Chapter Five

S amuel waited at the top of Hayton Hall's stone staircase, clutching his father's old walking cane in his hand. He'd asked Smithson to retrieve it for him, and requested that some tea be brought shortly to the small parlour, as Miss Swynford would be coming downstairs for a little while today. Smithson had given a brief nod of assent, but Samuel had not been able to overlook how the man had pressed his lips together, as though to prevent himself from saying what was on his mind. Not that he needed to: over the past few days, Hayton's butler had left Samuel in no doubt about just how much he disapproved of the situation unfolding in the house.

‘The servants are very unhappy about keeping up the pretence that you are the baronet, sir,' Smithson had told him in no uncertain terms. ‘Especially Maddie. The poor maid is terrified that she's going to slip up and accidentally say the wrong thing to Miss Swynford.'

‘Madeleine's only job is to ensure Miss Swynford is kept comfortable and that all her needs are met while she recovers, Smithson. She hardly needs to discuss my family's history with her and, in any case, I doubt the lady would be interested,' Samuel had replied, conscious of how hollow his protestations sounded. He was, without doubt, making life difficult for his servants. ‘I fully intend to explain everything to Miss Swynford,' he'd added. ‘When the opportunity arises.'

Smithson had been unmoved, reminding his master of the perils of deception, that even the most banal lies had a habit of getting out of hand. Now, as he waited to escort Miss Swynford downstairs, Samuel found himself reflecting upon just how true this was. Not only had he compelled his servants to join him in deceiving Miss Swynford, but today he'd told her an outright lie, this time about the clothing he'd brought to her. In truth, there had been no cousin who had left her gowns behind; those items he'd gathered up and taken into Miss Swynford's bedchamber had belonged to his brother's beloved and sadly deceased first wife, Rosalind. Since her death two years earlier, they'd remained tucked away in Hayton Hall's old drawers and clothes presses, and Isaac had thus far neglected to do anything with them.

Samuel had agonised over giving Miss Swynford some of Rosalind's old clothes, but ultimately he'd concluded it was the most sensible solution. After all, the lady needed something suitable to wear, and given that she was in hiding from her wicked uncle, he could hardly take her to a dressmaker in Lowhaven. Telling her that the gowns had belonged to the deceased Lady Liddell had, of course, been out of the question—he might be a fool and a scoundrel for allowing Miss Swynford to believe he was the master of Hayton Hall, but pretending that his brother's loss had been his own was a step too far, and so he'd concocted the tale about his imaginary cousin instead. He'd barely been able to meet Madeleine's horrified gaze as he'd laid out the fine garments once worn by her mistress and dared to suggest they might need to be altered. He did not even wish to consider what Isaac would say if he knew. He'd damn him to hell, at the very least.

Feeling increasingly agitated, Samuel began to pace back and forth down the hallway. He'd insisted to Smithson, and to himself, that he'd be honest with Miss Swynford as soon as possible, and yet so far he'd failed utterly to find the right moment. Every time he'd knocked on the door to her bedchamber, and every time he'd sat beside her bed and made polite conversation, he'd resolved to tell her the truth. Then he'd looked at her smiling, welcoming face, at those green eyes regarding him in earnest, and the words had died in his throat. He'd procrastinated, telling himself that she was still weak from her injuries, that the awkward truth ought to wait until she was feeling stronger.

However, if he was honest with himself, he knew it was more than that. There was something about Miss Hope Swynford which had captivated him. Perhaps it was the soft, articulate sound of her voice, or the feeling of her petite form as he'd carried her in his arms, or the way she managed to make a maid's old shift look becoming, but something about her made him want to impress her. He knew that the moment he corrected her assumptions about him, the moment he confessed to being little more than Hayton's caretaker, he would be put back firmly in his unimpressive place.

‘I do not mean to be unkind, Mr Liddell. You are very witty, and very charming. Perhaps if you had been born into your brother's position, things might have been different...'

Samuel shuddered as a certain red-headed young lady's words haunted him once more. Like it or not, memories of how it had felt to be rejected not for who he was but for what he was not had thus far rendered him hopelessly silent. That bitter experience had taught him that as soon as Miss Swynford knew the truth she would likely be very disappointed indeed.

Not that he was planning to court her! Of course not. His only role was to protect her, to ensure she recovered from her injuries before seeing her safely to London.

The sound of Madeleine calling to him from down the hallway startled Samuel from his thoughts, and he walked back towards Miss Swynford's bedchamber, twirling the walking cane in his hand with renewed determination. If Miss Swynford was indeed well enough to join him downstairs, then he would delay his embarrassing confession no longer. He would apologise for not clarifying sooner and he would renew his commitment to protect her. He would seek to put the lady at her ease, to make the best out of the situation in which they'd found themselves. To hopefully find enjoyment in each other's company during the short time that circumstances had conspired to bring them together.

