to me. Although it’s true he is an extremely good dancer, so I shall certainly let him mark my card. Why, here is Mr. Roberts. Come, let us go to meet him.”
Olivia’s suspicions grew. How much did her friend like this Major Lovell? She’d been very keen to change the subject. Olivia could hardly wait to meet the man. The dance promised to be most entertaining.
She followed Miss Dainty across the lawn, enjoying a glimpse of sun after several hours of gloom. How delightful the countryside looked. Why, Mr. Roberts seemed especially cheerful.
He bowed. “Good day, to you both.” He glanced from one to the other of the young ladies, but his eye lingered for only a second on Olivia. She swallowed, trying to think of something to say. “How very charming you both look, today,” he went on. “I do hope your ankle is mending, Miss Martin.” This was all very formal. A little knot formed in Olivia’s stomach. “It’s improving fast, I thank you.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” He turned again to Miss Dainty.
Olivia shivered. The sun had passed behind an early summer cloud.
Miss Dainty explained that she and Olivia had come to sit out in the shade in order to avoid the flurry of preparations for the ball. “Perhaps you would like to join us?”
Mr. Roberts folded long limbs into an elegant wrought-iron garden chair. “Look over there! I believe that’s a hare.” Something bounded back into the trees. Mr. Roberts and the earl’s sister began a long and animated discussion on the differences between rabbits and hares.
Olivia, silent, wondered how they could bear to talk such nonsense. Her friend had never looked more charming. The ache in Olivia’s ankle increased. It was quite right that Mr. Roberts should pay attention to Lord Thatcham’s sister. There was no reason at all to feel slighted.
Miss Dainty, eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing, joined enthusiastically in Mr. Roberts’ absurdities. A rose pink bonnet set off the blush in her cheeks and little pink mouth to perfection. The lawyer seemed quite entranced.
At last, they exhausted the subject of woodland creatures. Olivia opened her mouth, but Miss Dainty was too quick. “I’m so looking forward to the dance.”
Mr. Roberts’s gallantry continued. “I’m sure your card will be full, Miss Dainty, even before the dancing begins.”
“I shall keep a dance free for you, Mr. Roberts. I want you to enjoy the evening. This is only a country dance, of course, nothing like the balls in London, but so many friends will be in attendance that we’re sure to enjoy ourselves enormously.”
Mr. Roberts cleared his throat and shot a glance at Olivia. At last, the knot of tension unwound. Surely, he too was thinking of those whispered words exchanged in the wood. She looked down, suddenly shy, ears straining for the reply. “I am afraid I don’t dance. I’m an ungainly fool, and prefer not to exhibit my deficiencies publicly. I shall sit and watch the dancing. There, is that not a dreadful admission?”
“Not dance? Oh! Oh, what a shame.” Miss Dainty paused, head on one side, too well-bred to ask questions.
Olivia glowed, remembering Mr. Roberts had as good as promised to sit with her.
Miss Dainty soon recovered. “Well, perhaps you’ll accompany us in to supper?”
“I shall be more than delighted.”
Horse’s hooves clattered in the distance. Mr. Roberts said, “I believe I hear a carriage approaching. Perhaps some of the visitors are arriving.” His polished smile returned. “Miss Martin, are you able to walk back into the Hall, or should I carry you once more?”
“I can manage, thank you.” He offered an arm. Olivia’s nerves tingled as she remembered the same limb, so recently encircling her body. She dare not meet Mr. Roberts’ gaze, but rested a hand on the beautifully tailored sleeve, fingertips burning from the warmth of his arm beneath.
“You’re as light as a feather, Miss Martin.”
Lord Hadden—a gentleman a year or so younger than Lord Thatcham—greeted Miss Dainty with the easy intimacy of childhood friends. “Miss Dainty, you look more delightful every time we meet.” He swept off a well-brushed, tall hat and touched the lady’s hand to his lips.
“May I introduce you to Miss Martin, my friend and cousin, who’s staying for a few days?”
Lord Hadden bowed deeply and took Olivia’s hand. “How do you do.”
The words were formal, but a warm smile crinkled his eyes. Tall, barely an inch shorter than Mr. Roberts, Lord Hadden bore the unmistakable confidence of the aristocracy. Every item of clothing spoke of wealth and good taste, from the elegant embroidered waistcoat to a pair of exquisitely polished boots.
He nodded to Mr. Roberts. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Thatcham’s told me all about you. Out in Kabul, I believe?”
“My part in the war was a minor one.”
“Was it? If you say so.”
Olivia knew Mr. Roberts had been in the army. He’d been away to war. That explained the scar and slight limp. Why be so reticent, though? If she’d fought the enemy, far away on the other side of the world, she’d tell and retell the stories. Such reluctance was unaccountable, unless there was something in Mr. Roberts’ past that he didn’t want to share.
Her hands clenched into fists. Was that the reason for his odd changes of mood? Was Mr. Roberts hiding a shameful secret?
