Chapter Six

Leaving and Living

Frederica took a final look at her bedchamber.

Like a witless fool, she’d been doing that for the past five minutes, but she couldn’t move or turn, not from the slashed-up closet. Was Hartwell right that this thief would’ve slit her throat?

The notes, threatening ones that she’d been receiving these past three months, was that from this thief?

A knock on her bedroom door made her jump. She stuffed the notes she’d kept in her stocking drawer into her bag. Still shaking, the truth of the threats finally dawning, she coughed and found her voice. “Come in.”

Lord Hartwell came inside but left the door wide. “Dawdling. Do I needed to come to toss you over my shoulder to bring you to my carriage?” His lips pursed as his gaze seemed to travel up and down her person. “What have you done? You look guilty.”

“What?”

“You have that look—like you’re sitting on a secret. It always comes before you coax an errand out of me.”

She clutched the bedpost a little tighter. “You’re seeing things. You’ve already agreed to help me with my offers. And I agreed to go with you to Tradenwood. So, no new errands.” She waved her hand to dismiss him. “Please wait downstairs.”

He stayed by the door, leaning with a foot against the molding. “You should know by now, I’m not easily sent on my way. Errand man rules.”

With his big dark gray coat on and gloves on, he was ready to leave, but she wasn’t. A little more time for Downing and her memories—couldn’t she have that?

He sighed and resettled his top hat. “Do you remember a little more?”

“I told you as I told the duke. I don’t remember much. Mostly just being scared. Terrified, actually.”

He nodded. “It’s reasonable to be. It’s actually wise. It’ll help you have more caution.”

Caution? She was in her bedchamber about to shove her hands wrist deep in a drawer of unmentionables with a man she’d tumbled into bed with last night. Was “caution” a word meant for Frederica?

She pulled opened the drawer then stopped. “Would you mind returning downstairs?”

“Why?”

“I’m packing, my lord. I’m not running. My memories haven’t cleared.”

He looked obtuse, but she wouldn’t pull these things out for him to view.

She fingered her silk corset and stays, thankful the thief had spared these items. “Lord Hartwell, you’re in my bedchamber. I don’t know if this is a usual practice for you, but I need for you to go while I pack my stays.”

“Oh. Pardon. I’ll turn, but I’m here to hurry you. I’d like to make it to Tradenwood before your thief returns.”

Anger filled her vision. Without thought, she picked up a garment and flung it at him.

But the sight of her snow-white stays hitting him in the face then being caught in big hands made her limbs go cold.

He didn’t say anything but folded the garment and stuffed it into her open bag upon the mattress. “Fine French silk. I approve.”

Her face felt hot, burning like a candle. “I hate doing stupid things in front of you or the duke.”

“Not so stupid. Could be rather an efficient way of packing, since I sent your maid ahead.”

Frederica put her hand to her cheeks. The floor should open and swallow one of them. But which? Him. Definitely him.

“This is a very pleasant room.”

His voice was low, not teasing.

She scooped up the rest of her unmentionables and stuffed them in her portmanteau. “This was my sanctuary for so many years.” She fingered the indentations of her carved mahogany footboard. “The duke brought back these pink satins and sheers from a trip to India.”

“It looks very fine. Lucy, your favorite, her room is in pink. She might even want a stuffed elephant.”

“Lucy likes dolls. It’s your oldest, Anne, who wants the elephant. She’s the one who wants the grand adventure.”

His brow raised, and he folded his arms. “How much time have you spent with my children?”

“Hopefully, not more than you. A girl needs her father, even if he tires of her.”

“I’m not tired of them. I’m just not good with them. Maria, my late wife, was. I was good at carrying things and doing what she said to do.”

She offered him a smile, then took up her nightgowns from a final drawer. “Lady Hartwell sounds like a good woman.”

“The best. I was lucky to have her.”

The viscount had a distant look in his eyes, and it made Frederica sad again. Except for her friends’ husbands, most men never mentioned a wife in her presence, alive or dead. Things had changed from a simple friendship between Frederica and Hartwell. She touched his arm and offered him a happy nudge. “I’ll be ready in a moment. You don’t have to wait.”

He didn’t leave. Instead, he posted outside the door.

It was no matter. As soon as she retrieved her sheet music, there would be nothing left.