When he reached her doorway, however, he felt himself freeze, the cane growing suddenly still in his hand as his gaze came to rest on his houseguest. Gone was the maid's hand-me-down shift, replaced by an elegant cream gown and matching shawl. Her dark hair, meanwhile, no longer hung loose about her shoulders but had been pinned up, except for one or two curls which framed her heart-shaped face. Standing there in the doorway, she looked every inch the refined, genteel young lady he knew her to be. She greeted him with a cautious smile and he found himself swallowing hard before he could return it. She was, without doubt, a thoroughly striking beauty.

Miss Swynford shuffled forward, leaning heavily against Madeleine, and a wave of protectiveness washed over him as he was reminded of what had happened to her. Of why she was here, and what he had pledged to protect her from.

‘I want you to have this,' he said, holding out the walking cane. ‘It belonged to my father. I thought it might help while your ankle heals.'

She gave him a grateful nod. ‘Thank you, sir,' she said, accepting the cane and limping towards him, her steps tentative and unsteady after so many days of being confined to her bed.

Samuel offered her his arm, walking slowly at her side as they made their way towards the stairs. Her hand, like the rest of her petite form, was small and delicate, and he tried not to dwell on how pleasant it felt resting in the crook of his elbow.

‘You must tell me if you feel at all fatigued, Miss Swynford,' Samuel insisted. ‘I will return you immediately to Madeleine's care. I just thought that you may enjoy some respite from staring at the same four walls.'

‘Thank you.' She inclined her head again. ‘I will be sure to tell you, sir. I believe the walking cane will make moving around easier. It is fortunate that you still had it.'

He chuckled at that, gesturing around him with his free hand. ‘Old family houses like this tend to collect people and their things, storing them within its walls like memories. At least instead of collecting dust, that old cane has come in useful. Alas, I am sure I do not need to tell you that, Miss Swynford,' he added. ‘I'm sure you've enough dusty ancestry of your own somewhere.'

He watched as she nodded, her expression suddenly guarded and unreadable. ‘Oh, indeed,' was all she said in reply.

Miss Swynford managed the short walk along the hallway well enough, but when they reached the stairs he saw her hesitate, glancing down with trepidation before turning to look at him. ‘I'm not sure I can...' she began, shaking her head with regret. ‘My ankle is not strong. I am worried I may fall, sir.'

‘Of course,' Samuel began. ‘Forgive me, it was silly of me to bring you out of your bedchamber so soon. I will return you to Madeleine.'

‘No, sir, I am sorry,' she said. ‘I admit, I was rather looking forward to seeing some of the house.'

The look of genuine disappointment in those large green eyes did strange things to his insides, and before he could give it due consideration, an idea had come into his mind.

‘Then, if you will permit me...' he began, giving her a bashful smile as he scooped her up into his arms. ‘I carried you up these stairs days ago. I believe I can carry you back down again.'

The sound of her laughter echoed around him. ‘I have only a vague recollection of that, but I do distinctly remember you lifting me back on to my bed after I was unwise enough to try to get out of it and leave Hayton in naught but my bedclothes.'

That memory alone would have been enough to bring the colour to his cheeks, but coupled with the feeling of her wrapping her arms around his neck and clinging to him as he carried her, he was certain he must be glowing scarlet. Samuel tried to focus on taking one step at a time, to pay no heed to the way her alluring form had settled so perfectly into his arms. It was ridiculous to entertain such thoughts, he reminded himself. The lady was only in his home because of the unhappiest of circumstances; his duty was to protect her, not to admire her. Not to allow his recent loneliness to put ideas in his head which he had no business entertaining. Ideas which he most definitely did not want to have, after his recent brush with rejection.

‘So where are we going, sir?' she asked softly, thankfully oblivious to the inappropriate turn his thoughts had taken.

‘To my favourite room in the house—the small parlour,' he replied. ‘For tea and cake—in my opinion, two of the very best things in life.'

Tea, cake, and confessions, he reminded himself silently.

‘That sounds lovely,' she replied. ‘I feel very safe here, with you. I do find myself wondering whether, should my uncle learn that I was here, the risk of offending an important local gentleman such as yourself might dissuade him from seeking me out.' She paused for a moment, her eyes wide as they searched his. ‘After all, a gentleman in your position must be closely acquainted with those charged with upholding the law. That ought to make him think twice about doing anything...untoward,' she added quietly.

