change in speed was detectable as they left Barnet behind and raced onwards up the Great North Road towards the George at Harpenden, where they spent the night on such trips as these.
Jim kept silent, more from fear of distracting the Marquis than from reticence. But, when Hazelmere overtook the north-bound accommodation coach just before St Albans on a tight curve with less than inches to spare, Jim, in considerable fright, swore roundly.
‘What was that, Jim?’ came Hazelmere’s voice.
‘Why, nothing, m’lord,’ replied Jim. Unable to help himself, he added, ‘Just if you was to be wishful to break both our necks I could think of few faster ways to do it.’
Silence. Then Jim heard his master laugh softly. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I know I should not have done that.’ And the curricle slowed until they were bowling along at a safer pace.
Yes, and you’re still up in the boughs, thought Jim. Just as long as you keep this coach on the road, we’ll survive.
It was late afternoon on Thursday when they reached Lauleigh, Hazelmere’s Leicestershire estate between Melton Mowbray and Oakham. His steward, a dour man named Walton, had not erred in demanding his attendance. There was an enormous amount of work to be done and they made a start on it that evening, going over the accounts and planning the activities of the next two days.
Walton, hearing from Jim of the likely change in his lordship’s affairs, made sure that anything requiring his authorisation was dealt with. He was under no illusion that he would be able to summon his master north again that Season. Accustomed, like most of the Marquis’s servitors, to keeping a weather eye out for his temper, in this case Walton guessed it was unlikely to be directed at him, and his flat tones droned in Hazelmere’s ears incessantly over Friday and Saturday.
Hazelmere called a halt on Saturday afternoon and retired to his study, informing Jim that they would leave early the next morning. The events of the past two days, entirely divorced from those of the Season, had succeeded in restoring his calm. By forcing his mind to deal with such mundane affairs, he had managed to shut out the turmoil of emotions he had experienced on leaving Dorothea until now, when he felt infinitely more capable of dealing with them.
While it was warm in the south of the country, in Leicestershire the winds blew cool in the evening and the fire was alight. Pouring himself a drink, he dropped into the comfortable armchair before the hearth, stretching his long legs to the blaze. Cupping the glass in both hands, he gazed into the leaping flames.
Conjuring up the image of a pair of emerald eyes, he wondered what she was doing. Ah, yes. The Melchett ball. Away from the endless round of London during the Season, he was even more conscious of how much he wanted her by his side. That meeting in the drawing-room at Merion House had had about it an air of inevitability. He’d been so angry with her when he’d walked in the door—admittedly more from hurt pride than righteous indignation. And she’d been so surprisingly angry with him! Thankfully, she had promptly told him why. He grinned. All the dictates of how a young lady should behave had been overturned in the space of a few minutes. He could imagine no other female—apart from his mother, perhaps—who would dare let on that she even knew of his mistresses, much less question him on the subject.
As his relationship with Helen Walford was so well known among the ton, it had never occurred to him that a different version could be presented to Dorothea. Very clever of the Comte. He vaguely recalled some difficulty with Monsieur de Vanée over one of the barques of frailty who had at one time resided under his protection. What had been her name? Madeline? Miriam? Mentally he shrugged. The Comte’s lies had undoubtedly been the cause of Dorothea’s distress that night, coming on top of the incident with the Prince. Hardly surprising that she had baulked at meeting Helen and him in the Park.
But why, why had she flung that drivel about her being no more than a challenge at him? Even if Marjorie Darent had impressed it on her, surely she didn’t believe it? He sipped the fine French brandy and felt it slide warmly down his throat. No—she hadn’t believed Marjorie’s tales. The Darents had left London on Monday, so any conversation between Dorothea and Marjorie must have occurred earlier. But Dorothea had behaved normally at that horrendous party on Sunday night. And at the Diplomatic Ball she’d been entirely unconcerned until the Prince’s performance had opened her eyes too far. Even then, she had not been distraught, only, as he had expected, angry with him. It had only been later, after the Comte’s interference, that she had been shattered and almost in tears. Well, his actions in her grandmother’s drawing-room should have settled that. She couldn’t possibly have missed the implication of that kiss.
