"I've lost my appetite," he said, and pushed out his chair.
Before he could decide whether to follow Cecily or not, the breakfast room door was opened by one of Robert's liveried footmen. Expecting Cecily's return, Robert hurried towards the door, arranging his features into the picture of reconciliation.
"The Marquess of Lilistone," announced the footman, stopping Robert in his tracks.
What in the world was his father doing in Scarcliffe Hall?
More to the point – what would the Marquess do when he discovered Lady Cecily?
Chapter Five
Cecily had never in all her life met such an overbearing, heartless, obstinate brute of a man as Robert Hartley! She returned to her rooms in a fit of temper that threatened to overspill the boundaries of her self-control.
"Remember who you are," she whispered to herself, once she had safely shut the bedroom door behind her. "You are Lady Cecily Balfour. The Duke of Loxwell's daughter. These Hartley men are nothing to you."
Her heartbeat slowly calmed. Cecily drew herself upright again, refusing to lean against the door like a frightened child keeping monsters at bay, and went to sit at the little desk near the window. The room, she begrudgingly admitted, was charmingly furnished, though in an old-fashioned style. The furniture was heavy and well-made, the rug on the floor lushly patterned in pink and pale green. The familiar scent of old money hung in the air, unmistakable.
Well, no-one had ever claimed that a large fortune brought good character. The Earl of Scarcliffe was clearly as rich as he was unpleasant.
Cecily realised, looking about the room, that it could not possibly have been furnished by Robert himself. The curtains, though well-kept, were faded, as though they had hung in the same spot for many years. The paintings on the wall – a floral still life, a pastoral scene – had a distinctly feminine air about them.
Robert had a younger sister, Cecily knew. A girl a year or so younger than Cecily, who, according to gossip, had recently married in some haste. But this room could not have been hers. The years hung too heavily on it.
Absent-mindedly, Cecily began opening the drawers in the ornately-carved desk. They were empty save for a pressed flower lying forlorn in the bottom of one. That settled it. A man would not keep a pressed flower in his room. She wondered which women of the Hartley family had lived here.
Unless it was a mistress. The thought jerked her from her reverie like a bucket of cold water poured over her head. She did not entirely like the thought of Robert having a mistress. It did not quite fit his character. The brother, though – Lord Jonathan, the one they called Hart – he seemed the type to use a woman with no respect for her honour.
Cecily shivered and slammed closed the drawer she had opened. What was she doing, prying through the drawers as though she might uncover a dark secret? She knew the Hartleys' darkest secret, after all – and goodness knew her family had done their best to ensure that it was not much of a secret at all.
She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she almost did not notice the panel of the desktop which had fallen out of place as she slammed the drawer closed.
The grain of the wood was so delicately matched that she thought at first she had broken it – there had been no visible join between the desk itself and the panel which came away. Cecily touched the panel gently and found that it slid back and forth smoothly, on oiled runners.
A secret compartment!
She opened it out as far as it would go, expecting nothing in particular, and revealed a small, rectangular space hidden within the desk top, dusty and untouched.
A ring lay in the centre of it, as though someone had placed it there very carefully.
Cecily would have replaced the panel and thought no more about it if it were not for the fact that the Balfour crest was stamped upon the ring.
She took it from the compartment with trembling fingers. Yes. It was unmistakable. Her family's crest, stamped on a ring kept hidden in Scarcliffe Hall. It was not quite like her own signet ring, or that of her father. The crest was studded on either side with two red rubies – a much finer thing than a ring used simply for sealing letters.
How did it get there? Why was it here, in a Hartley household?
Cecily felt a cold shiver run through her at the thought of the mischief the Hartley family could wreak with access to a ring bearing her father's crest. Had they been writing letters, purportedly from the Duke, and stamping them with this official seal?
She did not want to think it. Even entertaining the idea filled her with guilt, as though she were betraying Robert's hospitality. And yet, he had put her here in this room, with the ring lying hidden in a secret compartment. Had he done it deliberately? Was he mocking her?
He surely had not expected her to find it.
Cecily slipped the ring into her reticule at once. The guilt spiked in her stomach. She felt like a thief.
But it was Robert Hartley who was the thief. Him, or whoever of his kin had taken the ring in the first place. There was no reasonable explanation for a Balfour signet ring coming into a Hartley's possession. Even if Robert had no knowledge of it, it must at some point have been intended to do her family ill. She was right to take it.
Then why did it make her feel so terrible?
The fist which shortly thereafter came pounding at the door did nothing to ease Cecily's nerves. She felt her finger twisting anxiously through a strand of her hair, a habit she had been trying to break herself of since she was a child.
"Come in," she said, trying not to sound as though she had done something wrong.
She was anticipating Mrs Smith coming up with her freshly-dried clothes, but she should have expected otherwise – the knocking was too firm and masculine to be the housekeeper.
"My lady," said Robert, his broad frame blocking out any view of the corridor beyond the doorway, "I apologise for disturbing you, but we do not have much time." To Cecily's horror, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "My father has unexpectedly arrived at Scarcliffe Hall."
