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So what is Ellie?
She did not dare ask—he would probably be happy to explain in unflattering detail.
‘Tell me, Cousin Blake, do you make a habit of reading Minerva Press novels or do you have a natural bent for the Gothic yourself?’
‘The latter, Cousin Eleanor. Definitely the latter. Dark closets, skeletons...’ There was no amusement in his eyes.
‘Will you not wait for tea?’ She rose, gestured towards the door.
‘I think not.’
He caught her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, his breath warm as he did not quite touch his mouth to her fingers, which were rigid in his light grip.
The door opened and Polly edged in, a tea tray balanced against one hip.
‘Lord Hainford is just leaving, Polly. Put the tray down and see him out, if you please.’
And leave me to recover from having my hand almost kissed and from the knowledge that I am about to spend several days in the company of such a very dangerous man.
She would be quite safe, she told herself. Polly would be with her, would sleep in her room every night, and an earl would stop at respectable inns—inns with locks on the bedchamber doors.
The problem was, he was not the danger—she was. Or rather her foolish imagination, which yearned for what, quite obviously, she could never have.
* * *
Ellie stood at the foot of the stairs and regarded the sum total of her personal belongings. One trunk with clothes and books, one hat box containing two hats, one valise with overnight necessities, one portable writing slope. And one umbrella. Nothing so frivolous as a parasol.
Polly had almost as much luggage.
Somewhere upstairs an auctioneer was going round with Mr Rampion, making an inventory and sorting the furniture into lots. The solicitor had managed to locate enough money and small items of value to discharge the debts and the legacies to old servants, which was a weight off her mind, but she would get no recompense from the sale for her losses.
The new baronet was inheriting nothing more than a title.
Polly was peering through one of the sidelights framing the door. ‘He is here, Miss Lytton. The Earl, I mean.’
‘I guessed that was who you meant,’ Ellie said wryly, and took a firm hold on the umbrella, feeling like a medieval knight arming himself for battle.
What did she know about this man? That he spent a great deal of money on his clothing and his boots, his horses and his entertainment. And most of the entertainment, she gathered, was hedonistic and self-indulgent but not, as a perusal of the gossip columns had told her, undisciplined.
Lord Hainford might enjoy gaming, racing...all matters of sport. He might be seen at every fashionable event and he might enjoy himself very well in other ways, as sly references to ‘Lord H’ and ‘renowned beauty Lady X’ being ‘seen together as we have come to expect’ betrayed, but there were never any reports of riotous parties, scandals at the opera or heavy gaming losses. He was not married, betrothed or linked to any respectable lady who might have expectations—which was interesting as he was now twenty-eight and had his inheritance to consider.
And when he smiled she thought there was something behind the amusement—as though he could not quite bring himself to surrender to it. Her imagination, no doubt...
Polly opened the door a fraction before the groom’s knock. ‘All these,’ she said pertly to the man, with a wave of her hand to the small pile of luggage.
‘It will go in the baggage carriage,’ the groom said, and Ellie saw there was a second, plainer vehicle behind the Earl’s glossy travelling coach with his coat of arms on the door. ‘Is there anything you would like to keep with you, Miss Lytton?’
‘Thank you, no.’ She had her reticule, holding her money, her notebooks, a pencil and a handkerchief. ‘Polly, run upstairs and tell Mr Rampion that we are about to leave.’
By the time the solicitor had come down Lord Hainford was out of the carriage and the luggage was loaded. She shook hands with the solicitor, took the letter he handed her with details of the house that would be her new home, and gave him, in return, the keys of the London house.
She had lived there for more than five years, and yet she could feel no particular sadness at leaving it. The companionship of her friends, the bookshops, the libraries—yes, she was sorry to lose those. But in this place she had been no more than a glorified housekeeper, the poor relation. At least now she would be mistress of her own house.
My own hovel, more likely.
