Chapter 14
“He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.”
“Call for a doctor!” I shouted as soon as we stumbled through Stonehill’s doors. Edmond’s uninjured arm was propped over my shoulder, and I struggled to hold up his weight. His face was pale as silk as I helped him to a chair. “A doctor—someone, please!”
A housemaid scurried down the stairs. She took one look at Edmond, then whimpered.
“I’ll fetch the doctor right away, miss,” she said before sprinting out the door.
Mr. Grimshaw hurried into the hall. His perpetual frown rounded in shock as he rushed to Edmond’s side. “What happened, sir?”
“Ah,” Edmond croaked, “just a small disagreement with gravity.”
“He fell off a horse,” I corrected, “after losing control of the reins and galloping into the woods.”
“Galloping! But sir, you haven’t yet learned how to gal—” The butler stopped himself with a short glance in my direction. “Where is he injured, miss?”
“I believe his shoulder is dislocated, and there is a deep cut running from his shoulder to his bicep. He’s bleeding. Badly. I’ve slowed it for now—”
“With my ribbon,” Edmond said, his voice distant and dreamy. “Remember the scarlet one I told you about, Grimshaw? She had it with her.”
“He’s talking nonsense,” I muttered. “Clearly it’s the blood loss.”
The butler wrung his wrinkled hands. “This is terrible timing.”
I gave him a stern glare. “I’m sorry if his injury is inconvenient for you, but—”
“What’s all that noise?” a gruff voice shouted from the hall. Loud, uneven footsteps followed.
Edmond’s head snapped in the direction of the voice, and the fog seemed to instantly clear from his eyes.
“What is he doing here?” he said, staggering to his feet. “Why in the devil’s name did you let him inside, Grimshaw?”
“Who?” I asked, feeling uneasy as the footsteps got louder.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The butler lowered his head. “I insisted that Mr. Fletcher—”
“That I what? Leave?”
The man in question appeared in the foyer, and I instinctively took a step backward.
This Mr. Fletcher, whoever he was, was an older man with a frayed coat that smelled strongly of drink.
He was hunched over and missing more than one tooth.
But it was his hardened grimace that made him so unnerving, as if anger was carved into his skin.
Edmond pressed his hand against his wound, grimacing from the pain. “Get out of my house,” he demanded.
I stared at Edmond, stunned to hear such darkness in his voice. It didn’t sound like him at all.
“You want me to leave,” Mr. Fletcher’s oily gaze drifted toward me, “before you introduce me to this pretty, young thing? I hear rich men like yourself can afford their share of fine mistresses.”
I scoffed. In no sane world could I be mistaken for a mistress. But before I could so much as open my mouth, Edmond stormed forward, putting himself between me and Mr. Fletcher.
“Do not talk to her.”
I winced as bright-red blood seeped through Edmond’s makeshift bandage. He was aggravating his wound, and I was worried if he didn’t get immediate attention from the doctor, he’d be in serious trouble.
Mr. Fletcher tossed his dirty hands in the air. “I’ll go—just as soon as you give me what I’m owed, boy.”
“I owe you nothing.”
The man snorted. “You’re just like your mother.”
“Leave her out of this.” Edmond spun to the butler, his fists clenched. “Grimshaw, escort the lady to the parlor and arrange for some tea while she waits for her chaperone. Send a servant to retrieve the others. Tell them the party is over and say nothing about this trespasser.”
Mr. Fletcher crossed his arms, a sly grin spreading across his unshaven face. “Come now, Eddie. Is that any way to speak about your father?”
I gawked. Father? This man looked nothing like Edmond. Where Edmond was tall and lean with blond hair, Mr. Fletcher was short and stout, his receding hair a dull brown. I squinted, trying to make out some resemblance in their faces, but there was none.
More importantly, hadn’t Mrs. Sweete said that his father was dead?
I looked at Edmond, questions burning in my gaze, but he shook his head.
“Go,” he pleaded. “Warm yourself while you wait for Mrs. Sweete, then please take your leave.” He paused, his fingers tapping his thigh. “I know it’s bold to ask, but I beg you to keep this encounter to yourself. At least, until I call on you to explain things, Miss Weston.”
Miss Weston. Not Helena. It was like the man in the woods was gone, replaced by someone darker. Someone with secrets.
My stomach twisted into an awful knot, but I nodded and turned to leave.
“Weston,” Mr. Fletcher said. “Why is that name familiar?”
“Take her now, Grimshaw,” Edmond snarled.
