Читать книгу Regency Society Collection Part 2 - Хелен Диксон, Ann Lethbridge, Хелен Диксон - Страница 16

London—May 1815

‘Such a lovely girl, your sister,’ Mrs Bixby said, touching Eleanor’s arm. ‘And so unaffected.’

Did the old bat mean Sissy enjoyed herself too much? William always said she did. Eleanor forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’ Cecelia certainly sparkled like a ruby among pale pearls. Her deep-rose gown showed her dark hair and eyes to splendid advantage as she laughed up at her partner in a cotillion. Did she stand out too much, as William said? Perhaps she should have worn white after all.

‘She’s a handful,’ Aunt Marjory said on the other side of Mrs Bixby. ‘Never know what harum-scarum thing she’ll take next into her head.’

‘Really, Aunt Marjory. It is simply high spirits,’ Eleanor said. ‘Nothing more.’

‘She’s a credit to you,’ Mrs Bixby said.

Unlike herself, had Mrs Bixby known it, Sissy did indeed bring credit to the Hadley name. She was popular with her peers, also making their first Season, and the young gentlemen flocked around her without any sign of loose behaviour.

‘Who is she dancing with now?’ Aunt Marjory asked. The poor dear just couldn’t keep up.

‘Lord Danforth. Unexceptionable family,’ Mrs Bixby said. ‘He’d make a good catch, if he came up to scratch.’

‘It is far too early to be thinking of marriage,’ Eleanor said. Unless of course Sissy fell in love, which would be wonderful.

‘Speaking of coming up to scratch,’ Aunt Marjory said, ‘I haven’t seen Mr Westbridge this evening.’

‘He is most likely in the card room,’ Eleanor replied. ‘He knows I will not dance.’

Mr Westbridge, a serious man in his middle years, asked Eleanor to marry him at least once a week. He refused to believe she would never change her mind. Wouldn’t believe she was happy keeping house for William and Sissy.

Idly glancing around the room for another suitable partner for her sister, Eleanor’s heart stumbled. Head and shoulders above the man at his side, hair the colour of chocolate and his olive skin startling among the pale English faces around him, stood Beauworth. After four years she recognised him in an instant. He looked broader, more assured and certainly sterner of eye. Older, of course. All that she saw in a second. Her heart steadied, but her breathing remained irregular. What changes would he see in her, if he knew her at all? She looked away, determined not to notice.

As if compelled by some unseen hand, her head turned to once more bring him into view. Time had taken its toll. Deep lines bracketed a far more sardonic mouth than she remembered. Lean and axe hard, his face offered no quarter as he gazed with dark and cool remoteness at the world. As dark as a Moor, he must have spent years beneath a harsh sun. The legends of his female conquests, his dissipation, his hedonistic lifestyle, whispered of in salacious detail in the salons of the ton, hung over him like a dark cloud. The ladies of the ton loved hearing of his exploits. At first, she’d felt pain, a sharp jealousy. As the years passed, it had reduced to a dull ache she could ignore most of the time. To be jealous of a man she’d sent away seemed impossibly selfish. The females in the room, young and old, eyed him with barely concealed fascination, while some of the men looked strained. He was, after all, a close friend of the Prince Regent and commanded their respect, if not their friendship.

In the brightly lit room, dressed in sombre black, he had the look of a living breathing shadow.

She shivered.

Perhaps she felt chilled by the cold half-smile with which the Marquess listened to his fair-haired male companion. His gaze swept the room apparently without interest, moving swiftly and unerringly towards her corner.

Heart beating wildly, Eleanor lowered her gaze. Even if he did recognise her, he would surely not approach, not after what lay between them. Would he? Was that hope in her heart?

Dimly, she realised the set was ending. She started to rise, to go to her sister. Perhaps if she pleaded a headache, Sissy would leave. If not, perhaps she could leave her in Aunt Marjory’s care.

‘Lady Eleanor, a pleasure to meet you again.’