She went to the spot her jewel box had been. “My mother’s jewels, every trinket the duke ever gave her, every bauble he ever bought me was in that box. Proof of my family—of me—is gone.”

“The duke said he’d pay to replace them. And he’s sponsoring a new wardrobe to cheer you.”

“Nice, but you can’t replace memories. You can only forget them.”

Her only claim to her mother was gone. No pearl choker, no ruby bracelet, no fine pearl brooch, Burghley’s favorite. “Do you think the stories of the duke’s love for my mother will remain without evidence? Some relatives want Simone’s stain erased.”

“Miss Burghley, I’m sorry.”

“No need, my lord. That won’t be my story. Surely, I was put in this world to do something, to be something more. There should be glory in my story. Something befitting the favor I’ve been afforded. Something that will make even your handsome face smile.”

“You are a glorious creature, Butterfly.”

“That’s not what I mean, Lord Hartwell.”

“I like that you think my face is handsome.”

She squinted at him, and his gaze was upon her, reaching for her like his arms had this morning. “I’ve a good memory.”

“Yes, you do. And you will see me a lot these next few weeks. Seems that we haven’t done that in a while. Except for a short conversation or a reluctant dance, you…” He looked down at his shoes, changing stances as if he’d suddenly become self-conscious. “I’ve missed our conversations.”

Frederica didn’t know what to do with that admission. It was rare for her not to think of others first, but right now, with a final look at her room, her broken-into-and-violated room, she had nothing to give. So she ignored it and tugged on a tan pair of leather gloves and a poke bonnet.

Head lifting, she turned to the viscount, handed him her bag, then scooped up her heavy shawl. It had a small nick from the thief’s blade, but it was better than the cold November air. “I’m ready. No being tossed over your shoulder.”

“I wouldn’t knock it. Lucy, Anne, and Lydia—all think the view from up here to be very fine.”

She offered him a small smile. He was trying to lift her spirits. “You’re a glorious friend, Lord Hartwell. Let’s hope you prove equal to the task of matchmaker.”

His gaze flickered then settled on her. It felt warm, but her eyes had begun to sting, so she lowered her chin and moved down the stairs.

At the entry of Downing, she looked back. Templeton stood at the base of the steps as he had twelve years ago, but this time he didn’t ignore her, he nodded.

Papa came out of his study. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

Before she could even attempt an embrace, he’d moved back to his duchess. The woman smiled widely and waved before heading toward the pianoforte.

Romulus growled at the duchess then came to the duke.

“You take care of my girl, Hartwell. You’re responsible.”

“Remember, everyone is to assume Miss Burghley went with you on your wedding trip. That will keep her from any unwarranted attention.” His voice was loud and commanding in the duke’s hall.

Her father nodded even as her stepmother frowned.

Frederica patted Remus’s furry chestnut head then walked out onto the portico. It was cold. Her shawl and mourning gown provided a little protection, but the fury bottled up inside kept her warm, kept her stomach churning with heat until she was out of the elements and in the viscount’s carriage.

She didn’t shed a tear. Not a drop. Only a soft whimper escaped when Lord Hartwell plopped onto the seat opposite her, smiling and yawning.

So much had happened, and it was barely noon.

“Should I make a stop at Gunter’s for an ice? That’s been known to change your mood.”

Frederica shook her head. It was enough of a struggle to keep her mind on not crying. If Hartwell continued to be so nice after she forced him to be her nursemaid and matchmaker, she’d become a blubbering sack of ash cloth.

He pushed her bag of slippers and unmentionables to the side then stretched out his long legs. “Miss Burghley, it’s a two-hour drive to Tradenwood—”

“Thank you for your transport, sir.”

“I can be useful for a great deal. A shoulder to cry on and an understanding ear. I can only imagine the thoughts running rampant in that ever-surprising mind.”

“Why, Lord Hartwell? I don’t want to be another problem for you to manage.”

“Technically, you are. I promised your father. But I have other qualifications. The year I spent as your errand boy—errand man, rather—should attest to something. I do take exception to someone trying to terrorize you.”

“Why?”

Hartwell tossed his hat to the spot beside Frederica. “You surprise me. Very little surprises me. Maybe I’m helping in honor of the last woman to surprise me. She was carefree. She loved life, like you do. I’d never heard such a beautiful pianoforte until I heard yours. Then a villain came and took her, not all at once, but a little bit every day, until Maria was gone. If I could’ve fought her stomach cancer, I would’ve. This thief is somebody I can fight. I can bludgeon the fool for making you hurt. Let me help.”