“This way, miss.” The butler ushered me to the door.
“Wait, I know!” Mr. Fletcher called out. “You’re a friend of the Pratts, aren’t you? Eddie here used to—”
The door closed behind me.
“My deepest apologies for the impropriety, miss,” Mr. Grimshaw said, leading us to a parlor down the hall. “Are you all right?”
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, which was odd, considering I hadn’t been shaken when Edmond was tossed off a horse or when I tended to his wounds. But one short encounter with Mr. Fletcher had me quaking.
“Is that man truly Edmond’s father?” I asked.
The butler’s frown pressed into a thin line.
“I’m not at liberty to answer that, miss.
But I can tell you this. Edmond Hawke is a good man.
He works harder than any person I’ve ever known and has more integrity in his little finger than most men carry in their entire person.
Whatever you may come to learn about Mr. Hawke, I hope you’ll remember his character above all. ”
A sickly pool of dread flooded my chest. Were there other secrets about Edmond that would make me doubt his character?
“I’d like a very, very hot cup of tea, Mr. Grimshaw.”
The butler bowed. “I am completely at your service, Miss Weston. Truly. After what you did for Mr. Hawke today, I am in your debt.”
I waved him off. “Anyone would have leapt to the rescue.”
“Perhaps. But I am glad that it was you.”
I pursed my lips, not quite sure what he meant by that. But Mr. Grimshaw left before I could ask.
I sighed and took in the parlor, wanting a distraction from my frantic thoughts.
Fresh flowers from Edmond’s garden rested in a lovely blue and white vase that I recognized immediately as a priceless Wedgwood piece.
Father would have drooled over it. Silver candlesticks flanked the fireplace where a pleasant fire crackled.
The only other sound in the room was the sharp tick of a pristinely polished grandfather clock.
Upholstered armchairs spotted the room, as well as a burgundy rug with a color so vivid, it seemed it was—
Well, new.
Everything in the house was new, I realized.
The clock had not a single scratch. The candlesticks, no signs of use.
The vase, not even the smallest chip. Even the tea tray Mr. Grimshaw had silently brought in had not even a blemish.
In fact, the only thing in the room that seemed to be owned for longer than a handful of months was a well-worn chessboard on the table.
How had I not realized it before?
I stood, pressing my back against the wall as my mind reeled. I had known, of course, that Edmond had purchased Stonehill House recently, but I hadn’t realized that he had filled the house with new furnishings instead of those from his previous estate.
The knot in my stomach squeezed tighter as the pieces of Edmond’s puzzle took form—his haggard father, his mother hidden away in some small village, his lack of horsemanship that a real gentleman would have learned at an early age…
Who was this man really?
I slumped back into the armchair, releasing a weary sigh loud enough to fill the empty parlor.
The logical choice would be to cut ties with Edmond now.
If the ton so much as suspected an attachment between us when this scandal with Mr. Fletcher inevitably surfaced, my name would be dragged through the mud alongside his.
Mr. Marceaux or Lord Cranford would no longer wish to court me—or, more importantly, pay for my hand.
As if summoned by my thoughts, my two candidates appeared in the doorway, their faces still red from the ride. Mrs. Sweete, leading the charge, rushed to my side.
“Are you all right, Miss Weston?” she cried, placing a hand on my forehead. “We were already on our way back to find you, but we were too late. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Sweete. I’m all right.” I squeezed her hand. “I’ll explain later, but there was no way you could’ve kept up with me.”
“I am relieved you are well, Miss Weston,” the baron said, walking toward the fire to warm his hands.
His limp was more aggressive than usual, likely from the ride.
“I also apologize. I let myself be distracted by a cluster of Lumbricus terrestris. I did not notice you were missing until it was too late.”
“All is well, Lord Cranford.” I looked around. “Where is Sybella?”
“She is refreshing herself,” Mrs. Sweete said.
“Not all women look as beautifully windswept after a ride as you, ma chère.” Mr. Marceaux winked. “So what was all the excitement about? The only thing that old butler would tell us is that there was an incident. And where is Hawke?”
Everyone watched me expectantly.
I cleared my throat, trying to find a way to give answers I didn’t have.
“There was an accident. Mr. Hawke suffered a minor injury.” An understatement.
“But his doctor is on the way, and I expect he will recover quickly.” More hope than truth.
“For now, he is resting in his room.” A bald-faced lie.
I sealed my testimony with an innocent smile.
I wanted to spare Edmond any further embarrassment.