"The Marquess?" Cecily knew the Marquess of Lilistone only by reputation. He was stern, ill-tempered, uncompromising – and he hated her family with a passion matched only by her father's hatred for his. "Does he know I am here?"
"If he did, you would shortly find yourself thrown out of the house," said Robert. He had the grace to look unhappy. "I am afraid that I cannot guarantee your safety if he discovers you here. Hart, Beaumont and Northmere will keep your presence a secret – that I can guarantee – but I would be happier if you were not in the house."
Cecily shrugged her shoulders as though such intrigues were commonplace. "This room is on the second floor, my lord. I have climbed down from one or two windows in my time. I do not see that this presents much of a problem."
"You have what?" Did she see a spark of amusement behind Robert's grim expression? "Regardless of your experience in the area, my lady, I will not willingly let you scale the side of the house. When I was a boy, I managed to break my arm doing precisely that."
Cecily pressed her lips together to hide a smile. "You must not have had my expertise in defying my father's wishes, my lord."
Robert extended a hand towards her, which Cecily took after a moment's hesitation. "I have a scheme in mind that will save you the risk of a broken neck," he said. "There is a side passage leading out into the stables which is rarely used. Let me lead you down there. My father will not find you, and I will be able to smuggle you into the carriage as soon as we hear that the bridge is cleared."
Cecily found nothing to object to. Rather, she could not contain her excitement. It was not considered proper for a young woman to examine the horses of a house she was visiting – such concerns were for the gentlemen – but Cecily was a keen horsewoman, and sneaking a look at the stables was often one of her chief pleasures in visiting a new friend.
Robert looked up and down the corridor before hurrying Cecily out, shielding her with his body, and through an un
assuming side door that led to a stone-walled corridor which was in complete darkness. Robert found his way along by feel, and Cecily found herself clutching at his hand to help her over the uneven floor.
"Imagine me as a child, using this place to get up to all sorts of mischief," said Robert. Cecily could not see his face, but by the sound of his voice, she thought he might be smiling. "No – don't answer me. We are passing close to the upstairs drawing room, and my father may be in there."
They picked their way through the darkness in silence, Cecily growing ever more glad for Robert's strong arm to guide her. He took her down a narrowly winding stone staircase that she would easily have turned an ankle on had she been walking alone. They finally emerged, blinking, into a sunlit courtyard on a side of the house Cecily had not yet seen.
Robert glanced up at the windows overlooking them, and, finding them unoccupied, he tucked Cecily's arm more firmly under his and ran with her across the courtyard, bundling her unceremoniously through the stable door.
"Your father must be a fearsome man indeed," Cecily remarked, once the tension left Robert's shoulders. His eyes snapped to her, annoyed.
"I do not fear my father. I am thinking only of your welfare."
"I did not mean to imply that you are not fearsome yourself," said Cecily, teasingly. Robert shook his head wryly.
"Even if I were a ravening beast, I cannot imagine being able to frighten you, Lady Cecily. Your composure has been admirable in these trying circumstances."
Cecily was astonished. "Was that a compliment?"
"Let it not be said that I do not give credit where it's due," said Robert. The flicker of conviviality she thought she'd sensed vanished in an instant. "Now, I suggest you climb into the hayloft and keep yourself hidden."
"The hayloft? But I thought I might give your horses a look over. Since I'm here."
"Do you wish to be caught and tossed out into the streets, in servant's clothes, with no bonnet and wearing indoor slippers to boot?" he demanded roughly.
"I suppose not," Cecily admitted.
"Then it's into the hayloft with you – even if I have to toss you up there myself."
Cecily obeyed him as meekly as she was able. He might be a Hartley, but – unless this was all part of some cruel joke at her expense – he did appear to have her best interests at heart.
"How long do you intend to leave me up here alone?" she asked mildly.
"Until I can safely remove you."
Cecily settled down onto her stomach in the soft hay and kicked her legs up behind her, peeping her head out through the opening in the floor so that she could give Robert her most imperious glare. "And what am I to do, all alone in your hayloft? If it's not too much to ask?"
To her astonishment, a small book came sailing through the air and landed in the hay beside her.
"I thought of that," said Robert. "I have brought you a feminine amusement."
Cecily was most distressed to discover that he had thrown her a book of poetry. "What do you expect me to do with this?"
"Read it. And if you don't want to read it, you may eat it, for all I care. As long as you keep yourself quiet and hidden."
"It doesn't look particularly appetising," Cecily complained, but she withdrew her head from the hayloft opening and began leafing through the book all the same.
She waited until she heard the door click shut behind Robert before she tossed it aside.
Did that Hartley man really think he could keep her locked up in his hayloft like a quiet little pet?
Cecily would soon teach him the error of his ways.
Chapter Six
Robert would be the first to admit he was not the ideal son. He had grown used to his independence, and was accustomed to living his life as though he had no family obligations. For a time, the business of chaperoning his lively younger sister through society had tied him to London, but, now that she was married, he and Hart were free to live in unattached bachelor freedom.
