The Secret Heart, page 18
“I understood they would not acknowledge the child,” Villin said. “Sir, for the love of God, please don’t go stirring all this up. Lily is content with this life. What good will it do her to be the bastard daughter of some nobleman whose family doesn’t want to know?”
“Well, they are my next call,” Randolph confessed.
Villin stared at him, his eyes no longer so friendly or even remotely submissive. “Where is your interest in all this, my lord?” he demanded. “What exactly do you mean by my daughter?”
Randolph raised his eyebrows. “I mean to marry her.”
*
Even with the help of Molly, the maid who had been employed to do her work at the inn during her absence, Lily’s time vanished in a daze of cleaning, washing, and serving breakfast. Her softened, pampered hands began to nip.
It panicked her to think he would soon be gone. There were so many things she had still to say to him, private things.
From the kitchen window, she saw Jem harnessing the spirited horses to his lordship’s curricle. She bolted from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron, and ran through the house and out the front door.
The Mastertons’ servants were stowing their trunks on the second coach, where Prince and Sir George’s valet traveled, along with the under coachman. There was no sign of the Mastertons themselves or of Randolph.
With a sigh of relief that she had not yet missed them, she watched Jem leading the skittish horse and curricle around to the front yard. Randolph’s voice inside the house distracted her, and she turned to see him striding toward her in his driving coat, talking over his shoulder to Millie and Sir George.
And then all havoc broke loose.
There was a bump, as though the curricle’s wheels had gone over a stone, and then the horses screamed. She swung around to see them rearing up, with poor Jem still hanging on to the reins while trying to get out of the way of their lethal hooves. Randolph sprang past her, running toward the horses, who were now trying to bolt, only something was dragging at them. The wheel seemed to have buckled. Randolph launched himself at their head, catching the reins from Jem and pushing him to safety.
Stroking their outraged noses and murmuring to the horses, he persuaded them to stand still and calm to mere eye-rolling.
“Are you hurt?” he threw over his shoulder at Jem.
Lily, already beside the ostler with no real memory of moving there, scanned him anxiously.
“I’m fine,” Jem told them both. “Something just startled them. Something broke.” He brushed past Lily and crouched down by the wheel now bent at a mad angle, peering around it. “The axle broke,” he called up. Then he frowned, peering more closely.
“Don’t,” Randolph said. “Not until it’s free of the horses. They’re still unsettled.”
Jem stood. “I can tell you now,” he said grimly. “The axle didn’t just break. That’s a clean cut more than halfway through it. Someone must have done that deliberately. It was always going to break.”
Lily stared from him to Randolph. “Dear God, what if it had broken while you were driving at full tilt along the London road?”
Deliberately, it seemed, Randolph smoothed his brow. “Your father is quite right,” he observed. “The Hart really is a lucky house.”
By then, Jem seemed to have realized the awkwardness of his position, considering what he had just revealed. “It weren’t me, my lord! And I’d never allow anyone into the coach house but your own servants.”
Randolph dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of accusing you. I know exactly who did it. Or at least caused it to be done.”
“Pennington,” Lily breathed, staring at him. “He must have done it before he sent it on from the Place.”
“Or had his man do it before he left Hayleigh. How stupid of me not to think of such retaliation. Criminally stupid. You or Millie could have been with me when the axle snapped.” A shudder passed through him, and he turned away. “Jem, can you have this fixed today?”
“I’ll send to Finsborough right away, my lord,” Jem said eagerly, clearly relieved not to be under suspicion for such a terrible act.
By then, Sir George and Millie had joined them and caught up with events.
“What an utter blackguard,” Sir George said darkly.
“And to think I once found him amusing!” Millie exclaimed. “Vile creature. But Dolph, why isn’t he arrested already?”
“Perhaps your brother has had other things on his mind,” Sir George said wryly.
“We all did,” Randolph said. “But that isn’t the reason.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “It was decided, though not by me, that it would not be good for the country at this point either to arrest a peer of the realm for treason or to dismiss his brother for gross negligence.”
Lily frowned. “So, nothing happens? Is everything as before? As though we did nothing?”
“Not exactly,” Randolph said. “We have fed the French false information, which will make Wellington’s job a little easier. And we have stopped the flow of information. Francis—or Francois, should we say?—will not be back. Jack will have been warned by now that no documents are to leave his office for any reason, that he is to receive no visitors, and he is not to discuss his work with anyone. Pennington will be…observed, and his household vetted, secretly or otherwise. But to be frank, I cannot see it happening again. I doubt he went out looking for someone to betray his country to. He’s an opportunist, and Francis was his opportunity to make some much-needed money.”
“And this?” Lily demanded, waving one hand at the curricle now being detached from the horses. She didn’t know whether to be angry, relieved, or frightened for him.
Randolph shrugged. “Malice,” he said. “Pure malice. He could never stomach losing. Certainly not to me.”
“What the devil does he have against you?” Sir George asked in outrage. “Everyone else likes you.”
A smile flickered across Randolph’s lips. “There you have it. Plus, my father was a marquess, his, a mere viscount. My allowance was larger. He couldn’t even beat me up without arousing the ire of those he considered his friends, so he had to leave me alone.”
