Chapter Eight

‘W ell, Sammy, that's a fine mess you've made for yourself.'

Charles Gordon sat back in his chair and sipped his brandy as Samuel nodded glumly, finding it hard to disagree with his friend's assessment. Miss Swynford had retired some time ago, without so much as casting another word or glance in his direction, leaving him to entertain his new guests. After a hasty supper of whatever the cook could cobble together at such short notice, they had retired to Hayton Hall's largest and finest room to converse. Predictably, Charles had pursued the matter of Miss Swynford, and Samuel had rather uncomfortably answered his questions, acutely aware of just how much having her story told would displease his other guest. Although, of course, there was little for him to tell, since he knew only the barest details; she'd refused to tell him where she came from, and he knew neither the uncle nor the other man's names. Clearly, the lack of meat on the bones of the story dissatisfied Charles, and before long he'd returned to marvelling at his friend's pretence of being Hayton Hall's baronet.

‘I simply cannot fathom it—Samuel Liddell, lying to a lady,' Charles continued, shaking his head slowly. ‘I would never have thought you capable of it.'

‘Unlike you, brother,' Miss Gordon interjected. ‘As I witnessed for myself in Buxton.'

Samuel raised an eyebrow in surprise. Charles's sister had had little to say for herself during supper, and since sitting down in the drawing room she'd apparently preferred to sip her tea and stare rather vacantly at the fire which roared in the grate. The nights were growing colder, and in the larger, infrequently inhabited rooms of Hayton Hall the chill was particularly notable. He watched as Miss Gordon adjusted her shawl across her thin frame, tearing her eyes finally from the fireplace to meet the discomfited gaze of her sibling.

‘Please, do tell, Miss Gordon,' Samuel prompted her, relieved at the opportunity to turn the conversation away from his own shortcomings.

Miss Gordon raised a tight smile. ‘We attended several balls at the Assembly Rooms during our stay. I cannot say if it was the strength of the punch or the sheer quantity of eligible young ladies which made my brother dizzy, but something possessed him to tell some really rather tall tales about himself. By the end of our stay, several had been led to believe that Charles had been closely acquainted with the late Duke of Devonshire himself.'

‘It is not so unbelievable, is it?' Charles replied, an unbecoming shade of scarlet creeping up from beneath his cravat. ‘The duke has only been deceased for a handful of years and, as everyone knows, he took a keen interest in Buxton and its improvement. It is entirely possible that I might have known him or...or met him, at the very least.'

Samuel chuckled, shaking his head at his friend. ‘I thought you would have learned your lesson during our travels, Charles. As I recall, you came unstuck on more than one occasion when a young lady discovered you were not the son of an earl or a duke as you had claimed to be.'

Miss Gordon's eyes widened and she leaned forward before saying, ‘Did he, indeed?'

Samuel nodded. ‘They were all most disappointed to learn that Viscount Faux-Title here had no aristocratic connections at all.'

Charles let out a heavy sigh. ‘Alas, where some men shall inherit castles, I shall inherit calico printworks.'

Samuel let out another amused chuckle. ‘To listen to you, anyone would think you were not from one of the wealthiest families in Lancashire. Perhaps if you spent more time telling young ladies about that and not pretending to be someone you are not, you would have more success.'

He watched as both his guests stared at him, mouths identically agape as the irony of what he had just said sunk in. He suppressed a groan as wearily he rubbed his brow, his mind wandering to the lady sleeping upstairs, the one who did not have the faintest idea who he really was. The one whose company he had been enjoying once again just hours ago, as they'd dined together, as they'd talked. The one who'd fallen into his arms in the pantry, and whom he'd relished catching more than he cared to admit.

Samuel gulped down the last of his brandy, flexing his free hand against the arm of the chair, still feeling the ghost of her waist against his fingers. After the abject misery of confessing his deceit to Charles, he'd gone down to the pantry, resolved to tell Miss Swynford the truth there and then. However, his resolve had wavered in the face of how panicked she'd been at the thought of his guests knowing even the barest facts about her, and how rightly upset she'd been with him over his poor judgement and loose tongue. He was reminded at once that she already had enough to worry about, that she was in very real danger. A danger which she believed that he, and the title and status she believed him to have, could shield her from. His duty, first and foremost, was to protect her, not to burden her with any further worries.

