“You’re thinking so hard I can see smoke coming out of your ears.”
“If my brain catches fire, at least we’ll be warmer.” James glanced over at Eddington, who was drawing his big bay gelding alongside James’s dappled gray, ignoring the cloud his breath formed every time he spoke. “I’m just worried.”
“Worrying isn’t going to do you any good now.”
Now that James had left the farm in the care of his aging parents and a brand new steward to beg the protection of some bored lord? Probably not. He just couldn’t help but be anxious—there were so many things that could go wrong.
“You’re sure there will be aristocrats at this house party?”
Eddington nodded, pulling the collar of his greatcoat tighter about his neck against the sleet falling like spoonfuls of freezing porridge all around them. “Phillip Maitland might not be rich and titled, but he has family and friends who are. And the Maitlands are a loyal bunch. The purpose of this house party is to give Phillip’s daughter some polish before she makes her come-out this Season, so at least one of the other Maitlands will be there in a show of family support for her. And if there isn’t someone at the house party that can help you directly, there will be someone who can introduce you to the right person.”
James briefly wondered if the duke himself would attend. How much did His Grace know about his sister’s prior relationship with a mere farmer?
“If I have to go somewhere else to beg for help after the house party it may be too late, especially if the weather turns ugly. Grimsby’s deadline is fast approaching.”
Eddy motioned toward a small stately home coming into view among the rolling Cotswold hills. “Well, let’s hope there’s a duke or marquess here that firmly believes in noblesse oblige.”
An hour later James was warming himself before the fire in what was to be his chamber for the next two weeks, trying to decide the most tactful way to ask a complete stranger for a loan. A knock on the door interrupted his musings, and Eddington poked his head in.
“I have good news and bad news.”
“Give me the good news first,” James said, flopping down into a chair near the hearth.
Eddington took the chair opposite his friend with considerably more grace. “The Marquess of Hadleigh is here.”
“And what do we know about him?”
“He’s young, wealthy, and eager to prove himself a great lord.”
James sat up a little straighter. “Do you think he’d be amenable to aiding an overwhelmed farmer?”
“Possibly.”
“Then what’s the bad news?”
The corners of Eddington’s mouth turned down. “He is the only aristocratic guest. The others are well enough off, but not wealthy enough to produce three thousand pounds...except for Lady Cecilia. But she won’t be useful.”
James felt like he’d been punched in the chest. She was here! “Lady Cecilia?”
“Yes,” Eddington answered slowly, his eyes darting around the room. “I’m sorry. I did tell you at least one member of the family would attend. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a female member with no husband to petition, and one you have a past with.”
James sat in silence for a long minute, concentrating on breathing normally. He foolishly hadn’t prepared himself for her actual presence, and now he had to contend with a jumble of emotions right here in front of Eddington.
“I can’t borrow money from a woman,” he managed at last. “And certainly not from Cecilia.”
Eddington shook his head. “Of course you can’t. Nor could she deal effectively with Grimsby if a problem arose.”
James scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to clear his mind by sheer force of will. “That leaves me with Hadleigh. He will undoubtedly find me vulgar if I lay out my case plainly before him and ask for his protection at dinner. You’ll have to help me devise a way to sound like a gentleman when I speak to him.”
They spent the next thirty minutes putting together some topics James could use when conversing with the marquess. And both James and Eddington took great pains with their appearances as they made ready for the social hour before dinner, James even allowing Eddington’s valet to brush his clothing and tie his cravat.
But when they entered the drawing room at the appointed time, they found they could not locate the Marquess of Hadleigh.
“Good evening, Mr. Eddington, Mr. Fitzsimmons.” Margaret Maitland greeted them each with a nod as she circulated among the guests. “I trust you are feeling well-rested this evening.”
Eddington took her offered hand and bowed over it. “Indeed we are, Miss Maitland. It seems not everyone is as fortunate as we are, though. We were hoping to speak with Lord Hadleigh for a moment before dinner, but he does not appear to have come down from his chamber yet.”