Millie spoke in a small voice. “Is that why he made up to me?”
“I don’t know,” Randolph replied. “It’s probably why he overstepped the line.”
Millie sighed.
“Do you mind?” Sir George asked her, brushing at an imaginary speck of dust on his sleeve.
“I mind being an idiot,” Millie admitted, taking her husband’s arm. “Shall we go home, George?”
In spite of what had just happened, Lily smiled to herself to see them climb into their carriage together. She rather thought they were happy with each other and that Millie’s hope of a baby was no longer unreasonable.
Her parents came out in time to help wave the Mastertons off, before they turned on Randolph, demanding to know about the curricle.
“Deliberately?” Villin exclaimed when Lily gave him an abbreviated version. “Dear God, who would do such a thing?”
“An old enemy of mine, I suspect,” Randolph said.
Few people had ever accused her father of stupidity. He stared at his noble guest. “This would not be the same enemy you took my daughter in pursuit of?”
While Lily tensed, searching rapidly for something to say, Randolph met his gaze. “Actually, yes, it would. It seems I need to further clip his wings. I never thought of him resorting to this. Excuse me.”
As he strode off after the horses, her father gazed after him with bleakness in his eyes. “You know, I never had him pegged as a dangerous toff.”
“You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, certainly,” Lily said warningly, uneasy at her father’s expression.
“Or be anywhere near him when he gets on the wrong side of anyone else,” her father muttered. “I should never have let you go with him.”
*
As morning turned into afternoon, and the curricle was being repaired, Lily felt less concerned with her parents’ sudden hostility to Lord Hay than with his eager departure. She couldn’t help being hurt that he was in such a hurry to leave her.
Restlessly, she abandoned the washing-up and walked around to the stables to see what progress was being made.
“Just about done,” Jem reported. He was brushing her father’s old cob, ready for his visit to the Finsborough market. “He can be off within the hour.”
Her heart sank. “But it will be safe now?”
“Of course!” Jem grinned and went back to work.
A shadow fell over the door. Randolph, once more dressed for driving.
“Ready to go, sir?” Jem asked. “Shall I harness the horses?”
“If you please, Jem.”
Jem dropped the brush and cheerfully left the cob to lead out Lord Hay’s fine thoroughbreds. Lily watched him go before she slowly turned her gaze to Randolph.
“Come here,” he said softly.
Her heart drumming, she went to him, and his arms wrapped around her, holding her tenderly. “A short farewell, Lily, no longer than a fortnight, and then I will come for you.”
“Wait,” she whispered, grasping his face between her hands when he bent to kiss her. “There are things I have to say. You say you love me, and you know I love you. I know you can’t marry me, and I don’t expect it. I will go anywhere with you. But Randolph, only for a little. Only until you are married, for I won’t share you, won’t compete for you with a wife. That would be fair on none of us, least of all on the children you will have.”
He gazed down at her, a faint frown tugging at his brow. “You mean… you would give yourself to me for a couple of years, or months, and then face the ruin, alone and unmarried?”
“It is either that or say goodbye forever now. Randolph, I want this happiness with you—more than anything!—but you have to know…”
“Do you think you could?” he interrupted. “Do you think I could let you go?”
“My dear, you wouldn’t have a choice,” she said shakily.
He searched her eyes. “Do you trust me, Lily?”
“Of course,” she replied at once.
A smile flashed across his lips and was gone. “Then don’t worry yet about such choices. Wait for me.” He kissed her, long and thoroughly, and all her doubts fell away like autumn leaves, leaving only the warmth of his love.
Because of that, she could smile as she stood between her parents and waved to him as he drove his curricle out of the yard. He smiled and tapped his whip against his hat in a farewell salute.
Chapter Eighteen
Having called at Lord Carborough’s London house and discovered that his lordship was at his club, Randolph repaired to White’s. The club was quiet since it was only mid-morning. Only a few gentlemen sat around reading newspapers and drinking coffee.
Carborough’s stout and balding figure was easily discovered behind The Morning Post nearest to the fireplace.
“Good morning, sir,” Randolph greeted him.
Carborough frowned, clearly irritated to be addressed at all, and grunted without looking up from his paper. Randolph continued to stand there patiently until Carborough’s newspaper gave an angry little shake, and his lordship glowered upward.
The newspaper lowered. “Torbridge, old chap. That is, my Lord Hay, I was so very sorry to hear about your father. Deepest condolences.”
“Thank you, sir. It wasn’t unexpected.”
“I suppose you are up in London sorting out the business end of things. Sad work but has to be done.”
“Indeed, I have a few errands in London. One of them, I hope you can help me with.”
“Of course,” Carborough said in surprise. “Anything I can do, dear fellow. Sit down.”
Randolph dragged a chair nearer, having no wish to have his conversation overheard. “It’s a bit of a delicate matter, concerning your brother, Captain Horsham.”
“Alfred? Was he a friend of yours?”
“I don’t believe I ever met him, but of course, I know he was a hero, being killed in the line of duty and depriving the country of a captain who could have surpassed Nelson himself.”
