Regency Affairs Part 2: Books 7-12 Of 12

‘You’re going in the wrong direction,’ she called as he started going towards the boating lake.

‘Am I? How remiss of me.’ A dimple shone in his cheek. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to show me the proper way, Mrs Wilkinson? Getting hopelessly lost could ruin the entire matter. Consider it a fair exchange for leaving me on the dance floor.’

‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse? Find the tree and all obligation will end.’

‘Something like that,’ Sir Christopher murmured.

Hattie placed her gloved hand on his arm. Every inch of her being hummed with awareness of him and the tantalising sandalwood scent he used. A pleasant conversation would not harm anyone, particularly as she remained in control. Mrs Reynaud was right. It was about time she started living, rather than hiding behind her widowhood.

‘We should take the left-hand fork here,’ he said.

She glanced at him under her lashes. His entire being radiated smugness. ‘You engineered this walk! You know precisely where the tree is. Stephanie gave you directions.’

‘Walks are more pleasant if there are two people, even if one of them has tendencies to be sharp-tongued.’

‘I’m not. What is the point of having a mind if I can’t speak it?’

‘Never apologise. Women fall over themselves to falsely compliment me. You make a change.’

‘Why were you in the card room?’ she asked to keep her mind away from the potential rocky subject of comparing her to other women. ‘You hardly seem to be the shy and retiring type. Were you waiting for a lady to appear? One of those who fall over at your compliments? Surely you can confess all to a sharp-tongued widow like me.’

He stopped abruptly in front of a spreading oak. All humour vanished from his countenance. ‘You continue to do me a disservice, Mrs Wilkinson. I only ever pursue one lady at a time.’

The butterflies started beating inside her. One lady at a time. He had sought her out after the dance when he could have sent the gloves.

The news made her blood fizz and tingle.

She removed her hand from his arm and took a gulp of life-giving air. She was not going to start to believe in the illusion of romance again. Charles Wilkinson had for ever cured her of that. Sir Christopher had an ulterior motive, but he would be disappointed. She would show him that at least one woman would not tumble into his bed with the merest crook of his finger or a seductive laugh. Two could play this game. He would learn a lesson.

‘Is that the only explanation I will get?’ She forced her voice to sound playful. You’ll trap more flies with honey than vinegar, she reminded herself.

‘You require more?’

‘The mystery intrigues me. Did you see the fan play between Mr Hook and my niece and know where the proposed liaison would happen?’

‘I was not playing an errant knight. Alas.’ Kit stopped and stared out into the garden with its low hum of bees and faint birdsong rather than at the soberly dressed woman who stood next to him. The scene contrasted so much with the thick mud and scent of gunpowder that had filled his nostrils a year ago. The feeling of being truly alive washed over him again.

The circumstances, rather than the company. Kit forced the brief panic down his throat. After his mother’s departure when he was four and his later experience in Brighton, he’d vowed never to care about a woman. In any case, Mrs Wilkinson was far too severe for his taste. She wanted an explanation, she would get it. That would be an end of the matter.

‘A year ago last Thursday, I attended a ball in Brussels. It was all gaiety, but like many other men I had to leave early. We went from the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom to the mud and stink of war. I returned, but many of my comrades didn’t.’ He waited for her to take the hint and politely change the subject.

‘You were at Waterloo? As a soldier?’ she asked, her eyes growing wide and luminous under her bonnet.

‘I was at Waterloo,’ he confirmed.

‘No one ever mentioned you being in the Army. Not a single word.’ She turned her head and all he could see was the crown of her impossible bonnet and the back of her shoulder.

‘Does it bother you?’

‘It is unexpected. I have heard stories …’

Kit could well imagine what was said of him. And for the vast majority of his life, he hadn’t cared. It was far better to be thought heartless than to be ridiculed as someone whose mother couldn’t love him, who had left his father because of him.

After Waterloo, it had changed. Brendan Hook had thought him a good enough friend to die for. London and his former pleasures lost their allure.

‘It doesn’t matter what others think. It has never mattered,’ he said. ‘The battle only occupied a few hours of my life. Being in the Army lasted a few short weeks and then I went back to my usual haunts.’