The deep voice with its trace of a French accent thrummed a chord low in her belly, a long-forgotten thrill. Trembling inside, she raised her head and gazed into brown eyes flecked with gold. Cold eyes. The charming smile she remembered curved his lips, his teeth flashing white. Yet he made her think of a predator, a panther, dark and sleek and hungry. He held out his hand.

Her throat dried. Heat rose in her face. Her heart pounded so hard she couldn’t breathe. If she reacted like this to a simple greeting, people would talk. They would make guesses, gossip. She must not make a breath of scandal. She rested her fingertips on his pristine white gloves for no more than a second. ‘Lord Beauworth.’

She turned in her seat to the ladies beside her. ‘Aunt Marjory, Mrs Bixby, allow me to introduce the Marquess of Beauworth.’

‘A pleasure.’ Aunt Marjory gave him a speculative glance, assessing his worth and his lineage.

‘My lord,’ Mrs Bixby said, her eyes alive with curiosity and surprise.

‘Ladies, a pleasure. May I have this dance, Lady Eleanor?’ The words were no more than a polite murmur, but the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth issued a challenge.

Stunned to speechlessness, she could only stare. To feel his arms around her again would be wonderful, awful.

She never danced.

Mrs Bixby was nodding as if it was the most natural thing in the world. How would it look if she accepted? If she refused, would people think there was a reason and talk? Mrs Bixby loved to talk.

She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

He brought her to her feet. Two layers of cotton separated their skin, yet she felt his touch as if their hands were naked. Did he notice the way her fingers trembled in his? Hopefully not.

The orchestra struck up a waltz. Of all things. Had he known? She glanced up at his face, thinking to cry off, but he gave her no chance, sweeping her into the steps of the dance, masterfully, gracefully, powerfully in command. He swung her around the floor in soft glides and elegant twirls. How strong his hand felt beneath hers. He guided her steps with the lightest of pressure, yet his hand was all she could feel. The room disappeared into a swirl of pastel and shimmering candles. She saw nothing but shoulders hugged by a black coat, a froth of white cravat above a pale cream waistcoat embellished with tiny forget-me-nots. The scent of his cologne filled her nostrils. The warmth of his body reached out to caress her skin, though he held her no closer than was proper.

Sissy, who had not yet received permission to waltz, stuck out her tongue as they passed.

‘Your sister is as charming as ever,’ the Marquess remarked. He sounded almost wistful, which must be her imagination.

‘Her first Season,’ she said. ‘Lady Cecelia is a huge success.’

‘I can see why. Are you also enjoying the Season?’

She glanced up, seeking assurance that this wasn’t some sort of barb. He looked merely interested. He raised a brow.

‘Seeing Sissy so happy, why would I not enjoy it?’

‘Why not indeed? You look lovely.’

‘Fustian,’ she said. ‘I look exactly what I am. A woman past her first blush of youth and firmly on the shelf.’

‘Then perhaps I should rephrase my words. You look lovely to me.’

Her insides fluttered. An instant flare of arousal, her body crying out for completion. She swallowed her gasp of shock. The pink in her cheeks must have turned carmine, because her face was scalding. ‘Why are you here? Why are you doing this?’

His hard mouth twitched at the corner, as if he guessed she spoke of her body’s reaction, not his request to dance.

‘I need to ask you something,’ he said.

A twinge of disappointment pierced her heart. Had she expected he would seek her out for herself? If not expected, then hoped, perhaps? Against all reason. ‘Then ask it and be done.’

A woman gliding by in emerald and gold turned her head to look at them. She must have heard the sharpness in Eleanor’s tone.

Chagrined, Eleanor pinned a smile to her lips. He whirled her around the end of the floor, tucking her against his side, his strong arm at her waist in an almost lover-like embrace, then he turned her under his arm.

‘Not here,’ he murmured into her ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine.

Breathless, she glanced up. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘We can’t talk here. Drive with me tomorrow afternoon.’