All it would take was the willingness to endure the company of the Earl of Hainford for a few days.
He stood waiting to hand her into the carriage and she balked on the doorstep, the reality of being in such an enclosed space with a man making her stumble. She gripped the railing and limped down to the pavement, exaggerating the hitch in her gait to account for that moment of recoil.
Courage, she chided herself. She was not going to allow the past to rule her present, her future. And this man was the bridge to that future—whatever it held.
* * *
‘Miss Lytton, may I introduce my confidential secretary, Jonathan Wilton?’
Jon got to his feet, stooping under the roof of the carriage. ‘I do beg your pardon for not getting out to greet you, Miss Lytton. I did not realise you were ready to join us.’
Blake noticed the fractional recoil before she held out her hand, and the sudden loss of colour in her cheeks, and yet she was perfectly composed as she greeted Jon. Was she simply unused to the company of men? He supposed that might be the case, if she had not made her debut and had led a somewhat isolated existence. Then, as she sat and looked up, seeing Jon’s face properly for the first time, he saw her surprise, carefully but not perfectly masked.
‘We are half-brothers,’ he said, settling himself next to her, opposite Jon.
The little maid scrambled up and sat opposite her mistress, a battered dressing case clutched on her knee.
‘It is something recognised but not spoken about. With the typical hypocrisy of Society Mr Wilton, my secretary, is perfectly acceptable, whereas Jonathan, my somewhat irregular brother, is not.’
‘Which can be amusing, considering how alike we are.’ Jonathan, three inches shorter, brown-haired and blue-eyed, grinned. ‘Acceptable as in a suitable extra dinner guest in emergencies, but not as a potential husband for a young lady of the ton, you understand.’
‘Yes, I quite see.’ Eleanor Lytton nodded. ‘One day everyone will be judged only on character and ability, but I fear that is a long way off.’
‘Are you a radical, Miss Lytton?’ Blake asked as the carriage moved off. He noticed that she took no notice of their leaving, and did not send so much as a fleeting last glance at her old home.
‘Cousin Eleanor, is it not?’ she reminded him. ‘I suppose I might be a radical—although I would not want change to be driven by violence. Too many innocents suffer when that happens.’
Blake was intrigued. There was plenty of room on the carriage seat and he shifted a little so he could study her expression. Most ladies, other than the great political hostesses and the wives of politicians, would be appalled at the suggestion that they might have an opinion on politics, and even those who did would be obediently mouthing their husband’s line.
To have radical leanings was quite beyond the pale, and indicated that she both read about such matters and thought about them too. What a very uncomfortable female she was to have around—and yet somehow refreshingly different from his usual female companions.
‘I agree with much of what the radicals advocate—both the need for change and the perils of making it happen,’ he said, jerking his thoughts back from his recent amicable parting with Lady Filborough, his latest mistress.
A gorgeous creature, and yet he had become bored very rapidly with her predictability. He had no desire for a mistress who would try and plumb the depths of his soul—far from it—but he did prefer one who engaged his brain as well as his loins.
‘People need bread in their stomachs before peaceable progress can be made.’
‘Bread in their stomachs and books in their hands. Education is critical, don’t you think?’
Her earnestness was rather charming, Blake decided. She was so unselfconscious, so passionate. Such a pity that she had no looks, he mused as he settled back into his corner. That passion combined with beauty would be truly...erotic. Good Lord—what a peculiar word to think of in conjunction with this woman.
Jon was ready to launch into his own opinions on working class education, he could see. A discussion of that all the way to Lancashire was going to be distinctly tiresome.
‘I hope you will excuse us, Cousin Eleanor, but we must go through this morning’s post.’
‘Of course.’
It was like blowing out a candle. All the intensity went, leaving only a meek spinster effacing herself in her corner.
‘Polly, pass me the book from my case, please. I have my notebook here.’
