Chapter Seven

S amuel hurried towards Hayton Hall's grand entrance, his heart hammering in his chest. Usually, he left the business of answering the call of visitors to the butler, but he'd instructed Smithson to escort Miss Swynford and find somewhere for her to hide. Besides, he reasoned, he was damned if he was going to put any of his servants in harm's way. In his brother's absence, he was the master of the house; dealing with unwelcome visitors was ultimately his responsibility. If, indeed, that was who awaited him in the carriage outside. It was possible that both he and the butler were jumping to the wrong conclusion, that this unexpected evening call had nothing to do with Miss Swynford's presence here, that her whereabouts had not somehow been discovered by those who sought her. That it was not the uncle coming to claim his niece, or the would-be groom coming to claim his unwilling bride.

But if it was not them, then who else could it be?

At the door, Samuel paused, pressing his eyes shut momentarily as he collected himself. As he prepared himself for the worst. Since Isaac's elopement and Samuel's retreat from society, Hayton Hall had received no visitors for weeks and, in any case, there was not a single person of his acquaintance who would consider calling uninvited at this late hour. Suppressing a groan, Samuel turned the doorknob and opened the door with trepidation. The chances of whoever waited outside being here to pay him a friendly call seemed vanishingly small.

Outside, the light was fading fast, and Samuel found himself peering at the carriage which had drawn to a halt before Hayton Hall's front steps. A driver had dismounted, opening the door for the person or people sitting within, and Samuel felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched a man step out. An imposing man, very tall and thickset, wearing a greatcoat and a conical hat.

A man, he realised immediately, who he did in fact know. A man whom he'd invited to visit before circumstances in the form of Miss Swynford had prevailed upon him. A man to whom he'd written and asked not to come at present, but who had apparently come nonetheless. Samuel felt his mouth fall open, his stomach lurching as his relief at seeing a familiar face came into conflict with his awareness of the other difficulties this unexpected arrival presented.

‘Charles?' Samuel called out, hurrying down the steps to greet him.

‘Hello, Sammy,' Charles replied with a hearty chuckle. ‘I am sorry we are so late. The roads rather wreaked havoc with this dear old thing. Father let us take the family coach—I suppose it is well suited to long journeys but I do so prefer the landau.'

‘Oh, I see, yes, very good,' Samuel stuttered, still collecting himself.

Charles reached back into the carriage and Samuel watched as a gloved hand accepted his. A young lady stepped out, immaculately dressed in a deep blue bonnet and matching pelisse. Samuel watched as she brushed a swift hand down her long coat, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground as she stood dutifully beside Charles and awaited the necessary introduction.

‘Sammy, this is my sister, Miss Henrietta Gordon. Sister, this is Mr Samuel Liddell.'

Finally regaining his composure, Samuel inclined his head politely at Miss Gordon, who mirrored his gesture but did not lift her eyes to meet his. She was uncommonly tall, much like her brother, but, unlike him, she was extremely slender, a fact which leant her stature a willowy, almost fragile air. Samuel found himself rather unwittingly contrasting her with the diminutive Miss Hope Swynford, a thought which prompted him to remember that poor Miss Swynford was still hiding somewhere in the house, fearing her imminent discovery. A thought which also reminded him that he was now going to have to find a way to explain that young lady's presence in his home to his unexpected guests.

A young lady who still believed he was the master of Hayton Hall. At that moment, Samuel could have groaned aloud. What on earth was he going to do?

Charles regarded Samuel with a half-amused, half-puzzled expression on his face. ‘You look rather astonished to see us. Had you forgotten our little visit this week?'

Samuel shook his head. ‘Of course not. Only...only I had written to you, to ask if we could perhaps postpone for a few weeks. I presume you did not receive my letter.'

At this, Charles laughed, patting Samuel playfully on the back. ‘Doubtless your letter arrived at Shawdale, but Henrietta and I have not been there for almost three weeks, have we, sister?'

Miss Gordon shook her head, still not meeting Samuel's eye. ‘We have been in Buxton, taking the waters.'

‘Why did you wish to postpone?' Charles asked, glancing up at Hayton Hall. ‘Is something amiss? Are you unwell? You do not look unwell.'

‘I am fine,' Samuel replied, bristling as he recalled that it was illness which he'd used as an excuse to postpone in his letter. ‘It is just that...well, I have a guest already. She arrived rather unexpectedly several days ago and...'

‘She?' Charles interrupted him. Samuel watched as his friend's gaze shifted briefly to his sister. ‘Is this conversation suitable for a lady's ears, Sammy?'

‘Of course it is—it is nothing untoward. The lady was injured...she needed somewhere to stay, to recover, and...listen, I will explain everything when there is more time. Poor Miss Swynford is inside; I need to go and tell her that all is well, that she can come out of hiding.'

