Chapter Sixteen

S amuel stared out of the window of his carriage, watching as the wind swirled the fallen leaves into a frenzy of red, yellow and brown at the side of the road. At least the rain had ceased for now, making the search for Miss Gordon easier. A short interview with a very tearful Maddie had established that the maid had left her charge to attend to some clothing upon which Miss Gordon had spilled her soup, giving the lady ample time to make her escape.

‘I am so sorry, sir,' the maid had wept. ‘I should have returned right away, but Miss Gordon was very concerned about the stain. She said it was her favourite shawl and that it was so fine, no lye could be used upon it. She insisted that I supervise the laundry maid myself while she cleaned it.'

Samuel had tried to comfort poor Maddie, reassuring her that she was only doing what the lady had asked. It was clear that the prolonged dismissal of Maddie by Miss Gordon had been deliberate, to allow her to get away unseen. It was clear too that she had not been missing for very long, and therefore could not have gone very far. Samuel had proposed searching for her in Hayton village, since it was only a short distance away and if she'd followed the road she'd have likely ended up there. Since the quickest way to search was on horseback, he'd informed Charles that he would ask his groom to ready two of his fastest beasts.

Charles, however, had hesitated, his gaze shifting back and forth between Samuel and Hope. ‘I think we need Miss Swynford to come with us,' he'd said. ‘My sister seems to like you, Miss Swynford. If—when—we find her, we stand a better chance of her returning with us if Miss Swynford is there to speak with her. And besides, we must take a carriage in any case. We can hardly throw dear Henrietta across the back of one of our horses, can we?'

Samuel had been forced to concede that his friend's logic was sound. For her part, Hope had insisted that she wished to help rather than sit in the parlour waiting for news, and the determined expression on her face was such that Samuel had not dared contradict her. And so, with reluctance and a few cautionary words about Hope remaining inside the carriage and out of sight, Samuel had agreed. An agreement which had left him in exactly the position he found himself now, sitting across from Hope in his carriage as it rumbled along the road towards Lowhaven. Charles had also insisted that he should ride ahead, leaving Samuel and Hope to follow together. For all his evident concern about his sister's welfare, Samuel could not help but wonder if his friend had contrived to throw them both into close confines.

They'd gone to Hayton first, and in the sleepy village where not much went unnoticed they'd quickly learned that a young lady matching Miss Gordon's description had pleaded her way on to the back of a local harness-maker's cart bound for Lowhaven docks. Samuel had made the enquiries while Hope had remained quietly in the carriage.

Indeed, since leaving Hayton Hall she had not uttered a word, apparently preferring to gaze silently out of the window or at the floor—at anything apart from him. Not that he could blame her, he thought glumly. Given his behaviour of late—deceiving her, reacting jealously to the sight of her sitting with Charles, not to mention losing his head and kissing her again—he wouldn't want to speak to him either.

He knew he ought to say something, to offer a proper explanation for what he'd said and done, for why he'd lied to her. Yet now, sitting in her presence, he found himself struggling to formulate the words. His feelings, he realised, were like those swirling leaves outside the carriage window—utterly all over the place, and completely at the mercy of a stronger, higher force. He clasped his hands tightly together, as though praying for some divine intervention, some guidance out of the mess he'd created. Some way to assuage the myriad of feelings which continued to assail him—the hopeless attraction to Hope, the burning desire to protect her. The sorrow and guilt which his deception of her had provoked. The humiliation and hurt of knowing that the real Samuel was once again not good enough for a woman he'd begun to care for.

As the rugged countryside finally fell away and the humble cottages on the periphery of Lowhaven beckoned, his unspoken turmoil finally bubbled over.

‘I am so sorry, Hope,' he began. ‘I know this is a terrible time to talk about this, while Miss Gordon is missing, but I have to say something. I...'

His words faltered as she looked at him squarely, those emerald eyes steely and challenging. ‘Which part are you sorry for, Samuel?' she asked him. ‘The part where you let me believe you were a baronet, that I was living in your home, or the part where you accused me of dallying with your friend?'

He flinched at her caustic tone. ‘I didn't say you were dallying with Charles. I...' He shook his head at himself as another wave of shame gripped him. Shame at allowing jealousy to get the better of him. Shame at how he'd allowed his wounded pride to rule him so often of late.

That stern stare of hers was unrelenting. ‘But you did suggest that, how did you put it, we were getting along very well, and that Mr Gordon's extraordinary wealth might be of paramount interest to me.'

Samuel grimaced to hear his words repeated back to him. To hear how cold, how mercenary they sounded. To realise just how much he'd let his hurt and humiliation poison his thoughts.