I certainly would not break my promise and reveal Mr. Fletcher’s encounter, even to Mrs. Sweete.
“If it was such a small accident, then why do you look so—how do you say—décoiffée?” Mr. Marceaux’s gaze trailed down to my skirt, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk.
I looked down and was horrified to discover the hem of my borrowed skirt had ripped, revealing my leg up to my knee. I grabbed the skirt and forced it closed, my neck burning.
I forced my voice to sound calm. “A ride through nature has its hazards.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Marceaux gave a wry smile. “I often have the same issue.”
Lord Cranford cleared his throat. “If you truly are well, Miss Weston, then I will go check on Mr. Hawke.”
“Wait—” I stood so quickly that I bumped the end table holding the Wedgwood vase. The priceless porcelain teetered dangerously, and I grabbed it with two hands to prevent tragedy. “Perhaps you should ring the butler before seeing Edm—I mean, Mr. Hawke.”
Mrs. Sweete glanced up at my near use of Edmond’s Christian name.
“There’s no need.” The baron waved his hand. “I know my way around Stonehill.”
“Is that because you were contemporaries with old man Lawrence who owned this place before Hawke?” Mr. Marceaux draped himself on the couch next to my chair. “Ninety-seven when he died. That makes him, what—a few years your junior?”
Lord Cranford sighed. “I’ll pass along your concern, Marceaux.”
“But Mr. Hawke might be sleeping,” I rushed to say. “Please, call for the butler first so as not to disturb his recovery.” Or to stumble across Mr. Fletcher.
The baron considered this, then nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to interrupt his rest. I’ll ring for the butler.”
I hid my relief by taking a rather large sip of tea. But it was short-lived, for as soon as the baron left, Sybella appeared.
She took the seat beside mine. “What’d I miss?” she asked cheerfully.
Mr. Marceaux propped his chin on his hand with a lazy grin. “Miss Weston apparently played nurse to Hawke after he suffered a bit of fun.”
“Oh?” Sybella studied me from head to toe. “You’ve got leaves in your hair, Hel. It looks as if you’ve been lying down in the woods.”
I stiffened at her implication. “It’s just a little nature, Sybella. That’s what happens when you go riding.”
“Here, let me.” Sybella leaned over and plucked a leaf from my hair. “It’s a good thing you have a friend who sees the things you overlook, Hel. You can be terribly shortsighted sometimes.”
My eyes narrowed. Something was up—but I didn’t know what.
“Don’t be so fussy, Miss Pratt,” Mr. Marceaux said. “Our dear Miss Weston could make a potato bag look fashionable.”
I could practically see the steam blowing from Sybella’s ears.
The Frenchman leaned toward me with a grin. “I believe you owe me a favor, Miss Weston.”
“I do?”
“Oui. Miss Pratt’s horse sprinted too fast and gave out. But mine kept a steady pace. Stamina is très important, you see.” He tapped his chin. “So, what favor should I ask of you, ma chère?”
Sybella loudly cleared her throat. “You could ask your favor from anyone in the group, Mr. Marceaux. Not just Hel.”
“Ah,” he winked at me again, “but I have my heart set on it.”
Something about his expression twisted my stomach. Perhaps the milk in my tea had curdled.
“Perhaps you can ponder it for a few days,” I said.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll think up something worthy of you.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to do,” Sybella said under her breath.
I stood, desperate to put as much distance between Sybella and myself as possible. “I should be going now. Mrs. Sweete?”
Sybella crossed her arms with a pout. “If you go, then I have to leave too.”
“It’s a long carriage ride back to London,” I said, making my way to the door. “The sooner we leave, the better.”
Mr. Marceaux stopped me by taking my hand.
“Until next time, ma chère.” He kissed it. “I look forward to calling in my favor.”
I forced a smile. “I’m sure it will be… memorable.”
A moment later, Mrs. Sweete and I were back on the front steps of Stonehill House. Sybella had reluctantly followed us out and spent the entire carriage ride recounting every detail of Mr. Marceaux’s victory. She didn’t seem to notice that I was feeling too ill to respond.
The events of the day had wrung me dry—the garden shed, the horse-riding accident, and, of course, the mysterious Mr. Fletcher.
Was he truly Edmond’s father? I berated myself for not being more insistent on staying at Edmond’s side until that loathsome man left, if only to learn the truth.
Instead, I had retreated, too shaken by the frightful man to think clearly.
And now I was running away again. Like a coward.
No true soldier would flee the battlefield.