Not a request, a command. She stiffened. William would be furious if he knew she had danced with him. What would he say to her driving out? And yet she was tempted. Her heart was galloping like an out-of-control colt, all fits and starts and wobbly. ‘And if I say no?’

The warm light in his gaze fled. ‘Then I must seek my answer elsewhere.’

An undercurrent of something dark coloured his voice. Not a threat exactly, but then she saw he was looking at Sissy.

The dance drew to a close and he escorted her back to her chair. Mrs Bixby had departed, no doubt eager to regale her cronies with Beauworth’s foray into the realms of respectable women. The news would cause a bit of a stir and some beating of matchmaking breasts, and Eleanor couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit triumphant.

‘I’ll call for you at four,’ he said.

Blast. She’d hesitated too long. And besides, he knew very well she wasn’t going to let him anywhere near her sister. ‘I will be ready.’

With a bow to her aunt, he departed.

‘Ready for what, dear?’ Aunt Marjory asked.

Watching him make his way through the crowded room without effort, almost as if those before him cleared a path for a dangerous creature, she answered absently, ‘He wants to take me driving tomorrow.’

‘Oh, my dear. Such a handsome man. What will you wear?’

The Marquess disappeared from the room. Had he come tonight for the purpose of seeking her out? She felt breathless at the idea. And then horrified. Nonsense. He’d probably headed for the card room like most of the other gentlemen not on the marriage mart.

She turned to her aunt. ‘I’m sorry, I missed what you said?’

‘I think you should wear the celestial-blue morning gown you had made at the beginning of the Season.’ Her aunt nodded as if the matter was settled.

It was a ridiculous gown. Not the sort of thing a woman past her prime should wear. The reason she had never taken it out of the press since it arrived. ‘I’ll think about it.’ When she could think, when her heart settled into its normal comfortable rhythm and her gaze stopped searching the crowd for a tall dark figure. ‘Aunt Marjory, where is Sissy?’

Her aunt pointed her fan. ‘Dancing with Felton. The poor boy is quite besotted.’

Lord Felton was an honourable young gentleman who would not take advantage of Sissy’s high spirits. Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. The slightest hint of a scandal would bring William back to town in an instant. He’d been so distraught by what had happened four years ago he’d turned into a mother hen where his sisters were concerned, no matter how often she promised she’d sown all her wild oats.

Pulling his greatcoat close against the cool breeze, Garrick set out on foot from his house in St James’s. At this late hour, there were few people on the street. A dank mist stinking of muddy river obscured all but the closest objects. He hunched deeper into his coat. If he hadn’t promised Dan, he’d have preferred to down a bottle of brandy in his chamber and drown the memory of a pair of cool dove-grey eyes.

When he arrived, Dan grinned from ear to ear at the door of his small bachelor rooms off Piccadilly. ‘I’d almost given you up, Major.’ There was little of the old cockney left in Dan’s speech.

‘You’ll get used to calling me Garrick one of these days, Dan.’

‘No, my lord, it wouldn’t be right.’ Dan never made any pretence of being other than a man up from the gutter, no matter how high he rose or how highly his regiment sang his praises. It was all a source of wonder to the modest Lieutenant Dan Smith. ‘Come in. Take your ease.’

Undernourished and small as a child, he now topped five foot eight inches. His shoulders were broad and his expression open beneath his cropped blond hair. With his handsome face and bright blue eyes, he was as sought after by the ladies as Garrick himself. Too bad Dan was far too shy to take advantage of their lures.

Garrick settled into one of two armchairs by the fire and Dan poured a glass of whisky for him and a gin for himself.

‘Did you see her?’ Dan asked.

‘I did.’

Dan looked ridiculously hopeful. ‘And…’

‘And…nothing. We met. We spoke. We danced and I left. I felt nothing, nor did she.’

‘You danced?’

‘Yes.’ He did his best to sound bored, despite the jolt low in his gut.

‘How did Lady Eleanor look?’