‘You are wrong to minimise it,’ she said, turning back towards him. ‘Very wrong. You played a part in a great victory. People will be celebrating Waterloo for years and you can say that you were there.’

Kit regarded her earnest face with its English-rose complexion, gazing up at him. She possessed a delicate beauty, he realised with a start. He wondered how he’d overlooked it before. But the highly conventional widow was also not his type.

Kit was very strict about the women in his life and his rules surrounding them. They asked for no more than he was prepared to give. They were experienced and knew the rules without them being clearly stated. He always ended it before emotions were involved.

Mrs Wilkinson was trouble, but he was also loath to leave before this lesson in mild flirtation finished.

He turned the conversation to more mundane subjects as they continued towards the tree. To his surprise, the conversation about gardens was far more enjoyable than he had considered possible at the start of the journey.

‘Behold the tree. We can turn back now,’ Mrs Wilkinson said as they rounded a bend.

‘Yes, the tree. It is a magnificent sight.’

A gentle breeze moulded her skirt to her remarkably fine legs. Mrs Wilkinson possessed a far better figure than he’d first imagined. Kit struggled to keep his gaze on her face and not wonder why she had failed to remarry. None of his business.

‘You keep changing the subject.’ She laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Why keep your service a secret? Weren’t you supposed to be there?’

‘I rapidly acquired a lieutenant’s commission in the Life Guards once I heard of Boney’s escape and was lucky to get that. Everything was snapped up in days. The whole of London society seemed to be in Brussels last year. A number of friends couldn’t even get a commission, but they came anyway. They got out when the fighting got too hot and left it to the proper soldiers.’

The green in her eyes deepened. ‘But you stayed until the end. You didn’t run, even though you are determined that I should think the worst of you. If you had run, it would have been the first thing you said.’

‘I know how to be a soldier.’ Kit’s shoulders became light. Even without his saying it, she believed he’d done the right thing. He hated to think how few people ever believed that of him. It mattered. ‘Eton prepares one for it.’

The memory of those long-ago days swept over him. Back then, he’d thought himself capable of anything. In his final year, he’d believed himself in love and that Constance Stanley would marry him once he asked her.

His illusions were shattered when he’d arrived at her house unexpectedly with the engagement ring in his pocket. He’d overheard her assessment of him as the son of two wicked people and how her family needed his money and how she’d feared that she would have to marry a devil. He had stepped out of the shadows. Constance’s shocked face had said it all. All of his father’s warnings thudded into him. He bid her and her companion good day and gave the ring to the first beggar woman with a baby at her breast that he saw.

Never again had he allowed himself to contemplate marriage. Never again had he allowed a woman to get close, preferring to end the thing before it happened. Kit had a variety of presents he’d send—a bouquet to end a flirtation, a strand of pearls to end a brief but hugely enjoyable weekend, sapphires to end something longer.

Mrs Wilkinson turned her back on him and walked with quick steps over to the cedar. She stood there, unmoving for a moment, her brows drawn together in a frown. He waited for her to make a remark about the weather or society.

‘Why aren’t you down in London? With Rupert’s father?’ she asked.

He turned from her and stared towards where the great cedar towered over the garden. Everything was so peaceful and still, except for the distant cooing of a dove, calling to its mate. No danger here. This was the England he’d fought for, not the bright lights of London. He wanted that peace that had eluded him. He wanted to show that he had changed and that he did deserve a future, a future that he did not intend to squander. ‘Rupert’s father died.’

‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry for you and for Mr Hook.’

‘False sympathy fails to matter. You never knew him.’

‘You’re wrong. Any man’s death should be remarked on and he was your friend. You must miss him,’ she said with an intense earnestness. ‘When did you decide to come up to Northumberland?’

‘When I was on the battlefield, surrounded by men dying on either side, I swore that next year I would be somewhere which epitomised what I was fighting for.’ The words came from deep within him. He wanted her to understand that on the battlefield he’d decided what was important and how his life needed to change. She, of all the people he’d met recently, might understand and the very thought unnerved him. ‘I thought of the fair, the Stagshaw Bank Fair, and how it is held every year on the fourth of July.’

Her dusky-rose lips turned up into an incredulous smile. ‘You are asking me to believe that you decided to come to Northumberland when you were at Waterloo? I can think of a dozen other more likely places that should have sprung to mind.’