‘You were right—I was being ridiculous, suggesting that you and Charles had formed an attachment.' He drew a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts, to swallow his damnable pride. ‘In truth, Hope, I am sorry for all of it. For everything. For what I said about you and Charles. For leading you to think that Hayton Hall, its lands and the title that goes with it, was all mine. It was wrong of me. Indeed, it was unforgivable.'

‘How on earth did you manage to pretend to have a grand house and a title?'

Hope continued to hold his sorrowful gaze as she finally gave voice to a question which had been swirling around her mind. Once she'd managed to quell her initial panic at learning she was likely not as safe as she'd thought, questions about the practicalities of Samuel's deception had plagued her. It was unfathomable—all these weeks at Hayton Hall, cared for by the man she believed to be its master. Convalescing in one of his rooms, being attended to by his servants, dining with him, enjoying tea with him in his parlour. How could none of that have been real? How on earth did someone pretend to have a grand house, to have a title? How could they have guests and servants in that house who all believed that to be the truth?

‘Who are you, Samuel?' she continued, her questions flowing freely now. ‘What are you—are you Hayton's tenant?'

‘Not quite.' His tone was unmistakably grim as he stared down towards his boots. ‘Hayton Hall is my home—at least, it is my family home and it is where I have lived since returning from my travels on the Continent. However, I am my father's second son. My elder brother, Sir Isaac Liddell, is the master of Hayton Hall and its estate. He married recently—eloped, in fact—and is travelling in Scotland with his new bride. I am caring for the estate in his absence.'

Hope frowned, her thoughts still racing. ‘But the servants all call you Sir Samuel...'

‘They do—because I instructed them to.' He paused, grimacing. ‘As you once reminded me when you rebuked me for calling my maid Madeleine, masters and servants are not equals. Please do not blame them for deceiving you; they had no choice in the matter.'

‘And Mr and Miss Gordon—what do they know of this? Have you been deceiving them too?' This question had circled her mind earlier, while she'd enjoyed tea with Mr Gordon. She'd wondered what he knew, if he was being deceived too. If she ought to say something...

Samuel's expression grew increasingly pained. ‘No—Charles and his sister know exactly who and what I am. When they arrived unexpectedly at Hayton Hall, I begged them to play along with the lie. They agreed, although it's clear Charles thinks I'm an utter blockhead and of course he's absolutely right.' He looked up then, his grey-blue eyes sorrowful and heavy with regret. ‘Please do not blame them either. I am so sorry, Hope. The fault for this deceit is entirely mine.'

For several moments, Hope simply stared at him, stunned by the extent of his deceit, a thousand thoughts whirling around her mind. Samuel had lied to her about who he was, and he'd involved everyone else in his deception too. The thought of Smithson, Maddie, and the Gordons all being privy to the lie made her feel foolish, gullible even. But then, how could she possibly have known any different? She—the real Hope—knew nothing of gentlemen, titles and grand estates.

That was another thing, she reminded herself yet again. Samuel was not the only one of them who was lying about who he was. Like him, she was not what she had appeared to be. Hope searched Samuel's handsome face, her mind racing with memories of their weeks together. Memories of cosy afternoons in the parlour, of candlelit dinners, of their meeting of minds over Shakespeare's plays. Memories of his embrace, of his kisses. Throughout all of this time, had they come to know each other at all? Or were they each only familiar with the role that the other was playing?

And if she did not know the real him, then who had she been in danger of losing her heart to?

‘Why?' she said quietly. ‘Why did you lie to me?'

She watched as Samuel dragged his hands down his face. ‘Please believe me when I say that I did not intend to lie to you,' he began. ‘The day after I found you in the woods, when we spoke properly for the first time, it was clear you'd assumed I was the baronet, that the estate was mine and...and I could not find the words to correct you. The way you looked at me, like I was someone important...' He paused, shaking his head at himself. ‘To my eternal discredit, my foolish pride got the better of me. I vowed I would tell you the truth, but then you told me how safe and protected you felt with me, how fortunate you'd been to find yourself in the home of a baronet. I couldn't bear to take away that feeling from you, to allow you to feel anything less than completely safe. I know it was wrong, but I decided then that I would keep up the pretence.'

‘So why tell me at all?' she asked. ‘Why did you decide to tell me the truth, that night in the library?'

She watched as he appeared to wrestle with her question. ‘As I said that night, I care about you and, besides, after I kissed you, I knew I had to say something.'