It had not occurred to him until that day that by loving her he had put into her hands the power to hurt him. Since he was naturally strong and self-reliant, there were few close to him whose opinions mattered enough to affect him—his mother and Alison, Tony and Ferdie and, to a lesser extent, Helen. That was about it. And Dorothea mattered far more than all of them combined. But if such vulnerability was what one had to put up with, then put up with it he would. She had only lashed out at him because she was hurt by his imagined perfidy. He would simply ensure that such misunderstandings did not occur in the future.
So where did that leave them now? Much where they had been before, except that presumably she now knew he loved her. Assuming that events progressed as he intended, there was no reason that they could not be wed in a month or so. Then his frustrations and her uncertainties would be things of the past.
He brought his gaze back from the ceiling whence it had strayed and fixed it once more on the dancing flames. He was happily engaged in salacious imaginings in which Dorothea figured prominently when his housekeeper entered to inform him that dinner was served.
He reached Darent Hall, close to Corby and not far off his direct route, just before ten o’clock. He threw the reins to Jim, who had run to the horses’ heads, with a command to keep them moving.
Admitted to the hall, he spoke to the butler. ‘I am the Marquis of Hazelmere. I wonder if Lord Darent could spare me a few moments?’
Recognising the quality of this visitor, the butler showed him into the library and went to inform his master. Herbert was engaged in consuming a leisurely breakfast when Millchin announced that the most noble Marquis of Hazelmere required a few words with him. Herbert’s mouth dropped open. After a moment he recovered himself enough to reply, ‘Very well, Millchin, I’ll come at once, of course. Where have you put him?’
Millchin told him and withdrew. Herbert continued to stare at the door. He had little doubt what Hazelmere wanted, but Marjorie had insisted that he was not in earnest and, even if he was, that he could not be considered suitable. In this instance, adherence to his wife’s wishes was entirely impossible. Herbert was already uncomfortable before he entered his library to face Hazelmere, who somehow seemed more at home in the beautiful, heavily panelled room than its owner.
The interview was brief and to the point, conducted as it was by Hazelmere rather than Herbert. Having listened to the Marquis’s request, Herbert felt forced to reveal that he had already given Edward Buchanan permission to address Dorothea.
At mention of Mr Buchanan, Hazelmere’s look became uncomfortably intent. ‘Do you mean to tell me you gave Buchanan permission to address your ward without checking his background?’ The precise diction made Herbert even more nervous.
‘I gather he owns an estate in Dorset,’ he flustered. ‘And, of course, he knows Sir Hugo Clere.’
‘And learned from Sir Hugo that Miss Darent had inherited the Grange, no doubt. For your information, Edward Buchanan owns a tumbledown farmhouse in Dorset. He’s penniless. The reason he’s in London is that, after his most recent attempt to run away with a local heiress, Dorset is too hot for him. I’m surprised, my lord, that you take such little care over your duties as guardian.’
Herbert, brick-red with embarrassment, remained silent.
‘I assume that, as you are acquainted with my family and my standing in society and as my wealth needs no detailing, you have no objection to giving me your permission to address Miss Darent?’
The scathing tones made Herbert wince. ‘Naturally, should you wish to address Dorothea, of course you have my permission,’ he said, squirming, then unwisely added, ‘But what if she’s already accepted Buchanan?’
‘My dear sir, your ward is a great deal more discerning than you are.’ Now that he had obtained Herbert’s approval, the only other information Hazelmere required was the name of the family solicitors who would handle the marriage settlements.
Herbert was strangely diffident on this question. ‘I believe Dorothea uses Whitney and Sons, in Chancery Lane.’
It took the Marquis a moment to assimilate this. Then he asked, eyes narrowed, ‘So Miss Darent’s solicitors are her own, not yours?’