Chapter Four
Henry rose early the next morning, his meeting with Miss Sinclair still playing through his mind. He’d never had a more unusual conversation with a servant, though he found his thoughts lingering on her soft laugh and bright eyes as much as her words. Which was absolutely ridiculous, he told himself as he entered the stables, intent on a ride through the morning mist. He was simply unused to anyone speaking so freely with him; his servants generally scuttled about in a constant state of fear. Miss Sinclair certainly did not do that.
He left the stables in a trot, and when he reached the lawn he kicked his horse into a pounding gallop, hoping the cool air would rid his mind of such thoughts. He rode in the mornings as often as he could, when the world was still and quiet. Though Norcliffe House was secluded, there was always someone who needed him, whether it be Mrs. Morton, a tenant, or his ledger book. Out here in the woods, it was only him.
He reached the top of the nearest hill and pulled his mount to a stop. It was his favorite prospect of the estate. The trees spread thick and far, green in late summer, and farms dotted the spaces between. It looked the same as when he was a boy and yet it somehow looked different as well. Perhaps it was simply because he was different, changed by the passing of time.
Horse hooves sounded behind him. He turned to see a horse and rider stepping out from behind a stand of trees. Henry stiffened.
John Ramsbury. Of course it was him. Henry ought to have anticipated such an ambush. John knew his favorite rides, his favorite places. He would have found him sooner or later.
“Leave my land at once,” Henry growled.
John did not look particularly alarmed at the less than friendly greeting. His face remained unaffected, his hair in that ridiculous Brutus style he favored. He stopped his mount a few paces away. “Is that how you greet your oldest friend?”
“It is how I greet any man who betrays my trust.” Henry narrowed his eyes.
John held up his hands in surrender. “Please Henry, I did not come here in search of a fight.”
“Then why did you come here?” He had no patience for this, not during what was supposed to be his solitary ride.
“To make amends,” John said quietly. “You must know how much I regret what happened.”
“Do you now?” Henry could barely contain the rage that simmered inside him. He clenched his reins so fiercely that he could feel his pulse in his fingertips.
“Of course I do.” John ran his hand through his hair. “I tried to speak with you after the burial, but Frampton turned me away. I wrote you half a dozen letters trying to explain.”
“You wrote me one.” Henry gave a humorless laugh. “Did you think a letter could possibly make amends for what you did? You came to me with a preposterous scheme, which you claimed was a sound investment. ‘Only a fool would turn it down’ were your exact words, if I remember correctly, though there were more than enough fools involved from what I could tell.”
“Henry—”
“And then,” he said, louder, a dangerous edge finding his voice, “when I turned you down, knowing your history of terrible financial decisions, you waited until I left for London. You dared to approach my father with the same scheme, telling him I had approved the venture, when I certainly had not.”
“And I wish every day that I hadn’t.” John leaned forward, his eyes intent on Henry’s. “I swear, if I could change anything in my life, it would be that.”
“You cannot.” Henry’s vision was spotting. Memory overtook reality—all he could see was Frampton’s stricken face, the rain splattering against the windows. “You cared only for yourself and making enough money to pay your debts.” His jaw tightened. “My mother and father died because of your selfishness.”
John swallowed, for once having no answer. Because it was the truth, and he knew it. Frampton’s words came back to Henry, echoing through his haze of anger. John had insisted Lord and Lady Norcliffe come immediately to London to see their new investment, despite an imminent storm and terrible road conditions. His parents had set out, excited at the undertaking, when their horses had been spooked by the storm. The coach was dragged down an embankment and into a river—and Henry’s parents with it.
“I am sorry.” John’s voice was hoarse. “I truly am.”
Henry shook his head. “I do not want your apologies.”
John urged his horse a step closer. “Then let me tell you how I am trying to make it right.”
“You cannot make it right.” How could he even think that? Deluded, arrogant fool. He had used his connection to Henry to manipulate his parents, all for his own gain, and he thought an apology might fix things between them?
John sighed. “I know that. I only meant that I am trying to change myself, discover what my purpose should be.”
“Being a careless fool was not enough of a goal?” Henry wished the man would rise to the insult, if only so their bout of words might change to a round of fisticuffs. He’d long wanted to drive his fist into John’s smug, square jaw.
But John did not seem to hear the gibe. “I’ve found myself steady employment. You would be quite surprised at me, taking a position in trade. But I find a simple pleasure in it. I’ve been working to pay my debts.” He paused, meeting Henry’s eyes. “I’ve met a woman, the loveliest girl in London. I hope to propose marriage soon.”
“And you want my blessing?” Henry asked scathingly. “I’m more likely to write her and warn her off.”
“Come now, Henry.” John shook his head. “It is impossible to change the past, but I am doing what I can to make amends. Will you hold a thoughtless mistake against me forever? Is our friendship worth so little to you?”
Henry tore his eyes away, glaring into the trees. Did John not understand that their friendship was what made his betrayal all the worse? When he remembered their years together—hiding from their nursemaids as boys, playing tricks on the teachers at Harrow, laughing their way across every ballroom in London—all he felt was pain.
He looked at John again, who waited in silence for Henry’s judgment. He scrutinized the man, noting his simple clothing, his unremarkable mount. Had John truly lowered himself to work in trade? As the grandson of a marquess, he’d always claimed such work beneath him.
“Who is this girl you wish to marry?” he said, voice curt.
John straightened, his brow lifting. “Miss Dowding. She is lovely and kind, and generous to a fault.”
“And she would take you, even with your debts?” Henry did not think any woman would be right in the head to take such a man as John. But love did strange things to a person—or so his sisters said.
“She would,” John said. “Though her father is a bit more reticent.”
“He would be a fool not to be.” John Ramsbury was not what any man hoped for a son-in-law.
“True enough, though I hope to convince him.” John spoke eagerly. “I am close to paying off my creditors, by next year if I manage carefully. But I can hardly ask Miss Dowding to wait for me, not with her father pressuring her to make a match.” He paused, as if weighing a decision in his mind. “But if I had a loan—”
At his words, any traces of forgiveness flew out of Henry. “So that is why you are here.” His anger from before was nothing compared to the seething rage that arose inside him now. “You come to me with your penitence, claiming you have changed, and still all you want is money.”
“No, of course not!” John protested. “I am sincere, I swear. I don’t care about the money.”
“That is all you have ever cared about.” Henry urged his horse forward. “Get off my land, Ramsbury, before I send for the constable.”
John sent him one last look—though of pain or anger, Henry couldn’t say—before he kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks. Henry watched him race away, his teeth clenched so tightly he thought they would shatter.
He had let his guard down. He had almost been taken in once more, by the same man—a man who only brought grief and heartache.
He would not let it happen again.