Chapter Thirty-Five
Fifty miles from Barnsley Hall, Hugh stopped off at a posting inn along the Great North Road. He’d sent ahead to bespeak a private parlor, and on the morrow, he would arrive at Barnsley Hall and discover what awaited him. Most likely, an alive and vicious Lord Barnsley, and a grieving Christiana.
The innkeeper bowed obsequiously as he led Hugh to the parlor, already decked out with a table of refreshments and the promise of a full meal to come.
The fire was roaring, banishing the chill that now came from some September evenings.
Hugh dismissed the man with a curt word and pulled off his gloves.
His ruined hand stared at him accusingly.
Monster, the voice inside him whispered—a voice that had been largely quiet since Christiana’s entry into his life; silent since she had first lain with him.
Blast it all. He reached for the brandy, then stopped. For so long, that had been his escape, but he’d had enough of seeking oblivion and finding only hollowness.
He put the glass back.
A disturbance outside the door made him pause. Banging and shouting. And then an authoritative voice reached him. “You will let me in,” Amelia commanded, “because he is my brother and I am Lady Amelia Westfield, and I will not be denied.”
“My lady,” the innkeeper tried to say, but the door burst open and Hugh’s sister, wearing a hooded cloak and an expression of cutting determination, stood on the other side.
Hugh rose immediately, concern and anger warring for prominence. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded, striding to her. It was an effort not to take hold of her shoulders and shake. “Has there been an emergency?” He glanced at the innkeeper. “Did she arrive with any servants?”
“A footman and a maid, Your Grace.”
At least there was that; she had not entirely lost her mind. “Then find a room for Lady Amelia and her maid immediately.”
The man paled. “But Your Grace, the inn is fully booked.”
Hugh raised a single brow. “Am I to understand you are incapable of granting my request?”
“I—” The man ducked his head. “I am certain arrangements can be made,” he muttered.
“Then make them. And bring some ratafia for my sister.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The man bowed himself from the room, closing the door quietly behind them.
The second he did, Hugh turned to Amelia. “Explain.”
With anyone else, that single word would have cowed them into instant obedience. Hugh had been a duke long enough to know how to wield his authority to its best effect. But Amelia, although she paled, did no such thing as kowtow.
He ought to have known better.
She reached into the depths of her traveling cloak and procured the painting he distinctly remembered leaving behind. His own face, twisted and hideous, stared impassively at him.
“This,” she said, brandishing it at him, “is why I came.”
The anger was a maelstrom inside him. He nearly took hold of the painting and hurled it into the grate, where it deserved to be. “I fail to see your point,” he said coldly.
“So you have seen this before.” Sounding triumphant, she laid it on the table in full view. “Don’t play the fool with me, Hugh. I know this is why you have been behaving so oddly around Chris. Is that why you sent her on alone?”
“I sent her ahead because I felt it was imperative she reach Barnsley Hall without too much of a delay.”
“Oh, no doubt.” Amelia’s voice, for once, was cutting, and her brown eyes were narrowed at him. “And you did not think it imperative that you face whatever she must face with her?”
He ground his teeth. “You are impertinent.”
“Well, it’s about time someone is.” She flung herself into a chair opposite and gave a huff. “I came here because I suspected you had seen the painting and assumed the worst.”
“And what,” he asked with icy restraint, “ought I to have assumed?”
“Well, not that it means she hates you or some such nonsense.” Amelia looked at the painting and pursed her lips. “You know, I painted this.”
Shock ricocheted through him. “You?”
“Who did you think? That she would hire a painter to come to the house, survey you discreetly, and paint you from memory? No, brother dear. She asked me to do this as a favor, and I agreed. And do you know why? Because she knew it was important that if she were to dismiss a servant, whoever replaced them ought to be capable of treating you with respect. It’s one of the reasons Mrs. Quince has settled in so well. ”
Hugh had the childish desire to snap back that Mrs. Quince had done no better than he had expected—but hadn’t some part of him expected the worst? He had allowed Christiana to do whatever she’d felt best out of respect for her position, but he had expected to endure her decisions.
