Friday, 27 December, 1822
Loughton Manor, Leicestershire
Fitzhenry Lovelace, Lord Loughton, accompanied his younger brother George and George’s fiancée, Sophie, Lady Glanford, out of the front door of Loughton Manor into the overcast chill. The traveling chaise awaited, baggage stowed and horses snorting and blowing ice crystals.
Their mother, Lady Neda Loughton, hurried out to say her farewells, tugging a shawl around her before kissing both Sophie and George.
“Safe travels, Sophie,” Fitz said, squeezing her hand. “Your boys will be well cared for while you’re gone. I promise.”
She sent him a long look and finally nodded. “I’m counting on it, Fitz.”
George handed her into the chaise and turned back to grasp Fitz’s shoulders. “Good luck with the other matter, Brother.” He kissed Mother one more time, then climbed in and could be seen tucking a rug up to his lady’s chin as they pulled away.
“What other matter?” Concern etched the corners of Mother’s bright blue eyes.
He put an arm around her and escorted her into the parlor where a fire had been lit, and she turned to face him. “What other matter?”
“The matter of Miss Parker.”
She bit her lip. “Do not tell me you intend to break with her. The banns have been called, and they’re not yet void.”
He helped her into a chair near the hearth and stood facing the fire. “I must give her the option. I must tell her the truth.” The truth that, between bad investments, bad crops, and some very bad loans, he’d bungled the family finances. That the lady who’d never resided in luxury would still have to pinch pennies if she went through with their marriage.
Mother appeared next to him and her soft hand settled upon his cheek. “Do you care for her, Fitz?”
He thought of Miss Parker’s dark, intelligent eyes, and her determination to take care of herself, and her kindness, even while saying exactly what she thought.
Yes, most certainly he cared for her. And he missed her. He hadn’t seen her since late September, and the intervening months had been filled with Father’s illness and death, his desperate attempts to untangle the mess he’d made, and other dark news. He’d let down his father, his family, and his new fiancée.
She was so unlike Alice, his first wife. Their union had been an inevitability, one he’d finally agreed to with some optimism. After all, his parents had fallen into that sort of marriage and true love and partnership had grown between them. Unfortunately, with Alice, long acquaintance and optimism hadn’t produced marital bliss. Far from it.
“Your father’s illness and death unsettled us all. I never told you, but I confess, it seemed a hasty engagement so soon after Alice’s death.”
After a mere ten days acquaintance with Miss Parker, he’d tumbled into an engagement that hadn’t seemed the least bit impulsive.
“There’d been something of an impropriety. When I drove her to visit her grandfather, we were quite late returning to the house party because of a rainstorm. We stopped at an inn until the storm abated and shared a private dining room.”
She eyed him closely. “And that is all?”
“We talked. Quite a lot.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I kissed her hand.” He smiled, remembering. He’d kissed the palm of Mel’s ungloved hand, raising the devil of a blush on her creamy cheeks. Mother didn’t need to know that. “No kissing on the lips.” That had come later.
“Well. From what you describe, it was an impropriety you both might have weathered.”
They might have. Mel was an on-the-shelf spinster who claimed no interest in matrimony and he was a widower. They’d merely spent a full day together from early morning to near midnight, but that interval had allowed him to know Mel Parker. He’d jumped at the chance to spend the rest of his life with her.
Oh, but there’d been so much deuced dark news since.
“I’ll ask again, do you care for her?”
He lifted her hand away from his cheek and held it. “I do. As I said, we did much talking.” Far more than he ever did with Alice. “And I must see her, Mother. I spent last night rereading her letters.” Chatty letters about her journey home and the stock market had devolved into ones fretting about the health of her grandfather after his stroke, and then chiding letters asking about the plans for their future. Some had been misdirected; some he hadn’t seen until his return Christmas Eve. He’d always replied to the ones he’d received, though he was never one to write a tome.
In her letter dated the second week of December she informed him that she would not write again until she heard back from him. He’d been in London, and then had gone directly to Enderby for a prearranged visit to see a friend’s agricultural improvements. He’d only just seen her note.
“Can you manage the boys, Mother? Would you mind awfully if I miss seeing the New Year in with the family? I must travel to Hampshire and speak with Miss Parker in person. A letter will not do.”
She turned her gaze to the burning coals for a long pause, finally nodding. “Yes, you must settle matters with her. Today, though, I’d ask you to visit old Sarah. I was planning to deliver her Christmas basket myself, but with the weather and the children…”
“I’d be happy to, Mother.” Their old nurse had retired to a cottage in a neighboring village. The errand would take him away until at least the late afternoon, and he’d have time to think.
