Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Dearest Hart,

I am so proud of you for all you have achieved. The sketches you sent of your plans for Beresford are quite stunning. I cannot wait to visit and see the results of your hard work. I must admit it troubles me you are working for such a man. The duke is not well liked. Bedwin barely deigns to even acknowledge him, if that gives you a clue.

I knew his wife and sincerely pitied her. A pretty little thing, far younger than her husband and so obviously terrified of him, I wished I could have helped her. She died bringing their youngest son into the world. Rufus, I believe. Have you met him? I know your opinion of Richmond well enough, a vile creature. He's been dangling after Cat these past weeks, though I believe she has his measure.

I think there are two daughters, though I have only met the elder, Lady Fidelia, briefly. She put me very much in mind of her mother. I believe she missed the season because of ill health, but I know no more about it than that. Her younger sister, Narcissa, made her debut last year and caused quite a stir. A beautiful girl with an impressive dowry.

Though it infuriates me that odious man should treat you as a common labourer, I cannot help but be glad you are not staying at the house. You would have hated dining so formally, for the duke is a high stickler and everything done on a grand scale. Have a care in your dealings there, my dearest boy. You must tread carefully around Beresford and his family. I know tact is a foreign concept to you, but for heaven's sake, try.

―Excerpt of a letter to Mr Hartley De Beauvoir, from his mother, Mrs Minerva De Beauvoir.

9th January 1850, Hardacre Hall, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

"You there… Harris, is it?"

The young man nodded and hurried up to Hart. "Yes, sir?"

"Tell the men to take a break, but I want this entire section marked, and the levels recorded by the end of the day. Is that understood? We'll start stripping the turf tomorrow and I want it ready to begin first thing."

"Certainly, sir," Harris said, giving him a nod.

Hart took off his hat and wiped his brow on his shirt sleeve. This was the most tedious part as far as he was concerned, measuring and taking levels, plotting out where paths and hard standings would go, but it was also the most important. If he made an error now, it could have disastrous consequences. So, although he was champing at the bit, desperate to set the men to digging and changing the landscape before him, he had to hold himself in check. Measure twice, cut once, his father had always told him, and his patience and methodical way of working was something Hart aspired to reproduce.

Movement in the distance caught his eye, and he turned, seeing a young woman walking along the lakeside. She made a lovely if wistful picture, her figure delicate and her skirts flowing around her as she moved. He had seen her before, always by the lake, walking with her head bowed. Her fair hair, tucked under a simple chip bonnet, had come loose in places, escaping its pins, and blew about her face as the breeze caught it. One of the duke's daughters, so he'd been told. Hart stopped what he was doing and watched as she moved along the shoreline. Harris said she was Lady Fidelia, and that she loved the gardens and walked them every day, but Hart doubted that. He didn't think she saw the gardens at all. She might put one foot in front of the other and move through them, but she did not engage with her surroundings. How could she when she rarely looked up? A troubled soul, Hart thought, feeling a surge of regret that someone so young and lovely should be so melancholy. He wondered what it was that drove her to walk alone for hours at a time. Most likely a doomed love affair, he supposed. She was young yet, though, so she would bounce back in time. He doubted a woman like that would have a problem attracting a suitable mate, and imagined how the men must have fallen over themselves to get close to her during the season. Perhaps it wasn't that easy though. He knew himself how many men of the ton viewed women as property and treated them as such. Was that what made her so unhappy – the prospect of a marriage like that? Cursing his wayward train of thought he forced his attention back to the job at hand. Not his problem, he reminded himself sternly. Turning his back on the young woman, he walked back to the men, ready to set them back to work.

It was barely dawn the next day when Hart left the cottage. The morning was frosty, a thin mist wreathing the ground and swirling as he walked. Too lost in thoughts of the day ahead, and not expecting to see anyone at this hour of the morning, Hart started in surprise at a cry of alarm. Head snapping up, he saw a woman in front of him, clearly as shocked by his appearance in the dim light as he was by hers. Hart could only stare at the vision before him, momentarily struck dumb by her beauty. For a moment he had the fanciful notion she was a fairy queen, so incongruous was the sight of her in the dreary cold of a misty morning. Slender and fair, her skin glowed, almost luminous in the frail dawn light. Hart stared unashamedly, unable to tear his gaze from her, for she was as magnificent as Titania herself, and as untouchable as the moon.