By dint of dropping his gloves, Blake managed to get a glimpse of the spine of the volume. Agricultural Practices of the Mediterranean Lands. He sincerely hoped that she was not going to try and impose those on the farm labourers of Lancashire or she would soon come to grief.
What a strange little female she was. Or not so little—she must be all of five feet and nine inches, he estimated, before he reached for the first letter Jon passed him and became lost in the detail of a land boundary dispute affecting a property he was buying.
Chapter Four (#u805bc18e-a391-51fd-8faa-4fd5f9fff2a9)
To be closed in with not one but two gentlemen had almost caused her to back out of the carriage in instinctive panic. Ellie was quite proud of herself for not only standing her ground but greeting Mr Wilton with composure. No one would have noticed anything amiss, she was sure.
And, curiously, the secretary’s presence made things easier. He was not as good-looking as his half-brother—more of a muted version—and the fact that the men had soon become engrossed in their work had helped her to relax. She did not like being the centre of attention under any circumstances, and now Lord Hainford—Cousin Blake—had a perfect excuse for virtually ignoring her, and she was sure he much preferred to do so.
She looked up from her book. The carriage was luxurious beyond anything she had travelled in before, with deeply buttoned upholstery and wide seats which meant that she could sit next to Blake without touching him or his clothing. Even though she told herself it was irrational, she had dreaded being shut up in a closed carriage, pressed against another body—or, worse, sandwiched between two men, which would have been quite likely to happen on a stage coach.
Ellie wriggled more comfortably into her corner and put her notebook on the seat. It was an effort to concentrate on date production and wheat yields, especially when she could smell Blake. It had to be him—that elusive scent of starched linen, an astringent cologne and warm, clean man. Mr Wilton was too far away for it to be him setting her nostrils quivering every time the two of them shifted, leaning across to pass papers or stooping to rescue fallen sheets from the carriage floor.
It was very provocative, that intimate trace that he left in the air. And just because the threat of a man touching her made her anxious, it did not mean she did not wish that was not the case. Blake was beautiful to look at—strong and male, the perfect model for both fantasy and fiction... Perfect, that was, when there had been not the slightest danger of getting close enough to speak to him, let alone scent him.
Ellie wrenched her concentration back to the book. Goodness, but the production of dates was dull. She flipped through the pages. Perhaps water management would be a more riveting subject for the tiresome Oscar to explore. He might even fall into an irrigation canal.
The thought cheered her, and she picked up her notebook and began to scribble not notes but an entire scene.
* * *
‘Bushey,’ Blake said. ‘We are changing horses here. Would you like to get down for a few minutes?’
Ellie almost refused. Oscar was now vividly describing the experience of being hauled out of a muddy irrigation canal, and the scene was giving her great pleasure to write.
Then it occurred to her that this might be a tactful way of suggesting that she might wish to find the privy. ‘Thank you. I would like to stretch my legs.’
Polly looked grateful for the decision, and Mr Wilton helped both of them to descend from the carriage, then turned away, as tactful as his brother, as the two of them went towards the inn.
When they returned Blake himself got out to help them in. ‘You look pleased about something, Cousin Eleanor.’
‘We were admiring the facilities. A most superior stopping place—thank you.’
‘Thank Jon. He sorts everything out.’
Mr Wilton glanced up from his papers and acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head. ‘Just doing my job, Miss Lytton.’
‘So what does an earl’s confidential secretary do, exactly?’ she asked as the groom closed the doors and swung up behind as the carriage rolled out of the inn yard.
‘I deal with Lord Hainford’s correspondence, keep his appointments diary, monitor all the newspapers for him, organise journeys, settle his accounts, ensure that reports from all his properties and investments are received regularly, scanned, and that any matters requiring his decision are brought to his attention. I make notes on topics he might wish to speak on in the Lords. That kind of thing.’
‘It looks like a great deal more than that.’ Ellie could see a stack of notebooks, bristling with markers. ‘Cousin Blake makes you work exceedingly hard.’