A duty which certainly did not involve letting his thoughts linger on the feeling of holding her in his arms, he reminded himself. No matter how pleasant such thoughts were.

‘I realise I have no business lecturing you, Charles,' he said after a long moment. ‘Please, forgive me.'

Charles shrugged. ‘There's nothing to forgive, Sammy. I can be a complete cork-brain and I know it. But you, my dear fellow, are not. What I do not understand is why you told Miss Swynford that you were a baronet in the first place.'

Samuel hesitated. ‘I did not tell her exactly...she assumed, and, to my great shame, I did not correct her. I've been torturing myself with exactly why that was ever since—foolish pride, I suppose. I've been either a younger son or my brother's heir all of my life and, God willing, now that he's wed again, I will not be his heir for much longer. When Miss Swynford presumed I was more than that, I suppose I just got a little carried away.' He paused, deciding that was all he was prepared to say. Charles was his friend but, even so, he was not about to confess to him just how much of a wounding his pride had suffered of late. Or indeed how much of a role his humiliating rejection in the summer might have played in his willingness to be the baronet.

Charles grinned. ‘So it is not because you want to court her, then?'

‘Hardly.' Samuel bristled at the suggestion, alarmed to note the image of her looking up at him, her hands pressed against his chest, returning to him once more.

‘In that case, why don't you simply tell her the truth?'

‘I was on the cusp of doing so,' he replied miserably, ‘but then Miss Swynford told me how safe she feels here, how protected. It's clear she attributes this protection in no small part to my title and standing in Cumberland—or at least the title and standing she believes me to have. How could I undermine that when she is in my home, alone and vulnerable? How could I knowingly allow her to feel unsafe? And what if I confessed all and she felt so unsafe that she left Hayton Hall before she had properly recovered and ended up back in harm's way with her uncle?'

‘The Sammy doth protest too much, methinks,' Charles replied, chuckling.

‘Shakespeare—yes, very good,' Samuel grumbled. He slumped back in his chair. ‘Perhaps I should just tell Miss Swynford the truth, whatever the consequences.'

‘No, I think you're right.' Miss Gordon spoke up, nursing her tea thoughtfully. ‘Miss Swynford is here in your care, and as you've no intentions towards her beyond offering her comfort and shelter while she convalesces, then I'd leave the situation as it is rather than risk her fleeing and coming to harm.'

Samuel inclined his head at Miss Gordon's interjection. She was an odd lady, carrying herself with such an air of disengagement, of disinterest, and yet it was clear she was listening to everything that was said, weighing it up and drawing conclusions. There was a cold clarity, a steeliness about her which her loud, affable brother had never possessed. How different two siblings could be, but then, Samuel already knew that. He'd grown up with a far more sombre, far more reserved older brother, after all.

Samuel found himself wondering about Miss Swynford's family then, about who had been there for her before her uncle had her in his clutches. Her parents were dead, he knew that, but had there ever been any brothers, any sisters? He reflected on that strange remark she'd made at dinner, about how unused she was to enjoying good food and drink, and civilised company. How long had it been since anyone had truly cared for her? A heavy feeling settled in his stomach as he found himself contemplating the possibility that no one had, that apart from her wicked uncle she was all alone.

‘Well, if Henrietta agrees, then who am I to argue?' Charles said, placing his glass upon the table and rising from his seat. ‘I will go along with it, Sammy.' He grinned. ‘Or, should I say, Sir Faux-Title?'

Hope sat up in bed, the first volume of Mr Hume's History of England perched upon her lap. She'd awoken some time ago but, oddly, Maddie had not yet come to attend to her, and Hope suspected this had much to do with the arrival of the other guests. Proper guests, she thought, feeling her heart sink. The sort who were accustomed to maids and butlers, to grand houses, large dining rooms and lavish meals.