Chapter Eighteen
As the day of the Thatcham Hall ball approached, new guests swelled the house party. The luncheon table, splendidly decked out with old silver and new floral arrangements, had been extended to its full capacity, and a relative or close friend of the Dainty family filled almost every space. Miss Dainty’s whispered aim of distancing herself from the Misses Philpott was successful, and Nelson found himself at the right hand of Lord Thatcham’s lovely sister.
Try though he might to concentrate on Miss Dainty’s engaging stream of nonsense, Nelson’s attention drifted to the side of the table where Miss Martin conversed with the serious Lord Hadden—or sparred verbally with the dashing Captain Weston. Nelson didn’t recognise the dashing captain, who’d only taken up his commission within the past year or so. Judging by the snippets of conversation he overheard, Miss Martin thoroughly enjoyed the newcomer’s company.
She took a sip from her glass and her gaze met Nelson’s. The glance lasted only a second, and the smile was discreet, but Miss Martin—Olivia—look
ed full into Nelson’s face, eyes sparkling, as though the pair shared a private joke, and his heart missed a beat.
He could hardly wait to speak with her, but no opportunity came. She disappeared into another room with the ladies, while Lord Hadden, genial, sought Nelson out. “Let’s enjoy another glass of Thatcham’s best brandy, shall we, Roberts?” Hadden settled himself comfortably, stretched out neatly clad legs and embarked on a comprehensive list of the officers Nelson might have known in the Dragoons.
Nelson’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted to discuss was the war. Keeping a tight rein on both speech and expression, he had little to say apart from the briefest comments, of, “Yes, knew him in ’38,” or, “Not in my regiment, I believe.”
Westcott, Lovell, Smythe: younger sons, most of them, new in the military. Very few were Nelson’s comrades in arms. Those men were nearly all buried where they’d fallen in Afghanistan. Nelson didn’t want to think of those days. He kept away from old soldiers. The best of the bunch were dead.
“Used to envy you chaps in the dragoons,” said Hadden. “Blue coats and all. That brother of mine, George, he’s still in, of course.” Nelson was only too well aware of George Weston. Throughout luncheon, he’d been wishing the man at the devil.
He took a steadying breath. He hadn’t known soldiers would be coming to the ball. Soon, it seemed, the Hall would be full of military men. Tension gripped his chest.
He was a fool—should have seen this coming. He’d no idea Lord Thatcham had so many army connections. The earl had only once mentioned the fiasco in Afghanistan, and he’d soon dropped the subject. The last thing Nelson wanted was to discuss the past.
Hadden, apparently forgetting Nelson had never been one of their set, wandered off the point and began to gossip with vigour about the old days, when he and Lord Thatcham were boys.
The room was stifling. A glass more wine than was wise, and this talk of army matters had ruined any prospect of pleasure. Nelson made polite excuses and left. Only rigid self-control prevented him from kicking the oak wainscot of the passage.
Things were getting out of hand. The stay at Thatcham Hall had begun so well. He’d been tempted to woo Miss Dainty—in fact, Lord Thatcham had practically invited him to do so—but the burst of exhilaration brought on by the notion of marriage to a peer’s daughter had quickly dissipated. A few meetings with Miss Martin saw to that. Believing his heart immune from tender feelings toward any woman, Nelson had left it unguarded and susceptible. Now, it was too late. Miss Martin’s lovely face, quick wit and hopeless tendency for getting into ridiculous scrapes, had broken down every defence.
He’d wanted to punch the handsome Captain Weston on the nose, until she smiled. Anger, jealousy―they’d disappeared in a surge of happiness. His emotions toward Miss Martin were more than simple pleasure in the company of a pretty young lady.
Torn between delight and fear, he paced furiously round the Hall. How could anything good come from these growing feelings toward the young lady from Fairford Manor? He’d been down this path before. Miss Martin’s liking for Nelson would melt like butter in summer as soon as she knew the truth. He couldn’t bear history to repeat itself; for Olivia to reject him as Nancy Baldwin had done.
He could leave now, but unless he untangled the mysteries here, he’d have gained nothing from these past days, except heartache. He’d finish the task and get out, as soon as possible.
He’d begin with Daniel. He knew very little about the farmhand. Bob, the cowman’s son, had convinced Nelson the lad had been murdered. Perhaps his widow could help.
It was a mile or so to Daniel’s cottage. Nelson, reluctant to intrude on her grief, wished it were further away. The way led directly past the field and stream where he and Miss Martin had discovered Daniel’s body. It seemed so long ago. The weather had turned gloomy. The light breeze was now a biting wind that whistled through Nelson’s coat. He pulled it closer. How well the garment had suited Miss Martin, when he slipped it round her shoulders at their first meeting. She’d tried so hard to pretend she wasn’t shivering.
He stopped, looking hard at the surroundings. Yes, this was the field; there was the stile where Miss Martin slipped. The same herd of cattle, like old friends, greeted Nelson’s approach with doe-eyed interest. Here under the trees, was the spot in the river where they found the farmhand.
Weary, Nelson walked on. Soon, too soon, he arrived at the lad’s home. Daniel’s widow had seen him coming and threw open the door. “Oh, sir, come in, do, although there’s little enough to offer.” She pushed wisps of hair from her eyes. “I’m sorry, whatever must you think. If only I’d known you were coming. Can I make tea?”