Charles frowned. ‘And who exactly is Miss Swynford? Why is she hiding? What the devil is going on?'

‘I will explain everything in good time,' Samuel said again, wringing his hands in front of him.

He was anxious to return to Miss Swynford now, but that was not the only reason he felt so on edge. Determining what to tell Charles about how Miss Swynford had come to be in his home was difficult enough, but the thought of owning his deception of her caused panic to rise in his chest. Smithson's words of caution rang in his ears. Lies did indeed have a way of getting out of hand. Certainly, this one was entirely out of his hands now; Samuel had no choice but to place it into the keeping of his friend, and hope that he would understand or, at the very least, that he would keep the knowledge of it to himself. In that regard, he was cautiously optimistic—for all that Charles was loud and enjoyed a good piece of gossip, Samuel knew that he could be relied upon when it mattered most.

Besides, what choice did he have? The alternative was to risk Charles bursting into his home and unwittingly revealing Samuel's deceit to Miss Swynford. The notion of her learning the truth from someone else was unthinkable. No—it had to come from him. If he could ever find the right moment, the right words to explain...

The right words to reassure her that she would always be safe with him, whether he had a title or not.

Samuel stood in front of his guests, his back momentarily turned to Hayton Hall. ‘I need to ask for your co-operation in one matter, though,' he began, lowering his voice.

The furrow in Charles's brow deepened. ‘Sammy?' he prompted.

‘If Miss Swynford refers to me as Sir Samuel, please do not contradict her,' Samuel blurted, detesting the words as they fell from his lips.

A mischievous smile spread across Charles Gordon's face and he glanced up at the grand house once more. ‘The lady thinks all this is yours, does she, Sammy?' he asked. ‘Good grief. Just what sort of trouble have you gone and got yourself into?'

Hope shuffled on her chair, grimacing at her ankle as it throbbed in protest at the evening's exertions. The imminent arrival of that carriage had thrown Hayton Hall into a panic, and Smithson had worked quickly to find her a suitable hiding place. She'd followed him down into the servants' quarters at a pace which had been far from comfortable, leaning heavily on the walking cane as the butler swiftly placed a chair inside a pantry and instructed her to wait inside. There she'd sat ever since, feeling sore and restless in equal measure as her mind reeled with a myriad of discomforting thoughts.

Guilt possessed her first of all—guilt at acknowledging that, unlike Sir Samuel and his butler, she did not fear that those arriving in that carriage were looking for her. Guilt at realising how her deception had made her host fearful of an uncle and a co-conspirator who did not exist, whilst keeping him in the dark about the menacing spectre of men who definitely did.

If her father or indeed the man she'd been meant to marry were seeking to find her, they would not come in a carriage. They would not call at the front door and announce themselves. Men who lived as they did, who were involved in the sorts of things they were involved in, were never so conspicuous. Men like them worked under the cover of moonless stormy skies or in the deep black of Cumberland's caves; they drew their power from the places where shadows and chaos reigned. If they ever came for her then, without doubt, they would have her in their possession before Sir Samuel even knew anything about it.

Hope suppressed a groan, dragging her hands down her face in despair as the evening's events forced her to consider just what a tangled web she'd woven with her deceit. Moments before that carriage's arrival she'd been sitting at that fine dining table, sipping wine, allowing its potency to blur the lines between the real and the imagined, between who she really was and who she was pretending to be. She'd let her mask slip too many times; she'd allowed the veil of ladylike refinement she'd worked hard to draw across herself grow too thin. Hope reddened to recall her response to Sir Samuel's efforts to reassure her about his good intentions, how she'd teased him quite wickedly about wild thoughts, and, worse still, how she'd met his observation of her discomfort with something alarmingly approaching the truth. Why had she not simply said she was tired, or out of sorts? Whatever had possessed her to all but admit that she'd never dined like that before? Why did she seem so intent upon allowing glimpses of Hope Sloane to be seen?

Because she did not like lying to him, that was why. Because since the moment she'd arrived at Hayton Hall he'd been unfailingly kind and candid, and the knowledge that she'd repaid him with nothing but deceit gnawed at her. Worse still, the guilt she felt seemed only to grow with every passing day and every conversation. With every new thing she learned about him. With every growing doubt that the master here would be the sort of man to have any acquaintance with her father or his business dealings. She had not known what to do with herself tonight when he'd spoken so honestly about his desire for genuine companionship over more worldly considerations.

‘If I marry, I would rather it was for love than status...'

Hope straightened herself and forced her mind to cease lingering upon those words. Indeed, she'd had no right to draw them from him in the first place, to ask him such searching questions about his life. She definitely had no right to be impressed by them, no matter how heartfelt or genuine they had seemed. Not when she was deceiving him. Not when those words had been intended for Hope Swynford, and not for the ears of Hope Sloane.