An uncomfortable feeling settled over her then, as she recognised that the familiar routine she'd hitherto enjoyed at Hayton had come to an end. There would be no more mornings spent with Maddie fussing over her; the maid simply would not have the time for that. There would be no more parlour meetings with Sir Samuel either, no more afternoons of cake and conversation. That particular thought bothered her most and she fidgeted, trying to cast it from her mind.

‘You're just out of sorts, Hope, that's what's the matter with you,' she muttered. ‘You just don't want to go and meet these new guests.'

That was true, certainly. Playing the role of Hope Swynford was challenging enough in front of Sir Samuel and a handful of servants; adding two further scrutinising pairs of eyes to the audience of people she had to convince was the very last thing she wanted. She looked down at her book again, forcing herself to concentrate on its lofty prose about a queen called Boadicea and her battles with the Romans, and trying not to think about last night. The way she'd allowed candlelight and fine wine to loosen her tongue at dinner. The way she'd reacted when she'd learned that Sir Samuel had told his visitors about her presence there. The way she'd fallen into Sir Samuel's arms in the pantry.

Hope felt the colour rise in her cheeks as she recalled how her senses had seemed to heighten, at once acutely aware of the muscular solidity of his chest beneath her hands, of the warmth of his arms as they circled her waist, of how his blue-grey eyes had searched hers, as though trying to discern the answer to a question which had not been put into words, as though...

As though he might kiss her.

Hope sat bolt upright in bed, pushing the book to one side in growing irritation at herself. What a fanciful notion to entertain! Of course a gentleman like Sir Samuel had not been about to kiss her, and nor had she wanted him to. Nor could she want him to—not when she was a guest in his home, enjoying his faultlessly kind and considerate hospitality under false pretences. Her ankle throbbed, giving her a timely reminder of the consequence of her clumsiness, and of the reason she was here at all. Hayton Hall was a place of refuge and its master had been a Good Samaritan to her, but there was nothing more to it than that. Indeed, she reminded herself, if he knew who she really was, and if he knew just how fundamentally she'd lied to him, he might not be so hospitable.

A knock at the door startled Hope from her thoughts. ‘Come in,' she called, smoothing the sheets down in front of her and placing the book back in her lap. It was almost certainly Maddie, come at last to ask her what she would like for breakfast, and to help her dress. The poor maid must have been run ragged by the other female guest in the house if she had been detained until now.

‘I am in no hurry, Maddie, so please...'

Hope's words died in her throat as Sir Samuel walked in and closed the door behind him. Immediately, thoughts of their close encounter in the pantry ran unbidden through her mind and she felt the heat rise inexplicably in her cheeks.

Stop it, Hope, she told herself. Stop thinking about it. You're being ridiculous.

She watched as Sir Samuel took a couple of steps into the room, then seemed to freeze. He stared at her, his eyes wide, his lips parted in surprise.

‘Oh, you're not...' he began, waving a flustered hand in her direction. ‘Erm, where is Madeleine?'

‘Waiting upon your friend's sister, I expect,' Hope replied.

Sir Samuel gave a slow nod. ‘I see. Perhaps I should go, then. We can speak once Maddie has been to help you dress.'

Hope frowned. ‘Why? You sat by my bedside and talked to me when I was most unwell.' She pulled irritably at her shift. ‘This is nothing you have not seen before.'

Sir Samuel coughed. ‘No, indeed, but...there are others in the house now. Others who may think thoughts which ought not to be thought if they...' He faltered, the expression on his face one of excruciating embarrassment.

‘If they observe you slipping into my bedchamber in the morning before I am dressed. Or, I suppose, if they observe you coming in here at all,' Hope said, perhaps more bluntly than she should. After all, she doubted Hope Swynford would speak so plainly about such matters. In Hope Sloane's world, however, gentlemen being caught alone with actresses was of very little consequence. Certainly not something that anyone would bother to tiptoe around.

‘Indeed,' Sir Samuel replied. ‘I should not be here.'

Hope inclined her head in polite acknowledgement, before making a point of turning her attention back to the book on her lap. She could not explain why, but all that talk about the need to behave properly in front of the other guests troubled her. Almost as much as the realisation that Sir Samuel had probably sat them down last night and told them all about the poor runaway heiress sleeping upstairs. The thought of them all chewing over her concocted tale made her feel quite sick.