She took her hand back and shook her head. “Nor will he, the physician said. Not for several weeks.”
“Physician?” Eddington asked.
“Weeks?” James put in, only half registering the note of anxiety in his voice.
“Did you not hear?” Miss Maitland took half a step closer. “He was conversing with my brother this afternoon,” she answered in a quiet voice, “and was paying more attention to his words than to where he was going.”
James winced inwardly, knowing that whatever came next was bound to be painful for both himself and the marquess.
“Lord Hadleigh fell down the staircase and broke his leg. He’s confined to bed until further notice.”
For the second time that day, James felt as though he’d been punched. Not only would a broken leg prevent Hadleigh from participating in house party events for the entire duration, but he would probably be dosed with laudanum to combat the pain.
He would be asleep or insensible.
And James’s hopes for Hadleigh’s patronage disappeared.
~*~
It was as if her conversation with Margaret had conjured him directly into her cousin’s drawing room.
Cecilia spotted James from across the room. Even though it had been seventeen years since she’d set eyes on him, she recognized him easily. His hair was shorter now, but still the same golden brown it had been when she’d last run her fingers through it. His skin was not as tanned as she remembered, but his face and hands were still several shades darker than those of the other guests. His clothes were some years out of fashion, but were as neat and well-tailored as they had been during that long ago visit to London.
What was he doing here? She didn’t remember his name being on the guest list Phillip’s wife had shown her. Nor could she fathom how a farmer from Kent would have an acquaintance with her idle cousins in Gloucestershire.
But then again, no one would have ever guessed that the same farmer had once been very, very close to a duke’s daughter.
She circulated about the room, mingling with her cousin’s guests and making small talk about the usual nonsense, pretending her heart wasn’t beating as though she’d danced a dozen reels. Her eyes took on a life of their own and kept darting toward James, watching as he performed the same rituals. Was he as nervous as she was? Had he even noticed she was there?
And then he was walking toward her.
Dear God in heaven, what did one say to the only man one had ever loved seventeen years after breaking his heart?
“Cousin, are you acquainted with Mr. Eddington and Mr. Fitzsimmons?”
Cecilia focused on Margaret, who was positioned between the two gentlemen as they approached, and forced herself to breathe normally. “I don’t believe so. Perhaps you’ll do the honors?”
Apparently, one pretended not to know the broken-hearted party at all.
Cecilia offered her hand to Mr. Eddington as Margaret made the introduction, and attempted what she hoped was a genteel smile. “It’s a pleasure to have a face to put with the name—my cousins tell me you’ve been spending a fair amount of time here since you settled in at Westwood.”
“I wouldn’t say that I’ve settled in just yet,” Mr. Eddington replied politely. “But it has been very pleasant to have neighbors as welcoming as the Maitlands.”
“And Mr. Fitzsimmons,” Cecilia said, turning to face James and offering her hand. He took it carefully, his brown eyes intent on her blue ones despite his relaxed expression. “I understand you have been visiting Mr. Eddington these past few days. Are you enjoying your stay in the Cotswolds?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t experienced much of the region yet.” He touched only her fingertips, but stroked his thumb across them before letting go. “My stay has been all business up until today.”
“And what kind of business are you in?” Cecilia asked, as if she hadn’t heard all the stories about his childhood on the farm.
“I am here to rescue someone,” he told her. The corners of his mouth curved upward in what she recognized as his I’m-being-modest smile. “A relation got himself mixed up in a distasteful business matter, and I am attempting to keep him out of debtors’ prison.”
There was a Banbury tale if she’d ever heard one—who would admit that a family member was in financial trouble? But he hadn’t called attention to her lie so she decided to play along with his, raising her brows and forming her mouth into a little O. “How awful,” she breathed. “I do hope you are successful.”
“So does his relation,” Mr. Eddington replied in a rather serious tone.
Margaret’s lips quirked and pressed together, as if she was trying to fight a smile. “I’m sure he does. You will let us know how it turns out, Mr. Fitzsimmons?”
