Chapter Fourteen

D arcy Daubin strutted into the Blackhaven Hotel and took some considerable pleasure in asking for the Duke of Atherstone. Rather to his disappointment, he was taken not the main dining room, where he might have been seen with the great man—he was ushered into a small salon more like a private parlor. And the duke was not even there.

"Where is His Grace?" he demanded.

"I could not say, sir. He instructed me to show you in here. May I fetch you refreshment?"

"A brandy, if you have a decent one," Daubin said ungraciously.

Ten minutes later, he had almost finished it when the duke sauntered in.

Daubin sprang to his feet, bowing.

"Ah, Daubin, there you are," said Atherstone, as if he were not the latecomer. "Such excitement at the castle. It's quite exhausting. What with Eddleston fighting off all the ladies who wish to nurse him, and an extraordinary number of Vales floating about the place as though they are guests, I don't know whether to be fascinated or appalled."

A glass of brandy was placed reverently in front of him by the same footman, who bowed and departed, closing the door behind him.

"Vales?" Daubin repeated uneasily.

"Young, pretty girl who appears to be engaged to Eddleston. The major who claims to be betrothed to Lady Helen—who hardly looks charmed by the prospect, and who could blame her? Sir Julius called too, apparently to make arrangements for moving Eddleston—poor fellow—to the Vale hovel. I have even seen a pair of children with Vale characteristics who look so damnably alike that one cannot tell boy from girl."

"But no Cornelius Vale?" Daubin asked.

"Not when I left, but there could have been more of them skulking in closets or hiding behind doors. And so you have a tendre for Lady Alice?"

Daubin blinked, trying to catch up with the duke's shift between contemptuous commentary to serious question. Once more, he took in the haughty, aristocratic features and the cool, clever eyes. It would do no good to pretend any kind of equality with this gentleman. Daubin must be the supplicant, humble and grateful for the great man's assistance.

"My birth is not worthy," he said sadly. "Although I have been educated as a gentleman, with all a gentleman's circumstances, my father is a mere mill owner. And yet I have much to bring to an alliance. To be vulgar, Lord Braithwaite would not object to my wealth, encumbered as he is with impoverished sons-in-law. Tamar must cost him a fortune. Hanson is a nobody, and I don't believe Roderick Vale has a penny to his name."

"The perils of allowing one's womenfolk to choose," Atherstone said with a curl of his lip, "when they do not have the brain necessary to do so. Most assuredly Braithwaite would be happier with your good self than with the land steward. But I know for a fact that if Lady Alice rejects your offer, so will he."

Daubin sighed and finished his brandy. "Your Grace will forgive me if I say I found her quite rude. Devoted as I am, I cannot help feeling she needs to be taught who is master."

"Most assuredly not the females of the house," Atherstone said.

Daubin waited, but the duke said no more, merely looked thoughtful while he swirled the brandy in his glass.

"And yet you implied last night that there might be hope for me," Daubin urged.

"Oh, there is always hope," Atherstone said blandly. He glanced up. "For those with the courage to flout convention and act decisively."

"Meaning…?"

The duke flipped open his snuff box and took a small pinch. "Meaning, abduct her, my friend. Elope. Marry her out of hand. The Braithwaites will cover it up and, for appearances' sake, welcome you to the family."

Daubin's mouth fell open. But fantasy was already flying. Alice at his mercy, in his power and in his bed. Her beautiful dowry his, along with her family and all their influence. His future was assured.

He began to smile.

Atherstone allowed himself a mere twitch of the lips. "You see the advantages?"

"Intimately."

"Then go to it, my friend. There will be many opportunities. Lady Alice rides out alone and frequently walks to Blackhaven by herself or with one sister. It is a form of arrogance on the Braithwaites' part, but I see no reason why you should not take advantage of it. In fact, when you have made your plans, inform me of the details and I shall endeavor to—ah—put his lordship off the scent until you are clean away."

"Perfect!" Daubin exclaimed.

"Perfect indeed," Atherstone murmured.

