Chapter Four
IN THE DARK, NOTHING was the same. Vision dimmed, while other senses became more acute. Haverford stood at Elizabeth’s back, still in his evening attire, no more appropriately dressed for a hill trek than she was. He stood close enough that she could feel his heat and sense how their bodies would fit together in an embrace.
Perhaps the fairies were trifling with Elizabeth’s imagination.
“The man I saw looked to be aiming for the large tree about halfway up the hill,” she said. “He took that path to the left.”
“Then Griffin’s headed for the wishing oak. He loves that damned thing. The views from its branches are breathtaking, and at least four different paths lead to it. Come.”
Elizabeth let herself be tugged along, even as she marveled that His Grace of Haverford had climbed that tree and treasured the views.
Radnor and the man called Abner joined them at the laundry, and the party started up the path Elizabeth had indicated.
“If the way is too challenging,” Radnor said, “I can return you to the house, Miss Windham.”
“It’s merely a hill, my lord.” Without stays to confine her breathing, keeping pace with the men was easy.
As they ascended, the moon rose, and the way became less difficult to navigate. Elizabeth held on to Haverford’s hand nonetheless.
She hadn’t held hands with a man before. Had Haverford held hands with many women?
The path crisscrossed the hill, growing more rugged as the trail ascended.
“My goodness,” Elizabeth said. “I hadn’t realized we’re so close to the sea.” Off in the distance, the ocean was a flat silver mirror peeking between two hills.
Abner and Radnor continued to climb, and for a moment, Elizabeth was holding hands with Haverford under a moonlit sky, the splendor of a wild nightscape before her.
“I’d forgotten what the view up here is like at moonrise,” Haverford said. “No wonder Griffin was disinclined to turn for home.”
The breeze rustled through the oaks higher on the trail, but other than the fading sounds of the other men’s footsteps, quiet descended.
“We’ll find him,” Elizabeth said. “The night is mild, he’s on familiar ground, and you won’t rest until he’s safe.”
Whoever this Griffin was, he meant a great deal to the duke.
“I believe you are reassuring me,” His Grace said, resuming their progress. “The experience is novel and appreciated.”
Odd comment. Elizabeth toiled on beside him in silence for another few minutes before Radnor’s shout broke the night’s quiet.
“Found him! Bugger’s fast asleep beneath the tree, just as you predicted, and damned if the dog wasn’t napping as well.”
The duke’s relief was evident in the relaxation of his shoulders and the easing of his grip on Elizabeth’s hand.
Radnor came bounding down the path a moment later, his lantern bobbing in the shadows.
“The lad’s fine. A bit sheepish and hungry, but none the worse for his outing. Did you know you have forty-two coaches ranged around behind your stables and carriage house?”
“Griffin is well?” Haverford asked.
Something passed between the two men, more than a simple question. Radnor touched Haverford’s shoulder.
“Absolutely safe and sound. Peckish and fretting that Biddy will tear a strip off him for getting his coat dirty. Abner and I will walk him home, and I’ll see you at breakfast. Miss Windham, good evening, and mind your step on the way down. Many an ankle has turned on this descent.”
Radnor waited, as if anticipating an argument from Haverford.
“My thanks, Radnor. Until breakfast. Miss Windham, shall we?” The duke dropped Elizabeth’s hand to gesture back the way they’d come.
Well, drat. Elizabeth started down the path, disappointed that the closest thing she’d had to an adventure was so soon over.
“I should precede you,” Haverford said. “A gentleman should precede a lady, so he can break her fall.”
“A lady should wear her boots, so she’s surefooted enough not to land on her face. Besides, if you’re in front of me, and you lose your footing, I’ll trip over you.”
“Now you scold me. The novelties of this evening multiply apace.”
Elizabeth slowed, because Radnor had been right. Descending could be more treacherous than climbing. “Nobody scolds you? Ever?”
“Not as effectively as you just did. Lady Glenys remonstrates with me, my valet chides, Radnor takes me to task, but you have a way with a scold.” He sounded intrigued rather than put off by Elizabeth’s way with a scold.