Garrick thought hard. She had looked…beautiful, womanly. Paler than he remembered, almost drab in the muted grey of her gown. She seemed restrained, as if she held her emotions in check, the lively spirit he’d admired replaced by severe English spinsterhood. And yet something had sparked between them when they had danced. Or had he imagined it, because he’d hoped to feel something? He closed his eyes briefly at the pang of something sharp in a place where he didn’t have feelings at all. ‘She looked well enough. A little older, I suppose.’ He sipped at the fiery liquid. ‘I had forgotten how stuffy these London parties are. What news do you hear?’

Always sympathetic to his moods, Dan let the subject go and grimaced. ‘We expect to receive orders to leave at any moment. London will awake one morning and we will be gone.’

‘I agree. The Duke will move swiftly once Cabinet makes up its mind. But their shilly-shallying will cost our men dearly.’ The War Cabinet had bungled too many times to do any better now. Only Wellington’s instincts had saved their bacon time and again in Spain.

‘What about you?’ Dan asked.

Only Dan would ask. No one else knew of his work for the Allies. Many suspected his loyalty even though they were careful not to show it, not when Prinny had admitted him to his closest circle. But the scavengers were circling. If one more person sighted him in France, things were going to get very difficult. But he trusted Dan with his life as he trusted no one else. ‘I’m to go at the end of the week.’

Dan whistled through his teeth. ‘That soon. You will take care.’

The only person who cared enough to worry. ‘I will.’

‘And after? When Bonaparte is back under lock and key?’

He never thought about after. He had never expected to live this long. He wouldn’t come back to England. There was nothing for him here. ‘Find another war? Hire myself out as a mercenary.’

Dan looked far from happy. ‘And the other matter?’

‘I asked her to drive out with me tomorrow.’

‘And she agreed?’ Hopeful had returned.

‘She did.’ He’d thought she would refuse. He shouldn’t have threatened her, but she’d left him little choice.

‘Will you tell her Le Clere has been seen in England?’

‘I don’t see the point. Not when we aren’t sure. I plan to snare him before he gets anywhere near the Castlefield tribe. No more of this, Dan.’ He smiled and reached across the space between them. He clinked his erstwhile tiger’s glass. ‘Here’s to you and yours and may you come home safe.’

‘And you and yours, my lord.’

Garrick swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp. There was no one he called his. Not any longer.

He pushed the thought away and held out his glass for a refill. Better to take whatever pleasure life offered when it came along. Like a few hours of her company on the morrow, though he expected it would hold little in the way of delight for either of them.

In the end she did wear the blue gown. After all, one did not drive out with a gentlemen of Beauworth’s standing looking like someone’s governess, as Sissy had pronounced earlier with all the assurance of youth.

When Eleanor walked down the stairs a few minutes before the appointed time, she felt satisfied with her appearance. Her pulse beat a little too fast, her stomach was tied in a tight little knot that made breathing more difficult than usual, but the gown masked all of that. To the world, she looked cool and calm.

Sissy dashed out of the drawing room as she set foot on the last step. ‘You look ravishing,’ she said. ‘I told you that gown was perfect. It makes your eyes look bluer.’

‘Sissy, don’t be a hoyden.’

‘Hah.’ Sissy’s dark eyes sparkled. She brushed a tumble of chestnut curls back off her shoulder. ‘Don’t be such a stick in the mud.’

The case clock struck four. Someone rapped the knocker on the front door.

‘Quick,’ Sissy said. ‘Into the drawing room. You don’t want to look too eager.’

‘Sissy.’ Eleanor couldn’t help laughing. Her sister had certainly adopted all the niceties of a débutante in her first Season with alacrity and enthusiasm.

Eleanor allowed herself to be chivvied into the drawing room, while the butler hurried to open the front door.

‘Very nice, dear,’ Aunt Marjory said, glancing up from her embroidery.

‘Thank you, Aunt.’ What the old lady would say if she knew just how annoyed William would be was a whole other matter. By the time he learned of it, there would be nothing to discuss. Today she would answer Beauworth’s questions and tell him not to bother her or her family again. If he had any sense of honour, he would abide by her wishes. And that would be that.