“There have also been some problems with the Cruikworks,” she said, “but I’ll ask the vicar to pay them a call.”
Jem Cruikwork was the son of a longtime tenant, who’d returned from the war with a lingering injury and a troublesome bride. “Jilly and Jem are going at it hammer and tongs again?”
“Something like that.” She glanced at her timepiece. “You have time to take breakfast with the boys and Nancy, and then you must away and make haste to return before dinner.” She took his arm and escorted him to the breakfast room, a spring in her step, and a smile on her lips.
Mother hadn’t smiled so spontaneously since before Father’s death, and she wasn’t at all displeased he would miss seeing in the New Year. What was she up to?
Mel held her last clean handkerchief to her nose and tried to gulp down the small piece of toast she’d nibbled at the last inn.
“We have almost arrived, dear heart.” Lady Hermione Gravelston held the bucket they’d acquired several days earlier at the Crown and Rose, where they’d made the first stop on this journey.
The traveling chaise was a small one with good visibility all around. Hermione’s ample form, squeezed up next to Mel, cushioned some of the bumps. And instead of a rollicking bone-shaking gallop, the icy wet weather had kept the horses to a pace that accommodated Mel’s affliction. She’d had a full two nights and a day of rest, spending Christmas in a Northamptonshire inn, yet still her stomach refused to cooperate.
She squeezed her eyes shut on the sight of a prosperous village, praying they would soon stop for a change of horses, or, though it was still early, for the night. When she opened them, they were passing an inn with a swinging sign displaying a crowned swan.
“We’re not stopping there?” she cried.
Hermione did more of her annoying patting. “No, dear one. It will only be a tiny bit farther.”
“That looked to be a respectable posting inn. I cannot imagine we can find anything better in this part of Leicestershire and… oh.”
The chaise had hit yet another bump. Mel clutched the bucket and retched so prodigiously she expected to see part of her insides in the bottom.
“I cannot… I cannot go on like this.”
“Only a little farther. We’re almost there.”
They approached a break in the boundary wall of a private estate and the postboy looked back. Hermione nodded and waved, and the horses turned onto the muddy drive, passing between low drifts of melting snow.
“This is someone’s home,” Mel said.
“I wrote to a friend about our journey, and when I told her we would be traveling this way, she insisted we stop and visit. After all, we were only in a hurry to depart, but it doesn’t matter if our arrival in Durham is delayed.”
“But…but, Cousin, it’s the Yuletide. Will we not be inconveniencing the family?”
“Not at all.”
The coach wobbled at a turn and another unsettling wave assaulted her. She closed her eyes a moment, holding her breath.
When she opened them, they had arrived at a grand manor house. A groom, a liveried footman, and a stately older man, who had to be the butler, appeared.
An uneasy feeling came over her, one not related to the nausea afflicting her. She had wanted to join the Great North Road in London, but Hermione had argued that this route through the Midlands would throw off their pursuers. Unfortunately, they were passing through Leicestershire, the home of her erstwhile fiancé.
“Who is this friend, Hermione?”
“Lady Neda. You will like her. I haven’t seen her in years, but we had our come-out together.”
“Lady Neda who?”
The footman opened Hermione’s door, and her cousin beamed at the handsome young man, ignoring Mel completely.
The groom appeared on her side, standing ready to help her.
She handed him the bucket and climbed out. “I’m so sorry, but will you see to this?” She couldn’t very well take it in, and she didn’t want to leave it bouncing out its contents inside the chaise as the it headed off to the posting inn.
He blinked and took the bucket, stepping away.
“Wait,” she said. “Whose home is this?”
He blinked again. The servants would think her mad—well she was, wasn’t she? She’d made a hash of her life during the last few weeks. Weepy, and sick, and waspish, she wasn’t herself at all. And this last desperate escape avoiding Mother’s arrival…
“This is Loughton Manor,” he said.
Hades. Her stomach lurched again when it should know very well there was nothing left to cast up. She steadied herself against the side of the chaise.
The groom put aside the bucket. “May I help you, miss?”
She waved him away. “I will be fine,” she said through the wadded handkerchief.
Visiting an old friend, indeed. Hermione had tricked her. No wonder she’d been so accommodating about their hurried departure from Hampshire.
“Mel.” Hermione touched her arm. “Do not worry.”
