Chapter 11
“The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent.”
Stonehill House looked like it had emerged from a fairytale.
Hawthorn trees dotted the surrounding field, their white petals floating down like snow and landing on the reflection pond.
The estate itself was a modest size, but it was no less enchanting.
Magic seemed to be woven into the stones, for the facade glowed an ethereal cream against the dark clouds in the horizon.
“It looks like rain,” Mrs. Sweete said as we exited the carriage. “Perhaps we ought to reschedule the ride.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Those clouds are blowing away from us. Besides, I won’t allow the heavens to rain upon my first private visit with Mr. Hawke.”
Mrs. Sweete frowned at the sky. “Hmm.”
I ignored her lack of faith and dusted off my new riding jacket.
With the allowance from my father, I had purchased not only eight evening gowns and four day dresses, but also a new riding outfit.
The red jacket had a tall collar with a deliciously sharp lapel.
The buttoned sleeves opened at the cuff, allowing the white shirt beneath to puff out elegantly around my wrists.
The Hessian boots were black, like my riding hat.
All in all, the look was gratifyingly reminiscent of an English commander.
“Remember today’s mission,” I said, commencing the climb up the curved stairs. A striking wisteria vine crawled up the stone pillars of the banister, perfuming the air with the faint scent of vanilla and musk. I breathed in deeply, filling my lungs with the heady scent.
“What is today’s mission exactly?” Mrs. Sweete asked.
“To get Mr. Hawke to use my Christian name.”
She stopped halfway up the stairs. “You want him to call you Helena?”
“Yes.”
“It’s unlike you to flout propriety.”
I smoothed my skirt with a sniff. It was true that using Christian names was reserved for family or close friends.
Mr. Hawke and I were neither. But words had power—a judge’s ruling determined a man’s fate, and a priest’s pronouncement bound husband and wife.
So who was to say that I couldn’t wield the power of language for myself?
If I could convince Mr. Hawke to address me the way a besotted lover would, then perhaps I could force that reality into existence.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Sweete. This plan is foolproof, formed entirely from reason and logic.”
“Hmm.”
I glowered at her, but she resumed our ascent up the stairs and asked, “Do you plan on employing this strategy with all your candidates?”
“Perhaps. But I want to test the theory on Mr. Hawke first.”
“I see. And are you still wishing to stomp on his heart if he proposes?”
My toe caught the edge of the stair, and I gripped the banister to keep from falling. “What could possibly make you think I had changed plans?”
She gave me a side-eye. “You are relentless.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing. But wars are not won with mercy, Mrs. Sweete.”
As we approached the large, polished oak door, I slid my hand into my pocket to touch the scarlet ribbon. If all went according to plan, I could very well secure a proposal from Mr. Hawke within the week. And once I did… well, I would storm that bridge when I got there.
“Ready?” Mrs. Sweete said.
“Must you ask?”
The door opened for us, and behind it stood the oldest butler I’d ever seen. Despite his deep wrinkles and wisps of white hair, he stood with such precise posture that I wondered if he ever allowed himself the luxury of bending.
“Miss Weston?” the butler said, his voice gravelly and ancient.
“Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Hawke.”
I could have sworn I saw the corner of the butler’s mouth lift. But I must have imagined it, for no man with such a heavy frown could have ever smiled once in his life.
“Please, come in. Mr. Hawke is expecting you in the garden. If you would be so good as to follow me.”
He led us through the entryway, which boasted a sweeping staircase, crowned by stone flowers atop each railing. Everything was warmly decorated, from the floral vases brightening every surface to the fine rugs that graced the polished wood floors.
We continued down the hall, and I took every opportunity to study Stonehill House.
A door was propped open, and I paused briefly to glance inside.
The room was clearly Mr. Hawke’s study, with a large oak desk littered with piles upon piles of open books.
There were so many volumes that one could hardly see the chair hiding behind the desk.
It was so unlike my father’s rigid study, which held only cigar smoke and ledgers.
Instead, this brief glimpse told me that Mr. Hawke was a zealous reader, so much so that he didn’t have the time to return a book to its shelf before opening another.
My gaze trailed around the room—then stopped dead on what hung on the wall directly across from Mr. Hawke’s desk.
“Is that my painting?”
Mrs. Sweete peeked inside the study. “Yes. It is.”
“But—why on earth would he hang it there, of all places? Where he’s forced to look at it every time he sits down to work?”
