Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Mama,

What can you tell me about Lady Fidelia Ponsonby? I see her often around the gardens here, drifting about like a sad little ghost. She doesn't speak to anyone, she seems afraid to do so, but there is such an aura of sorrow that clings to her I cannot help but fear for her. Has there been some tragedy? Every day she walks to the lake and stares down into the water and I am horribly afraid of what is going on in her mind.

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

14th January

Dearest Hartley,

Regarding Lady Fidelia, I will tell you what I gleaned from Matilda. She had several seasons, but despite being quite lovely and having a generous dowry, she didn't really take. She was very shy and unprepared for the ton. The duke guarded his girls very close, and they had little society before they came out so it must have been a shock to them.

I don't doubt she had offers enough, though. Matilda wondered if there was some scandal surrounding her, but the duke squashed it if there was. I think it was rumoured she was to marry the Earl of Whishen, which I hope never comes to pass. He's a decent enough fellow, but hugely fat and old enough to be her father. Matilda suspected she had a tendre for Lord Elsmere, rather a loose screw, though he has a good deal of address, but not a penny to his name. Her father would never have countenanced it.

After that, she disappeared from society due to ill health. I am sorry to hear your description of her, for according to Matilda, she was a sweet girl, which is remarkable considering her father. I believe her sister is out now, quite a different kettle of fish, by all accounts.

Hart, have a care. I know you feel sorry for the girl, but she is the daughter of a duke. Whilst I would never advise you not to help anyone in distress, guard yourself there, my dearest son. Any friendship between you could lead to no good.

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

2nd February 1850, Hardacre Hall, Hardacre, Derbyshire.

"Mr De Beauvoir, sir?"

Hart turned at the respectful voice, rather surprised to see the duke's youngest son, Lord Rufus-Alexander Ponsonby. According to Harris, who seemed to be the fount of all knowledge concerning the family, the boy preferred to be called Lord Alex.

"My lord?" Hart said, gesturing for his men to carry on without him.

Alex's fair cheeks, already pink from the cold, darkened. "I h-hope I'm not bothering you. At least… I know I am bothering you, for you're busy, but—"

He was clutching a roll of paper, the kind used for drawing up plans.

"You have something to show me?" Hart guessed, interrupting the stream of nervous chatter.

Lord Alex nodded with relief. "Yes. That is, I don't expect they're of any use, but… but I was thinking about the glass house."

Hart looked at the proffered plans, and then at the diffident expression in the boy's eyes. He seemed prepared to be told to get lost, though he'd probably spent all day screwing up the courage to come here.

"I'm in the middle of something right now," Hart said gently, hurrying on as the boy's face fell. "But if you would care to come to the cottage—at five, say—I could take a look then."

"Oh!" he said, so comically pleased by the invitation Hart had to smile.

"I might even manage a cup of tea and some biscuits," he offered.

"Capital," the young man said, beaming now. "I'll be there. At five. At the cottage."

Hart nodded and went back to his work, amused at having been sought out, until he considered the duke would certainly not have given the boy's plans the time of day. More likely he'd have cast them into the fire with some scathing comment, judging by that little scene in the breakfast parlour. Did anyone take an interest in the lad, or in Fidelia's obvious melancholy? Hart considered his own parents, the upbringing he'd received from the age of six when they'd rescued him from the horrific conditions in the workhouse that he tried very hard not to remember. They'd lavished him with all the love and attention any child could possibly want, and taken an interest in everything he'd done, from the first dreadful scrawls of drawing and writing to his more recent success. They had been there every step of the way, cheering him on. He'd always known how fortunate he'd been and had worked every hour of every day to prove himself worthy of that good fortune.

Set against the landscape of this family's obvious misery, his luck seemed mighty indeed.

The day passed quickly, and Hart congratulated the team of men. They were hard workers, much to his relief. Though he'd brought some men from his own place of work, most worked for the duke and had been an unknown quantity. To find them diligent and capable made his life far easier than it might otherwise have been. The pathways were taking shape now, with the trenches dug for the pipework that would serve the fountains and some of the hard standings already in place. It was a good start. Hart raised his eyes to the horizon, looking around for the slight figure he'd come to expect. Still no sign of Lady Fidelia. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why she had not been out walking. He told himself it was a good thing she wasn't there. Far better that she was tucked up somewhere warm indoors than traipsing about in all weathers.