“How could you?” Maybe she could climb in and have the postilion convey her to that very respectable inn. She might crawl into a bed and stay there until her traitorous cousin had finished her visit. Perhaps she’d grown into a coward since late September.
Oh, very well, she had. And she was ill, too ill for a confrontation. And there were servants hovering around, unloading their trunks, chatting to the postilion, all available to witness her abject humiliation.
“I have it on good authority that Lord Loughton is away at a hunting party,” Hermione whispered back.
Of course, he was. It seemed he spent most of his time away at house parties and hunts.
“Come along now. You’ll feel better inside. We’ll make you some ginger tea.”
Her cousin linked arms with her, and they watched the chaise pull away, returning down the lane.
“One night’s stay, Hermione. We must leave on the morrow, without delay. Mother may have already landed in England. And this break in the weather may not hold.” Mel drew in a breath. “I shall claim illness and go straight to bed and stay there for the duration.”
“No. You’ve done far too much of that already.”
Mel bit back an oath, though she couldn’t deny it was true. She’d spent too many days whining and worrying. Why, Papa would turn in his grave at seeing her acting so ninny-headed. She’d resolved to pull herself together, and she would. Before her unexpected engagement, she’d had a plan: live simply, manage her investments, and remain happily unmarried. And now, she would follow it through. Fitzhenry Lovelace could go to the devil.
She didn’t want to marry him either.
“Perhaps his mother will convey to him that we are no longer engaged.”
“Would it not be better to force his hand? He’s a matrimonial prize.”
And she was not, as everyone with eyes in their head and a knowledge of financial gossip knew. Fitzhenry Lovelace, Lord Loughton now, was too handsome, too rich, and too utterly desirable for the likes of Mary Elizabeth Parker. Which was why his replies to her letters were brief and impersonal, when he bothered to answer at all. It was galling to be ignored, especially when one wasn’t feeling well.
“Why settle for a matrimonial prize when I might someday have a chance at love?” She had no intention of marrying, but talk of love matches always placated Hermione, who missed her late husband terribly.
“You are certain this is not love?”
It had been for her, or so she’d thought. Not at first meeting, of course—Fitz had merely stirred her carnal interest then, being a fine specimen of a man.
But the day she’d spent with him traveling back and forth to her grandfather’s and sheltering from the rain at an inn for a few hours had provided a chance to know him. He had the unusual ability to listen, and he was honest about his limitations. His father and brothers were better at financial management than he was. He claimed having a clever wife wouldn’t intimidate him. By the time they arrived at Lady Clitheroe’s that night, she was well on the way to being head over ears in love with him.
Though she’d never expected it, he’d returned her regard, at least until the terrible news of his father’s illness arrived and he left her to rush home, after which he didn’t. His letters petered off until he finally stopped writing altogether. If this was love, then clearly, love wasn’t enough.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m setting him free.”
“He’ll need to woo you again.”
“It won’t work.” She wouldn’t be fooled twice.
They crossed the wet drive and reached the bottom step of the portico when a woman appeared in the doorway. “Lady Hermione.” Clutching her shawl, she stepped out and grasped Hermione’s forearms. Almost a hug, quite a strong gesture of endearment for a friend one hadn’t seen in decades, a friend Mel had known nothing about. The two women exchanged enthusiastic greetings and Hermione made introductions.
The lady turned a warm smile up to Mel. “Miss Parker. It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She was a pixie, a fairy: petite, golden-haired under her lacy cap, her blue eyes filled with what appeared to be genuine kindness.
“Lady Loughton.” Mel managed a wobbly curtsy. “We are surely inconveniencing you, appearing so suddenly.”
Lady Loughton blinked, slid a gaze to Hermione, and then beamed another smile that wrapped around Mel like a warm blanket. “Not at all. Do come in and sit by the hearth while the servants light the fires in your bedchambers.”
The open doors of a large parlor flanked the hall, but Lady Loughton led them up the stairs to a more intimate sitting room that perhaps adjoined her bedchamber. Before they could seat themselves, servants arrived with tea and a tray of food, and Lady Loughton set about pouring.
Mel accepted her saucer and cup carefully and inhaled. Now that she was out of the bouncing chaise, her stomach had settled enough that she could at least attempt to taste it. She sipped and then reached for a biscuit.
“Mel is not a good traveler,” Hermione said. “She has been casting up her accounts since we left Hampshire.”
“I am feeling better now.”
“Mel?” Lady Loughton asked.
“Short for Mary Elizabeth,” her cousin said.
“You must ask the servants for anything you think will ease your discomfort,” Lady Loughton said.