*

"Cecily," Cornelius repeated, with a sort of rueful nostalgia. "I could not believe my luck when she danced with me at the local assembly. Sir John was kind to me. I dined at his table, was invited to his mother's dinner parties. Cecily's family were neighbors, so I saw a good deal of them. She was everything I thought I wanted, more than I had ever dreamed."

Feeling Alice's stillness, he turned her face up to his, reading the pain in her eyes.

"I was lonely," he said more urgently. "This was my first post as chief steward. I no longer had a mentor or his family. I felt desperately alone, and I was dazzled by Cecily's beauty, and more than anything by the fact that she had chosen me. I knew her father would not be happy, but he was an amiable man, and I am a gentleman. She had no brothers, and there was no entail, so if we had married, in time we would have inherited his land. It was enough for me to hope. In the meantime, we met often, and then, on the day I had plucked up the courage to speak to her father, Sir John stepped in and did so."

"Did he know about your understanding with Cecily?"

"No, I don't think so. To be honest, I think my understanding was different to hers. But he must have seen my preference for her. At any rate, he was very kind when I sought another post, gave me a glowing reference."

"You love her still?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. That part of my life is over. We have both grown up, I think. I could never refuse to help her, but, to be honest, I wonder now how I could have found her so fascinating. She seems…bland, almost shallow, with occasional blinks of cleverness. I don't think she is being honest with me."

"She wants you back," Alice said.

He frowned, searching her eyes, which were clear and determinedly brave. He could not help drawing her closer until her head rested against his shoulder. "I have nothing that she wants."

"She wants adoration."

"Perhaps." It felt disloyal to say so, but he suspected Alice was right. In any case, he did not want to think of Cecily and the past, not when he had the wonder of Alice in his arms. Her kisses, so shy and so passionate, intoxicated him. He could not help taking another, even though the temptation to teach her more, much, much more, clamored within him. She was too enticing for his willpower, all the more so because she seemed to have no idea of her effect, of her attraction.

Whoever won her in the end, whoever married her, would be a damnably lucky man.

The very thought enraged him.

He pulled back a little too abruptly. "The rain is off, and you should go home. I have work to do." Was that hurt in her eyes? He could not help kissing it away. "I will see you at church tomorrow."

She nodded dumbly, and he led her back outside to the horses. After drying off her saddle with his abused overcoat, he helped her to mount and kissed her wrist as before. She swooped, kissing him on the lips in return, and then she galloped off, the bright, vital spark to his life.

I am doing it again, he thought. Falling in love with a girl I cannot have . Only Alice was so different. Unlike Cecily, she was his friend, his critic. And somewhere he knew that when they parted—as part they inevitably must—his pain and loneliness would be far, far worse than ever before.

Walk away while you still can, he urged himself. And knew that he would not. Let the poem play out until the end.

Having checked that the work he had ordered was in full swing, he rode home. He was just unsaddling the horse when his sister Felicia strode purposefully in.

"Don't," he said, guessing immediately what she wanted to discuss. "Leave Roderick to his own marriage. She's probably the best thing for him."

"Why do you think so?" Felicia asked. "Do you know her well?"

"I know Roderick. And I have it on good authority that Lady Helen is devoted to him. Is that all?"

"No, grumpiest of brothers," Felicia replied. "It is not. In fact, it's not at all what I came to ask you. You know the land around here and all around Blackhaven. Can you tell me where there are disused buildings?"

Remembering the ancient chapel, he felt a guilty flush rise to his cheeks. Could she possibly know? Hell, had the twins been lurking about the area unseen?

"There would have to be lockable doors," Felicia continued, frowning, "probably boarded or shuttered windows, and be far away from other dwellings, roads, and pathways."

Cornelius, still clutching his saddle, turned to stare at her. "Why the devil do you want to know that?"

"I'm trying to help a friend who is in trouble."

Felicia had been worrying him. He had the feeling she had begun some liaison that involved secret assignations in the summer house. God knew she deserved any happiness she could find, but Felicia, like the rest of the family—except their reprehensible rake of a father—was too loyal by nature to indulge in lighthearted affairs. She could only be hurt. Especially by liaisons in disused, lockable farm buildings.