Her words were tentative, laced with fear, and Samuel felt his blood heat as the need to protect her gripped him. ‘I can assure you that the Liddells have always been known to do what is right, Miss Swynford, and have always maintained a good relationship with the local magistrate. Please do not worry,' he added as he reached the bottom of the staircase and released her from his arms. ‘You are indeed safe in this house.'

She smiled at him, those emerald eyes brightening with relief. ‘I do believe that I was fortunate indeed to stumble into the home of a baronet.'

Samuel forced a smile in return, his heart lurching and descending rapidly into the pit of his stomach. The hopeful look in Miss Swynford's eyes, and all that it implied, was unmistakable. She believed that his position as the master of Hayton Hall, as a landowner and a baronet, meant that he could protect her better, that he had a standing in society which no wicked uncle could overcome. That his title and his estate could shield her. And in many ways she was right—except neither of those things were truly his!

But how could he tell her that now? How could he tell her that she did not enjoy the protection of a titled gentleman but a mere younger son, playing the master in his brother's absence? How could he, in all good conscience, dash her hopes of receiving the very best protection? How could he knowingly allow her to feel anything less than completely safe with him?

He knew the answer to all of that—he simply couldn't. As they made their way slowly towards the parlour, he almost groaned aloud. Lord help him, but he was going to have to be the baronet for a while longer yet.

Hope sipped her tea tentatively and took a moment to observe the neat little parlour into which Sir Samuel had brought her. She could immediately see why he liked this room, with its compact size and good number of windows making it both warm and bright. Her gaze fell briefly upon the fireplace around which the sofa and chairs were arranged, and she found herself imagining how cosy it must feel to sit in front of the fire on a cold winter's day.

She doubted she'd ever experienced such comfort in all of her life; even with the hearth lit, her childhood home had always felt so cold and damp, whilst the wages of an actress had only ever afforded her the most meagre accommodation, invariably shared with other women who made their living on the stage. She pushed the thought from her mind, reminding herself who she was now. Or at least, who she was pretending to be. Hope Sloane might sit in awe of a simple parlour, but Hope Swynford never would.

‘Do you have everything you need, Miss Swynford?' Sir Samuel asked.

The master of Hayton Hall had sat down opposite her, leaning forward slightly as though anxious to ensure she was well before he would relax. Upon bringing her into the room he'd placed her gently upon the sofa, then set about fetching cushions for her back and a footstool upon which to rest her injured ankle. Truly, his attentiveness was rather endearing, and she found herself struck by how pleasant it was to be treated thus by a gentleman. She found herself thinking too about those few moments she'd spent in his arms as he'd carried her down the stairs. How she'd found the courage to broach the subject of his acquaintance with local men of the law, looking for even the merest hint of crookedness or, God forbid, of dealings with her father. How Sir Samuel had not hesitated to tell her what she'd already begun to suspect—that the Liddell baronets were decent, upstanding men.

How reassured she had felt, in that moment. How relieved to be in his home, to enjoy his protection. And how safe she had genuinely felt as she'd wrapped her arms around him and clung to him for dear life.

It was a disconcerting idea, and one which she pushed swiftly from her mind. No doubt she was simply in awe of this gentleman, of his grand home and his impeccable kindness to her. The gentlemen she'd encountered in theatres were usually very different—at best, drunk and unintelligible by the final act, and at worst, downright lewd and trying to procure the sorts of services she absolutely did not offer. She felt herself begin to blush at the thought of it. She was quite sure Hope Swynford would never have to put up with such humiliation.

‘Miss Swynford?' he prompted her, and Hope realised she had not answered.

‘Yes, thank you, sir,' she replied, offering a smile which she hoped would be reassuring. She glanced out of the window, spying the view to the front of the house. Neat gardens, stone walls and fields as far as the eye could see. From this aspect, Hayton Hall felt remote. But was it remote enough to keep her hidden? She had to hope so.

‘So what is Hayton like?' she asked him. If they were going to drink tea and converse, she reasoned that she might as well learn a little more about exactly where she was.

‘It's a small village, just a short walk away,' Sir Samuel replied. ‘It has an old church, and a single inn. It is a quiet place. Not a great deal happens in these far-flung corners of England, Miss Swynford,' he added with a grin.

‘It sounds lovely,' she remarked, thinking how like Lillybeck it sounded. Thinking too how small places so often appeared sleepy and innocent on the surface. Peel back the layers, though, and there was always some darkness to be found.

‘And what about...wherever it is that you are from?' Sir Samuel asked.

Hope hesitated. She had not yet managed to invent a satisfactory explanation of where exactly she'd come from. In truth, her knowledge of England was piecemeal, confined largely to Lillybeck, Lowhaven, and the handful of northern towns she'd visited whilst travelling with her theatre company. She could not risk claiming to be from any of them; if Sir Samuel happened to know any of the prominent families from those areas, her story would quickly come unstuck. The south, meanwhile, was unknown to her; she could not convincingly claim to be from any part of it. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was best if she did not explain at all.