Her heart squeezed a little at the thought, but she ignored it, firmly.

She perched on a chair by the window.

‘Not there, Eleanor,’ Sissy said. ‘The light obscures your face.’ She frowned. ‘And why are you wearing that horrid cap under that perfectly lovely chip straw as if you are an old maid?’

She was an old maid. ‘Too late to do anything about it now,’ she said calmly, although her heart thundered as the door opened and Beauworth entered.

If he could not see her features, she could see his very well indeed. Still handsome, but harsh, like granite carved by the wind, the furrows around his mouth and creases at the corners of his eyes deeply etched. Only a shadow of the young man she had known remained in his smile and the angle of his jaw, the wave of brown hair on his forehead.

He took Aunt Marjory’s hand in his and murmured a suitable greeting. Then he moved on to Sissy.

She peeped up at him. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me?’

‘The last time I saw you, you had soot on your nose,’ he replied with a flash of his charming smile. Eleanor’s stomach tumbled in a long slow roll. Would she never be able to see that smile without melting?

Sissy laughed. ‘You are still Eleanor’s wicked Marquess.’

‘Sissy,’ Eleanor said as Beauworth turned to her with a raised brow and one of those devastating smiles. She was going to be mush if this continued.

‘What did you say, dear?’ Aunt Marjory asked.

‘Nothing,’ Sissy said, with a blithe smile and a wink.

‘Are you ready to leave, Lady Eleanor? Much as I delight in the company of your family, my horses do not like to be kept waiting.’

He took her hand and brought her to his feet. As he did so, his gaze searched her face. Seeking what? She lifted her chin and regarded him coolly. ‘Indeed. I am quite ready, my lord.’

Sissy ran to the window. ‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘A high-perch phaeton. And matched chestnuts.’

‘Come away from the window, dear,’ Aunt Marjory said. ‘Do take care with my niece, my lord. The thought of her up on those high things gives my heart palpitations.’

‘Fear not, Miss Hadley,’ the Marquess said. ‘I will take care of Lady Eleanor’s person as if it were my own.’

His velvet tones were like a caress on her skin. An insidious yearning filled her body. She managed a tight smile. ‘I have no fear, my lord.’

‘You never did.’

He was wrong, of course. She’d feared greatly for him all these years. But she could never show it.

He guided her out of the house and down the steps into the street.

Sissy was right, his equipage was high and dangerous. The horses, held by a groom, tossing their heads in the traces, were fresh, high-strung and beautifully matched. A team she’d love to drive, or she would have in her misspent youth.

While she didn’t need his help, she allowed him to assist her up the steps. She sat on the seat and settled her skirts. The ground looked astonishingly far away and the slightest movement caused the coach body to sway on its swan-necked springs.

The Marquess went around the other side and climbed up beside her. He took the whip from its holder, catching the points deftly in his fingers and gathered up the ribbons in his other hand.

He glanced at her with a quizzical expression. ‘Nervous, Lady Eleanor?’

‘Certainly not,’ she said. The fact that her heart seemed to be performing an endless drum roll against her ribs and had been since she awoke this morning had nothing to do with him. It was lack of sleep.

‘Good. Then we will dispense with the services of the groom.’ He raised his voice. ‘Jeffers, spring ’em. You can walk home.’

Before Eleanor could protest against the breach of propriety, the liveried groom touched his hat, released the off-side leader’s bridle and stepped back. The Marquess moved his equipage into the street and soon they were bowling down the quiet road at a clip.

‘It is an open carriage, Ellie,’ he said with the ghost of a laugh. ‘I want our conversation to be private.’

Ruffled, she glared at him. ‘We have nothing to say to each other of a private nature. And you should have asked me first.’

‘Asking doesn’t get me anywhere.’

Now what did he mean by that pithy little comment? Surely he wasn’t referring to his disastrous proposal of marriage? And surely he wasn’t going to ask her again? Her throat dried. A patter of hope ran through her heart.