A carriage that would carry her away from here would do.
“If you hear shouting and pounding feet, that will be the boys. I do hope they won’t disturb you. And I’m sorry Fitz isn’t here to welcome you. He’ll be so happy to see you tonight.”
She spluttered and dabbed at her mouth. Tonight? Hermione had lied.
“Is he not away, Lady Neda?” Hermione asked, all innocence.
“Only for the afternoon. He’s gone to deliver a basket to one of our pensioners who’s been ill.”
Mel’s hand shook, tea sloshing over the rim of the cup and onto her carriage dress. She glared at her cousin and mopped at the spill. “He’s not away hunting?”
“He was, but his brother, George, fetched him home on Christmas Eve. George has just become engaged to Sophie, Lady Glanford. He and Sophie left for London today to see to some business, but they’ll return before Twelfth Night and be married in our parish church. I hope you will stay and attend.”
A wedding.
Mel’s vision clouded, her ankles and feet tingled, and black dots appeared on Lady Loughton’s pale face and white cap.
“Miss Parker?” Her cup disappeared and a hand touched her shoulder.
“Bend over and take deep breaths.” Hermione’s raspy voice came from a distance.
Mel squeezed the top of her nose between her brows and shook her head. “I am fine.”
Lady Loughton moved closer on the sofa. “You must have a rest before dinner. My younger children will be joining us, and Lady Glanford’s two boys, and of course, Fitz. You will get to meet everybody.”
The lady’s excitement was palpable—and she was destined to be disappointed. Mel couldn’t let this farce continue.
“This… this is a mistake, ma’am.” She angled herself to face both the lady next to her and her traitorous cousin seated in a chair just beyond. “I should tell you that I had no part in planning this visit, imposing on you at Christmas, forcing myself upon…upon… You are mistaken about your son. He will not be the least bit happy to see me.”
Her voice shook. She took in a breath, willing herself not to weep. There’d been enough weeping. Blast it all, what would Papa say if he could see her acting like this? What would Grandfather say?
She was acting just like Mother, and that would not do.
She sat up taller. “I appreciate your kindness and your hospitality, but I am quite frankly mortified to be here. In fact, I should be more than happy to remove myself to the nearby inn while you and my cousin visit.”
A long pause ensued during which she focused on the pink roses gracing the china service.
“Mel,” Hermione cautioned.
The pixie next to Mel remained still. She chanced a glance at Lady Loughton and saw her studying the same china pot. Perhaps there were answers in the tea leaves.
Mel’s hands twisted together in her lap. “You must think me rude after you have been so kind, and I suppose I am.”
The door flew open. “Grandmama,” a child cried.
Glad for the interruption, Mel glanced over her shoulder and saw two urchins, a dark-haired boy and a little girl with hair as golden as Lady Loughton’s. Both of them had pulled up and halted, surprised by the presence of visitors.
Lady Loughton beckoned. “Come, Mary, Ben. We have guests.”
The little girl approached, the boy following. She curtsied; he bowed.
“This young man is Benjamin Halverton, Lady Glanford’s younger son. And this young lady is Mary Lovelace, Fitz’s daughter.”
Mary. Mel pressed a hand to her waist. Fitz had told her about his daughter, but she’d never learned the little girl’s name.
Oh, Hades, she hadn’t bothered to ask him for it. It was just as well she was breaking the engagement. What a poor excuse for a stepmother she would be.
The little girl approached and clung to her grandmother’s knees, her blue gaze studying Mel. The little boy’s attention had shifted to the tray of biscuits.
Intelligence flickered in those bright blue eyes; intelligence, interest, and a hint of worry.
She knows, Mel thought. Was it possible? Might Fitz have told her?
“My name is Mary also,” she said. “I am Mary Elizabeth. Do you have a middle name?”
The girl gave her a smile that could break hearts, revealing a full set of delicate white teeth. “I am Mary Anastasia.”
Warmth flooded her. This was a precious child, polite, well-mannered, and soft-spoken, and she might have been hers to love—a stepchild of course, but what of that? Her own cousin Hermione was more of a mother to Mel. “That is a beautiful name.”
“Children, this is Lady Hermione and Miss Parker, and you may each take one biscuit, but don’t spoil your appetite for dinner.”
“I’m so sorry, my lady.” An older woman spoke from the doorway, her cap askew, her expression harried. “Miss Nancy was to watch them. I can’t find her, but I’ve gathered the boys and got them back upstairs. Tilly will take these two back to the nursery.”