Hiding his unease, Cornelius strode past her and deposited the saddle. "Is it the sort of trouble that needs us all to help?" he asked quietly. He would tear apart anyone who threatened harm to his sister. More than anyone, it was Felica who had always held them all together.

Her eyes softened. Perhaps he was wide of the mark.

"Thanks, Cornel," she said. "It's just information, really, to pass on."

So, he named all such buildings he could think of. Fortunately, he did not have to mention the chapel, which had no lock and no door.

*

The company in the castle drawing room was enlivened that night by the unexpected visit of Bernard Muir. Bernard and his married sister, Lady Wickenden, were the children of a local army officer, and Alice had known them forever, so she was happy to exchange waves and grins, as well as more formal bows, with him. However, after making sure they all intended to come to the charity card party at the King's Head at the end of the week, he took the seat next to Mama and seemed to be having a quiet but intense conversation with her. Mama's eyes sparked.

Oh dear, what has Bernard said to set off that humor?

Mama rose to her feet. "Frances, Serena, accompany Bernard and me to his carriage to wish good evening to Mrs. Muir, his stepmother."

Serena, who was sitting beside Alice on the pianoforte stool, rose to obey. As though intrigued, her husband went too, followed by Lord Torridon. It thinned out the company somewhat, but no one minded the lack of conversation. After last night's ball, most people were looking forward to an early night.

On the other hand, it gave the Duke of Atherstone the space to sit next to Alice on the stool.

"What will you play?" he asked mildly. "Will you allow me to turn the music for you?"

"I don't believe I am in the mood to play after all," she said, letting her hands slip from the keys, but before she could stand up, he spoke quietly and quite without his usual arrogance.

"Perhaps I owe you an apology, my lady."

She did not dispute it.

"I am too full of my own consequence," he said. "My mother died giving me life, so I had no one to teach me the respect due to a gentle lady. Added to which, no one ever denies me, so I have grown too…entitled to whatever I want. But there is no excuse for my brusque manners or my threats. I beg you to forgive me."

Stunned, Alice stammered, "D-does this mean you withdraw your…offer?"

He smiled, and for the first time she saw something in him that might have been charm.

"No," he said, "but it means you need not fear me. Let us start again and be friends. Tomorrow, I shall remove from the castle to the hotel, to make you more comfortable, but I would like to call, to walk and talk with you. I am hoping that by the time I have to leave Blackhaven, you will agree to be my wife. But if you don't, I shall, finally, accept my fate."

"That is very gracious of you," Alice said, so relieved to have the threat to Cornelius and his family lifted that she looked no further. "I should warn you, though, that my mind is made up, and advise you not to waste your valuable time on me."

"It is my time to waste," he said. "Play something for us now. You are so gifted…"

*

Since she had never told Cornelius about the duke's threat against him, she saw no point in discussing its withdrawal. Instead, when they met at church the following day, they discussed the banns for his brother Julius's wedding, and for his sister Lucy's.

"No banns for Helen and the major," Alice said with disapproval. "Apparently Roderick has gone to obtain a common license, and they will be married on Friday. They don't even have anywhere to live."

"There is room at Black Hill."

"There is room at the castle," Alice snapped. "That is not the point."

"No, it isn't," he agreed, "but you needn't take it out on me."

"Sorry," she whispered. "I am too comfortable with you."

"Good. Can we meet later?"

"At the chapel?"

"Why not? I'll bring you some more poems to criticize." He must have seen the look in her eyes, for he muttered something under his breath, then, "It was a joke, Alice. I truly value your opinion."

And from the warmth in his eyes, she rather thought he might. A haze of wonder gathered about her. She didn't even mind when she saw him a few minutes later with Cecily at the gate.

It was the beginning of the happiest week she could remember, full of fun and laughter and the wild excitement of Cornelius's kisses. The feeling never seemed to go away, only intensify whenever she was with him. There was new pleasure in simply getting to know him, learning his opinions on many things and arguing her own. She loved discussing his poetry—occasionally she won arguments over a word or two—and that of others. And one day they went through Daubin's book, marking all the stolen lines and verses and ideas.

"I don't understand," Alice said once. "If he cannot be bothered writing it, why does he bother publishing it? Perhaps he steals it quite unconsciously."

