Chapter Three

I f Samuel's prayers for company had been answered, he could not decide if it was God or the Devil who'd granted his wish. As he made himself comfortable in a small armchair which he'd pulled nearer to her bedside and began to listen to Miss Swynford's sorry tale, he realised that last night in the woods he'd found trouble. Quite literally, it seemed, since by all accounts this uncle Miss Swynford described was a deeply unpleasant character. Hellbent on carving up her inheritance between himself and an acquaintance, he'd concocted a plan to kidnap her and take her to Scotland, where he would force her to marry the co-conspirator, thus transferring her wealth to her new husband, who would then give the uncle his share. It seemed they'd travelled first to Lowhaven, to meet this awful acquaintance off a boat from the Isle of Man, before continuing northwards for the wedding. With her parents both deceased, the poor lady had been powerless in the face of his machinations, until some commotion at an inn had afforded her an opportunity to run away and board a mail coach.

‘The coach was bound for Lowhaven, where we had just come from—not that I cared where it was going,' she continued, grimacing as she shifted in the bed. ‘I just knew that it was fast, and it would get me away from them both.'

‘Did your uncle or this other man see you board the mail coach? Did they try to pursue you?' he asked, trying to ascertain whether she remained in immediate danger.

She bit her lip. ‘Unfortunately, I think they did. Two men were fighting in the courtyard, and one landed a blow on my uncle. This distracted them long enough for me to get away from them, but not without them seeing how I'd made my escape.'

She shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. Without thinking, Samuel leapt to his feet, plumping and adjusting the pillows behind her back. This prompted her to let out a nervous laugh, and he realised then just how close he was to her. Just how cream-coloured her bare arms were in that white shift. Just how deep the brown colour of her hair was, how it spilled over her shoulders in thick, wild tendrils.

Truly, he thought, he had found trouble, and not only because of the tale she was telling. He'd realised he'd found it the moment he'd walked into this bedchamber and observed those emerald eyes staring up at him. Something had stirred within his sore, lonely heart then. Something unwise. Something which he could only blame on the long weeks he'd spent in solitude. Something he felt certain this poor lady could do without, given her recent ordeal. He could do without it too, he reminded himself, given his own recent failed romantic endeavours.

‘So what did you do, once you got back to Lowhaven?' Samuel asked, retreating to his armchair and forcing himself to focus on their conversation.

‘I did not make it as far as that. I'd scrambled atop the coach as it was about to depart, and handed over the only two shillings I had. It turns out that two shillings doesn't get you very far. I've been trying to make my way on foot across the countryside ever since.'

‘And where were you hoping to go?'

‘London.'

‘You were going to walk to London?' Samuel asked, incredulous.

Miss Swynford gave him a sad smile. ‘In the circumstances, I had little choice. Anyway, I got thoroughly lost and utterly exhausted, before falling and hurting myself in the woods near to wherever this is. The rest you know.'

‘Hayton,' Samuel informed her. ‘You're in Hayton, and this house is Hayton Hall. So then, why London?' he continued. ‘Is that where you're from?'

She seemed to hesitate. ‘No, not really,' she replied evasively. ‘But I have a good friend there. A married friend. I was going to go to her and her husband for help, and for protection.'

Samuel nodded, sensing for the first time that there was something she wasn't telling him, but deciding not to press her further. She barely knew him, after all, and could hardly be expected to trust him with every detail of her life, especially in the circumstances. Indeed, given all that she'd endured, she'd be entirely justified in never trusting anyone again.

Samuel rose from his seat, offering her a polite bow. ‘You have my promise, Miss Swynford, that you will be well protected here. Once your injuries have healed and you are well enough to travel, I will accompany you and see to it that you reach your friend in London safely.'

He watched as those bright green eyes widened at him, unsure if it was mere surprise or sheer horror he saw in her gaze. ‘You do not have to do that, sir,' she protested. ‘Please, do not inconvenience yourself on my account.'

‘It is no inconvenience. I have thought often about how some time away from Cumberland and a little society would do me the world of good,' Samuel replied, giving her a broad smile. How true that statement was, after so many long, lonely weeks. ‘We will travel together, in my carriage. If anyone asks, I will say that you are my sister.'

Miss Swynford pressed her lips together, appearing to accept his plan even if her serious expression told him that she remained unhappy about it. Again, he reminded himself, she was hardly likely to jump for joy at the prospect of travelling with a man she'd only just met. A man who, for all she knew, could prove to be just as much of a rogue as those she'd recently fled from. A man who she had no reason to put any faith in. He made a silent promise then that he would work hard to earn her trust. That by the time they set off in his carriage she would have no reason to harbour any more reservations about Samuel Liddell.

‘Do you have a sister, sir?' Her question, softly spoken though it was, pierced the silence which had hung between them.

He shook his head. ‘No. We'll have to invent one, I'm afraid.'