Hoping she had found a cosy corner and a good book to keep her occupied, he glanced at his pocket watch, which showed eight minutes to five. He'd best hurry and get to the cottage, for Lord Alex looked fragile enough to believe he'd been forgotten if Hart was even a minute late.

It was five past by the time he got there, but Lord Alex was waiting under the shelter of the porch, for it had begun to drizzle.

"Sorry I'm late," Hart said, pushing open the door to the cottage and gesturing for the lad to go in, while he stooped to remove his gaiters and unlace his muddy boots.

"Not at all. I hope I'm not taking up too much of your time," the boy said, looking about the cottage with interest as Hart placed his boots and the gaiters on the newspaper laid out ready for them, and set about lighting the lamps. He wondered if the boy had ever been inside any of the properties on his estate, or even talked with the tenants.

"You said you had some plans to show me. For the glasshouse?" Hart prompted, crouching to light the fire.

"Yes. I do."

Hart coaxed the fire to life and then swung the kettle over it. Getting to his feet, he gestured to the round dining table. "Put them there, I'm going to wash up."

By the time he'd washed the day's dirt off, the kettle was boiling, and Hart set about making tea. Lord Alex watched with obvious fascination.

"You must warm the pot first," he told the lad, swirling the hot water around the teapot before chucking it into the washing-up bowl. "Then you add the tea and pour on the boiling water. The water must be boiling, and a cold teapot takes the temperature down."

Hart set the teapot to one side and went to fetch the biscuit tin.

"I see," the boy said, looking as though he wondered why on earth Hart was telling him this.

Hart set the tin on the table and sat down, gesturing for Alex to join him.

"Every man ought to be able to fend for himself if the need arises," he said firmly. "You ever made tea for yourself?"

The lad shook his head and Hart grunted, unsurprised. "Making a cup of tea is a basic skill. Can you light a fire?"

Alex blushed. "I've seen it done," he said stiffly.

"Try it," Hart said, hiding a smile. "You never know when you might need a fire lit and there's no footman around to do it for you."

"Are you laughing at me?" the lad demanded, colour rising.

Hart ignored the comment for a moment, giving the tea a stir before replacing the lid.

"No, my lord. Just giving a bit of advice that will serve you well, but you need not take it."

The young man glared at him for a moment, shoulders rigid, and then he sat down rather heavily. He gave Hart a direct but less aggressive look. "You think I'm spoiled."

"No, not necessarily." Hart glanced at him, knowing he ought not speak his mind to the young lordling, but it was ever his besetting sin to tell the unvarnished truth. "But we're all shaped by our upbringing, and I think you've likely not had the chance to get your hands dirty and learn some basic skills like other boys do. Do you go to school?"

Alex shook his head, his expression morose. "No. Tutors at home."

Lord, no wonder the lad was so pale and fragile. No chance to escape his bloody father and make some friends. "A shame that."

"I wanted to go, but Father…"

He shrugged, such a helpless gesture that Hart could only pity him.

"These plans, then. You drew them yourself?"

Brightening, the boy lifted his head. "Yes, would you take a look?"

"Said I would. Tea first," Hart said firmly. He poured it out, adding a generous amount of sugar, a dash of milk, and stirred it well. Looking up, he offered a mug to Alex. "That's proper tea, not that wishy-washy stuff that tastes like perfume. The kind ladies brew when you go visiting."

Alex grinned at him and took the mug, taking a tentative sip. "Oh. That's good," he said in surprise.

Hart laughed. "Have a biscuit."

They drank the tea and munched biscuits in companionable silence for a while. Hart watched the lad as he worked his way through the plate of biscuits, copying Hart surreptitiously as he dunked them in his tea. Hart hoped he didn't do that in front of the duke.

"You don't say much, do you?" Alex observed, once all the biscuits were gone and they'd drunk two mugs of tea.

Hart shrugged. "I talk when I've something to say."

"That's good. Sort of peaceful," Alex added.

"I think so. Can't stand a lot of chatter and nonsense. Now, show me the plans."

The boy got to his feet, unrolling the plans and weighing them down between the teapot and the empty plate.