The butler closed the door to the study. “The garden is this way, Miss Weston.”
Not wanting to be chastised further, I followed the butler down the hall and kept my thoughts of the painting to myself.
“Please call upon me if either of you needs anything,” the butler said as soon as we reached the door to the garden. He held a shaking hand out to motion us outside. It was a shame that Mr. Hawke forced the butler to keep working when he should be enjoying retirement. Or perhaps the grave.
I thanked the butler, and Mrs. Sweete and I entered the garden.
Notes of lilacs, roses, and gardenias sweetened the air.
A gentle breeze wove through pink foxgloves and bushels of lavender, causing the garden to appear as if it were a living, breathing thing.
Vines climbed up trellises, and trees with freshly budded blossoms cast pleasant shade havens across the swaying grasses.
Unlike the Pratts’ manicured rose garden with its orderly rows and square hedges, this was delectably untamed.
Nothing felt forced or misplaced. It simply was.
“Mr. Hawke’s gardener has a masterful touch,” I said to Mrs. Sweete. She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, relishing the cornucopia of fragrance.
I spotted Mr. Hawke on the far side of the garden.
To my surprise, he wasn’t waiting for me at a tea table or on a picnic blanket, as most garden visits entailed.
Instead, he was crouched beside a sprawling vine, his hands deep in the soil.
He wasn’t dressed in gentlemanly attire, but rather a plain shirt and trousers.
His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing well-defined forearms dusted with a fine layer of dirt.
My gaze lingered on his arms longer than it should have.
I had never known a gentleman to dirty his own hands on behalf of his garden.
Most men busied themselves with shooting, riding, or even boxing.
But seeing Mr. Hawke so at ease in his garden, working the soil with a quiet focus, was more compelling than any hunting story the Swarm had burdened me with.
The sight of him bent on all fours, his muscles flexing with each rugged movement—
Goodness, why was I suddenly so parched?
It’s only the heat of the sun, I assured myself just as a chilling gust of wind raised gooseflesh on my arms. I cursed the dark clouds that seemed closer than before.
“I’ll observe from under the cover of the patio,” Mrs. Sweete said, sitting on a chair and placing her needlework on her lap, “in case it rains.”
“It will not rain.”
She shrugged and pulled at her thread. I faced my target, gathered my wits, then made my way down the winding path to where Mr. Hawke was absorbed in his work. His hands cradled fragile roots as he placed the new growth into its prepared hole. I cleared my throat, and his head snapped up.
“Miss Weston!” He jumped to his feet, brushing the dirt from his hands. “I—I didn’t realize—forgive my appearance.” He checked his pocket watch and winced. “You’re early.”
“My coachman is a particularly fast driver.” I cupped a bright pink blossom in my hands. “Is this what you wanted to show me? Your garden?”
He nodded with a content smile. He seemed far more comfortable here than any ballroom.
“It’s my favorite place to be,” he said.
“Your gardener ought to be commended.”
He laughed. “I don’t have a gardener.”
The blossom slipped from my fingers. A proper gentleman tending a garden this size without the aid of servants? Father would have a heart attack.
“You did all this… by yourself?”
His fingers skimmed the feathery tops of the tall grass. “I learned how to garden as a boy. It calms my thoughts.”
“Of all the rumors I’ve heard about you, gardening was not among them. Why, Gabby was just telling me the other day—” I covered my mouth with my hand. “Pardon me. You would know her as Miss Withers. Using surnames can be so tedious, don’t you think?”
My approach was a bit too direct, but as Sun Tzu wisely said, opportunities multiply as they are seized. I couldn’t simply ask Mr. Hawke to call me Helena, nor could I refer to him as Edmond. Doing so would show a complete lack of deportment on my part.
No, I needed him to make the request. In light of our truce at the spring soirée, he would surely see this as the opening it was.
His gaze flicked to mine. “You’ve heard rumors about me?”
I blinked at him. Had he not understood my silent invitation?
I recovered quickly. “The minute you stepped into London, half the ton was already talking about you.”
He crossed his arms and leaned on the trunk of a flowering crabapple tree. “What have you heard exactly?”
“Hardly anything. Honestly, it’s as if you appeared out of thin air. You’re quite an enigma, Mr. Hawke. People have questions.”
He laughed. “If you have questions, Miss Weston, you need only ask.”