She chewed her bottom lip, considering his answer. He found himself staring at her, drawn to the pretty features of her heart-shaped face—her slim pink lips, her small button-like nose and those big emerald eyes which had so taken him aback when he'd first walked into the room. She was, without doubt, uncommonly beautiful. And he was, without doubt, uncommonly ridiculous for entertaining such thoughts about a lady whose only concern was evading her fortune-seeking uncle and finding sanctuary in London.

‘What about a brother?' She continued her line of questioning, thankfully oblivious to the inappropriate turn his thoughts had taken. ‘Or a wife?'

He chuckled wryly at that. ‘I am as yet unwed,' he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I do have a brother, but he is not here at present,' he added vaguely, finding that for some reason he did not wish to talk about Isaac.

‘So you live here alone?' She stared at him, incredulous. ‘All by yourself?'

‘Not entirely alone,' he countered, feeling suddenly defensive. ‘My brother will return and...well, there are servants here, of course. Indeed,' he continued, moving away from her bedside and towards the door, ‘I think it is past time that I arranged for a maid to attend to you.'

He placed his hand on the door knob, ready to leave, his inner voice giving him a stern talking-to. Why had he not just explained the situation? Why had he not simply told her that his solitary life was only temporary while he cared for his ancestral home and estate in his brother's absence? That the real master of Hayton Hall would return soon and resume his duties, liberating his inconsequential younger sibling to do as he pleased once more.

‘Yes, thank you, and please forgive me, sir,' she called after him. ‘I did not mean to offend you. I was merely curious.' She glanced around the bedchamber. ‘This is a lovely room. I'm sure the rest of Hayton Hall is very fine. Hopefully, when my ankle is strong enough, you will be able to show me.'

He smiled proudly. ‘It is indeed a fine country house. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, for modern tastes, but I believe it will stand the test of time. It was built around two hundred years ago, by the first baronet.'

He realised as soon as he said that word that he'd given her the wrong impression. That she'd made an assumption about him, an assumption which he ought to immediately correct. Along with the other assumption he'd undoubtedly led her to—that Hayton Hall belonged to him, that he was the master of a grand house and a vast estate.

And yet, as he looked up and met her lovely green gaze, he found himself unable to say the right words. To tell her that it was Isaac who was the baronet, and Isaac to whom the estate belonged.

‘I promise you will be safe here, Miss Swynford,' he said instead, opening the door. ‘Safe and well cared for. I'll ask for a tray to be sent up from the kitchen too. You must be famished.'

What in God's name had got into him?

Samuel paced up and down in the library, this same question circling around in his mind. He'd always regarded himself as a very straightforward, decent sort of fellow. He'd travelled all over Europe and mingled with all sorts of people, from country squires to wealthy merchants, to the sons and daughters of earls and dukes, and he'd never once felt any temptation to present himself as anything other than what he was. He was Samuel Liddell, a Cumberland gentleman, a younger son, a man sufficient in both means and good sense to enjoy a very comfortable life. A man who was glad not to have the responsibilities which came with an estate and a title. And yet there he'd stood in that bedchamber, allowing that lady to believe that everything here was his. That he was the master of Hayton Hall, and that he was the baronet. It was unfathomable.

Samuel slumped down into an armchair, sighing heavily and tugging uncomfortably at his collar. Outside, the day had grown dull and blustery, the loss of the earlier sunlight combining with the wind to usher in an autumnal chill. By contrast, however, the library felt stifling, the warm air heavy with the scent of leather-bound books and old wooden shelves. Samuel had no idea why he'd fled in here; this room was Isaac's domain, with everything about it pronouncing the real baronet's taste and temperament—from the dark green leather of its chairs to the decanter of brandy with a single glass and a newspaper placed neatly by its side. It was a quiet, brooding space, and one which had never suited the irrepressible cheer and sociability of the younger brother. Until recently, anyway. Bound by duty to the estate and disinclined towards society, thanks to the whiff of scandal Isaac had left in his wake, it was clear to Samuel that he'd been emulating many of his brother's habits during these past weeks. That glass and that newspaper, after all, were for him.

‘None of which makes it all right to let Miss Swynford believe you're the baronet, you foolish man,' he muttered to himself. ‘The question is, what are you going to do about it now?'

He had to tell her the truth, of course, before matters went any further. After all, he had not lied to her, exactly. But he had unwittingly misled her, and upon realising he had done so, he had failed to clarify who he in fact was. It was this clarification that he had to now offer, as soon as possible. It would be embarrassing, but by dealing with this swiftly, a simple apology for not explaining the situation to her immediately would suffice. He would not need to offer any further explanation about his reasons for initially misleading her.

What were his reasons, exactly? Why had he not been able to bring himself to utter a handful of simple words, explaining that neither Hayton Hall nor the baronetcy were his? Had these past weeks of effective isolation sent him quite mad? Was he so in want of company that one short conversation with an emerald-eyed young lady was enough to make him lose all reason? It would seem so.