‘Miss Swynford?'

Hope looked up from the pages, surprised to see he had not yet moved. ‘Yes?'

‘I came only to ask if you wish to come downstairs today. I realise that yesterday must have been quite a trial for you, so if you do not feel well enough then I understand.' He took a step closer, peering at her book. ‘Is that Mr Hume's book you are reading?'

She nodded. ‘It is. I have just reached the part where the Romans are leaving Britain. I have not managed to read very much of it yet.'

He smiled meekly. ‘Of course, and gentlemen bursting into your bedchamber will hardly be helping.'

‘Not gentlemen,' she replied. ‘Only you.'

Sir Samuel laughed. ‘I'm not sure whether I should feel complimented or affronted by that remark.'

‘I'll leave that up to you to decide, Sir Samuel,' Hope quipped, trying and failing to suppress a smirk.

To her surprise, however, Sir Samuel's smile faded. ‘Call me Samuel,' he said, his voice low and sincere.

Across the room, their eyes met and Hope found her thoughts straying to that odd moment they'd shared in the pantry once again. ‘As you wish,' she answered him, trying her best to sound nonchalant. ‘And I suppose you should call me Hope, rather than Miss Swynford.'

He inclined his head politely. ‘I would like that very much, Hope.'

The way he said her name made the most disconcerting heat grow deep within her stomach. Hope looked down at her book once more. He needed to leave now, and not only because they risked the scandalous remarks of the other guests with each passing moment.

To her relief, Sir Samuel—or, rather, just Samuel now—moved back towards the door. ‘I'll ask Madeleine to attend to you,' he said. ‘You have waited long enough.'

‘It is fine,' Hope replied, waving her hand. ‘I am not in a hurry and, besides, it must be a lot of additional work, having all these people in the house who are not usually here.'

Samuel raised his eyebrows as though this was the first time that the extra burden having guests placed upon his servants had crossed his mind. ‘Yes, you're right about that,' he conceded after a moment. ‘You're right too to be cross with me for telling them about your presence here. I should have spoken to you first, to agree the best approach.'

‘What's done is done,' she replied with a small shrug. ‘I suppose they know all about me now, do they?'

‘I have explained how you came to be here,' Samuel replied. ‘I have also stressed how important it is that your presence at Hayton Hall remains a closely guarded secret.'

‘Thank you. What did you say their names are? And where are they from? I'm afraid I cannot recall.'

‘Charles and Henrietta Gordon, from Lancashire,' Samuel replied. ‘I believe their home is called Shawdale, on the edge of a town called Blackburn, where their father does very well in trade.'

‘Trade?' That all too familiar word made Hope look up in consternation. ‘What sort of trade?'

‘Calico printing, I believe.'

Inwardly, Hope breathed a sigh of relief. A proper sort of trade, and perfectly legal—of course it was. She was too quick to think the worst, to jump to the wrong conclusion when, realistically, she probably had nothing to fear. She'd never known her father to have dealings with anyone in Lancashire, much less those involved in calico printing. It did not seem likely that Mr Gordon or his sister would know who she really was.

Samuel's expression darkened. ‘Why? Is that a problem?'

‘No, of...of course not,' she stammered. ‘Why would it be a problem?'

‘Because, to some, the idea of associating with anyone who comes to wealth and prominence through means other than inheriting land and a title is offensive,' he said pointedly.

‘Oh,' Hope replied, feeling as though Hope Swynford would probably have known that. ‘Well, I assure you that I only asked out of curiosity.'

Samuel inclined his head, apparently appeased. ‘So, you will come down to meet them today?' he asked hopefully.

Given the offence her questions had almost caused, Hope knew she had little choice. She knew too that meeting them was inevitable; she could hardly avoid them for the duration of their stay. The Gordons' visit was not ideal, but they were here now and that was that. This was the hand she'd been dealt, and she'd simply have to play it, and her role, very well indeed.

‘Of course,' she replied, painting on a smile.