Chapter 1 #2
Angel handed her carpet bag to Toby, who stowed it in the box behind with his own and Milly’s meagre belongings. Climbing onto it, he wrapped the huge oilskin that had once been his father’s about him and nodded. Angel climbed up then, offering her hand to help Milly, who sat beside her.
“Last chance to change your mind,” Angel said, her heart thudding wildly as she stared into Milly’s wan, worried face. The girl put up her chin.
“I ain’t afeared,” she lied, glancing at Angel. “Much.”
Angel laughed and reached over, patting her hand. “I shan’t ever forget this, Milly, and I’ll see you right. Once I have my inheritance, we’ll live in fine style, you’ll see.”
With the promise of that future dancing behind her eyes, Angel gave the pony leave to walk on, and they set off, leaving Little Valentine behind.
The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 6th April 1816
On Saturday morning, Leo Cleveland, the Marquess of Hartwell, stared glumly at his empty plate. His head throbbed, a forceful reminder that he’d celebrated his friend’s nuptials as thoroughly as he did everything. Hart did nothing by halves.
Out the window of the very fine bedchamber he’d taken in the pretty town, the sea, iron grey and thrashing, seemed to reflect his mood. Behind him, Hart heard his travelling trunk closing with a quiet thunk. In his agitated state of mind, it sounded like a death knell.
“Well, that’s everything packed. I’ll just go down and ensure the carriage is loaded as it ought to be and we’ll be off,” said his valet with evident satisfaction.
“You’re in a mighty hurry,” Hart groused, setting down his knife and fork and regarding the man with a reproachful air.
Edwin Blake was a thin fellow with a permanently worried expression that might have been tattooed to his brow. Hart could not remember if it had been there before coming into his employ, but he suspected not.
“Sir,” Blake said, his tone crisp, “might I remind you that your father demanded your presence a full week ago? With the best will in the world, we ought to have been there three days since. Now, I understand you wishing to attend your friend’s nuptials—”
“You do?” Hart remarked, incredulous. “Then why did you bend my ear all the way from London with your complaints?”
Blake drew a deep breath. Hart suspected he was counting. “My lord—”
“Oh, that’s torn it.”
Blake started in alarm, gazing at Hart as if he believed the fellow could tear a seam when he wasn’t even moving. It was not an unreasonable supposition.
“Torn, sir? What’s torn?”
“Nothing, drat you. I only mean that I’m done for once you start my lording me.
For heaven’s sake, give it a rest. I know my blasted father wants to see me but, the last I checked, I was a grown man.
I don’t see why you must act like I’m a snot-nosed boy liable to get his arse tanned for misbehaviour. ”
“No, sir,” Blake said, in tones that throbbed with long suffering. “But he might cut off your funds.”
“Ah,” Hart said, standing to his not inconsiderable height. “And then I might not pay you for your services. I see what the trouble is, Blake. You think I’d cut and run, owing you the readies.”
Blake’s complexion segued through a series of shades, from a dull red at hearing his high-born master use such awful cant expressions, to a sickly white at the idea he would accuse the marquess of such a terrible crime.
“No, sir,” he replied stiffly. “That is not at all—”
“Good!” Hart replied, striding to the door as Blake scurried in his wake.
“But, sir, where are you—”
“For a walk!” Hart bellowed and went out, slamming the door behind him.
“But sir—your hat!”
By the time he reached the street, Hart was regretting his show of temper, as he always did.
It wasn’t Blake’s fault after all. Yes, he was a fussy devil who thought a good deal more of his master’s consequence than Hart did and bothered him constantly about details like which waistcoat went with what, that Hart simply could not fathom, but still…
. He’d not deserved to take the brunt of Hart’s ill-temper when it was aimed elsewhere.
He was tired, he supposed, and bored. Though he’d agreed to abide by his father’s wish to see him married before the year was out, he didn’t see why the old devil thought he had the right to dictate his bride too.
Well, Hart was not about to bend on that article.
It was bad enough he must give up his freedom; the idea of wedding some insufferably well-behaved young lady who would think him a mannerless brute was more than he could stand.
He’d seen a chance for something, or rather someone different recently, except he’d been too late.
The girl—the first to take his interest—had belonged to his friend Ben, and the reason he’d come to this quaint little town was to see them wed.
Isabelle Honeywell had been something out of the ordinary, though.
She’d had a spark, a glint of challenge in her eyes that had dared the ton to judge her, for she didn’t much care.
That was what he was looking for, he realised now.
He didn’t want a good girl, a well-behaved young lady who always did what society expected of her, and who would expect him to do the same.
Hart shuddered inwardly at the very idea.
He wanted something different: a girl who would surprise him.
But the ton kept churning out new versions of the same design, the poor creatures lined up in their white muslin like lambs to the slaughter.
That was why his father was so keen to see him, he did not doubt.
The old devil had chosen some dull heiress, and never mind if she was squinty eyed, or couldn’t string three words together.
Well, Blake might think the old man a paragon simply because he had the good fortune to be born a duke, but Hart did not agree.
“Curse them,” he grumbled, striding out through the town, hardly noticing how people scattered to get out of his way.
He had that effect on everyone, whether or not he intended to.
A large, intimidating fellow, people took one look and deemed him the sort best avoided.
Better if he’d been born a blacksmith, not a marquess.
He had the right build for the job, and the slow, plodding mind to go with it, he thought bitterly.
To the devil with it. To the devil with all of them.
Why should he tie himself in knots to please his father, or his valet come to that? He was a man grown, and if he wanted to take himself off and… and do something else, he jolly well would.
But what?
Hart stood in the middle of the street, his brow furrowed as he considered the question.
He had no idea. But one thing was certain: things happened to Hart, no matter what he set out to do.
So, he might as well just set out and see what came his way.
It had to be more interesting than listening to Blake witter on for hours, and it was certainly more appealing than facing his father.
Satisfied that his future, or at least the next few weeks, had been taken care of, Hart set off to hire himself a horse.