Hart stood beside him and studied them. "They're well drawn. You've got skill. Have you ambition to be an architect?"

"N-No, I… I want to do what you do," the lad said hesitantly, and with good reason.

Hart could only imagine what the duke would think about his son becoming a landscape designer. He frowned down at the drawings. "These are good, my lord. I have doubts about the structural strength of that tower, mind. That's a lot of weight there, and not much support."

"Yes, I worried about that," the boy admitted.

"Then why didn't you fix it?" Hart challenged him.

"I… I didn't know how."

"Then figure it out. You have tutors, don't you? Get them to teach you how to calculate these things."

"Can't you?"

Hart hesitated. "I don't think it would please your father to discover you'd been spending time with me."

"Nothing pleases his grace," Lord Alex muttered, eyes flashing.

Hart was glad to see it; the duke hadn't entirely crushed the lad's spirit.

"What makes you think you want to do what I do anyway?" Hart asked, curious despite knowing he ought to tell the lad to go.

"I like the idea of making a garden," he admitted. "I like the thought of leaving somewhere more beautiful than when I got there, of leaving a mark, a place that brings people joy." His face grew serious then, pale eyebrows tugging together. "There is not enough joy in the world."

Amen to that, Hart thought, studying the lad. "You want to make it for your sister," he said with sudden clarity.

Alex met his eyes and nodded, and there was such fear in his expression, Hart knew he'd been right to worry over Fidelia.

"She used to be wonderful," the boy said quietly. "Kind and funny, she made me laugh a lot."

"What happened?" Hart asked, even though his instincts told him he'd do well not to get involved.

"I don't know." Alex's face clouded. "But I bet it"s Father's fault. He's always been awful to her but recently it's got worse."

"Perhaps she wanted to marry someone unsuitable?" Hart offered, knowing this was often a reason for heartache. The upper classes often married for duty, for wealth and status. That had to be hard on a young woman's heart if she'd given it elsewhere.

Alex shrugged. "Perhaps. I know when she came out, years ago, Father wanted her to marry some fat old man. Disgusting of him, but she refused. I was only ten at the time, but it stuck in my memory as quite an event. I think it's the one time I ever saw her stand up to him. I thought his grace was going to have an apoplexy. I've never seen him so angry. Then he sent her away, and I didn't see her again for months. When she came back… well, she was never the same. It's like she's here in body but not in spirit. Even the duke can't get through to her, no matter how he rages. Every year I hope she'll find something to make her happy, but nothing changes. I sometimes think she's got stuck in a thick fog, and she can't find her way out."

Hart stilled, uneasy now, and wondered if perhaps the boy had given away more than he realised. Hart had a fair idea of why she was so unhappy. Lord Alex must have realised at the same moment that he was confiding in a man far beneath him socially. He reddened.

"I ought not to have…"

"I don't talk about others, my lord. Nothing you've said will be repeated, you've my word. You're worried about your sister, that's right and proper. If I were you, I'd try to occupy her indoors if you can, and keep her from wandering the gardens in all weathers."

"I have tried. Nothing interests her. Not even me," he added, looking far more like a frightened child than a boy on the cusp of manhood. "I'd best go," he added, reaching for his plans, and rolling them back up.

"Keep working on those plans. They're good," Hart offered. "I'm thinking of offering glasshouses for sale and I want a variety of plans for people to choose from. If you come up with something half decent, I'll buy the plans from you."

He cursed himself for having done what he never usually did and spoken without thinking. Now he'd made a rod for his own back. But the boy had looked so downcast Hart had felt the need to offer something to cheer him up.

"Really?" The young man's eyes grew wide. "You mean it?"

"I don't say things I don't mean," Hart replied gruffly. "But they'd best be good. I'm not paying for something that won't stand up."

"Oh, of course. I'll make sure they're good. The best glass houses you've ever seen."

Hart snorted. "All right, don't get carried away. I won't be wanting the Crystal Palace, nor anything like. These are for people who don't have the kind of budget your father has."

"I understand. These plans I've drawn wouldn't do for Father, either. I know that really. He wants something far grander, doesn't he?"

"Reckon so," Hart said dryly. "Come back next week and I'll show you what I've been working on, and you can give me some of your ideas. How's that?"