The door to the pantry swung open, causing Hope to startle. Her alarm, however, quickly dissolved into relief when she saw that it was Sir Samuel who had come, presumably to collect her and take her back upstairs. Drawing a deep breath, she reached for the walking cane and got to her feet, resolving to set aside all that she'd spent these past interminable minutes mulling over. There was little point in dwelling upon her guilt or fretting over what she'd said or done. There was nothing she could do about that—there were only the consequences of choices she had already made. Those choices, she reminded herself, had left her with a role to play.

‘Is all well?' she asked him. ‘Was it my...my uncle? Did you send him away?'

Sir Samuel sighed. ‘Not quite.'

Hope watched with growing confusion as he glanced over his shoulder before stepping into the pantry to join her and closing the door behind him. She became aware, quite suddenly, of the confined space around them, of the shelves crowded with jams and grains. Of his close proximity to her, of the soft rhythm of his breathing, of the lemon scent of his cologne.

‘The good news, it was not your uncle,' he began. ‘The bad news, a friend of mine has arrived, along with his sister. Their visit was arranged prior to your arrival here, after which I wrote to Charles and asked to postpone. It seems he did not receive my letter.' Sir Samuel shook his head. ‘Suffice to say, I cannot simply send them away now.'

‘No, of course not,' Hope replied quietly. ‘I am only sorry that you felt you had to cancel their visit on my account. If I had known how my presence here would inconvenience you...'

Sir Samuel reached out, placing his hand on her arm. ‘You have not inconvenienced me,' he insisted, his grey-blue gaze holding hers. ‘Please, do not think that.'

Hope nodded her assent, conscious of the warm reassurance of his fingers against her bare skin. ‘Then what are we to do?' she asked. ‘I suppose I could pretend to be a servant here.'

‘No.' He retracted his hand, leaving her feeling oddly bereft. ‘Regrettably, we cannot do that, Miss Swynford.'

She frowned. ‘Why not?'

‘Because I am an utter blockhead,' he replied with a heavy sigh. ‘Charles turning up like that had me in such a panic and I...well, I may have told him that I already have a guest staying with me.'

Hope felt her heart begin to race. ‘I see. Does he know anything else about who your guest is?'

‘Only your name, and that you arrived unexpectedly and are staying here while you recover from some injuries.'

Her eyes widened at him. ‘You promised you would not tell a single soul about me...' she began. ‘You may as well put up posters in the nearby village telling everyone my whereabouts and have done with it, sir.'

Sir Samuel met her eye, and she watched as he pressed his lips together as though he was trying to collect himself. It was an odd change on a face which was usually either serene or cheerful, and it irked her to observe that he wore a grave expression just as well as he wore a happy one.

‘You must know that I would never deliberately put you in harm's way, Miss Swynford,' he said. ‘My words to Charles were careless but he is a good man and, besides, he does not know the whole story. I am sure we can come up with something. Indeed, we must tell him something...'

Hope shook her head, feeling the heat of tears prick in the corners of her eyes. Not more stories. Not more lies piled upon lies. She could not countenance it. She huffed a breath then moved to step past Sir Samuel, suddenly possessed of an urge to leave that cramped little room, to retire to her bedchamber and put some distance between herself and this man. To envelop herself in dark silence and try to reconcile the conflict currently raging in her weary mind between her angry disappointment at Sir Samuel's momentary indiscretion and the guilt-ridden knowledge that he'd done little more than repeat a small portion of her tall tale. And she would have done all of that, had it not been for the walking cane she leaned on. Instead, the perfidious thing seemed to catch against the uneven stone floor. She jolted, losing her footing as her weakened ankle failed to bear her weight, and fell forward.

Straight into Sir Samuel's arms.

He caught her—of course he did—raising her slowly back to her feet, his gaze intent upon her own. She felt her breath hitch, felt her hands pressed against his chest, apparently powerless to move. Felt the furious beat of his heart through his white shirt, felt his hands remain gently upon her waist just a moment longer than was necessary. Felt the closeness, the sheer heat of him. She'd never stood like that with a man before. It was strange, intoxicating, and not at all unpleasant.

Then Sir Samuel cleared his throat and took a step back. ‘Forgive me.'

‘No...yes, of course,' Hope said, giving him a tight smile and doing her best to compose herself. She moved to step past him again, this time successfully. ‘Excuse me. I think I shall retire for the night.'

‘Indeed, you must be exhausted,' he replied with a brittle nod. ‘I will need to go and attend to my guests. We can save formal introductions for tomorrow but, in the meantime, what would you like me to tell them about you? I'm afraid Charles is surely going to ask.'

Hope pushed the pantry door open, letting out a resigned sigh. ‘Tell him the rest of the story,' she said, her head still spinning with the odd intensity of what had momentarily passed between them. ‘I dare say that there's little else to be done about it now.'