Tea. The English panacea. She waved Nelson to the big armchair by the fire. He sank into it. This must be Daniel’s chair. The man’s widow lowered herself onto a hard, wooden chair opposite, every movement awkward. Her stomach, thicker than when they’d first met, gave Nelson the clue. The woman was pregnant.
He was too slow to look away. She’d seen his look. She rubbed a round belly with one hand and smiled. “Daniel was pleased as punch to think he’d be a father.”
A pipe rested on the mantelpiece, half full of tobacco. Daniel’s wife followed Nelson’s gaze. “He liked his pipe, did Daniel.”
Nelson swallowed. “I’m sorry to intrude. I wanted to…” What did he want, exactly? He’d set out in search of information, but there was something else. “Are you managing?”
“Lady Thatcham’s been very kind.” The young woman raised both eyebrows.
Insulted, she seemed to think the visit was to offer charity. Nelson tried again. “I’m a lawyer. A barrister.” She was frowning, puzzled. “I work in the courts, for people accused unfairly.”
“What do the courts have to do with my Daniel? He’s never been in trouble. Well, not really. Not since he was a lad, anyway, throwing sticks at the constable. Him and his mate, Bob.” She laughed, a pathetic, choking noise. “Those boys, you couldn’t part them, when we were young. Like David and Jonathan in the Bible, that’s what my old mother used to say.” Nelson held out his handkerchief and she grabbed it, scrubbing red eyes.
“I wondered about his friends: the men he meets in the evening for a glass of ale.”
The woman frowned harder. “Why would you want to know?” She threw a quick glance and looked away, twisting the handkerchief in trembling fingers.
“I think Daniel knew something about some goings on up at the Hall.”
“Goings on? Whatever can you mean?”
Nelson watched the woman’s face. Her head was down, the expression hidden. “You must have heard. Everyone knows there have been troubles at Thatcham Hall. Petty thefts, cow-maiming, that sort of thing.”
The woman pressed the handkerchief against her mouth, eyes flickering from side to side as though searching for a way to escape. Nelson went on, “I’m not accusing Daniel of anything, but I think he maybe knew who’s responsible.”
The woman flung her apron over her head and burst into noisy sobs. “I told him to stay at home, but he’d got in with a bad lot. It was all right when he went out with Bob, but they quarrelled, and he started going out after dark. Stayed out all night, sometimes, when the moon was up. He never told where he went, honest, sir, he didn’t.”
She dropped the apron to wipe her face with the wet handkerchief. “Once, I thought it was another woman. I begged him to say what he was doing.” The woman stared blankly ahead. “I thought he was going to hit me. My Daniel, who could never harm a fly—he raised a fist to his own wife.”
A torrent of tears dripped onto the apron. “But he never touched me. He looked at me, face all twisted as though the devil himself was there. ‘Don’t ask, May,’ he shouted. ‘I can’t help myself. Don’t ask, and it will be better for you.’ Then he rushed away like demons were coming.” She picked up a poker and prodded the fire.
Nelson waited, rigid, nerves on edge, afraid any movement might interrupt May’s confession.
&
nbsp; The next words tumbled out in a rush. “You talk to some of those servants at the Hall, so high and mighty. They know a thing or two about it. At least, some of them do. Carrying on at night like that, it’s not right.”
Daniel’s wife crossed the room and pulled out a drawer in the sideboard that ran the length of one wall. Turning, she thrust something into Nelson’s hands. “Here.”
He fingered a wooden cross. It was simply made, just two pieces of timber bound together by rope. “Daniel said it would keep him safe.” The widow snuffled. “Fat lot of good it did. Cut his own leg, indeed! My Daniel knew how to use a scythe when he was but a lad.” She leaned forward. “One of them did it and that’s a fact, but don’t you tell nobody I said so. I don’t want to be next.”
Chapter Nineteen
The day before the ball, when the Hall was full to bursting, Olivia found the attentions of the constant stream of new arrivals at the Hall tiresome. They weren’t tall enough, talked too much of themselves and didn’t argue or tease. Miss Dainty appeared to feel no such repulsion, giggling at the guests’ weak jokes and treating the streams of compliments with customary good humour.
The trouble was, Olivia had to admit, that they weren’t Mr. Roberts. It was difficult to get the man out of her mind. Really, she should be ashamed of herself. That moment in the woods! Their faces had been so close his breath cooled her cheek! She shivered at the thought. What would have happened if Miss Dainty hadn’t been there? Would he have tried a kiss? And if he had, would she have stopped it? At least no one knew how her body had melted. Arms crossed, fingers gripping her shoulders, Olivia trembled with guilty delight at the memory.
Mr. Roberts’ conduct had been just as bad. He’d taken advantage of her―of the state of shock such a fall induced. A well-bred young lady shouldn’t waste any thought on such a man. Perhaps she should have listened more carefully to Mama’s sighs of despair and constant exhortations to “at least, try to behave like a young lady, dear.” It seemed Olivia had become that most dangerous of things, a fast woman.
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