“I have three younger sisters and many younger cousins. My older cousins are most in need of scolding, though. They meddle.” They also foiled would-be kidnappers. Elizabeth shied away from that thought.
“I cannot abide meddlers. They are busybodies who cloak their attempts to manipulate under false solicitude. I was surrounded by such concern upon my father’s death, and in each instance, somebody stood to profit by taking an interest in my situation. Misplaced trust can exact a fearful cost.”
Elizabeth was sure His Grace would not have made that admission in the light of a summer sun. Perhaps he’d been figuratively waylaid, as Lord Allermain had waylaid Elizabeth.
“The next time somebody tries to cozen your trust, sir, try a cold silence. Dukes have a knack for an arctic reproof that conveys itself without a single word.”
Haverford had drawn even with her as the path had grown more level. “I like that. A cold silence. Radnor has one, though he uses it so seldom, one forgets he’s capable of it.” For the third time, the duke glanced over his shoulder, toward two lanterns bobbing across the hill, traveling away from the castle.
“You can scold Griffin in the morning,” Elizabeth said, taking Haverford’s hand. “Some scolds are better for a bit of rehearsal, and sometimes, not scolding a miscreant works magic on his guilty conscience.”
“You are full of helpful suggestions. Griffin would never trouble anybody on purpose. He’ll be apologizing to me before I’m off my horse.”
At this conclusion, Haverford’s stride opened up, and he shifted his grip on Elizabeth’s hand so their fingers linked.
Maybe gloves were worn on most social occasions because the grip of a man’s hand said a lot about his confidence and his character. Haverford held hands easily, his grasp warm and secure without being presuming.
“You would have found Griffin,” Elizabeth said, “no matter how far he rambled, no matter which hill he climbed. He’s under your protection, and you’d not fail him.”
“That’s the theory. I hope Griffin never tests it to the point of proving it false.”
Elizabeth walked along, wrestling with the most extraordinary urge to hug the duke. Not steal a kiss, insinuate herself into his affections, or flirt. To offer him the comfort of an embrace, and perhaps steal some comfort for herself too.
She liked him. If she should ever come under his protection, he’d move heaven and earth to find her when she wandered, and he’d neglect all else until he’d assured himself she was safe.
Not that Elizabeth would inconvenience him like that—he had enough to look after without a prodigal party guest adding to his burdens.
Besides, she wasn’t lost.
* * *
“My appetite has returned,” Charlotte said. “My appetite for food, that is. You were up early, sister mine.”
Elizabeth smiled in greeting and Viscount Haldale bestirred himself to hold Charlotte’s chair at the breakfast table. He was blond, tall, and blue-eyed, and Charlotte had learned years ago not to waste her waltzes on him. His conversation was sadly predictable, dealing invariably with one topic and one topic alone: himself.
“Thank you, my lord. Might I prevail upon you to fetch me some eggs?”
“Of course, Miss Charlotte. Miss Windham, anything for you?”
“No, thank you.”
He sidled down the length of the breakfast table, which was full of chattering guests organized into the usual groups: Chaperones and mamas clustered near the head, debutantes and other hopefuls near the foot, with bachelors and husbands sprinkled about as manners or empty chairs dictated.
His Grace and Lady Glenys had yet to join the group.
“You look well rested,” Charlotte said, giving Elizabeth a sororal inspection. “Much better rested than when you stay up until all hours reading. This puzzles me, for His Grace’s book collection is among the largest in the realm, and I’d expect you to have hidden yourself among its shelves.”
Where a gentleman’s library was concerned, size mattered to Elizabeth, and Haverford’s library was enormous.
Elizabeth speared a strawberry from her plate. “As Lord Byron put it, ‘If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.’ I am well rested, though. The lovely Welsh air agrees with me.”
Something agreed with Elizabeth. She had resisted this house party vehemently, and then for reasons Charlotte had yet to winkle out of her, abruptly changed her mind.
“Your eggs, Miss Charlotte.” Haldale set the plate down, leaning too near and doubtless ogling Charlotte’s décolletage. He smelled of neroli, a heavy scent for the early hour.
“My thanks, your lordship. And I’ll have that rack of toast, if you don’t mind.”