Carborough nodded sagely, a genuine sadness seeping into his eyes. “He was my favorite brother, you know. Hit me very hard at the time.”
“I can imagine. I believe it hit his betrothed very badly, too.”
“Alicia?” he said quickly. He blinked several times. “Yes, poor girl. She was devoted to him. I believe she was ill for some time. Married some dull old stick in the country eventually. She comes to London occasionally.”
“We were thrown together at Pennington Place a week or so ago,” Randolph said. “And she was, eventually, confiding enough to tell me something of her story. Of course, there was a reason for that, but despite her newer family, she grieves still for your brother’s child.”
Carborough’s face reddened as he sat up straighter, making blustery puffing noises. “Here, now, Hay, you can’t go around saying things like that! Not fair on my brother or poor Alicia.”
“Or poor Lily?” Randolph suggested mildly. “Yes, that is her name. She has been brought up by a kind innkeeper and his wife, but by some quite unconnected chance, she recently met Mrs. Bradwell.”
“I won’t have my brother’s name sullied like this!”
“Sullied?” Randolph stared at him with deliberate astonishment. “My dear, sir, he has a daughter of incomparable beauty, intelligence, and sensitivity, who, despite her upbringing, can pass—indeed did pass—as a member of the ton in both London and Pennington Place. A wealthy nobleman wishes to marry her. Would Captain Horsham not, rather, be proud? Would not his name, and yours, be the better for such a connection?”
Carborough stared at him.
“It has been more than twenty years since he died,” Randolph said quietly. “Is it not time to rethink a decision made in the midst of grief?”
“What decision? What do you want of me?”
“Acknowledge her as your niece. There will be talk, yes, but it will be behind hands, nothing that will touch your family’s, or even Mrs. Bradwell’s. The girl has already been introduced to society as my cousin, so it will not be difficult to add the connection to you.”
Carborough blinked rapidly. “But Tor… I mean, Hay, why am I to do this? I don’t understand why you introduced an innkeeper’s daughter as your cousin—”
“Because she isn’t really an innkeeper’s daughter, is she? She is your niece, would have been your favorite brother’s beloved daughter. Don’t you think this is something he would want?”
Carborough dragged his gaze free and stared into the flames of the fire. It was still a little cold for April. Randolph did not interrupt the silence.
Abruptly, Carborough looked up. “Who is this nobleman who wants to marry her?”
Randolph smiled. “Me.”
Carborough uttered a short laugh, tugged once at his lower lip, then lumbered to his feet. “Come back to the house with me, Hay. It’s chaos there. My youngest is coming out this Season, and I’m always falling over dressmakers, hairdressers, suitors, flowers, tantrums… Can’t call the damned place my own. But we’ll shut ourselves into my library and enjoy a quiet sherry. I want to show you something.”
Randolph went with him willingly—it wasn’t a long walk—and Carborough House turned out to be more or less as he had described it. A mountain of posies waited in the hall, wailing could be heard upstairs, and maids appeared to be running around with great purpose. Carborough had let them in with a key, and when any of the dashing servants tried to acknowledge his presence, he simply put his finger to his lips.
Entertained, Randolph followed him quite happily as he crept upstairs and along the passage and eased open a door at the end. Closing it behind them with obvious relief, he grinned at Randolph, looking suddenly much younger. “Made it. Sit down, Hay, sit down. Try this sherry, and tell me what you think.”
When Randolph was settled in a comfortable armchair with his glass of sherry, he gazed around the shelves of books that seemed, surprisingly, to be frequently disturbed. Against all appearances, Carborough, or someone in the house, was an eager reader.
Carborough went to the desk by the window and took a box from one of the drawers. He took a folded paper from the box and brought it to Randolph before he sat heavily in the chair opposite and picked up his glass.
“Read that,” he instructed. “I’ve never shown it to anyone before. I was ashamed of Alfred, and then of me.”
Randolph opened the letter which had clearly been folded and unfolded so often before that it was likely to tear. It was from Alfred to his brother Justin—now Lord Carborough—written, it seemed, after his injury. A letter from a dying man who clearly knew his fate.
I won’t survive this one, and I won’t have time for all the farewells I would choose. You must do them all for me. You have always been the best of brothers, and so I beg one last favor of you. Look after Alicia, whom I love with all my heart. And if there is a child of that love, bring it up as your own…
“I didn’t.” Carborough took a sizeable gulp of sherry. “I gave her money, offered doctors, remote estates for her to stay and have her child, but I never did as he asked. I didn’t want to distract from the heroism of his death. And so, you’re right. I let his child, all we had left of him, be brought up in poverty by strangers.”
Carefully, Randolph folded the letter again.
“It wasn’t very long before I began to wonder if I’d done the right thing,” Carborough said. “I even wrote to Alicia, who told me she was marrying Bradwell. That seemed good enough reason to sweep my doubts under the carpet along with the letter. Mostly, I stopped thinking about it, though every so often, I would read the letter again and wonder.” He took another sip and set down his glass on the table beside him. “You’ll think me a villain. Heartless at best, criminal at worst.”
“No,” Randolph said. “Grief affects us in strange ways.”
