Chapter Six
Henry could not focus. He’d been trying since the day before to forget his meeting with John Ramsbury, but every time he closed his eyes, John’s face mocked him, remorseful and yet completely deceitful.
He pushed back from his desk and went to the window, gazing out into the gloomy afternoon, clouds hanging low with the threat of rain. Though his anger had dissipated somewhat, he still could not settle his mind. He was restless, and pacing the halls of this great, echoing house did nothing to help. He leaned against the window frame, eyes unseeing as they skipped over the familiar landscape.
Movement caught his attention, and he squinted at a slim figure hurrying down the drive, dressed in a blue pelisse and bonnet. The woman glanced back, displaying her delicate features in profile. Miss Sinclair.
A new feeling rose inside him then, niggling past his pride and anger. He had been in a fuming haze when he’d returned from his ride yesterday, but he could still remember the shock in Miss Sinclair’s eyes when he’d berated her in the entry. Shock—and fear.
But why should he care what she thought of him? She was his servant, nothing more. Shouldn’t a servant fear her master? He crossed his arms, watching her figure as she walked down the lane, her movements graceful. He wished he could believe what he was telling himself, but the guilt that itched inside him spoke more truthfully than his own thoughts.
The door opened behind him and Frampton’s reflection appeared in the window. “Today’s post, my lord,” he said, coming forward with a silver tray.
Henry hardly noticed, his eyes still upon Miss Sinclair. Where was she going anyway? Should she not be working? He attempted to rally his anger once more.
“Where is Miss Sinclair going?” He gestured to the window as he turned to face Frampton.
Frampton looked unbothered by the force of the question. “I believe it is her half day.”
Henry grunted, wishing his butler’s response was not so logical.
“Did she have the chance to speak with you yesterday?” Frampton set his tray on the desk.
“You knew about that?”
“Indeed.” He brushed his gloved hands together. “I found her quite distressed over the news of her father.”
“Her father?” Henry furrowed his brow. Had she mentioned her father? All he could remember was her request for money, which had sent his anger boiling over. “What happened to her father?”
Frampton turned back to him. “He is quite ill, enough to send for a physician. His jailer demanded Rose pay the fees immediately. Did she not discuss this with you?”
Henry swallowed. “She attempted to.” He turned back to the window. Miss Sinclair had disappeared past the brick pillars that marked the entrance to the estate, but her face appeared in his mind. Wide dark eyes, mouth parted in astonishment, skin pale as a ghost. She had been trying to help her father, and he had rejected her without a second thought.
For two years he’d carefully crafted his callous reputation, depending on it to guard against those who would exploit him. It was his best means of protecting himself. But he never realized how it might hurt someone. Someone innocent of ill-intentions.
What would his mother think of what he had done?
He hesitated a moment more before he turned and strode to the door. “Have my horse readied immediately,” he called back to Frampton.
* * *
Rose shivered and pulled her pelisse more tightly around her. Even in late summer, the grey clouds and stiff breeze held a chill that crept through her layers. She touched her neck, making certain Mama’s necklace still hung safely there. It had been silly, wearing it instead of tucking it inside her reticule. But as this would be her last chance, she could not stop herself.
Her mother’s necklace was the only item of value she had left after selling all her possessions to pay Papa’s debts. She ached to think of parting with it, but what choice did she have after her disastrous attempt with Lord Norcliffe? Even now, the memory of his harsh eyes and even harsher words sent a wave of anxiety through her.
She’d been walking a quarter hour when hoofbeats sounded behind her. She moved to the side of the road to let the other traveler past, glancing up as the horse came even with her. She stopped in her tracks, staring up at the rider.
“Lord Norcliffe,” she sputtered. He looked down on her with an unreadable expression, looking far too at ease on horseback. She remembered to curtsy, though it was so unsteady it hardly counted.
“Miss Sinclair.” He dismounted, taking his horse’s reins as he stepped toward her. “Might I join you?”
“I—” She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. He wished to walk with her? “Yes, of course.”
He gestured her forward. She somehow managed to convince her feet to move, and he fell in step beside her. Nerves preyed upon her mind. Why was he here? Perhaps he had decided to dismiss her after all. But why would he wait until she had left the house?
“Miss Sinclair,” he said in a gruff voice. “I wanted to … apologize for my behavior to you the other day.”
She blinked. “Apologize?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I was upset about another matter and treated you poorly when you had done nothing wrong.”
She shook her head, twisting her gloved fingertips. “I should apologize to you, my lord. I promised when you took me on that I would make no more requests of you, and then I came asking for another favor.”
“A favor that was not for you.”
Rose peeked sideways at him, attempting to read his expression. He did not look at her and kept his eyes straight ahead on the road.
“It was for me,” she said quietly. “My father is all I have.”
He looked at her then, his eyes intent as they scrutinized her face. “Frampton says your father is ill.”
She nodded, trying hard not to show how worried she was. “Yes, my lord. I would go to him myself, but—” She stopped, dropping her gaze. What a foolish thing to say. “That is, of course I would not leave my post now.”
Lord Norcliffe looked away. “Have you found a way to pay his fees?”