He sat and passed Charlotte the toast. His lordship was a tribulation in breeches, for she had to pluck the butter from the middle of the table herself, and that meant nudging up against his arm.
Why must house parties be so predictable, and why must Elizabeth radiate such serene contentment, nonetheless?
“Elizabeth, did I dream that you took a pair of boots from the wardrobe last night?”
She set the teapot before Charlotte’s plate. “You must have, another symptom of that awful ale. Sugar?”
Charlotte had not dreamed it, nor had she dreamed Elizabeth taking her cloak from the hook on the wall, nor was she dreaming that her sister’s smile this morning held a hint of mischief.
“The sugar typically goes into the tea,” Elizabeth said. “One uses a spoon, but takes care not to stir noisily.”
Charlotte helped herself to two lumps. Elizabeth was right—one did not discuss late-night outings over breakfast, particularly not when Mrs. Delphine St. David was disdaining a place among the mamas and chaperones and plunking herself down directly across from Haldale.
He rose and bowed. “Mrs. St. David, you’re looking radiant, as usual.”
She shot him a look, part exasperation, part threat. Her expression suggested they’d been lovers in the past, but Mrs. St. David wasn’t inclined to renew those festivities.
“Some toast?” Charlotte asked, moving the rack close to Mrs. St. David’s plate. “And help yourself to the butter. Will Mr. St. David be joining us this morning?”
Hugh St. David appeared older than his wife by a decade or so, and he was aging handsomely. He bore a resemblance to Haverford, though Mr. St. David’s features were more weathered. Charlotte had bested him at piquet the previous evening, and then he’d excused himself claiming his day would start early.
“Hugh is off hunting for fossils,” Mrs. St. David replied. “He’s mad for his antiquities and very knowledgeable about where the best ones can be found.”
Her mouth was smiling, while her eyes told a different story. Mr. St. David’s absence let the entire company know that fossils interested him more than sharing breakfast with his wife, and thus Charlotte didn’t blame the lady for her mood.
“Would you care for some preserves?” Elizabeth asked, passing over a jam pot. “I admire a man who pursues his passions.”
“Do you refer to Haverford’s libraries?” Haldale asked. “I’d heard about the St. David family penchant for collecting books, but thirty thousand volumes goes beyond a mere passion.”
“Thirty thousand is nothing more than a number,” Elizabeth said. “The St. David collection is as well-known for its quality as for its quantity. I hope to become much better acquainted with it during my visit. The family has been collecting literature since well before the invention of the printing press, and I’d be a fool…”
Her diatribe trailed off as Lady Glenys and her brother joined the guests. Haverford cut a handsome dash in morning attire, while her ladyship looked composed and gracious.
She and Elizabeth had that in common—an ability to bear up serenely despite all vexation to the contrary. Charlotte, by contrast, was ready to elbow Haldale in the ribs if his leg casually brushed against hers even once more.
“Greetings, all,” Haverford said, holding his sister’s chair. “I hope you appreciate the fine weather I’ve ordered for you this morning. Blink, and the sky will be pouring torrents.”
He spoke with the various guests seated at his end of the table, made Aunt Arabella laugh over some quip concerning a hedgehog, and poured out for his sister as only a man of innate gentlemanly sensibilities would.
Charlotte had not dreamed that Elizabeth had snatched a cloak and boots late last evening, and disappeared into the night with them. She also hadn’t dreamed the sound of Haverford’s voice from the corridor.
Which raised a question: Had Elizabeth agreed to come to this house party because she was impressed with the Haverford libraries, or with the man who owned them?
* * *
The Haverford maids had apparently been too busy to open the windows in the library. The smell from last night’s gathering thus nearly overpowered Elizabeth.
The gentlemen would have waited until the ladies had retired to get out the port and cigars, but she had a theory that cigar smoke was no better for books than coal smoke.
She opened the French doors, then started on the windows, letting both morning sun and fresh air into the room. This being a newer part of the castle, the windowsills were merely a foot and a half deep, though the hinges were still stubborn. One gave a great squeak—were the footmen too busy to oil hinges in this castle?—and from the depths of the sofa near the fireplace came a snort.
