Chapter Eighteen
Robert had not kept his promise. He had found the letter left in the hollow of the old oak tree, and read it many times, but he had not yet burned it. He could not bring himself to do so until every word was committed to memory. He had passed the night with the letter under his pillow, as though the ink and paper were enough to fill his dreams with Cecily. When he awoke in the morning, having slept dreamlessly, he was bitterly disappointed.
Cecily's plan was simple. She would ride out that morning with the obliging Jemima as her companion, but, instead of making her way around the Loxwell estate, they would take the main road to Scarcliffe Hall. Robert would meet them along the way in his fastest carriage, which would take all three of them to Brampton, the village where Andrew Clearwell lived. They would ask around until they found his house and, once he was discovered, they would question him about the origins of the portrait of Lady Letitia – and whether it really was the Balfour ring that she wore.
Robert found nothing to object to in the plan itself, save for the fact that Cecily had not given him time to respond. It was a dratted nuisance that she had chosen that particular day for their quest. He had promised the day to Hart, Northmere and Beaumont – they had been intending to go hunting.
He would have to find some way around it. He wouldn't leave Cecily disappointed for the world. Besides, he was as intrigued as she was by the possibility that there was more to the story of Lord Thomas and Lady Letitia than the family legends told.
"I say, Beaumont," he said, finding the Duke making his usual early breakfast. "I wonder if you can help me regarding a slightly delicate matter. I find that I have a certain duty to perform this morning that cannot be put off."
Beaumont folded his newspaper and regarded Robert suspiciously. "You are calling off the hunt?"
"Not at all! You fellows must certainly go without me. No, I simply find that I will not be able to join you."
Beaumont was too clever to push Robert for an explanation. He knew when a man had a secret that would not be told. "You wish me to make some excuse for you?"
"If you would be so kind."
"I will give it some thought." Beaumont returned to his newspaper, but Robert knew that his quick mind was turning the problem over as he read. "I take it that Hart mustn't know about this…certain duty?"
"Not if I can help it." Robert realised that he was still clutching the letter in his hand. Thank goodness Beaumont was doing his best to ignore it! The man could really be relied upon in a pinch.
"Has this anything to do with how Hart came across his black eye?" asked Beaumont. "I have no desire to land myself in the middle of a brotherly brawl."
"Hart fell from a horse, as you well know," said Robert smoothly. Beaumont was not put off.
"I don't know that I entirely like all this secrecy and danger, Scarcliffe. You invited us here for a summer of relaxation, not intrigue. You and Hart have come to blows over something, and any man with half a wit can see it."
Robert sighed. He let Beaumont's accusation hang in the air for a few moments as he considered how to answer it. It would not do to tell the whole truth, naturally – he trusted Beaumont, but he could not ask him to conceal a matter of such magnitude as his trysts with Cecily – but an outright lie was out of the question. Beaumont would see through him in an instant.
His fingers caressed the letter Cecily had written to him as he answered, "We fell out over a woman. We are friends again now."
"And yet you are asking me to lie for you." Beaumont's tone was decidedly annoyed. "Very well. What if we say that I have a matter of private business that calls me to Loxton, and that I have asked you for your opinion on it?"
"Heaping one mystery atop another? Does that seem wise? Besides, that would mean you will also have to miss the hunt."
Beaumont cleared his throat. "It so happens that I do have a matter of business that calls me to Loxton, and, though I was not intending to deal with it today, I may as well take the opportunity to help you out at the same time. If you order a carriage for both of us, I will ride with you as far as the Loxton road. Then we will part, and go about our separate business. You will do me the courtesy of not enquiring as to what it might be. I have not pressed you for information, after all."
Robert tried to suppress a smile. When Beaumont was serious, as he was now, he hated to be smirked at. "We both have our secrets. And what if Hart asks me what manner of business requires my opinion?"
Beaumont raised a cool eyebrow. "If I tell him it is private, he will not dare."
It certainly was useful to have a powerful Duke for a friend. Satisfied, Robert sat down to make a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast. He would need fortification for the day's adventures.