Samuel put his head in his hands, letting out a heavy sigh. Allowing himself to attribute his behaviour to loneliness, no matter how convenient an explanation it was, would not do. There was little point in lying to himself, in failing to acknowledge that the thought of contradicting the lovely Miss Swynford's assumption about him had brought back those painful feelings of the summer. How it had reminded him that he was not quite good enough, that he'd been assessed on society's marriage mart and had been found lacking.

How it had reminded him of the way a certain flame-haired beauty had looked down her nose at him as he confessed his growing affection for her for the first time. The way her words had cut him down and put him firmly in his place—a place which was far below every titled man in England.

‘Mama says I must have a London season, for that is where the very best gentlemen are found. I dread to think what she would say if she knew what you have asked of me today...'

Samuel shook his head, trying to push the humiliating, hurtful memory from his mind. The fact that he still ruminated upon it was bad enough, but allowing it to cloud his judgement when it came to being honest about himself was ridiculous. Quite apart from anything else, he'd no intentions towards Miss Swynford, or indeed towards any lady. This summer he'd thrown himself wholeheartedly into the turbulent waters of courtship and where had that left him? Washed up, rejected and deserted—quite literally. It was not an experience he was in any hurry to repeat.

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. He had to put the recent past firmly behind him. And he had to be honest with Miss Swynford—as soon as possible.

His resolve suitably strengthened, Samuel rang for the butler. A moment later the older man arrived, one wiry grey eyebrow raised as he waited expectantly for his orders.

‘Smithson, Miss Swynford will remain with us while she recovers from her injuries. Please see to it that she is kept comfortable and please ensure that no one outside of this house learns that she is here. It seems that the poor lady has fled from the clutches of a nefarious uncle who was seeking to force her into a marriage.'

‘Poor Miss Swynford,' the butler remarked. ‘Of course, sir, I will make sure the staff treat the lady's presence here with the utmost secrecy.'

Samuel inclined his head gratefully. ‘As soon as she is well enough, Miss Swynford plans to travel to London,' he continued. ‘I have promised to escort her; my absence won't be prolonged, and I'm sure that between you and the steward, the estate will be well cared for,' he added, offering the man an appeasing smile.

‘Indeed, sir. Unless Sir Isaac has returned by then, of course.'

The mention of his brother caused Samuel to wince. ‘Ah—yes,' he began. ‘You see, Smithson, Miss Swynford seems to have formed the opinion that I am the master here...that, um, well, I am Sir Samuel, I suppose.'

That wiry eyebrow shot up again. ‘Miss Swynford has formed this opinion?' the butler repeated. ‘Can such things be considered opinions, sir?'

‘Perhaps it is more of an impression then,' Samuel replied, grimacing.

Smithson nodded slowly. ‘I see. And to be clear, sir, this impression was formed by the lady herself, rather than given to her by someone else?'

Samuel groaned. ‘The lady formed the impression and someone else—namely me—failed to clarify matters.' He gave the butler an earnest look. ‘I do intend to give that clarification when the appropriate moment arises. However, the lady is vulnerable and her health is clearly delicate, so it is important that the clarification comes from me, rather than a servant, wouldn't you agree?'

He watched as his brother's loyal servant pressed his lips together, his brow furrowing deeply for a moment as he considered his words. ‘Just to be clear, sir—you want the household to pretend that you are the baronet?'

Samuel felt his face grow warm. ‘I'm not asking anyone to lie, Smithson. I'm simply asking them not to say anything until I can...'

‘Until you can clarify matters?'

Samuel nodded. ‘Exactly.'

Smithson gave Samuel another tight-lipped look. ‘I will ensure everyone in this household does as you wish,' he replied after a long moment. ‘I would only caution you, sir, that often what begins as a small deception tends to have a way of getting out of hand. It would be best to be honest, sooner rather than later.'

‘I fully intend to be, Smithson.'

The butler nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘I dare say you'll need to have clarified matters before your friends arrive, in any case.'

Samuel frowned. ‘My friends?'

‘The ones due to visit from Lancashire, sir,' Smithson reminded him. ‘Mr Gordon and his sister. Are they not arriving next week?'

At this Samuel groaned, dragging his hands down his face once more. In the midst of everything that had happened since last night, he'd quite forgotten about Charles and Miss Gordon's visit. They couldn't possibly come now, not while there was a lady hiding in his home. A lady whom he'd sworn to protect. A lady whose whereabouts he'd promised to keep secret.

‘I'll write to Charles and ask him to postpone. I'll tell him I'm unwell,' Samuel replied. ‘I cannot possibly entertain guests while Miss Swynford is convalescing in secret. I gave her my word that no one else would know she was here.'

Smithson nodded politely. ‘Very good, sir,' he replied. ‘Hopefully, the letter will reach Mr Gordon in time.'

Indeed, thought Samuel, it had better. As much as he'd been looking forward to seeing Charles, and meeting his sister, keeping Miss Swynford safe and hidden, and keeping his promise to her, was more important. He might not be a baronet or a landowner, but he was still a gentleman. A foolish, heartsore gentleman, but a man of honour nonetheless.