"He might, but I don't think so," Cornelius said. "I think he learned to steal from his father's sharp practice. Daubin Senior has appropriated a Black Hill field that I am sure was never sold to him. I have documents meant to prove its purchase by Daubin, and the signature certainly looks like my father's, but I think it was forged when Julius came home and it became clear we were staying. I suspect from time to time they used some other fields, for there is no record of our harvest there. I fear they appropriated that, too."

"But that's shocking!" Alice exclaimed. "You will not let it lie, will you?"

"No, I have written to our man of business in London. Which is another thing—why use him when it is a local matter that would normally be handled by our solicitor in Blackhaven? Anyway, I await his answer with interest. I would like to give Julius back the top field as a wedding present, if nothing else."

Once, when the weather was kind, they rode together over Black Hill, and he explained the work they were doing, improving the land under cultivation and reclaiming fields that had so been badly neglected over the nearly twenty years since his father had left.

She loved to watch him at some times, the contentment and appreciation of beauty always behind his critical observation and whatever decisions he reached. He always stopped to speak to the farmers and laborers encountered, listening to whatever they said. For their part, they showed him respect but no servility. They already understood they were dealing with a man who knew the land, even if they were occasionally suspicious of the newfangled methods he advocated.

"We were hoping for a good harvest as a beginning to build on," Cornelius told her, "but if the rain keeps up, it will be poor. All we can do is hang on, make sure no one starves… Do you think this would be a good place to live?"

Alice followed his pointing finger and regarded the abandoned cottage with doubt. The roof was still there, if damaged, as were all four stone walls, though it had no glass in the windows, and any garden had long since been taken over by nettles and thistles. It was quite a large house, though, with windows in the eaves. Once, it had probably belonged to a well-to-do farmer.

"Do you mean to get a tenant in? Does it come with land? Oh, goodness, the view is beautiful!" Black Hill was spread out before her, green fields and woods and rocky cliffs dropping down to the sea. Streams glistened all around the landscape, between dotted cottages and the tiny figures of working men and animals.

"I thought I might live here," Cornelius said dreamily. "If Julius permits."

"It's peaceful," Alice replied. "You could write wonderful poetry here." Bending in the saddle, she peered in through the nearest window. "Large and surprisingly gracious in proportion, but the walls and the floor… It would be like starting again."

"I think that's what I like. And yet it's as if the building has already grown into the landscape."

Alice had a sudden vision of this space as it should be—a comfortable yet elegant drawing room, with paper on the walls and shiny new floors, armchairs and sofas scattered around the fire, a pianoforte and perhaps a guitar or a violin, lots of books on shelves, children playing among the feet of contented adults…

She blinked and straightened. "Have you seen Helen and Roderick's house in Blackhaven? She is working miracles to have it ready by the time of the wedding on Friday."

His eyelids swept down, and he turned his horse back to the road. "No. Not yet. Rod seemed content enough with it, though it's hard to tell. He is away again, until tomorrow."

Somehow she had offended him. By not showing sufficient interest in the cottage? How could she tell him she had so vividly imagined herself living there with him and their children? Heat flooded her at the very thought. And as usual, when she was nervous, she tried so hard to cover the reason that she said exactly the wrong thing.

"You would obviously be much more comfortable in Black Hill House than here . I think you would be merely hiding to live in such a solitary place. You are afraid they find out you are Simon Sacheverill, aren't you?"

"Most of my siblings don't know who that is," he said shortly.

"You should tell them. Tell everyone. It is something to be proud of, not—"

He interrupted with a bitter laugh. "At least I have something to be proud of. We had better gallop on the way back. I have much to do now that I've wasted so much daylight."

Wasted? If he had struck her, he could not have hurt her more. "I'm sorry to have held you up," she said between stiff lips.

Neither of them spoke until they reached the boundary wall between Black Hill and Braithwaite. Appalled to think she had been distracting him from what he really wished to be doing, that he was bored with her and impatient to be rid of her, she was afraid she would cry.

So she did not look at him at all. "What a pleasant afternoon. I suppose we will meet again on Friday at the wedding. Goodbye!" And she set off at a canter without looking back.