‘What did you want to ask me?’ There, she sounded cool and collected.

He turned on to Piccadilly and headed toward Hyde Park. She admired his skill as he negotiated around a hackney coach stopped to pick up a fare and neatly avoided a brewer’s dray coming the opposite way. He made it look easy, but the horses required all of his attention, so she sat quietly, content to enjoy being driven by a master, content to look at the hard-angled profile, the curl of his hair on his temple, the confident set of his shoulders. Her reckless gaze lingered on the firm line of his sensual mouth, the angle of his chin. He was still beautiful and very dangerous. She would not let him catch her unaware again and she’d already spoken to Sissy about keeping her distance.

They entered Hyde Park and started along Rotten Row. Because of the early hour, only a few carriages paraded their occupants.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I can concentrate on you, instead of these beasts.’

The thought of him concentrating on her made her breathless with longing. But it was not what he meant, surely it was not. She tried to ignore the trickle of hope sliding around in her stomach. She stared at the horses tossing their heads at every pedestrian they passed. ‘What they really need is a good long run.’

‘Should I have whisked you away to Brighton? I have the key to the Pavilion.’

The words were said with a teasing note, but she sensed an undertone of challenge, or perhaps a shadow of hope. She fought the very real urge to say yes, to kick over the traces she’d forced herself into these past years, the curb of propriety and duty.

‘It was simply a comment.’

‘Naturally,’ he said.

‘Well, here I am, all attention. What was so important that you must speak to me alone?’ The words sounded sharper than she had intended, sharp enough to ensure her heart was not hanging on her sleeve like a flag.

The teasing light in his face disappeared and her foolish heart regretted the loss. ‘You’ve changed, Ellie.’

‘I’m older and wiser.’

‘And none too happy, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘My happiness is not your concern.’ How could she ever be happy, hearing about his conquests, knowing other women were enjoying favours that could have been hers? And like a fool, she drank up every mention of his name because it brought him closer, when it was quite obvious he never thought of her at all. Until he wanted something.

‘It could have been,’ he said.

But she’d chosen. And she lived with the choice no matter how painful. ‘Your question.’

‘Quite honestly, I’m not sure how to ask.’

‘Ask.’ The torture of having him close, of hiding the warmth running beneath her skin, was a bit like trying to hide a fever. A fever with no cure.

‘After you…after it was all over, Beauworth held no interest for me. I joined the army. Rumours circulated that I’d ruined a noblewoman.’ The words were spoken calmly enough, but bitterness rang in his voice.

‘I never spoke of what happened to anyone,’ she said.

‘Except your brother.’

She recoiled. ‘Are you saying William blackened your name?’

‘Yes.’

The flat statement knocked her off kilter. The carriage remained steady, but she felt as if she was being buffeted on all sides by a strong cold wind.

‘There is something I want you to tell your brother.’

She could just see herself talking to William about Garrick. ‘I—’

‘Tell him it wasn’t me who crippled him.’

The cold wind turned into an icy gale. She put a hand to her throat, felt the hard beating of her heart. ‘What?’

‘Your brother caught me exiting a window of the porter’s lodging. He knew whose chamber it was and went off to report my despicable behaviour. I think he had some sort of boyish crush on the girl. Believe me, she wasn’t the angel he thought.’

‘Is that what happened? He never told me the full story.’

‘He doesn’t know the full story.’

He guided his team past a young gentleman in a phaeton who had stopped to greet some ladies on foot.

‘Your brother hit me from behind. Stunned me. I called him a sneak and a tell-tale in front of his friends and threatened him with a sound thrashing.’ He winced. ‘I lost my temper. Later that night someone went to his room and beat him with a club as he slept.’

‘He says it was you.’

His mouth tightened. ‘I wasn’t the only one punished. The porter was removed from his position, but someone forgot to retrieve his keys. Or perhaps he had an extra one. He’d lost far more than I. A month of waiting on the teachers’ table doesn’t warrant beating a man to within an inch of his life.’ His voice was grim. ‘Losing your livelihood might.’