On the few occasions that his father encroached on that freedom, Robert made every effort to appear obliging without actually listening to the old man's advice. Oh, it was all too true, as his father liked to remind him, that one day, Robert would be the Marquess of Lilistone, with all its attendant responsibilities. But that day was not today, and, when it came, Robert meant to be his own man.
So it was with a polite smile but a rebellious heart that Robert sat down in the library to listen to his father's latest plans for the Scarcliffe estate.
Despite the use Robert made of his advice, no-one could deny that the Marquess was an impressive man. He had an imperious bearing that was known to make lesser men quail in their boots, was always impeccably dressed to the point of near-dandyism, and boasted a pair of hawklike eyes, as dark as Robert's own, that could freeze an enemy at twenty paces, so potent was their glare.
Robert was enduring the power of that gaze now, and, in his own opinion, was admirably nonchalant beneath it.
"It's good to see you making use of this old place, Robert," said his father gruffly, gesturing about at the walls with his silver-topped cane. The Marquess was suffering a little from gout in his old age, though nothing would ever induce him to admit to anything as inelegant as a limp. "Scarcliffe Hall truly is the jewel in the crown of our properties. When I was a boy, it was our family's primary residence, you know."
"I know, father," said Robert fondly. "Care for another cigar?"
Robert did not smoke himself, but he kept a supply of fine cigars on hand for the times when his father stopped by. Keeping the old man happy was absolutely imperative; his rage did not bear thinking about.
"You and Hart are enjoying yourselves, are you not?" The Marquess let out a wheezing laugh. "But of course you are! Don't think I don't remember what it's like to pass a summer hunting and riding and drinking! I was a young man once, too, and I had my own crowd of young companions."
"You must have been notorious," said Robert, indulgently.
"We were the bane of every match-making Mama in England!" The Marquess sighed and rubbed a hand over his craggy eyebrows. "Of course, times have changed. It's you and Hart who are the young bucks now."
Robert wondered where on earth Jonathan had got to. Trust him to wriggle out of an interview with their father! Younger sons really did get away with everything.
"Which brings me to the reason for my visit," the Marquess continued. "I am especially pleased to see you and Hart enjoying Scarcliffe Hall, Robert, because it fits in very well with my latest project for the family."
Robert felt a familiar sinking feeling. "Father, really. We are one of the foremost families in England. Your concern for our reputation is unwarranted, I assure you."
The Marquess answered him by bringing a heavy fist thudding to the arm of his chair. "To think a son of mine could be so complacent! How can you be so at ease when, not ten miles away, the cursed Duke of Loxwell and his kin sit spreading poison about us to anyone who cares to hear it?"
A prickle of unease traced its way up Robert's spine. To have his father complaining about the Balfours while Cecily was on the grounds was too much of a coincidence for his liking.
"I hardly think the Duke is concerned about all that old nonsense…"
"Nonsense? How dare you! The Balfours have insulted our family name in the most grievous possible way – nay, they continue to insult it! Would you call it nonsense if they spread lies about your own sister, Robert?"
Robert knew that his sister's behaviour was, in fact, the sort which might rightfully attract all manner of scurrilous gossip – but he had managed to keep that from his father, and meant to take the secret to his grave. "I would be most displeased, Father. But, fortunately, there is no recent gossip to spread."
"My aunt Letitia was the very best of women," the Marquess continued, as though Robert had not spoken. "You would have been of the same opinion, if she had not suffered so painfully from her nervous complaints. Complaints which can be traced back directly to the Balfo
urs' mistreatment of her! They all but murdered her at the time of life when she ought to have been most happy. My father never forgot it, I have never forgotten it – and neither shall you."
"Very well, Father. No-one was suggesting we should pay the Duke a morning call," Robert sighed. "What has the old feud got to do with me, here and now?"
"Why, the fact that our family will not be truly restored to its proper position in society until we can once more call Scarcliffe Hall our home."
Robert was alarmed. The last thing he wanted was for his elderly parents to descend upon his bachelor haven. "You mean to move here?" he asked, his mind immediately lighting upon a thousand excuses which might sway his father's mind.
"Not yet," said the Marquess. If Robert had his way, it would really be not ever – but he resolved to hear his father out all the same. "The first thing to do is to restore our family's prominence in the area. It is all very well having the Duke of Beaumont as a houseguest, but you must take the opportunity to show him off! Make the most of your connections! Show those Balfours that we are not ashamed to show our face in the county! You ought to do something extravagant, that will attract all the prominent people in the area. How about a ball?"
"I invited Beaumont here for a quiet summer out of the way of society," said Robert. "He will not take kindly to the thought of any sort of party."
"You will know the proper way to sell it to him, Robert. You and he are such great friends that he would do anything to help you, I'm sure. No, a ball is quite the thing. Better yet, a masquerade!"
"That is precisely what Beaumont, Hart, Northmere and I have come to the countryside to avoid!"
The Marquess narrowed his impressive gaze. "Are you yet Marquess of Lilistone, young man?"
"You cannot frighten me into doing it, Father."
"No, but I can order you. I do not think you are so enamoured of your quiet summer that you are prepared to openly defy me, Robert?"
The Earl's Secret Passion (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 1) Page 3