‘It seemed as good a place as any to my fevered mind. When I was a lad, my uncle brought me here. The day has long stood in my memory. He bought me a wooden jumping-jack.’ He shook his head.

There was no need to explain that it had been the first time since his mother’s departure that he’d received a gift or anyone had taken notice of him beyond cuffing him on the ear. He’d kept that jumping-jack for years, hidden in his handkerchiefs so that his father would not stumble across it and destroy it.

‘It seemed like a place worth fighting to see again. I said as much to Brendan, who was on my right—there will be time enough to reminisce as the years go by, but next year I would be up in Northumberland and would go to the fair. He agreed to go with me.’

‘And that is why you and Mr Hook are here,’ she breathed. ‘To honour your vow.’

Kit closed his eyes and said a prayer for Brendan’s soul. He had said enough. She didn’t need to know the rest. He’d asked Brendan to exchange places with him because he thought he’d get a better shot. Brendan had agreed with a laugh and a clap on his back. The next thing he’d heard was the soft thud of a bullet hitting Brendan in the chest. Brendan’s last words were about his son and his hopes for Rupert’s future. Kit had promised and he intended to keep that promise.

‘But he would have been here. We made a vow together.’

‘Is it why Rupert is with you? To fulfil his father’s vow?’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘It would appear that I misjudged Mr Hook. There are not many men who would have done that.’

‘His mother died soon after he was born.’ Kit stared at the grass. There was no need to explain that Rupert’s mother had been a courtesan and they had only married on her deathbed, at Brendan’s insistence. Seventeen and a widower with a baby. Brendan always claimed his heart had died with the woman. Kit tended to counter that at least he had a heart. ‘Rupert’s grandmother took charge of the boy, but she died shortly after hearing of her son’s death. I promised her that I’d make sure her grandson would become the fine man that his father wanted him to be.’

He willed her to understand his reasoning.

‘I hope the fair lives up to your expectations.’

He forced a smile. ‘I’m sure it shall. Anyway, I was invited along with Rupert to the ball, but I found I needed time alone to reflect, particularly as they had played a reel that I remember from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. I went to the card room for a few moments and found a book. You know what happened next.’

‘I’m sorry for not believing you.’ She took a step closer to him. Her dark-red lips softly parted.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He knew he lied. It mattered more than he wanted it to. ‘It is in the past. I rarely think about the past.’

‘It was my fault. I rushed away from the dance floor,’ she whispered, putting her hand on his arm. ‘We should have had the second dance. I would have if … if I’d realised about your past.’

‘Never do something because you feel sorry for a person.’ He covered her hand with his. Their breath laced. He knew that all he had to do was to lean forwards a few inches and her mouth would yield. He was surprised that he wanted to. But for the lesson in flirtation to be complete, the movement needed to come from her. He’d be magnanimous in the lecture which he gave her later.

‘Aunt Hattie, Aunt Hattie! I know you are here. Moth found me. We have visitors! You will never guess. Livvy has an admirer!’ a young voice called.

Mrs Wilkinson jumped back and her cheeks flamed bright red. ‘I need to see my niece. You do understand the propriety of the thing.’

Kit forced his hands to his sides. His little lesson in flirtation was proving more enjoyable than he’d considered. He would see where the game led. ‘No one is preventing you.’

Chapter Three

Hattie picked up her skirts and ran to the rose garden, not daring to look behind her and see if Sir Christopher was following. If Portia hadn’t shouted, she would have kissed him. Her lips ached with longing. It went against everything she had promised herself and yet she didn’t feel ashamed, only disappointed. The next time … Hattie stopped and pressed her fingers to her temples. There would be no next time. Sir Christopher had explained why he was in the card room. The matter was finished. She’d survived. Hattie picked up speed as if the devil himself was after her.

As she reached the rose garden, Portia hurtled into her, throwing her arms about her. ‘You will never guess who is here!’

Hattie disentangled herself from the hug and regarded her favourite niece who was four years younger than her sister, Livvy, and still far more interested in four-legged creatures than young men. Her pinafore had a series of smudges and a solitary wisp of hay clinging to the hem. Hattie knew despite her mother’s orders Portia had spent time in the stables, helping out.