"Fair," Alex replied. "Thank you for the tea and biscuits. Perhaps… Perhaps next time you'll let me make the tea."

"Happen I will," Hart replied, amused, and waved the boy off out the door.

After an excellent supper of steak and kidney pudding and some boiled potatoes sent over by the cook at the big house, Hart sat reading the Gardener's Chronicle and Agricultural Gazette and sipping a glass of whiskey until weariness took a hold and his eyes felt heavy. It had been a long day.

He downed the last of his drink, banked the fire, and took himself off to bed, laying down on the mattress with a sigh. The wind had dropped finally, and the night was calm. Only the distant hooting of an owl disturbed the peace as Hart drifted into sleep.

Hart He always slept like the dead. Early mornings and long days of hard manual labour, plus a mind that was generally at peace with itself, meant sleep was never hard to find. That night he woke in the early hours, staring at the darkness with his senses on alert. A moment later a fox screamed outside his window and Hart cursed it for having disturbed him. Settling himself back down, Hart tried to go back to sleep but it was too late. He was wide awake. Muttering curses and sliding from the bed, he pulled his shirt on and padded to the window, wondering what it was that the fox had been up to. Nothing moved outside now, though a fierce wind rattled the branches of the trees and whistled past the cottage. Another sound broke through, certainly the fox again, but farther off. It sounded distressed this time. Frowning at the darkness beyond the glass, Hart told himself to go back to bed. Foxes were well able to look after themselves, yet he did not like to think of some creature in pain just outside his door.

"Hell and the devil," he muttered under his breath, tugging his trousers on and fumbling in the dark for the rest of his clothes.

Once outside, Hart walked all the way around the cottage, lamp in hand, and found precisely nothing. "Idiot," he told himself. Yet he was too wakeful to find sleep again. Perhaps a walk would do the trick. Setting out at a brisk pace he headed towards the lake, deciding he'd go all the way around it and then try to get some sleep. He wondered if Lady Fidelia would make an appearance today and told himself he hoped she would not. Liar. Fleeting images of her tucked up in her bed intruded into his mind, crisp white sheets covering that slender form, a demure white nightgown with ruffles of lace all the way to her chin.

"Pack it in," he muttered irritably, for he knew better than that.

Shoving the picture firmly to one side, Hart strode on..

The lake appeared, spread out before him, a vast pool of darkness until the clouds shifted and a tiny sliver of moonlight set it sparkling. It was beautiful, peaceful too, and he took a moment to appreciate the scene before him, and then he saw her. Hart's breath caught, alarm singing through him as his gaze settled upon the slender figure of Lady Fidelia. She stood far too close to the edge, and her white nightgown blew tight against her, highlighting the curves of her body, the fabric fluttering behind her in the freezing wind.

What on earth was the foolish creature up to, out alone at this time of night? That jetty was slippery at the best of times, but with all the rain they'd had of late, it would be lethal.

The first droplets of rain hit his face, icy cold against his skin. Hart picked up his pace, torn between running full pelt and not wanting to startle her.

She turned away from the lake, looking as though she was lost in a dream, certainly she was not looking at where she was going. Then it all happened so slowly, and yet too fast for him to get close enough to stop it. The sound of her scream sliced through him as her foot slipped on the slick wood, and he was running before she hit the water. It was hard to breathe as terror held his chest in a vice, but he pushed on, eating up the distance between him and the jetty. He dived into the black water beneath.

The frigid lake hit him, stealing what remained of his breath and plunging him into a darkness so profound it took him a moment to gather his wits. Fidelia.

Something white moved in the endless black and he swam hard, relieved when he grasped hold of her to discover she was still struggling. Holding her tight against him, he pushed to the surface, gasping with relief as the icy air seared his lungs. Fidelia choked and spluttered, sucking in air, her eyes wild.

"It's all right," Hart said. "I've got you."

He held her tight, swimming to shore until he could get his legs under him, and then carried her out, collapsing on the muddy bank. Fidelia turned onto her side and vomited a vile stream of lake water before subsiding into a miserable heap, shivering violently.

Lord, but she'd catch pneumonia if she didn't warm up quickly. With no other choice, Hart got to his feet and lifted her back into his arms. He carried her back to the cottage as fast as he could. Water poured from his clothes and his boots squelched horribly, but she was breathing and that was all that mattered for the moment.