Or a snore?
Elizabeth could not recall seeing any hounds in the castle. She crossed the library to investigate and came upon His Grace of Haverford fast asleep, a ledger book on his chest. He put her in mind of the deceased at a wake, with a Bible placed over his heart, though no deceased had ever sprawled in such casual splendor.
His tall boots were neatly positioned at the foot of the sofa, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat upon his nose. Those two items—the boots and the glasses—spoke volumes about the man and his station.
Though gracious saints, what if some scheming debutante should come upon the duke? She’d take down her hair, curl up near him in a wanton pose, and wait to be discovered in a compromising situation.
“Your Grace.”
Another snore. He wasn’t a loud snorer, but he was far gone in slumber.
“Haverford. Wake up.”
“Not at the moment, thank you.” He shifted to his side, and the ledger book slid to the carpet.
Elizabeth picked up the ledger. This had to be a book for tallying the expenses, for every entry was a deduction. “Sir, you must rouse yourself.”
He scooted around, scratched his chest, and sighed.
The poor man was exhausted. Shaking his shoulder was like trying to shake one of the marble lions couchant atop the castle’s gateposts. “You must wake up, Your Grace. The castle’s on fire.”
Two sets of dark lashes swept up. “Haverford Castle is made of good Welsh stone. It cannot burn.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, removing his glasses. “But your reputation can go up in flames along with mine if you don’t bestir yourself. How can you see anything with all these smudges?”
She used a handkerchief to polish the duke’s spectacles.
He sat up and reached for his boots. “Miss Windham. Good morning. I should beg your pardon.”
His hair stood up on one side. Elizabeth combed her fingers through it enough to set it to rights. The texture was silky, despite its thickness, like a healthy cat in winter plumage.
“You’re a bit disarranged.” She positioned his glasses back on his nose, then gave his hair an extra smoothing. “I should be begging your pardon. This is the famous St. David library, and you haven’t given me permission to borrow from it.”
He sat through her fussing, tugged on his boots, and stood. New boots were the devil to put on, because they were made to allow for the leather stretching to the wearer’s exact conformation. Haverford’s boots hadn’t been new for some time, though they’d been lovingly maintained.
“You come upon me, dead asleep in the middle of my own house party, and your objective is to become better acquainted with my books.”
He was amused, or appalled. Elizabeth wasn’t sure which.
“I am devoted to lending libraries, Your Grace, for they make knowledge available to everybody. Books are wonderful, but if you can’t afford them, then they are only one more privilege that God in his infinite wisdom has granted only to others. Did you know the Welsh are among the most literate people on earth?”
“Because of the circulating schools that sprang up in the last century,” Haverford said, “thanks to dear old Griffith Jones.”
Elizabeth was to be denied the pleasure of reciting the rest of the tale, for apparently Haverford knew it. Griffith Jones had been a shepherd turned Anglican priest, and in the 1730s, he’d got onto the notion of opening a school for a period of months, long enough to teach an entire village to read. When basic literacy had been achieved, the school moved to another village, and the brightest pupils took on the teaching of neighboring settlements.
Over the next fifty years, half of Wales had learned to read, and very likely had also been predisposed to Methodism, for the Bible was the most reliably available printed text in any village.
“We’re also literate because of the Welsh spirit of inquiry,” Elizabeth said. “We are a curious people, interested in taking charge of our surroundings, else we’d never have become such a center of industry.”
Haverford removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That industry is creating some of the worst slums in Europe, Miss Windham, and our literacy has not spared us one iota of misery. The poverty and filth in the mining villages are unimaginable, and the surrounding countryside has been ruined for farming.”
Mama often sang the same lament. “This matters to you.”
He tucked his glasses into a pocket. “Reading is a luxury, but people must eat. We can ship steel and copper all over the world, but if we ruin our countryside in the process, will John Bull give us butter and wheat for free? I suspect not. The Irish live in penury as bad as ours, and the Scots have learned from long habit to look after their own.”