"Who are you?" she demanded breathlessly.

She appeared almost ghostly in the swirling mist, her abundant pale hair loose and shimmering silver. A thick black cloak covered what he suspected was a nightgown.

"Hartley De Beauvoir, my lady," he managed, finding his wits at last. For this must be Lady Fidelia, the mournful figure he had seen walking by the lake. "Your father has commissioned me to landscape the gardens here at Hardacre."

"Oh, yes," she said, glancing around as if she expected to find someone watching her. "I see."

"I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you," he offered, afraid he might frighten her as she was obviously alone, but she seemed to have lost interest in him already, her gaze fixed on some distant place he could not see.

"It's of no matter," she murmured, and hurried off, moving through the garden like a wraith.

Hart suppressed a shiver, more disturbed than he liked to admit by the odd encounter. What on earth was her father thinking, letting his daughter run about the grounds half-dressed at such an hour?

"Bloody aristocrats," he muttered, unsettled and angry that such a beautiful young woman could be so neglected.

Though many of his closest friends had titles and his mother was a cousin to the Duchess of Bedwin— a family he greatly admired — that did not change his opinion. Too many generations of inbreeding had consequences, and now half of them were mad as badgers. A pity, he thought, watching her go, for she had looked exceptionally lovely in the moonlight, like a magical water sprite come to tempt a flesh and blood man into the inky depths of the lake. A woman as delicate and lovely as that could certainly make a fellow lose his wits and behave like a fool.

"Not for the likes of you, my lad," he said, shaking his head at the very idea, but the image of Lady Fidelia lingered, disturbing his peace of mind, and making him wish she had not run off so quickly.

He saw her again, later that same day, and the next morning, and the one after, always at a distance, always in the garden. She seemed to care nothing for the weather, neither cold nor rain kept her from walking. The path she took was erratic, however, and he never knew where she would appear. Though he told himself it was none of his business, the lady's obvious melancholy troubled him, and he found it difficult to keep his thoughts from returning to her.

Hart leant on the spade he'd been using, having just sent the men off to have a bite to eat. They'd made excellent progress so far. He thought perhaps they were a little surprised at him, for they had exchanged glances when he'd taken his coat off and rolled up his sleeves. Not that he cared. This was the best part, as far as he was concerned. He was too eager to see progress, to sit back and watch.

"Oh dear. It's such a mess."

Hart turned, hurrying to tug his sleeves back down as he discovered Lady Fidelia looking at the expanse of bare earth around them with an uneasy frown. He snatched up his coat, shrugging into it. Not that she was looking at him, only frowning at the discarded barrows and spades.

"For now," he admitted. "But it will be lovely soon enough. Better than before, I promise."

She looked directly at him then and his breath caught. Her eyes were a clear blue, crystalline, and framed by thick dark blonde lashes. Beautiful. Hart admired beauty in all its forms, and she was as close to perfection as he felt it likely to get. Her fair skin was flawless even in the bright light of day, almost translucent, but there were deep shadows beneath her eyes. He wondered when the last time was she'd had a good night's sleep.

"You promise?" she repeated with a catch in her voice, a soft breath of laughter following the words. He thought perhaps there were tears in her eyes.

Before Hart could make any reply, she turned and walked away again. Hart watched her go. There was something so sorrowful about her she made his heart ache, made him want to go to her and ensure she was safe, to discover what made her so unhappy. Fool, he told himself crossly. She was trouble in every sense of the word, and if he had a mite of sense, he'd keep clear of her. He wished she would stay away from the garden, from him. It disturbed him to see her wandering at all hours of the day, in all weathers and looking like a tragic heroine. Surely her family ought to do something? Perhaps he should speak to her father? Remembering how cold and hard the duke was, Hart dismissed this notion at once. More likely it would stir up trouble all around if he poked his nose in. No doubt she was an excessively romantic soul and enjoying reading tragic love stories and acting like the doomed females that seemed to inhabit such tales. He remembered his sister complaining about just such a female when she had been out, always swooning and bursting into tears for no apparent reason. Besides, it was not his affair, he reminded himself sternly, and went back to work.