Hart had never been more relieved to see the cottage. He kicked open the door, carried Fidelia in, and set her down in front of the fire. With as much speed as he could manage, he stirred the fire to life and added a few scoopfuls of coal before hurrying to the bed and stripping off the blankets. He knelt beside Fidelia, who was staring at the flames as if hypnotised, shivering so hard her teeth chattered.

As there was nothing else for it and she hardly seemed in her right mind, Hart reached for the buttons on her sodden nightgown, undoing them with frozen fingers. She seemed to not know what it was he was doing and murmured no word of protest until he tugged at the nightgown which she was sitting on.

"Lift up," he commanded.

She stared at him then, as if seeing him for the first time.

"Lift up," he repeated. "You've got to get this wet nightgown off before you catch your death of cold."

Slowly, she did as he told her, rising to her knees, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders. With as much speed as he could manage, Hart tugged the sodden cotton up and over her head, casting it to one side as he reached for a blanket and tucked it around her.

"Up you come," he told her, pulling her to her feet. He tugged the chair as close to the fire as he could and then sat her down in it before seeing to himself. His jacket was dripping a steady stream of water onto the flagstones and fell to the floor with a heavy slap. He tugged the shirt over his head next, adding it to the pile, before reaching for the blanket. There was no power on earth moving him from in front of the fire, but he didn't want to traumatise the poor creature any more than she had been this night. So he got rid of his boots, leaving them steaming against the fender, and then wrapped the blanket about his middle while he removed his trousers.

Securing the blanket as tightly as possible, Hart went to fetch the washing-up bowl and rang out the sodden clothes as best he could before hanging them on the clothes rack to drip dry. Then he went to find the whiskey, poured himself a good measure, and downed it. A pleasant burn warmed him from the inside out, so he helped himself to another before carrying the bottle back to the fire. Hart swung the kettle over the flames and set about making tea. By the time he pressed a mug into Lady Fidelia's hands, heavily laced with sugar and whiskey, the fire was burning merrily, and her shivering had subsided a little.

She took the mug from him without a word, but pulled a face when she took a sip.

"Drink it," he told her firmly.

Kneeling in front of her, Hart picked up one slender foot and wrapped it in a soft cloth, before he began rubbing it briskly, getting her blood moving again. He repeated the action with her other foot, trying hard not to notice how slender and pretty her ankles were, the soft curve of her calf. His heart beat erratically as he wondered what might have happened if he hadn't been there. Would this beautiful creature have drowned all alone? Would her father have even cared? His chest constricted and, despite telling himself not to get involved, he could not help but pity her. None of your affair, insisted a voice in his head. The woman was a bloody nuisance and now she had landed him in a very difficult position. He could hardly send her back to the house in a dripping nightgown, not in the state she was in, but what the devil was he to do with her? The idea of marching up to the house and telling the duke he'd just rescued his daughter and to take better bloody care of his family had a certain appeal until Hart looked at her. Her hair was drying in an untidy mass of soft curls about her face, the firelight gilding her skin and sparkling in those remarkable eyes. She looked like a Renaissance Madonna, eyes filled with sorrow, that ethereal wistfulness that always lingered on their beautiful faces evident here. How could he send her back to her father, knowing the brute would likely punish her?

"How long before anyone misses you?"

She blinked, a tear rolling down her cheek as she turned to look at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Another tear followed, and another, until they fell in a silent stream, dripping from her face. For a moment he thought her tears were the most tragic thing he'd ever seen, but then a low keening sound tore from her throat, and she cried in earnest.

Hart reacted instinctively, knowing only that she was a creature in pain, in need of comfort, and trying his best to give it to her. He lifted her up into his arms and sat down again, holding her to him as she sobbed her heart out. She clung to him, the touch of her tears cold against his bare chest as she cried and cried as if the world were ending. It seemed he held her forever, his own heart aching for her, for whatever had caused this poor young woman such pain. It gave him the earnest desire to protect her from it, to do violence to whatever or whoever had caused it. But then there wasn't always someone to blame. Life could give you a kicking too, if it took a wrong turn, or if you had the misfortune to be born into poverty. It was why he never took his own luck for granted or dared to stop pushing himself to make the most of every opportunity. After what seemed like hours, he ventured to speak the question hovering on his tongue.