“You are Welsh,” Elizabeth said, beaming at him. She’d considered him a duke, an aristocrat, a member of the House of Lords, and a few other things—splendiferous in evening attire, for example—but she hadn’t attributed Welshness to him.
“I have that honor, though should any inquire, I am simply a peer of the realm with a perishing lot of books cluttering up my castle.”
“My mother is Welsh. As a child, I visited here frequently. Mama says that’s why I’m passionate about books and reading. My father says I love books because Windhams must always go their own way, though that doesn’t explain why I am the only Windham so fond of books. You have a lovely library, Your Grace.”
And Elizabeth was babbling—about books, of course.
“I have an enormous library,” Haverford said, “and I do not love books, not these books. Nonetheless, the loan of a few volumes to a guest will be a gesture in the direction of their intended use. Come, I’ll give you the tour, and you may choose whatever you please.”
He’d taken her hand again, though they weren’t on a darkened hillside. Surely his comments about the books were ducal grumbling? Uncle Percival complained about the expense of maintaining a stable, but knew every pony and pensioner in his paddocks.
“We should open the door, Your Grace. The appearances could result in unpleasant talk.”
Haverford looked down at their joined hands, his expression for an instant uncomprehending, then he slipped his fingers free of Elizabeth’s grasp.
“You are absolutely correct, Miss Windham.” He opened the library door and drew back the last set of drapes. “You probably noticed that my cousin, Mrs. St. David, has a mischievous streak. She would delight in coming upon us in a compromising position.”
Elizabeth would have said vexatious rather than mischievous. “You’re family to her. Why should she make trouble for you?”
“Because she can. She and Hugh have no children, and that’s always worrisome in a ducal family without an abundance of spares. Do you favor poetry?”
He gestured for Elizabeth to join him before the tall shelves marching down an interior wall.
“I favor good poetry, and am reading Byron at present.” Elizabeth dearly, dearly wanted to linger over the volumes surrounding her, but His Grace wasn’t thinking clearly where his cousin was concerned. “Mrs. St. David doesn’t strike me as bored, so much as she is hurt.”
The duke eyed the shelf before him as if the books were recruits unprepared for parade inspection.
“You will think me ungentlemanly when I tell you that Delphine St. David’s sentiments revolve around her next pleasure and the inadequacies of her last pleasure. Let’s find you a book, shall we?”
“Three books, at least, and how would you feel if your spouse thought of nothing but rocks, fossils, ancient mud, and long-dead sea creatures?”
Or if your lot in life were to be regularly overlooked—or worse, pitied—and invited to social functions only to make up the numbers when your cousins weren’t available?
The duke drew a volume down from the shelves. “I might be relieved to be left to my own devices, provided my duchess otherwise attended to her responsibilities. Do you read French?”
“Of course. You must not reply so bluntly should another of your guests raise a similar question, Your Grace. You’ll crush the ambitions of nearly every young lady in the castle.”
He peered at her over the top of the book. “Miss Windham, some of these women will not be deterred by Greek fire or lunatic St. David uncles wandering out of dungeons. Nothing short of true scandal would render me ineligible in their eyes, and most of them met me only yesterday.”
Elizabeth plucked the poetry from his grasp. “Your cousin apparently neglects his wife shamefully. As head of the family, it’s your place to take him to task. He has, by his actions, let all and sundry know his wife’s behavior matters to him not at all, and a day getting sunburned and ruining his boots holds more appeal than a meal by her side.”
Haverford held his ground, so he and Elizabeth stood very close. Elizabeth was torn between an urge to shake her finger in the duke’s face—Mrs. St. David’s situation was not of her own making—and the compulsion to scamper off with the book he’d chosen for her.
He stared over Elizabeth’s right shoulder. “Your hypothesis is that Delphine strays in an effort to gain her husband’s notice?”
“And to shame him, as he shames her with his indifference.”
“You’ve deduced this over a single plate of eggs?”
Elizabeth resolutely ignored the French verse she’d likely never have another opportunity to read. “‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart/’Tis Woman’s whole existence…,’” Elizabeth quoted. “One could deduce Mrs. St. David’s discontent over a single cup of tea, did one pay attention.”