The viscount’s voice was sincere, wrapping about her like a thick blanket. “Miss Burghley, you’ve turned to me for less. My shoulders are weighty enough.”

“You don’t want to know my true thoughts. Keep humoring me. Let our discussions remain light. That’s what we do.”

“That’s what we did, Butterfly, until three months ago.”

His voice had turned from sweet to accusatory.

“What does that mean, my lord?”

He picked at a piece of lint on his scarf. “I’ve noticed. It seems that you stopped noticing me these past few months. Have I offended you?”

“No more than usual.”

He chuckled, but he hadn’t stopped staring. “Will Gunter’s loosen that tongue? At least it will taste better than that medicine-tasting lemonade if you were to accidentally kiss me again.”

“I like that you can joke. I’m not up to it, sir.”

“You need Gunter’s. Yes, you—”

“No…no sweets. I’m frightened. More frightened than I’ve been in a long time.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I forgot. I’m supposed to be light and bubbly around you. Nothing serious. Can’t send you to your cups.”

“Miss Burghley, who told you to be like that to me? It wasn’t me.”

“You want me to compliment your strength, your taste in waistcoats. Or play music for you.”

“You could say I’m handsome, too. That’s always good for a giggle.”

“Why, when it’s true?”

He smiled for a moment. “You do like to please. But I do face criticism for this.” He fingered his reddish blond hair. “Saint Jerome says this coloring is for hellfire. And most depictions of Judas, the traitor to the Christ, have scarlet hair. I’m lucky to have a title to fall back on, or no one would solicit my company.”

Was he serious? The man was beautiful—especially his hair—and he had the kindest heart she’d ever known. “If you’re fishing for another compliment, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“But one will come?” He bit his lip. “Right, Miss Burghley?”

“Why are you trying to flirt? I’m leaving my only home. I’m going to be forgotten, erased like I never happened… It’s a nightmare. You’ll have to wait for an easier day for me to stroke your ego.”

“I’ll wait for you to stroke…my ego. Maybe finger the lines in my palms. They’re still sore from climbing down those vines.”

“I can’t do this. I can’t.” Her face felt wet. She knew she’d been too open in admiring Hartwell. That firm line where she let her emotions and affections get too attached to him had been crossed months ago. And the more she pulled away, the more he seemed to press. She swiped at her face. “Please let me alone.”

“No. No more of this, Miss Burghley.” He shoved his hat out of the way and took a seat beside her. “No one can forget you, not even if they tried. And I have tried these last three months, with you running from our conversations, you stopping your pianoforte concerts when I took a seat nearby. I know it to be impossible to forget you. I know it.” He pulled her against his chest, his arms winding about her in a solid hold, an I-can-barely-breathe caress. “I think if you were embraced more, you’d be more agreeable. Then these silly notions of forgetfulness or running from me would be gone.”

What? No. Don’t think. No. No. Marzipan. She pressed for a second, her palms flat against his waistcoat, but stopped.

Why end the feeling of security? She let his comfort envelop her and tipped her face into his shoulder, sinking deeper into the woolen folds of his coat, drinking in the scent of sherry and cigars, still perfuming his clothes from yesterday’s celebration. “This is wrong, Lord Hartwell.”

“Wrong to hug a friend? No, I don’t think it’s that way at all.” His lips met her forehead, right along the bruise that still smarted, but his mouth was gentle, purringly soft. “I think I’ll keep testing my hugging theory, all the way to Tradenwood.”

She should slap Hartwell or pull away from his heavy arms, but there wasn’t much fight left in her, just a sack of tears in her chest that she refused to spill.

Leaving her father’s house as she’d come to the duke—with less than what she’d come with, Frederica let her friend hold her. “With your help, Hartwell, I’m going to make a good marriage. I won’t be uprooted and made to feel like this again. Never again.”

He put his chin atop her bonnet, crushing the brim a little. “Hush. You made a pretty good pillow before. I think you owe me a little more pillow. No doubt there will be many back-breaking errands you’ll send me on before Christmas.”

Lord Hartwell was good for a joke, but this was her life. She needed to find her spot, and it wasn’t as a replacement for her friend’s bedding.