A much younger servant appeared in the doorway, little more than a child herself.
“Go along with Tilly, then,” Lady Loughton said.
Benjamin stalled, eying the platter, his lips lined with crumbs, while Mary dawdled over to her grandmother, reaching up to her for a hug and evoking a fond smile from the older lady.
Mel wanted to laugh at the obvious foot-dragging. She would have if her insides weren’t still rumbling.
“There now,” Lady Loughton said, with a final kiss. “Off you go.”
Instead of complying, Mary curtsied to Hermione, and then turned those astonishing blue eyes on Mel.
The child stood in front of her grandmother, close enough for Mel to reach out to her. And she did, her hands and arms working of their own accord.
It was confusing and…and…instinctive. But nevertheless, preposterous, and probably a mistake. She liked children, enjoyed their exuberance even, but she wasn’t marrying this darling girl’s father.
The scent of soap rose around tangled blonde curls, soothing and comforting, while small hands circled Mel’s neck, the little figure crushing against her, feather light lips touching her cheek.
Mel blinked, took a breath, and released the girl, speechless.
“Happy Christmas to you, Miss Parker,” Mary said. “I hope you will stay. We are having games every night, and Grandmama is planning a grand party for Uncle’s wedding and Twelfth Night.”
“Of course, we will stay,” Hermione said.
Still groping for words, Mel could do no more than nod and watch the children depart with the nursemaid.
“Mrs. Turner,” Lady Loughton said, “are the bedchambers for our guests prepared?”
“Yes, I had the girls ready the beds before Christmas Eve, milady, and we’ve just lit the fires.”
“Lady Hermione, Miss Parker, Mrs. Turner is our housekeeper. I fear she’s a bit harried today as we’ve given much of the staff a half-day’s holiday. You’ll want to rest before dinner. She’ll show you to your rooms, if you’re ready.”
“Thank you, yes.” Mel stood. She would find that bedchamber and stay there until she could determine a way to escape to the Swan and continue her journey, with or without Lady Hermione Gravelston. Perhaps she could hire a maid in town and proceed north on her own. Yes, that would be best.
Hermione reached for the teapot, her lips forming a smug smile. “I’d rather like a second cup of tea, and more time to chat. If you have time, Lady Neda.”
The two older ladies exchanged a long look and both sets of eyes turned to Mel.
Stomach roiling and tumbling again, she swallowed hard, taking in a breath meant to settle her insides. She knew exactly what they would be chatting about. Herself. And Fitzhenry Lovelace, Lord Loughton. And their engagement, which she had just made clear was no more.
She cast her cousin a glare and nodded, tersely. She must get herself to the coaching inn and thence to her refuge in Durham. But first, she must find a place to discreetly settle her unhappy stomach.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said, and followed the housekeeper out into the corridor.
A rich carpet ran the length of the corridor, stretched between the paneled and wainscoted walls, and oil lamps hung at intervals between paintings of landscapes. It was altogether far more elegant than any home she’d ever lived in, and there had been many over the course of Papa’s military career. Her natural habitat was far less refined than this, but she was more comfortable there.
Mrs. Turner bent and picked up something from the floor, tsking over it. She tucked the object into the deep pocket of her smock.
“Was that a ball?” Mel asked.
“I do beg your pardon, Miss. The children sometimes play bowls here.”
Elegant and yet not altogether formal. That last bit made her feel less of a fish out of water.
They reached the stair landing and Mel spotted the long kissing bough hanging there.
“The girls put that up, Miss Cassandra and Miss Nancy, and their guest, Miss Cartwright. You’ll meet Miss Nancy at dinner. The two older girls are away visiting some of Miss Cartwright’s relations for a few days.”
Mel paused to stare up at the massive clump of greenery studded with white berries. It was a fanciful item, reminding her of a Yuletide party in Colchester where three of Papa’s officers had kissed her and then proposed, one after the other. On the same night. The nodcocks had all been deep in their cups, and of course, she’d refused them and refrained from telling Papa. Had he known he would’ve packed them off to the Peninsula that very night.
“Your room is just here.” The housekeeper pointed down the continuing corridor. “Second door on the right.”
The nudge was subtle, and politely done, and it jarred Mel out of her woolgathering. They were short-staffed and Mrs. Turner must be terribly busy.
“We’ve no maid to spare, so I’ll help you out of your gown if you’d like to rest now.”
Quiet footsteps behind them made them both turn. Mel’s heart plummeted and rose again with a fresh wave of the nausea she thought she’d conquered.