As it too often did these days, his mind drifted to Cecily. What was she doing at that moment? What hour of the morning did she rise? What were her daily habits? Every minor detail of her time was as fascinating to Robert as the climactic scene in a brand new play. He wanted to know Cecily deeply, intimately, completely. He wanted to memorise the way she took her tea and the way she tied her bonnet.
In short, he had an insatiable hunger to begin a life with her full of happy domestic minutiae. The ordinary had never seemed so extraordinary as when Cecily performed it. Their enforced separation cut him deeper with each passing moment.
Robert was so absorbed in his thoughts that he barely noticed his father entering the room. The Duke of Beaumont, fortunately, was not so remiss.
"Good morning, my dear Marquess!" he exclaimed, rising from his seat with a perplexing degree of enthusiasm. "I trust the day finds you well?"
"Tolerably, tolerably," sighed Robert's father, lowering himself into a chair with a wince of pain. "If you were hoping to find me preparing for my departure, Your Grace, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. I will be troubling you young bucks for some time to come, I fear."
"Not at all!" To Robert's surprise, Beaumont rose from his comfortable chair and went to sit at the Marquess's side. "You must recover your health completely before you think of travelling!"
The Marquess gave him a crusty smile, pleased with the attention. "I'm afraid that, at my age, the notion of recovering one's health completely is quite out of the question. But I thank you for your concern, Your Grace."
"I am particularly glad to see you this morning," Beaumont continued – making this the longest conversation he had ever maintained with Robert's cantankerous father – "because there was a particular matter I wanted to discuss with you. I have had some time now to explore the woodland around Scarcliffe Hall, and I must say I find it exceptionally well-maintained…"
"Oh, you must address all your enquiries about land management to Robert," said the Marquess, gesturing towards his son. "He is the expert!"
"No!" said Beaumont, a little too sharply. He positioned himself in his chair so that, in order to face him, the Marquess had to look away from Robert. "No, my dear Marquess, I believe that there is no other explanation for your superior landscape than several decades of good management, and so I find that I must ask you several questions…"
As he spoke, his right hand crept behind his back and clenched into an urgent fist. Robert understood at once that he was being signalled – but why? What reason did Beaumont have to distract the Marquess?
It was then that Robert realised he was still holding Cecily's letter in his hand. He felt a shiver of fear as cold and sudden as though someone had spilled a water-ice down his back.
With his father suitably occupied, Robert crunched the letter into a tight ball and tossed it into the fire. It was too warm a day for the fire to be lit, but the letter would be burned to a crisp that evening.
He felt a pang of regret at destroying a thing which bore Cecily's handwriting. How sentimental he had become! He touched the place on his chest where the Balfour ring lay, concealed beneath his clothing.
Soon, if all went to plan, he and Cecily would each wear more lasting tokens of their love.
"Are you cold, Robert?" asked his father, eyes darting from the Duke to fix on Robert.
"Cold, father?"
"You are standing by the fireplace." The Marquess's gaze narrowed. "Is something the matter?"
"Not at all. I was simply stretching my legs." Robert did not sit back down at the table, but walked towards the door as though pacing in idleness. "About that particular errand of yours, Beaumont?"
"The private matter?"
"Yes, that's the one. I will go and see about a carriage for the pair of us."
"You're not hunting today?" asked the Marquess. Robert cursed his natural lack of guile. He was not at all cut out for intrigue.
"I find I have a personal matter which calls me to Loxton," said Beaumont lazily. "Hart and Northmere will have to hunt alone."
The Marquess looked for a moment as though he were going to ask further questions, but the icy glare of a Duke was enough to reduce any man to silence. "I'm sure the other gentlemen will get along without you."
"Quite." Beaumont took a sip of coffee. "I will be with you shortly, Scarcliffe. Thank you for your assistance in this…private matter."
"It's my pleasure," said Robert, quite honestly. His heart was beating at a rate of knots as he left the breakfast room. His father was not an easy man to deceive.
As he went to the stables to set about ordering a carriage, his mind kept drifting back to the balled-up letter he had left in the fireplace. He would not be truly safe until it was burned.
How certain could he be that his father had not noticed it?
Robert tried to quell his rising nerves. Even if the Marquess had noticed the letter, it would be highly irregular for him to go so far as to retrieve and read it. Besides, he was almost positive that it had not been seen.
He really had nothing to worry about at all.