"Did the child die?"

She stopped crying abruptly, turning her head and staring at him, eyes wide. Tears spangled her eyelashes, her nose red and her cheeks wet as she shook her head.

"Taken," she whispered, her lip trembling. "My father took him. Such a long time ago now, but… but I cannot forget, and the pain never goes away."

Hart nodded, fervently wishing he could get away with murdering a duke. A pity that, Beresford was the kind of fellow who certainly deserved a beating, the miserable son of a bitch. Still, Fidelia was all that mattered now. She needed a reason to go on. He wished his mother were here, she'd know what to say. But Fidelia only had him. He was no good at the softer emotions, but perhaps he could rally her in another way. "He's alive, then. So, what the devil have you been thinking, walking about in all weathers? Do you want to catch pneumonia and deprive the child of his mother?"

She jolted as though he'd slapped her. "Sometimes I just have to escape that dreadful house," she said, a thread of anger in her voice that he was pleased to hear. Anger was far better than melancholy. "And him most of all," she added with a startling degree of venom.

"I can believe that," he said, not without sympathy. "But why in the middle of the night, for heaven's sake? What if I'd not been there?"

He watched as she closed her eyes, shutting out a glimmer of such profound pain that Hart wished he'd not spoken so harshly. She deserved tenderness and sweet words, but he could not give her that, not without stirring emotions neither of them ought to trifle with.

There was a little resentment stirring inside him, too, lingering in the heart of a child born in the workhouse. Here she was, with money and status, when so many were fighting for survival, for their next meal. That she had so much and was still sunk in misery seemed ungrateful at best. Instinctively, he knew that was grossly unfair, that it was not as simple as that, and he was in no position to judge her pain, yet the comparison still rankled somewhat. Though he wondered if perhaps it was because the beautiful woman he held in his arms might have been gone from the world forever if not for a strange quirk of fate that made him so unreasonably angry.

"It hurts," she said simply. "Today—or yesterday now, I suppose—was his fifth birthday. Five years old and I do not know what he looks like, if he is happy, if he understands I love him with all my heart and… and it hurts so much, and I'm so tired. I am a prisoner here, and I have no means of getting him back. Sometimes if I don't get out from those walls, I feel like I will lose what little remains of my wits."

He nodded. That was not so hard to understand, he supposed, yet her child lived. "What if he was to come looking for you in years to come? What if there was the slightest chance you could find him? Would you not live for that?"

A flicker of powerful emotion lit her eyes, and she stared at him. "You think I would not do anything, risk anything, to find my son?" she demanded, such fury behind the question Hart knew he was playing with fire. Yet he did not know how to help her, what words she needed to hear. He only knew that he'd once been a child, desperate for a mother. In the circumstances, he suspected he was not the best person to comfort her, for he'd known the other side of this story, but it seemed he was all the poor woman had.

"Good," he said firmly. "That's a start, then. That gives you a purpose. If you've got a purpose, you've got a reason to get through the day."

She glared at him and then let out a frustrated huff of laughter. He had no doubt she was mentally berating him as an idiot and did not blame her. He was out of his depth, and he knew it.

"Are you deciding what to throw at me first?" he asked cautiously.

She smiled at that, at least, her lips tilting up at the corners just a little as he had hoped they might. It was the kind of smile to make a fellow think stupid thoughts, to imagine a life where he could see that smile whenever he wanted. Hart reminded himself that she was Beresford's daughter. If the old man thought Hart had so much as glanced at her, he'd be off the duke's property before he could say knife and could give up all his ambitions for the future. This was not a woman he wished to get involved with. That was asking for trouble. He just needed to ensure himself she was well, and then stay away from her.

"Your life must be very simple, very black and white, for you to speak with such certainty," she said.

Hart shrugged. "I don't know about that. I do know that if you want something, truly want something with all your heart, that you can move heaven and earth if you must."

"I want my son," she said, and with such conviction he did not doubt it.

"Even though you'll be ruined, shunned by society, you'll be neither fish nor fowl, fitting nowhere with a bastard son to raise all alone. Have you money of your own? Enough to buy a house and support yourself? Could you stand the gossip, the men who will come to your door assuming they know what kind of woman you are?"