“I will.”
Cecilia remarked on the weather, hoping—for once—to steer the conversation into more conventional waters. Or at least to a topic she didn’t have to think much about. Her mind was busy sorting out a quandary she hadn’t seriously considered, despite her conversation with Margaret. Should she tell James about the blackmail? It was one thing to keep the incident to herself when his whereabouts were unknown to her, but here he was in her cousin’s home, an arm’s length away.
Was he still unattached? If so, would he marry her to save her brother?
Did she want him to?
James and Mr. Eddington took their leave, drifting toward a knot of gentlemen that were talking near the window. Cecilia counted slowly to five, then drew her cousin to a quieter corner of the room.
“That was him.”
“Who was whom?” Margaret asked, her brows raised.
“Mr. Fitzsimmons is the man I wrote the scandalous letter to.”
“The letter that Grimsby is using to extort money from you?”
Cecilia nodded, her eyes seeking out James before refocusing on Margaret. “Yes.”
“He’s the lover from long ago?”
“He is.”
Margaret frowned. “Wait, didn’t I just introduce him to you?”
Cecilia felt herself cringe. “You did. I apparently decided that it would be easier to pretend I didn’t know him, or that I’d forgotten him.”
“But you haven’t.”
Forget James? No. Even before Grimsby had dredged up old memories with her letter, James had been in her thoughts more than one would think possible after so long an absence. “Even if I had, Grimsby’s little enterprise would have brought him to the forefront again. But things did not end well between us, and I was unsure of Mr. Fitzsimmons’s reaction to me.”
“He seemed perfectly civil,” Margaret replied. “Assuming he remains so, you now have your chance to tell him about the letter and Grimsby’s use of it.”
“Do you think I should?”
“The way I see it, you have three options. You can quietly pay his lordship the money he demands and get your letter back. You can come up with a plan that results in Grimsby’s downfall without harming your brother. Or you can ask Mr. Fitzsimmons his opinion of the matter since, strictly speaking, he is already involved.”
Cecilia smiled and touched her cousin’s arm. “This is why I came to you in the first place—you can always boil a situation down to its essence. Now all I have to do is come up with a way to put Grimsby in his place.”
“You won’t tell Mr. Fitzsimmons about the letter, then?”
“I don’t believe I will. The only reason he’s involved is because his name is on the letter. If I can resolve the situation, he need never know it was an issue at all.”
Margaret opened her mouth as if to reply, but was interrupted when Phillip appeared at her side holding out a piece of paper to Cecilia.
“This came in the post this morning addressed to me, but it’s for us both.”
“Why are you bringing correspondence to the drawing room twenty minutes before dinner?” Margaret asked, her voice a mixture of irritation and concern.
“I only just found it a few minutes ago, when I was looking for the book I wanted to lend to Mr. Hobbes. It’s from Orchard Lake.”
Orchard Lake was the Duke of Alston’s favorite residence. Cecilia accepted the paper from her cousin and scanned it quickly. It wasn’t a summons to her brother’s death bed, but it wasn’t a glowing report either.
“It seems His Grace has taken to his bed again,” she said aloud for Margaret’s benefit. “The duchess writes that while he is too weak to walk unassisted and his breathing grows ragged, he is still in good spirits with a healthy appetite. She does not want us to abandon the house party, but wishes us to be apprised of his condition in case...”
Margaret nodded. “We are apprised, then. And Her Grace will certainly inform us of any changes.”
Cecilia handed the paper back to Phillip. “Thank you. You’ll find me again if more news arrives?”
“Of course.”
Phillip tucked the paper into the pocket of his cutaway coat, patted Cecilia’s shoulder, then threaded his way across the room, presumably in pursuit of Mr. Hobbes. Cecilia’s eyes met Margaret’s and she suspected they were both thinking the same thing: whatever Cecilia was going to do about the Earl of Grimsby, she had better do it before he decided to make public the contents of her letter.