Oh, God. And she’d believed William. She felt as if her heart might break. She stared at his profile. He looked unmoved. Completely unaffected. How could he be so cool, so icily calm, when he’d been so unjustly accused? Perhaps he no longer cared. ‘And you have proof of this?’

He glanced at her with a cynical curve to his mouth. ‘Still doubting me?’

‘No. I was thinking of William. It will not be easy to change his mind after all these years.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I found the daughter a year ago. Her father is dead and she’s fallen pretty low, but she remembered me. She was happy to tell me the truth. She’d do so on the Bible and can point to the men who helped him. Ellie, more important than William, do you believe me?’

An odd bubble of joy filled her heart. The relief of knowing she’d been right about him all along seemed to take a heavy weight from her shoulders. ‘Yes. I do. I wish I had known when—’

‘So do I. Setting the record straight about your brother, however, wasn’t my primary reason for wishing to have a private conversation.’

‘Then what?’

‘Cast your mind back to the day of the ransom. To Piggot’s letter, if you will?’

They passed a barouche with an elderly woman and a pretty young lady. Garrick bowed an acknowledgement as they shot by.

She remembered too much about those days. But the letter? She frowned. ‘William dropped it at your feet.’

‘I left it there. Didn’t want to give them a shot at you.’

He’d been brave that day, saving her life and William’s. ‘It was addressed to you. That is all I remember.’

His grip tightened on the reins as the horses started forwards. It was a few moments before he had them in hand again. ‘Why?’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Why was it addressed to me, the accused? And what happened to it?’ While his expression remained calm, if a little grim, anger tinged his voice.

‘I have no idea. I’m sorry.’

‘I want that letter.’

What did this have to do with her? ‘Le Clere must have picked it up during the mêlée.’

‘Impossible. No. Someone else picked it up.’

‘Who?’

He looked as her sideways. ‘Who do you think?’

‘If William had retrieved the letter, all he had to do was hand it over to the authorities and send you back to prison.’ Her stomach dipped.

‘Precisely. I want that letter, Ellie.’

The blood in her veins seemed to have been exchanged for melted snow. She took a breath. ‘You think I have it.’

He didn’t have to answer.

She did not have his stupid letter, but from the look on his face he wasn’t going to believe a word she said. ‘Why would you want it after all this time?’

His gloved hand tightened on the reins. ‘Because it was addressed to me.’

‘I don’t have it.’

He sighed. An impatient male huff of breath. ‘All right. Let me tell you what happened. You climbed aboard that cart and bandaged me up. For which I thank you. Then you walked back across that field and picked up the letter. Did you read it?’

She pressed her lips together.

‘Answer me, Ellie. Did you read it?’

The man of ice from minutes before evaporated in the heat of his anger. And beneath the rage, she heard the cry of a small boy, afraid and hurt and very lonely. It made her feel sad. Hot prickles burned behind her eyes. Her heart felt wrenched into a thousand pieces. ‘I do not have your letter. Even if I did, why dredge up history?’

He inhaled a long, slow breath and let it go. ‘For the sake of my sanity. If you won’t help me willingly, I will find the truth without your help.’

She reached out, put her hands on his forearm, felt the quiver of sinew and muscle as he steered the horses in a tight circle. ‘Please, leave well alone. If anyone had the letter, they would have used it by now. Perhaps the wind blew it away.’

He shook her hand off, flicked his whip above his leader’s head and set the team into a gallop.

‘Slow down,’ she said as they turned on to the Mall. He didn’t seem to hear. Too busy driving to an inch, setting his team at impossibly narrow spaces with mere inches to spare, his face set like granite. He was angry, but he really had the wrong end of the stick.

It wasn’t very many minutes before he set her down at her door. He didn’t bother to escort her inside. He helped her climb down, then whipped up his horses and left her standing on the curb.

She nibbled at the tip of her glove, remembering those long-ago days. They’d all changed so much. Her, Garrick, William. Only Sissy remained the same.

She shivered.