Instead, Mrs. Quince had been professional, brisk, deferential, and obviously accustomed to running a large household. She and Christiana had gotten along well, planning dinners and arranging the house as they’d jointly chosen, something his wife hadn’t been able to do with Mrs. Partridge.
Better than expected.
He pinched his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. “Did it occur to neither of you that I had no desire to have my face paraded to a number of potential servants?”
“Yes,” Amelia said. “And that is precisely why we didn’t tell you.”
“A poor job you did of concealing the evidence, then.”
“Chris said she would burn it.” Now it was Amelia’s turn to look pensive, looking at the painting as though she had never seen it before, though by her own confession, she had been the one to commit it to canvas. “But I suppose she liked it too much to get rid of it.”
“Liked it?”
“Oh, be reasonable, Hugh,” Amelia said, clearly impatient now.
“You know she prefers you without the mask. And although she hasn’t said it, she thinks it terribly sad that you do not prefer yourself that way.
No doubt she kept it because she likes looking at you. Tell me, did you find it by her desk?”
He clenched his jaw. “Yes.”
“Well, then. And this is the reason you’ve been so cold to her?” Amelia’s eyes sparked with anger. “This is the reason that as she’s going to confront her father’s death, and more likely his unpleasantness, you are not by her side?”
“I sent her ahead to—”
“You sent her ahead because you are a coward, Hugh Westfield.” Amelia blinked rapidly, her head drawing back as though shocked at having said the words. But she didn’t take them back, and he thought, perhaps, that she was right not to.
She softened her voice. “You are a fool if you think she does anything but love you, Hugh.”
“Enough, Amelia,” he said tightly. “You have said enough.”
“All she has ever wanted was somewhere to belong. I thought she had found that with you.”
Before Hugh could answer, the door opened and the same innkeeper arrived, along with several servants, bringing through their dinner. The dishes steamed on the table, but Hugh’s appetite had long since vanished.
She had kept the painting because she liked it? Surely, that had to be a lie, a farce. When he looked at it, all he saw was his disfigurement, and all the ways he no longer resembled the man he had been.
His scars were a symbol of everything he had lost.
But what if to her, they were something different? A symbol of who he was now?
Could it be that she loved him in part because of his scars and the fire?
He cursed under his breath. If that were true—and even if it weren’t—what was he doing here when she needed him?
In her moment of greatest need, he had allowed his anger and resentment and betrayal to step between them.
She had asked him to accompany her, and he had sent her on ahead, like a coward.
Amelia was right.
He had justified his actions as being for her sake when really, they had been solely for him. And now she was at her father’s house, enduring who knew what alone.
Amelia served herself some fish and new potatoes. “So?” she asked. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I ought to send you back home,” he said, angry all over again that she had defied him so openly. “Do you know what could have happened to you traveling alone?”
“You sent Christiana out alone,” she pointed out.
“Her coachman has a pistol.”
“If you are scared about highwaymen, don’t be. They exist only in novels, you know.”
She was wrong, but correcting her would not benefit him now. There was only one thing for it: he would have to take her to Barnsley Hall.
“When we return home, you are going to be in so much trouble,” he said.
She nodded serenely. “I had expected as much.”
“Do not think I will forget this, no matter the outcome with Christiana.”
“Of course not,” Amelia said. “As my older brother, you are practically obligated to conceive of wild and outlandish punishments for perceived missteps.”
“This was not a ‘perceived misstep,’ Amelia. This was a critical misjudgment.”
“So you say, but I consider it a job well done.” She served herself some potatoes and carrots, dripping with melted butter, her appetite apparently undiminished. Hugh allowed the subject to drop; he had other things to consider.
Like how on earth could he persuade Christiana to forgive him?