Why would he ask that? Was this a change of heart? She had trouble believing it, considering how he had reacted yesterday. Her hand went to her necklace and traced the familiar shape of the golden rose with her fingers. “I have a plan, yes.”
His eyes followed her movement and fixed on her necklace. Her stomach jolted, realizing how it must look to him. She had come to him pleading for money, and here she was wearing a necklace that, while surely not extravagant to him, was quite unnecessary for a girl of her current station. Did he wonder why she hadn’t sold it before now?
“It was my mother’s,” she blurted, grasping the chain tightly in her hand.
His brow furrowed. “Pardon?”
“This necklace,” she said. “It was my mother’s. And my grandmother’s before her. They were also named Rose.”
“I see,” he said, though he did not look as though he understood at all, watching her in perplexity. “A family heirloom.”
“Er, yes.” Did he not care how valuable it was? Or had he not yet made the connection? “It is all I have left of my mother.”
“You must be quite attached to it.”
“I—I suppose.” Rose let her hand drop to her side, toying with her reticule on her wrist. “It helps me to remember her.” She hated the thought of selling it, but her father’s life meant more than any trinket, no matter its memories.
“I understand the sentiment,” he said. She turned her head to look at him in surprise. He looked just as surprised at his own words. The slightest hint of pink touched the angles of his cheeks. “That is, becoming attached to an item. There is more value to an object that is associated with a loved one.”
She watched him for a long moment before replying. “You speak from experience,” she said slowly. “Not observation.”
His jaw tightened. “Yes.” His voice was short, but not rude.
“What thing do you value?” She wasn’t certain why she pressed him. There was just a look about the baron that she could not quite name. A mix of loneliness and pride, perhaps. But she should try and keep her words to herself. He had proven himself unpredictable, and she was not anxious to be shouted at again.
He did not speak for a long moment and Rose fidgeted with the edges of her pelisse. He clearly thought her too forward. But then he spoke.
“My father gifted my mother a beautiful gold hand mirror at their wedding.” His eyes were distant in remembrance. “She was quite sentimental about it and I saw it nearly every day of my life. I haven’t had the heart to move it from her vanity, not since …”
His voice drifted off, pain filling his expression. Mrs. Morton’s words came back to her, the warning not to enter the late baroness’s rooms, and now Rose realized why. Lord Norcliffe kept his memories there, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book. She wanted to reach out, touch his arm or speak a kind word, but her voice abandoned her. How did one comfort a man she barely knew? Especially her own employer.
The wind began to blow more fiercely against her face, but she hardly noticed as she sorted through her thoughts.
“I think it is good to have such a reminder of your mother,” she finally said. “Memory fades so quickly.” Her own mother’s face had grown hazy in her mind. What she would not give for a miniature of her mother, to better remember her laughing eyes and kind smile.
He nodded and they walked again in silence, though more comfortable than before. Rose’s shoulders relaxed slightly. She was beginning to think that this man—this thoughtful, perceptive man—was more the reality of who Lord Norcliffe was than the one who had shouted at her. But why was there such a difference to begin with? Why had he acted like such a beast if there was another man entirely inside of him?
“Do you have an errand in town?” he asked, filling the quiet. “Or a visit perhaps?”
She touched her necklace again. “An errand, yes.” A small part of her wished to tuck away her pride and ask Lord Norcliffe once again for help. But she did not want to risk their tentative peace. “And you, my lord, do you have business in town?”
The pleasantries felt odd after the depth of their conversation. He opened his mouth to speak—but a drop of rain hit his cheek. A moment later, one splashed on her arm, and then one after another until the rain fell in a resounding chorus all around them. Rose inhaled sharply and clasped her bonnet to her head. She hadn’t realized the storm clouds were so close.
“Blast it all.” Lord Norcliffe turned, his eyes searching in all directions as the rain fell harder, soaking his shoulders and dripping off his topper. “We must find shelter.”
Rose blinked the rain from her eyes. Shelter? They were still miles from town.
Lord Norcliffe met her eyes, his expression resolved. “There’s an old gamekeeper’s cottage not far from here.” He had to raise his voice as the wind began to howl.
Her pelisse was already damp and she jumped as distant thunder rolled through the wooded hills. She managed a nod.
“It will be quicker if we ride,” he said briskly. “Come, I’ll help you up.”
She gaped at him. “Ride?” Did he mean together?
“Yes, of course. Unless you wish to catch your death?”
His abruptness did nothing to quell the anxiety that swelled in her. She rode but rarely, and never with another person. But he waved her forward impatiently as the rain continued to pelt them. She joined him beside the horse. Heavens, but it was tall. She glanced around for a log to serve as a mounting block.
“Shall I—”
His hands came around her waist and she was lifted into the air before she could utter a gasp. He settled her sideways on the saddle as she gawked at him, but he wasted no time in pulling himself up behind her.
“No time for propriety,” he murmured in her ear, slipping one arm around her waist. Her back was pressed against him, lighting a strange heat in her chest. He kicked his horse and Rose only had a moment to grasp the saddle before they were dashing through the rain.