Chapter 5
It took her nearly a month, but Clemency called his bluff.
He went to view the first house purely to put a stop to her pleading.
It was a rather grand manor house, the sort of house that required a lady, several children, and a full staff to feel like a home.
Richard pointed out that there were precious few trees on the manicured grounds of the place, and his sister rolled her eyes at him.
The second house was more like an old castle, with drafty halls and winding staircases and suspicious stains on the flagstone floors. Even Clemency agreed it was too rustic.
The third house was too close to London—he could see the city from the sitting room windows, he pointed out to Clemency, which quite spoilt his decree that he didn’t want to see any neighbors. Clemency scowled and told him not to be a hermit, which made Richard laugh.
The fourth house was possibly the worst of the lot. The roof was swaybacked, there was no library, and the dining room’s narrow windows faced north, giving it a dreary air even on a hot sunny day.
“This house does not reflect well on England as a country,” he said to his sister.
“You’re being impossible,” she told him crossly.
“I would be more at home in Zürich,” he replied. “I like the houses there.”
“No! I will keep looking. There will be a house to suit you somewhere near London.” She stormed out, leaving Gerhard gazing at Richard with censure.
“Why are you determined to find fault with every house she presents? She is making a great effort to satisfy your demands.”
“You did all the work,” Richard pointed out. Gerhard had become Clemency’s personal manservant since they returned.
“For her,” explained his friend patiently. “She wants you to stay. Do you feel the pull of the mountains so strongly that you can deny your only family?”
Restlessly he paced to the window and gazed out. “It is that I feel no pull here other than Clemency and her children.”
“You are famous here.” This, Gerhard knew, was a tender subject, and Richard scowled at him for raising it.
Several years ago, some lord had got hold of one of the travel memoirs Richard had written—his trips down the Nile into Africa, with its vast savannas and deserts, and his subsequent encounters with the native peoples and creatures—and raved about them to everyone of his acquaintance.
Soon his accounts of scaling mountains in the Alps had also become famous.
To indulge Clemency, he had attended some parties and given a few speeches about his adventures, and as a result he’d become a minor celebrated figure in London.
This delighted his sister. Richard knew she was scheming to get him invited to parties again, to speak about his recent travels into Mongolia.
She had hinted that he ought to go on a speaking tour of England.
Richard would much prefer to sail back to the other side of the world and be slaughtered by Mongol tribesmen.
“What is wrong with this house?” Gerhard asked when Richard said nothing. “It is miles from London.”
“Barely four.”
Gerhard raised one shoulder. “That is miles. It is in the country, as you asked. The grounds are wooded and the house sits on a hill.” He squinted at the window. “And I cannot see any neighboring buildings at all.”
“The trees obscure them. Wait until winter when the leaves have fallen.”
“Regardless, this house fits your requirements. Did you lie to Mrs. Murray?”
“No,” he grumbled.
“Take a walk. See if the grounds suit Hercule.” Gerhard looked at the dog, sitting obediently in the doorway. “He would be glad to be away from town.”
That was true. There was no place for a dog like Hercule in London, who would be more at home herding sheep in the Berner Alpen foothills. Richard had acquired him from a farmer outside Bern, on his journey west to England.
Hercule looked at him, his tail beginning to wag in appeal.
Richard sighed. “Very well. I will take a short walk.”
“And when you come back, try to think of your sister,” Gerhard added. “She will be most distressed if you leave. She needs you.”
Richard raised his brows. “Then perhaps you should console her, Gerhard. Hercule, come.” He walked out with his dog before his friend could reply—or punch him in the face.
The day was splendidly bright and sunny, very warm.
He peeled off his jacket as he left the neglected garden around the house and followed a path down the hill into the trees.
The estate agent had pointed out the hedgerow-lined lane that bounded the property, and indicated that the grounds covered three acres west of it.
It was cooler in the trees, but he still tugged at his cravat, wishing he could strip off more clothing.
Gerhard’s words rumbled around in his mind like boulders in an avalanche.
Was he right about Clemency? Did she need him?
Richard had always thought not; Clem had always seemed to know what she wanted, and had a plan to get it.
Witness Daniel Murray, her late husband.
It had taken only two months from the night they were introduced to the day Murray asked for her hand.
Murray was dead now, but Clemency, while still grieving, was recovering her spirits.
But her boys . . . They were almost eight and ten, and would be taller than their mother in a few years. Gabriel especially looked more and more like his father, and Richard acknowledged that might it be striking Clemency in the heart. She had loved Murray.
He exhaled. He’d told her to get them a new father. He’d meant it to tweak Gerhard, but it surely hurt his sister. He didn’t want to do that. She was the only close family he had left, and he loved her.
Would it harm him to spend another year or two in England, helping raise his nephews?
No, he admitted. It might even be his duty, as he had no wife or children of his own and Murray’s family kept largely to their estates in Scotland and had shown little interest in the boys.
Perhaps Gerhard was correct, ulterior motive notwithstanding.
Hercule ambled on ahead. He was not fast, but he was thorough, sniffing carefully under every bush and tree.
Richard watched the big dog explore and did not miss the wagging tail.
Hercule was a young dog, and he was happy out here, away from the narrow streets filled with carriages and carts and yapping spaniels.
A splash up ahead caught his attention. Another splash, and then another. A pond, he guessed. Just the thing on a hot day. He imagined taking off his boots and stockings and cooling his feet, and his steps sped up as Hercule loped ahead of him. This property grew more appealing with a pond.
By the time Richard came in sight of the water, glittering like a mirror in the clearing, his brain was just putting together the rhythm of the splashing to deduce that the pond was occupied not by ducks or fish, but by a person. Perversely annoyed, he strode forward. Someone was trespassing.
The woods ran up to within a few feet of the water’s edge, enclosing the modest pond in a ring of leafy privacy.
It made an ideal swimming spot. Richard paused there, watching.
The pale arms of the trespasser languidly emerged from the water to stroke lazily along.
The glare off the water’s surface was blinding, but he narrowed his gaze and made out a dark head, and the flash of a foot.
The swimmer turned toward the shore, swam a few more strokes, and stood up.
He should turn away. He should close his eyes, or make a discreet sound of warning. He did neither. If a crocodile had bitten him at that moment, he couldn’t have made a sound.
The woman wore a shift, but it was soaking wet and absolutely transparent.
It clung to her lush, generous breasts, rosy nipples visibly taut.
As she sloshed toward the edge of the water, the shift shaped itself to a neat waist, full round hips, long legs with a mesmerizing shadow at the top of her thighs.
She was running her hands over her head, slicking back her long dark hair, and as he watched, tongue-tied and mesmerized, she turned her face up to the sun, a smile of pure joy on her lips, and recognition hit him like a bolt of lightning to the head.
It was Evangeline. Lady Courtenay.