She always kept a tit-bit in her pocket when Moth came to call. It was no surprise to Hattie that Moth had gone wandering off to find her treat, but a small part of Hattie wished she hadn’t and that she and Sir Christopher had remained under the cedar tree. Alone.

‘Sir Christopher and Mr Hook,’ Hattie answered, putting away all thoughts of kisses from Sir Christopher. It wasn’t going to start.

If she ever was attracted to any man again, it would be to someone who was steady, sober and scandal free, someone who was completely different from Charles Wilkinson. Not someone who lived and breathed sin. If Charles Wilkinson had a dark wild side which no one knew about until it was too late, then Sir Christopher was midnight-black wild through and through. She forgot that at her peril. Sir Christopher was not a man to be relied on. A man whose wit and conversation were to be enjoyed rather than to be thought of as a life’s partner.

‘Sir Christopher wanted to return my gloves from last night and Mr Hook came along for accompaniment.’

Portia’s plump face fell. ‘You knew? How!’

‘Aunts know these sorts of things. Little birds.’

‘I’ve the honour of being the little bird,’ Sir Christopher said, coming to stand by her, a bit closer than strictly proper. His stock was ever-so-slightly undone and she glimpsed the strong column of his throat. Hattie hurriedly pretended an interest in the roses. ‘Your aunt met me, Miss Portia, and kindly showed me the cedar of Lebanon’s location.’

Portia beamed back at Sir Christopher, her entire countenance lighting up under his voice’s spell.

‘There, you see,’ Hattie said, putting an arm about her niece’s shoulders and turning her away from Sir Christopher. ‘All is explained.’

‘How did you find the cedar tree, Sir Christopher? Does it approach the magnificence of your boyhood home or surpass it?’ her sister, Stephanie, called out from where she sat in the rose garden with a silver teapot by her side. On her other side perched Mr Hook, looking much like an overgrown schoolboy. Livvy appeared all young innocence in her light-blue muslin gown, but the tips of her ears glowed pink. Hattie hated to think how quickly that sort of innocence vanished.

‘I found what I was looking for, yes.’ Sir Christopher gave Hattie a searing look.

Hattie resisted the temptation to explore the renewed aching in her lips. No one could brand with just a look. She clenched her fists. She was not going to behave like a fool again. Heady romance was an illusion that she could ill afford.

‘I discovered Sir Christopher and kept him on the right path.’ Her voice squeaked on the word path. Hattie cleared her throat. ‘It was the charitable thing to do.’

Stephanie, who looked like an older and plumper version of Livvy, held out the gloves with a superior smile. ‘How clever of you to visit this morning, Hattie … particularly as Sir Christopher thought you’d be here. I wonder how that came about?’

A distinct air of accusation rang in Stephanie’s voice. She thought Hattie had arranged all this! Sir Christopher wore a smug expression as if it was precisely the outcome he’d hoped for. Hattie shifted uneasily. Why did he want anyone to think they had a flirtation? She could hardly be the type of woman with whom he generally flirted.

‘I’ll take possession of them. They have caused a great deal of trouble.’ Hattie plucked them from Stephanie. A faint scent of sandalwood caressed her nostrils. She hurriedly stuffed them in her basket. When she arrived back at the Dower House, she would put them in her bottom drawer, never to be worn again.

‘You really are too careless, Hattie. Those gloves were a gift. I spent hours getting those bows correct. First you mislaid them at the ball and then you place them in the basket all higgledy-piggledy.’ Stephanie carefully poured a cup of tea. ‘You were always the careless one of the family. When will you ever grow up and take responsibility for your actions?’

Sir Christopher cleared his throat. ‘I was grateful for the excuse to call.’

‘Will you and your godson be in the Tyne Valley long?’ Stephanie asked in a speculative tone.

‘It depends on a number of things.’

‘It will depend on Aunt Harriet, that is what Sir Christopher means,’ Portia said, bristling with self-importance.

‘What on earth are you talking about, Portia?’ Stephanie asked with an arched brow.

‘Aunt Harriet is in the midst of a flirtation with Sir Christopher,’ Portia burst out, her entire being quivering with excitement. ‘Last night in the card room at Summerfield as well as today beside the cedar. Livvy told me. She swore me to secrecy, but that’s why Sir Christopher kept the gloves. Why will no one tell the truth?’

‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ Sir Christopher said in a low tone.

‘Next time I want to go, Mama. Things happen at balls. Please, Mama. Pretty please.’

‘You are twelve, Portia,’ Livvy replied with crushing firmness. ‘You have years to wait.’

Portia stuck out her tongue.

‘Portia, you know it is wrong to repeat tales, particularly highly embroidered ones,’ Hattie said before either of her nieces uttered another damning phrase or their squabbling descended into all-out war. ‘Sir Christopher has returned the gloves and seen the famous tree. His time will be required elsewhere. Do not seek romance where there is none, young Portia.’

Sir Christopher showed no inclination to take her hint and to depart. If anything, he seemed to be amused at her discomfort. He sat down and accepted the cup of tea that Stephanie held out. ‘Fascinating place. Northumberland. My godson and I look forward to attending the Stagshaw Bank Fair.’

‘Oh, the fair. Of course, I should have guessed the reason for you being here.’ Her sister leant forwards. ‘Mrs Wrigglesworth said it true when we first heard of your arrival—Stagshaw Fair attracts all sorts of people. Everyone had wondered. But hopefully having seen the delightful entertainment Northumberland has to offer, you can be persuaded to stay longer.’

Hattie bit her lip. Stephanie was up to something. She could feel the sense of impending doom creeping up her spine. She dismissed it. Stephanie knew of Sir Christopher’s reputation. She’d never dare.

‘I’m sure Sir Christopher is fully capable of finding entertainment to occupy his time,’ Hattie said, seeking to end the discussion. ‘We mustn’t presume, Sister.’

‘My godson and I would be delighted to take a full part in the village life while we are here. The estate I inherited has been neglected for far too long. And the company is utterly charming.’ He inclined his head. The twinkle in his eyes deepened. ‘We should go for a picnic out to Stagshaw to see what it is like before the fair. A local guide would prove of great assistance.’ His voice became silken smooth. ‘Would tomorrow suit, Mrs Wilkinson?’

Hattie’s mouth went dry. There should be a thousand different reasons why she should refuse, but she heard herself say, ‘Tomorrow would be wonderful.’

‘Then it is all settled. Tomorrow at noon.’

‘We will all go.’ Hattie looked at Livvy, who suddenly straightened her back and blushed a violent pink at the hopeful glance Mr Hook gave her. Now that she knew Mr Hook was properly interested in making an honourable offer she was prepared to help. They did deserve a chance to get to know each other better, properly supervised. A picnic was hardly a debauched party. ‘Livvy and Portia love picnics. It will make for a splendid expedition. You were saying just the other day, Stephanie, how we ought to picnic more often now that the fine weather had arrived.’

‘Then it is settled. The day will be much brighter for the presence of all the ladies here.’

‘Oh dear!’ Stephanie banged her cup down. ‘Tomorrow is no good at all. Far too much is on. Livvy and Portia have their dancing class. And I will be required at the Corbridge Reading Rooms. Colonel Cunningham will be thrilled to learn that we now have the world expert on newts in our midst. An illustrated lecture must be organised before Mr Hook departs.’

‘Please, there is no need,’ Mr Hook said, turning a violent red. ‘It is nothing. My research is at an early stage.’

‘I disagree, Mr Hook.’ Stephanie raised an imperious hand. ‘You mustn’t be allowed to hide your light under a cloak of false modesty. You’ve informed me about your prowess and this must be shared with the neighbourhood. Immediately, before the schedule is cast into iron. There is a committee meeting tomorrow which I must attend.’

‘Stephanie!’ Hattie glared at her sister. Stephanie enjoyed the kudos of being on the village hall committee, but hated actually doing any work. She always produced the flimsy excuses to avoid the meetings where events like lectures were decided. ‘We’re talking about an invitation to a picnic, rather than this summer’s lecture series schedule, which was decided weeks ago.’

‘You must go of course, Hattie. You gave your word.’ Stephanie waved a vague hand in the air. ‘I feel certain that Sir Christopher and his godson understand why I must decline. Mr Parteger told the Colonel the other day that the lecture series was looking a bit thin. And the Colonel had the temerity to blame me. Schedules are made to be altered.’