Hope felt her cheeks colour at the memory of that first kiss. That was one thing he had not apologised for, she noted. Not that she was sorry for it either. Nor could she find it within herself to regret the way their passions had spilled over in the parlour earlier...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp sound of the carriage door clicking open. Cold air raced in, laced with a spicy sweetness as the scents of rum, cocoa and coffee all mingled. Hope jolted. Until that moment, she had not even realised that they'd stopped. Had not even noticed the bustle and noise of Lowhaven's docks as they sat in the midst of them. She looked up to see Mr Gordon peering in at them.

‘If we're going to find Henrietta, we'd best make haste,' Mr Gordon said, his gaze flitting between them both.

Samuel nodded. Hope saw how he swallowed hard, as though collecting himself, before he turned back to address her. ‘Will you be all right here?' he asked.

‘Of course,' she replied in the most reassuring voice she could muster. ‘Please, just find Miss Gordon and bring her to the carriage. Tell her not to worry, that I am waiting here for her.'

Briefly, Samuel seemed to hesitate, as though there was something else he wished to say. If there was, then he decided to keep his own counsel, instead offering her a brisk nod before disembarking. Involuntarily, Hope shuddered as the carriage door slammed shut behind him, feeling a final blast of that cool, pungent air before she was cut off from the outside world once more. She fiddled with the large bonnet she wore to shield her face, before peering tentatively out of the window. From this vantage point she could see Samuel and Mr Gordon begin their enquiries, doubtless describing Miss Gordon to dockworkers and passers-by in the hope that someone might have seen her.

Hope sighed heavily, collapsing back in her seat. She wished that she could be out searching too, rather than stuck inside with only her spiralling thoughts for company. However, that was utterly out of the question. Lowhaven docks might as well be a lion's den. As a centre of trade, they crawled with associates of her father—people who might recognise her even disguised in a fine dress and wide-brimmed bonnet. As she'd learned to her great cost that night at Lowhaven's theatre, her years of absence had not left her quite so unrecognisable as she'd hoped. As much as she wanted to help, she could not run the risk. So instead she sat there, feeling useless, as she stewed over Samuel's lie and his explanation. An explanation which she had still to fully digest.

An explanation which left her with absolutely no idea how she should feel.

On the one hand, she still felt the joint sting of betrayal and anger as potently as ever, and on the other hand, she was acutely aware of the irony of feeling upset at all. Samuel had lied about who he was, but so had she, albeit it for very different reasons. Hope had deceived Samuel to protect herself—in a weakened state, riddled with injuries, and in the home of an unknown gentleman, she had done what was necessary to conceal an identity which, for all she knew, would have meant her being handed straight back to her father.

Samuel had lied to her to...what, exactly? Impress her? Or at least to impress the woman he thought she was—wealthy and well-bred. The thought of that made her groan aloud. How mortified he would be if he knew that he'd dragged his servants and his friends into a complex web of deceit to impress a mere actress and outlaw's daughter.

What a terrible mess.

Then there was his confession that he'd kept up the pretence to make her feel safe. Her heart had ached when he'd spoken of how he couldn't bear the thought of her feeling unprotected. After all, it was undeniable, wasn't it? She had believed in the sanctuary that a titled man and his grand home could offer her. Yet no matter how good and pure his intentions had been, his actions had ultimately fallen far short of being honourable and that was enough to make her question her judgement of him.

Weeks ago, she'd put her faith in a gentleman who'd been unfailingly kind and gentle, who'd seemed so decent and honest. It was Samuel's good nature, and her growing closeness to him, which had made her own deception harder to maintain, which had tempted her to share the truth of her situation with him. Now she wondered if she'd been wrong in her assessment of him. If he could lie to her so effortlessly, perhaps he would cast her out just as easily if he knew who she really was. If he knew she was no genteel heiress at all.

Hope huffed a breath, looking out of the window once more. Both Samuel and Mr Gordon had slipped out of sight now. In vain, Hope searched for them, her eyes skimming frantically over a busy scene of cargo, men and masts. Then, amongst the chaos of the quayside, a figure caught Hope's eye. A tall woman wearing a deep red cape, the hood pulled up to conceal her face. She seemed agitated, darting around and approaching men at random, seemingly asking them something, because each in turn shook his head at her. Miss Gordon—it had to be.

Hope searched again, trying to see either Samuel or Mr Gordon, but neither gentleman appeared to be near. Desperation burned in her gut and her heart raced. Leaving the carriage was an enormous risk, but so was leaving a vulnerable woman wandering alone around a port.

She had to act now.

With a deep breath, Hope pushed open the door of the carriage, hurrying towards the red-caped woman and praying that she was indeed Henrietta Gordon. Praying too that no one on that quayside would recognise the face of Hope Sloane beneath all her borrowed finery, because if they did she would be in serious trouble.