It was late in the day, with the light fading rapidly, when he saw her next. It had been threatening rain all afternoon and now the lowering sky had fulfilled its promise. Hart had set the men to tidying up and putting away their tools when some instinct had made him glance up at the horizon.

She was standing on the stone jetty that thrust out several yards into the lake, staring down at the dark water. Her cloak billowed behind her, her bonnet hanging loose about her neck. Much of her hair had escaped its pins and the effect of her silhouetted against the troubled sky behind her was eerie and disturbing.

"Damn the woman," Hart muttered irritably, not wanting to worry over someone he had no business being anxious about. Yet the rain was coming down harder and she'd catch her death if she didn't go in now. The way she stood staring down into the water bothered him too, once more raising the hairs on the back of his neck, as though she thought the murky depths held the answer to some unspoken question.

Annoyed as much as he was concerned, Hart strode towards her. The rain was freezing, and he wanted to go back to the cottage and have his tea, not play silly beggars chasing some aristocratic chit about the lake in the dark. Yet someone ought to look out for her.

"Lady Fidelia!" he called, the wind whipping the sound of his voice away as he hurried towards her. She didn't look up. Cursing under his breath, he broke into a run. "Lady Fidelia!"

That time she heard him, her head snapping around as she saw him and Hart ground to a halt as she took to her heels and fled. Damnation. For all he knew, she'd run straight to her father and tell him Hart had been chasing her. Well, that would serve him right. Mind your own bloody business, he told himself furiously, and that certainly excluded Lady Fidelia. Watching until she was out of sight, he turned and made his way back to his lodgings.

The cottage was small, and Hart did not doubt that Beresford had considered it a slight when he'd offered it to him. The miserable old devil would have been disappointed to discover that Hart thought it extremely cosy. An hour later and he had changed into dry clothes and was feeling remarkably content with his day's work and the snug little cottage. Far better than the gloomy mausoleum the duke and his family inhabited.

"A damn sight easier to heat, for one thing," he muttered to himself with a snort, stretching out his legs to rest his feet on the fender.

His toes had almost thawed out and his belly had quit complaining that he'd skipped lunch now he'd stuffed himself full of eggs and bacon and fried bread. His mother, who seemed to think he was barely out of short trousers, insisted on sending food parcels, much to his embarrassment, but it meant he was never short on cakes or biscuits either. So now he sat with a large mug of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits balanced on his stomach, feeling quite satisfied. Except that the wind was howling past the front door, and he kept remembering the picture of Lady Fidelia standing on the jetty.

He had gone so far as to ask Harris if he knew anything about the family, careful to sidestep around asking about Fidelia directly. Harris had told him a dozen stories about the duke and his heir, which painted a picture of a pitiless father and a vile wastrel of a son. Hardly a surprise, and no doubt such a callous parent had done damage enough to the tender sensibilities of a gentle daughter. The idea worked on his protective instincts, which had always been keen, too aware of the dangers of the world to take them for granted. Much as he hated to admit it, he worried for her, worried that no one was taking notice of how sunk in melancholy she was. She needed friends if her family had no time for her, people to give her mind a new focus and show her there was still happiness to be found in the world.

"Keep your great nose out of it," he told himself sternly, before finishing his tea and biscuits and taking himself off to bed.

The next morning, Hart had hardly set foot on site when a message arrived from the duke, demanding he come to the house. A sense of gloom settled over him when he remembered the way Lady Fidelia had run from him, and he wondered if he'd ruined everything before he'd even begun. Telling himself not to borrow trouble, he made his way to the house and was directed to the breakfast parlour by yet another condescending footman.

The duke was tucking in to a rare slice of sirloin, blood pooling over the plate, a mug of ale at his elbow, when the footman announced Hart's arrival. Despite knowing better, Hart's gaze immediately sought the beautiful women who he had worried over so much of late. Lady Fidelia was present, in body if not in spirit, for she was gazing out of the window and appeared not to have touched the single piece of toast growing cold on her plate. A boy, just on the cusp of adulthood, sat opposite her, his likeness so dramatic that he had to be her younger brother. The children must take after their mother, for the duke's features were large and harsh, far removed from the fine-boned fairness of these two. The lad darted Hart a look as he came in, glanced at his father, and ducked his head once more, concentrating on a plate of sausages with quiet intensity.

