Chapter Twenty-Six
The next morning, she dressed carefully in a white muslin morning gown and entered the breakfast room, heavy-eyed from little sleep. She resisted rubbing her eyes and seated herself at the table. Her father put down the newspaper. “I intend to return home after luncheon.”
She straightened and eyed him cautiously. “Oh, will you? I’m sorry your visit has been so brief and so—”
His chest swelled with indignation. “You are to return to Digswell with me, Horatia. I have no intention of leaving you here. London is a den of iniquity. It is a miracle you were not hurt or worse. I shall not trust to luck that you’ll remain so.”
His tone softened when he saw tears gather at the corners of her eyes. “My concern is for your safety, my dear. I could not endure it if you died before me.”
“Guy and I planned to wed soon. If he’s…” She fought a fervent desire to dissolve into hysterics.
“I also need to think about your wedding, Horatia. I was pleased when the baron offered for you. But now I see there was some ulterior motive. That you have been supporting him in some dangerous endeavor.”
“Yes, but all that has changed. We love each another, Papa.” She wished she was able to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, but she wasn’t entirely sure that Guy still felt the same way, and the mention of a wife still hovered in her mind. She needed him to come and reassure her that it wasn’t true, and nothing had changed.
“I’ve sent a note off to Eustace. I wish to discuss this matter with him.”
Her hands clenched in her lap. “Yes, Papa.”
It appeared that, at this moment, Eustace was the only ally she had, and she hoped he might persuade her father to allow her to remain here. She would not leave until she’d heard from Guy. Was he hurt? Was there already a baroness in France? So many unanswered questions filled her mind, she feared it was in danger of exploding.
“And there’s this matter of a Truesdale being buried in a rather rushed manner in the Fortescue crypt. I wasn’t aware that the baron had any relatives living in England.”
“It was Guy’s twin brother, Vincent. He’d just arrived from France when he had an accident. He fell down the stairs at Rosecroft Hall.”
“How tragic! Everyone was speaking of it in the village.”
It was fortunate that Lady Kemble was away from Digswell, for she would have made it her business to uncover the truth.
“So, Guy is now in mourning, poor fellow, and may not wish to marry so soon.” He pushed back his chair. “You need to eat a good breakfast, Hetty. Everything will seem brighter on a full stomach.”
Left alone at the table, Hetty pushed buttered eggs around her plate. She couldn’t eat it if her life depended on it.
“Perhaps some toast, Miss Hetty?” Sarah asked as she poured Hetty another cup of tea.
“Yes, thank you Sarah. And thank you for doing my hair so nicely.”
“It’s my pleasure. Such lovely hair you have.”
Hetty nodded with a vague smile. That awful villain called her a carroty-patted harridan, last night, when she feared for her life. The milkman’s son had once told her that witches had red hair. “If a witch puts a spell on you,” he went on to explain, “the only way to remove it is to take an item of clothing which is worn close to the witch’s skin and burn it in the place where she was born.” He annoyed her so much Hetty threatened to put a spell on him.
The color of her hair would never concern her again. She sniffed. As long as Guy liked it. Guy! A tremor passed through her. She would not relax until she saw his dear face again and knew that he was all right.
*
Guy woke and groaned. He felt as if he’d been trampled underfoot by a herd of cattle. Then the night’s disastrous dealings came back to him, along with the pain in his side. The wound appeared to be deeper than he’d first thought and bled in the night.
After breakfast, he visited a physician who put in several stitches and bandaged the wound again, warning him to rest. “You were lucky, sir, an inch deeper…” He shook his head.
Guy shrugged painfully into his coat. A knife wound didn’t bother him overmuch, but he shuddered when he recalled how close Hetty came to being thrown into the Thames. And his sister, too, who behaved with such bravery he wasn’t sure whether to scold her or embrace her. He would call on her later this afternoon. With all that had been going on since she’d arrived in London, he’d had very little time to enjoy having her with him again. She was his one connection to that happy time in France before everything came to such a brutal end.
On the way to King Street, he reflected soberly on the whirlwind months since he’d come to England. Vincent’s reappearance and subsequent death left him bitter with disappointment and sadness. Eustace’s distrust of him rankled, and he’d been bailed up by footpads, shot at by highwaymen, and thrown into a den of mad conspirators, escaping by the skin of his teeth. Any desire for excitement had vanished, and at this moment, it seemed entirely possible it would never return.
His nerves stretched thin, he longed for a quiet life at Rosecroft Hall. There was so much there he looked forward to getting started with, and he didn’t wish to spend another season in London anytime soon. The grouse shoot and some hunting would provide ample excitement.
He wasn’t sure how much Hetty’s father and Aunt Emily knew. If they’d been told, they would be justifiably angry having put their trust in him. It would require great diplomacy to put things to rights.