"You don't paint a very pretty picture," she replied, her tone flat.

Hart held her gaze. "That's because life isn't pretty when there's not enough coin, or you're without the protection of those who love you."

She snorted at that. "His grace does not love me. I am a bitter disappointment to him, an embarrassment."

"Lord Alex loves you. He's worried about you," he added, his heart aching for her, for the knowledge that she was undoubtedly correct.

Her face softened at that. "He's a sweet boy. Kind. Too kind to survive his grace. He needs to toughen up or he'll never be free of him. As for the rest, no, I have no money of my own, but I'd live in a hole in the ground if it was the only way to have my son back. I care nothing for my reputation, for gossip or anything else. Not anymore."

"Then you'd best find him."

She glared at Hart. "Just like that. When I'm not at liberty to leave Hardacre? When the servants spy on me and report back to my father?"

"I don't think I said anything about it being easy," Hart replied, holding her gaze. "But if you want something—"

"You'll move heaven and earth to get it," she repeated, her tone flat, and then shot him a curious glance. "That's what you did, I suppose?"

Hart shrugged. "I was lucky, but I've done all in my power to repay that luck, to show my gratitude. Does your father keep records? Would there be paperwork, somewhere he might have recorded the details?"

Fidelia stared at him. "Why are you helping me? Why do you care?"

Hart looked back at her with a frown. "We might be very different, but we're both people, with hearts and minds. I know what it is to feel pain, to feel alone and desperate, and I can empathise with your situation. It would be a pretty bleak world if none of us cared for the rest of us."

"A good man," she whispered, almost to herself. "I have often wondered what one of those looked like."

Hart shifted, rather uncomfortable with her words, and increasingly aware they were both naked beneath the blankets. Fidelia needed comfort and a shoulder to cry on, and he'd been more than willing to give both. She also needed to be treated carefully, with respect, and he knew how to do that too, but he wasn't made of stone. He was a flesh and blood man and she… she was exquisite. She needed to get off his lap. Now.

"No, he isn't keen on paperwork," she said, returning to his question and frowning a little as she considered it. "I thought of that years ago, but he has secretaries for his records, and he certainly would not have involved them in such a scandalous event. I was sent away you see, far from everyone here so even the servants would know nothing about my shame. But… But he used to keep a private diary when I was a child," she said, a thread of excitement behind the words. "I had not considered that. I wonder if he still does?"

Hart nodded. "Then find out. Get hold of the diary if there is one and see what he noted for the night your son was born. I know it's not much, but it will give you a place to begin."

"He always used to keep them in his desk, in a locked drawer. There were dozens of them, one or two for each year. I'd never get near it."

Hart thought about this and considered what he would do in the lady's situation.

"You need to make a plan," he said, studying her. This woman wanted her child. That determination shone in her eyes. "You're no fool, my lady."

"There are few who would agree with that," she said with a little snort of derision. "Falling for a man who seduced me, hoping to force my father's hand into allowing him to marry me, was hardly a stroke of genius. Allowing the worthless devil to give me a child and abandon me was not the height of cleverness either, was it?"

Hart looked at her, feeling pity for the rude awakening she'd had. He could imagine just how she'd been taken in, a naive girl believing some handsome fellow's sweet words. Anger rose in his chest on her behalf. If he ever discovered who had treated her so he'd bloody castrate them. "Everyone makes mistakes. You'll not make such a one again."

"It hardly matters now," she said with a bitter laugh. "But what do you propose I do? What kind of plan do you have in mind? I've tried to escape this place, tried to befriend the servants in the hope someone would help me, but they are all too afraid of my father. What else can I do?"

"You need to read those diaries, find out if your father met with anyone, if he made a note of any contacts or any information that might be relevant. Watch your father's comings and goings, notice when the desk is unattended, see where he keeps the key and discover if it is ever left lying about. In the meantime, you might try to act as you did before the child was born. Convince your father you have accepted your fate—that you're glad, even—if you can bear to do so. Then you may be granted more freedom and not watched so closely. You have more power than you realise, I think, more opportunities to change your life than you might imagine. Keep your eyes open for them."