"Ah, De Beauvoir. Good," the duke said, not pausing his breakfast or offering Hart a seat. "I want a glasshouse."

Hart, becoming used to the duke's abrupt demands, merely nodded. "For what purpose, your grace?"

"What purpose?" Beresford repeated, as though this was a daft question. "For putting plants in, obviously."

"I think what Mr De Beauvoir is asking is what kind of plants, your grace," his son said gravely. "Do you mean to add to the kitchen garden, and produce exotic fruits, or hot-house flowers? An orchid house, perhaps, or a palm house or—"

"Shut your damn mouth. I'll ask if I want your opinion," Beresford growled, glaring furiously at his son.

The young man turned scarlet and returned doggedly to his breakfast. Hart gritted his teeth. He'd guessed the duke bullied everyone in his household, but it was one thing to know it, another to see it in action.

"I want something fancy. Paxton built that great conservatory at Chatsworth, now there's the Crystal Palace, a monstrous great thing they're putting up. Well, I want something here."

Hart rubbed the back of his neck. Whilst the duke's whims were those of a spoiled child wanting what his friends had, he could not deny it was a fabulous opportunity for him. He'd never thought to have the chance to design something of the sort for a client.

At his place of work, de Beauvoir Nurseries and Landscaping, Hart had built a long glass conservatory with an enormous fountain at the end, enclosed by a high domed glass ceiling. This was a place not only to buy the latest and most fashionable plants recently imported, to buy statuary or engage a designer to create something lovely, but somewhere to pass a pleasant hour among the glorious flower displays. He'd built several glasshouses too, including a beautiful orchid house, but he suspected nothing on the scale of what the duke had in mind. Now the glass tax had been repealed, however, such buildings were becoming more sought after. He had even considered designing a range of standardised glass houses for those wishing to mimic the efforts of the upper classes, but on a far smaller budget.

"Would you be looking to display orchids, then, or create a palm house?" Hart asked, giving the duke's son a surreptitious wink as the boy dared a glance at him. His young lordship hid a smile and ducked his head once more.

The duke waved a hand, intent on his sirloin. "I leave that to you. I want something magnificent. That's all."

"Very good, your grace. I will come up with some plans for you."

The duke nodded, reaching for his mug of ale, and catching sight of his daughter.

"Fidelia! For the love of God, stop staring out of the bloody window. Mr De Beauvoir will think you're a blessed half-wit," the duke barked, and with such a burst of anger, even Hart started in surprise.

Fidelia didn't so much as blink.

"I beg your pardon," she said, the emotionless tenor of the words making Hart's instincts prickle.

He clenched his fists, wishing he could demand the duke treat her with more care. Could the man not see she was suffering from melancholia? Hart glanced at her brother, relieved to see that he too was watching his sister with concern. At least there was someone who worried for her. Lady Fidelia obediently lowered her gaze from the window to the cold toast on her plate. He saw now that she was not as young as he'd thought, perhaps in her middle twenties, though she still seemed little more than a girl to his eye.

"See Mr De Beauvoir out, if you can manage that much," Beresford added, his tone scathing.

"Your grace," Fidelia murmured, and got to her feet.

Feeling rather sick at the appalling insight into their family life, Hart assumed that meant he'd been dismissed and followed her out with relief. Despite himself, Hart's gaze could not help but linger on her slender frame, on the sway of her hips as she moved so gracefully, like long grass swaying in a breeze. They walked in silence, which Hart appreciated. He could not bear inconsequential chatter and rarely spoke unless he had anything to say. Gossip and chitchat were not to his taste; probably why he preferred plants to most people. This silence, however, was oppressive. It made his nerves leap with the need to break it. Perhaps if he could speak with her, he might reassure himself that she was not the tragedy waiting to happen that he feared she was.

They were almost at the door when he asked, "Would you prefer orchids, or a palm house, my lady?"

Fidelia gave him a wide-eyed look of startled surprise. "I really don't care," she said, and then turned away, leaving him to make his own way out.