Chapter Two
Hugh Westfield tapped his signet ring against the desk as he read the letter, delivered express. A nervous man hovered by the doorway, awaiting a response. Mrs. Dove-Lyon, it seemed, was not a patient woman.
That suited Hugh well enough. If he’d ever been patient, he’d long ago lost the art; now his world had become a series of duties that he addressed with every efficiency available to him.
“Very well,” he told the man, drawing a clean sheet of paper and carefully writing a few lines in response.
“Tell your mistress I will be there five days hence.” He folded the letter in brisk motions and melted wax across the back, pressing his signet ring—and crest—against it.
Once this was completed, he held it out to the messenger, who accepted it with a bow and murmur of thanks.
As always, the man averted his gaze from Hugh’s face.
Most people did. Fear of the unknown was the primary reason; the other was disgust.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the man muttered, before near running from the room.
Hugh sighed, closing his book of accounts and massaging his left eye. A headache lingered there.
“Hugh!” His sister, Amelia, bounded into the room. “What did you do to that poor man? He practically fled from the house.”
He dropped his hand and raised his head to look at her. “Need I do anything? He caught a glimpse of me.”
“Probably because you were scowling at him,” she said in merry disregard of the vivid burns marring one side of his body.
His wooden mask concealed them somewhat, but he had been caught unawares and had not had time to put the mask on before the man had burst into the room. “Where are you leaving for?”
“London.”
She gasped. “London? But you never go there.”
“Incorrect. If I never went, I would not be going now.”
“For what purpose?”
“Business.”
“Take me with you.”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” She folded her arms and pouted at him. “I’m your sister.”
He glanced up at her, brow arching. “I’m well aware.”
“And I am eighteen.”
“That fact has also not escaped me.”
She jutted out her lower lip the way she had done when she’d been a child. Sometimes, when he looked at her, he could almost pretend the fire had never happened—she, certainly, did not seem to have suffered too many undue effects.
If only the same could be said for him. The world he’d known seven years ago no longer existed for him. Amelia was his only tie to the man he had once been.
“You haven’t been to London in years,” she reminded him. Seven years, to be precise. “And I think it’s deeply unfair that you are going now and not taking me.”
He rose and crossed the room to where she was standing, arms folded and petulant. Pinching her cheek, he said, “I won’t be gone long. It’s business, Lia. If you came, you would be bored stiff.”
“I’m bored stiff here. There’s nothing for me to do but play the harp and embroider and entertain the parson when he calls.” Her nose wrinkled. “Do you know he drops hints about modesty and how I should be turning my head to the Lord and not to my wardrobe?”
“Perhaps he has seen my accounts,” Hugh said, fighting a smile at her indignation. “And knows how much I pay for said wardrobe.”
Amelia gasped and smacked his arm. “Take that back.”
“Never. You put me in constant danger of ruination.”
“Cruel,” she said, lightly laughing. “I know you would not want your sister to be wearing anything but the latest style.”
“It may surprise you to know,” he said with his customary graveness, “that I have no aspirations for your sense of fashion.”
She looked at him critically, the way only a younger sister might. “I suppose you have no aspirations toward fashion at all.”
“You are a delight to be around, Lia.” With a half-smile at her scowl, he turned and strode to the reconstructed great hall, where his luggage was being carried out to the waiting carriage. A week in London. Already, it seemed insupportable.
But in the seven years he had been hiding from the world, Amelia had grown into a young woman, almost of marriageable age. She would need presenting, chaperoning into Society. A chance for her to visit the metropolis, as she had been begging to for years.
For that, she would need a woman prepared to escort her. He, certainly, could not if he did not want to ruin her chances of making a viable match. Although he had not been to London in a long time, he knew the rumors that had spread about him after the fire, when his condition had become known.
The few times he had shown himself in Society since then had only affirmed their opinion of him.
Over the span of a few months, he had gone from being Society’s darling—the son of a duke—to a monster to be feared. The Beast of Somerset.
He caught a glimpse of his ruined face in a vase and stiffened.
When he had ordered the house to be rebuilt, he had not permitted there to be any mirrors in any of the rooms. Even so, the world contrived to offer him his reflection on a multitude of occasions.
He could never escape his visage, or the monster he had become.
So he could not escort Amelia to London and act as her chaperone. And given the dearth of lady relatives prepared—or suitable—to take on that task, he needed another solution.
A wife.
For a while after the accident, he’d had debutantes and their mothers visit him, dancing attendance on him with the hope he might be more inclined to marry now that he was indisposed.
Instead, he had seen their disgust, hidden behind smiles, and vowed never to take a wife who flinched at the sight of his face.
Thus, he had forked out a bloody fortune for Mrs. Dove-Lyon to find him a bride by whatever means necessary. Of good family stock, well-bred enough to escort Amelia blamelessly through London, and willing to endure his company without visible discomfort.
He would ask for nothing more. Amelia would marry, and some distant cousin would no doubt inherit the estate after his death, by which point he would no longer care. Therefore, the question of children need not be answered. She would merely have to share his name.
His sister ran up behind him and took his left arm, squeezing his fingers imploringly. “Take me with you,” she pleaded. “Miss Byrd is nice, of course, but if she had any conversation, she ran out of it ten years ago. Please take me with you.”
He frowned. “Be kind, Amelia.”
Miss Byrd had been both his and Amelia’s nurse, and during the aftermath of the fire, she had volunteered to stay on and care for Amelia during the most trying periods of their grief. In gratitude, Hugh had permitted her to remain as a member of his household.
“She is all very worthy, which I’m sure I ought to admire, but, Hugh, she agrees with the parson.”
“You will manage a week of her company.” He patted her hand and set off toward the front door. “Be good.”
She sighed heavily. “I’m no child, Hugh.”
“That does little to reassure me about your behavior.”
“I’d be more good if I could accompany you,” she called after him, but she halted by the door.
He had traveled but rarely since the fire, and never this far.
For a moment, he hesitated before climbing into the carriage.
Despite all the healing he had done, his burns still pained him, especially over rough roads.
Still, there was nothing for it.
He climbed inside and tapped his cane against the roof. The groom clucked his tongue, urging the horses into motion, and the painful, rocking journey to London began.
The air of the Lyon’s Den smoking lounge was hazy, and Hugh paused in the doorway as he took in the large, generously appointed room.
Everything about the establishment was of the highest quality, and there was an air of hushed expectation as at the tables, players gambled for far greater sums than most of London could ever conceive.
Mostly gentlemen, though he could see a couple of veiled ladies, their heads down.
No wonder. This was not a place for genteel young ladies—or indeed ladies of any age.
If one excluded the infamous Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself, of course.
She was there already, prowling about the ladies’ gallery, draped in all manner of scarves and veils.
No doubt it was to add to her air of mystery, but for Hugh, who had been forced to cover himself out of necessity, it seemed a tired trick.
By all accounts, she had found him a wife. All he must do was meet the young lady and approve of the match.
As he watched, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s gaze alighted on him. As always, his mask signaled who he was, and she gave him a nod.
A footman approached. “Your Grace,” he said. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon has requested that you wait for her in her study.”