"Have you ever tried pretending to like someone you loath with every particle of your being? Have you ever had to swallow your pride and submit to a man who treats you like a dog?" she demanded, the look in her eyes making Hart uncomfortable as he considered how she had lived her life.

"No, my lady," he admitted. "And I do not know how you have endured these past years with such a man. I have enough trouble simply holding my tongue when in your father's presence, pretending I like him might just kill me, or perhaps him," he added with a shrug.

"Oh, to be a man," she replied wistfully, staring at him. "Thank you, though. Thank you for rescuing me tonight, and for taking care of me, for talking with me and offering your counsel."

"Such as it is," Hart replied, wishing he could have asked his mother for advice. She would have known what to say. "And as for the rest, you're welcome. I'd have done the same for anyone," he said gruffly, knowing it was more than that, but he was damned if he'd tell her so.

She returned a rueful smile. "Not a very romantic sentiment, but I suspect nothing but the truth." Her expression fell, and she looked suddenly away from him. "I cannot imagine what you think of me."

"It doesn't matter what I think." Though he was glad she didn't know the ridiculous thoughts that plagued him whenever he saw her walking the gardens alone, the dart of heat that had stirred desires he'd long ago set aside when she'd smiled at him, the foolish temptation to want something he had no business wanting.

She looked back again, her pale eyebrows drawn together in a fierce frown. "It matters to me! Do you think me no better than I ought to be? Or simply a fool? I am that, I admit. Another foolish woman beguiled by a handsome man and pretty words," she added in disgust.

"Women are kept in ignorance of the tricks men are capable of, it's hardly surprising when they fall into the trap time and again, and love has people doing the most ridiculous things. I am sorry for what happened to you, but I don't judge you for it. We're none of us perfect. God knows I'm not."

He snorted at the idea, amused by it, and then looked back at her, catching the way she was studying him, staring at his chest and shoulders. She saw him looking and blushed hard, turning her face away. Hart could not help but feel a jolt of satisfaction. Knowing she liked what she saw was a balm to his pride. The rest of the world might think he was beneath her socially, but that didn't change human nature, nor the tantalising stirrings of desire.

"I'm sorry for causing you such trouble," she said stiffly.

"All's well that ends well," he said. "But you need to get back to the house."

She shook her head at that. "I won't be missed. My maid is used to me being gone in the early morning. I sleep very little, and walking is the only thing that gives me any peace. Alex could bring me my clothes, if you could get a message to him. I trust him implicitly."

Hart nodded. "Reckon I could."

"Thank you," she said, staring at him. "You've… you've made me feel so… so much better. I—"

She stopped, a look in her eyes that made Hart's pulse leap. Her hand reached out, touching his bare chest, delicate fingers stroking and raising goosebumps. Hart's hand shot out and closed around her wrist, gently but firmly.

"No," he said. "That's not what you want."

Fidelia stared up at him, and he saw the emptiness shining there, the loneliness. "How do you know? Perhaps I just want to feel something other than sorrow, just for a little while."

"No," he said again, knowing it was the first step down a path he did not dare tread upon. She had enough trouble without getting tangled up with him, or he with her. It would only bring them both to disaster. "You need to get some sleep, and you need to consider how you are going to find your son. That's all."

She stared at him still, her gaze unwavering, making his senses prickle with the awareness of how close she was. "You don't want me?"

"No," he lied, the word firm, for it was best for them both if she believe that from the start, no matter if it dented her pride. "Get up now. You're warm enough and you need to get some rest. I'll show you the bedroom."

He didn't wait for her to move, instead standing up so she slid from his lap. Her cheeks were blazing, but she said nothing more, and followed him obediently to the bedroom.

Without another word, she went and slipped beneath the covers of his bed, still wrapped in the blanket, and closed her eyes. Hart went to the drawers and took out one of his shirts, placing it on the end of the bed.

"You can wear that until your brother comes," he said.

Her eyelids opened for a moment as she regarded him. "Thank you," she said, and closed her eyes again.

Hart turned away. The sight of her in his bed gave him an odd sensation. That she would sleep in it wearing his shirt would, he knew, play on his mind. Lady Fidelia spelled trouble in every sense of the word. He'd done his duty, and that was an end to it. From now on, she was on her own.