‘And he makes me work exceedingly hard in return,’ Blake countered dryly. ‘Did you imagine that earls sat around all day, reading?’
‘No. I imagined that they spent most of their time enjoying themselves,’ she admitted, surprised into frankness.
‘I do—when I am allowed to escape.’ He cast her a sardonic glance. ‘I do all the things you imagine, Cousin Eleanor. All the things that put that judgmental expression on your face. Clubs, sporting events, my tailor, hatter and bootmaker. Social events, the opera, the theatre, gaming. A positive whirl of dissipation.’
Mr Wilton snorted. ‘Are you attempting to paint yourself as an idle rake to Miss Lytton? Should I not mention the House of Lords, your charity boards, investors’ meetings?’
‘It will do no good, Jon. My new cousin considers me to be an idle rake already. I have no need to paint myself as one.’
‘I am quite prepared to believe that you work as hard at your duties and responsibilities as you do at your pleasure, Cousin Blake. It is merely that I imagine you have to consider no one else while pursuing those occupations.’
‘I am selfish, in other words?’ Those dark brows were rising dangerously.
How had she allowed herself to be tempted into saying what she thought? She should be meek and mild and quiet—so quiet that he forgot she was there, if possible. An apology and a rapid return to the details of the North African date harvest was called for.
‘If the cap fits, my lord,’ Ellie retorted, chin up, ignoring common sense. ‘How pleasant not to be responsible for a single soul.’
Mr Wilton opened his mouth, presumably in order to enumerate his lordship’s friends, staff, tenants and charitable beneficiaries.
Blake silenced him with an abrupt gesture of his hand. ‘It is,’ he agreed, with a charming smile that did nothing to disguise the layers of ice beneath.
Stop it, she told herself. He will put you off at the next inn if you keep provoking him.
She was not even quite sure why she was doing it, other than the fact that it was curiously stimulating, almost exciting—which was inexplicable. Rationally, yes, he had been thoughtless in ignoring Francis’s plea for his time and attention. And, yes, he had behaved outrageously—stripping off like that, provoking that unpleasant Crosse man to the point of violence. But she could not pretend that she was devastated at Francis’s death, that she had loved her stepbrother, and Blake had done all she might have asked afterwards.
Just as he would have done whoever Francis’s relatives had been.
He did not help for your sake, whispered an inner voice—the one she always assumed was her common sense. He thinks you are plain, argumentative and of no interest. Which is true. He is helping because his conscience as a gentleman tells him to—and because it happens not to be desperately inconvenient for him. Just because you have been daydreaming about him, and just because you want to put him in your novel, that does not mean he has the slightest interest in you. You should try and be a nicer person. Ladylike.
After that mental douche of cold water she picked up her notebook. Perhaps she should start by being nicer to Oscar. Perhaps he might be treated to a marvellous banquet tonight. What would there be to eat...?
One of the travel books she had read contained several accounts of food, so she put together all the dishes that particularly appealed. Roast kid, couscous—which sounded delicious—exotic fish, pungent cheeses, flatbreads. Pomegranate juice, sherbets, honey cakes...
Her pencil flew over the pages.
* * *
They stopped for the night at Aynho, a Northamptonshire village Ellie had never heard of. It was built of golden stone and had an exceedingly fine inn, the George, which Mr Wilton had selected for them.
She was ushered to the room she would share with Polly and found it large, clean and comfortable. A bath had been ordered and would arrive directly, she was told, and dinner would be served in the private parlour at seven. Would Miss Lytton care for a cup of tea?
‘We both would,’ she said gratefully. ‘I could become very accustomed to this,’ she remarked to Polly as the inn’s maid hurried out after setting a very large bathtub behind a screen.
‘Me too, miss.’
Polly was soon answering the door to another maid with the tea tray. She set it on a side table and they both sat and gazed happily at dainty sandwiches and fingers of cake.