‘If you will forgive me, Sir Samuel, I would prefer not to speak of home,' she said quietly, her heart beginning to thud in her chest. She avoided his gaze, hoping he would not press her further. Hoping he would not somehow sense the truth among the lies, that the last thing she ever wanted to tell him about was Hope Sloane's life in Lillybeck with a free-trading father and an opium-eating mother.

He held up his hands. ‘Of course, of course. It was thoughtless of me to ask, after all you've endured of late,' he replied. ‘Although if you'd said you were from Lancaster, I'd have definitely grown suspicious about your connections.'

Hope frowned, her stomach lurching as a wave of anxiety gripped her. ‘What do you mean, sir?'

Sir Samuel grinned at her. ‘I was referring to Katherine Swynford,' he replied. ‘I am sorry, it was a terrible joke. An inaccurate one too, since the lady was likely from Hainault.'

Hope shook her head, still not understanding. ‘Forgive me, I...'

‘John of Gaunt's third wife,' he reminded her. ‘I was referring to a remark I made when you first told me your name. You share the same name as the third wife of John of Gaunt, who was the Duke of Lancaster. As I said, a terrible joke.'

‘Oh, yes,' she replied, recollecting now. Recollecting too the play from which she knew the name. ‘John of Gaunt, from the play by Shakespeare The Life and Death of King Richard the Second ,' she added, allowing herself a brief indulgence in her memories. Her company had performed that play during her first year in Richmond. She'd had only a small part as one of the Queen's ladies, but it had not mattered. Newly liberated from her father's clutches, everything about her life then had seemed so fresh and new. So full of possibility.

Sir Samuel nodded enthusiastically. ‘Indeed, from Shakespeare and from history, of course. John was a younger son of Edward III. The story goes that John fell in love with Katherine, but he was already wed and so took her as his mistress. Together they had several children, and after the death of his second wife, he married her.' He regarded her carefully. ‘Forgive me, I am perhaps telling you something you already know.'

Hope pressed her lips together, unsure if this was something which a genteel lady like Hope Swynford ought to know. Hope Sloane did not, but then what Hope Sloane knew had been learned from books and plays, from observation and conversation. It was knowledge grasped during a colourful and chaotic life, not the result of orderly tutoring or instruction.

‘It is quite the love story, is it not?' she observed after a moment, choosing words which would neither suggest knowledge nor convey ignorance.

Sir Samuel chuckled. ‘I suppose it is. Alas, neither of them lived many years after their marriage. And, of course, their offspring's descendants, the Beauforts, went on to be thoroughly embroiled in the quarrel between the roses, as Mr Hume called it.'

‘Of course,' Hope replied, feeling thoroughly lost now. ‘A love story with unintended consequences, then,' she added thoughtfully.

‘Ah—yes, very good,' Sir Samuel agreed. He paused, finishing his tea. When he met her gaze again, she saw his blue-grey eyes seemed to have darkened. ‘I don't know about you, Miss Swynford, but it seems to me that there are always consequences when it comes to matters of the heart.'

His words, though smoothly delivered, seemed raw, and Hope found herself wondering at the cause of such an observation. During the short time she'd known him, Sir Samuel had seemed to her to be a kind and gentle sort of man. The sort of man who would be generous with his affections, and perhaps the sort of man whose own feelings were easily wounded.

By contrast, she had always guarded her emotions closely; grim experience had taught her that she had to be the master of them, that feeling anything too deeply was unwise in a life dominated for so long by crime and cruelty. And as for love—that was something others traded, whether it was her father making her his part of a bargain with a fellow outlaw or the actresses she'd known, selling their affections for little more than trinkets and the whispers of gentlemen who made empty promises of a better life. No, she thought, love had played no role in her life thus far.

‘Alas, sir,' she answered at length, ‘I must confess I have little enough experience of these matters, beyond facing the prospect of a forced marriage, but that had nothing to do with love.'

As the words fell from her lips, Hope was pained to acknowledge that this was the most honest sentiment she'd expressed to Sir Samuel since they'd met. Pained too to note the look of earnest sympathy he gave her as she reminded him of her misfortune. An unexpected, unfathomable feeling rose within her, one which made her yearn to tell him more about herself. To tell him truths she'd never uttered to another person. Perhaps even to tell him the truth.

Hope swallowed down the rest of her tea, as though the hot liquid might bring her back to her senses. As benevolent as her rescuer appeared to be, he could not know the truth about her. No one here could. Her entire future likely depended upon it.