Brenda Hiatt (7 page)

“You do not expect to return before July?” asked Reginald, coming up to stand beside them. He glanced sideways at Holly as he spoke, though his question was directed at Hunt. Holly knew that Reginald was curious about their apparent estrangement; she wondered what explanation Hunt had given him for it.

“July at the earliest,” Hunt replied. He almost followed Reginald’s glance, but seemed to catch himself before he could meet Holly’s eye. “So much depends on what Napoleon does next, how far into Prussia he penetrates. If only we could finally unseat him from Spain, the allies might have more faith in us and be willing to grant more concessions.”

Reginald held up his hands. “Pray, no more about the wretched negotiations! For this one evening, you are to simply enjoy yourself, brother.”

This time Hunt apparently could not resist darting a glance at his wife. Holly flinched away from the desolation in his eyes. This whole situation was so unfair to him! He had respected her wishes by not demanding explanations, though as her husband he had a perfect right to do so. She recalled, too, what the dowager had told her about his childhood. How could she deal Hunt this sort of hurt on top of what he had suffered at his stepmother’s hands?

But surely Noel would receive her warning letter any day now, if he had not already. Perhaps, if she could convince Hunt to wait until after his return to launch a formal inquiry against Teasdale…

“Vandover!” exclaimed Lady Castlereagh, sweeping over to take Hunt by the arm. “Your father has just been telling me the most outrageous story! You must come listen to it, and you too, Reggie dear, and assure me that it is a complete fabrication. Wickburn can be
so
droll…”

The viscountess led the two gentlemen away. Holly was trying to decide whether to follow when another voice spoke at her elbow.

“A pleasant evening, is it not, Lady Vandover?” Teasdale stood at her side. His smile was charming, and if it held a malicious edge, she doubted anyone else in the room would notice it. “I had rather hoped for a private word with you.”

Holly had assiduously avoided Teasdale ever since his vile threats two weeks before and had no desire to speak with him now. “A pity, sir,” she said coldly, “for I was just about to follow my husband.”

“I believe you can spare me a moment. I have advice you would do well to listen to.” Something in his tone made her pause, a chill stealing over her heart.

“Advice?” she asked, striving for a casual tone. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“The letter you attempted to send to your brother. A warning, I presume, though I was unable to decipher the whole.”

Her whole body went icy cold. “Then he—”

“He never received it, no,” Teasdale finished for her. “And it would be extremely foolhardy for you to attempt such a thing again. Foolhardy for you, and perhaps fatal for your brother—and your husband.”

“Hunt?” She tried desperately to control her features. “What has he to do with it?”

“Suffice to say that if I hear the faintest rumour that Lord Vandover is involving himself in the investigation, or shows any particular interest in myself, certain information may
find its way into official hands implicating his wife—and, by extension, himself.”

“But…he was involved in the investigation even before I knew of it!”

“Smile, Lady Vandover. You would not wish anyone to suspect that this is more than an exchange of pleasantries. That is better. You must somehow dissuade him from that involvement. You have until his return from Prussia to decide your best means of doing so.”

One of the ambassadors approached them at that moment, and Teasdale bowed deeply to her. “Your servant, my lady,” he said more loudly. Nodding deferentially to the ambassador, he went to join the group around the Duke of Wickburn.

T
HE MONTH OF
J
UNE
was one of anxious waiting, not only for Holly but for all England. Word of Napoleon’s triumphs, both on the field of battle and in matters of diplomacy, threw even the gay, frivolous London ton into occasional gloom. Peace was imminent, it was rumoured, but only between France and the rest of Europe—not for Britain. And once Napolron had all of the Continent under his sway, he would expend all of his energies against Wellington in Spain.

“Are Hunt and Father in any danger, do you think?” Lord Reginald asked Holly anxiously one afternoon as he escorted her and his mother to a modiste’s. The duchess had paused to exchange gossip with her friend Lady Mountheath, who seemed as oblivious as she to the general anxiety.

“Not yet, I should think,” replied Holly. She was not surprised that her brother-in-law would seek her opinion of the matter. It was common knowledge in the Wickburn household that Holly assiduously read the daily papers for the latest news of the war. Even the servants had been known to ask her about the most recent developments.

“The French seem to have halted their advance at Lützen for the present. Still, Reichenbach is not so very far from there, and if he should—” She broke off, for Lady Mountheath had walked on and the duchess detested hearing talk of the war, though she, like most other fashionable ladies,
sported a Prussian helmet cap and military epaulets on her spencer.

“Dear Emma tells me that canary yellow is coming back into fashion,” said Camilla gaily, rejoining them. “Isn’t it lucky that we have not yet ordered those parasols, Holly?”

Holly managed some suitable reply, her mind still running on the subject she had just been discussing with Reginald. Her close attention to every detail of international events seemed the only thing that kept her sane these days. She had not seen Teasdale again since the night before Hunt left for Prussia, but she had an uneasy feeling that he was watching her every move. She both longed for and dreaded Hunt’s return. If only this wretched war would end!

When, on the morning of July 2, Holly read the news of Wellington’s resounding victory over the French army in Vittoria, her squeal of delight was loud enough to draw half the household to the breakfast parlour.

“We have driven Napoleon out of Spain!” she cried exultantly, to the delight of the assembled. “The war is over, praise God!” Tears of joy streamed down her face.

Amidst the babble of excited voices, she heard, in the distance, a faint booming. They all rushed to the window in time to see fireworks, faint against the morning sky, going up in the direction of Carlton House.

All that day and the next, London took on the aspect of one huge celebration. The Spanish consul threw a magnificent ball on unbelievably short notice and, on their way there, Holly marvelled at the profusion of coloured lanterns and gay banners, proclaiming
Wellington and Victory,
and
Victory, June 21, 1813!

By now, though, she had realized that this victory, though highly significant, did not in fact signal the end of hostilities with France. Napolron yet retained a firm grip on much of Prussia and the eastern portion of the Continent. Still, she could not completely resist the wild enthusiasm that
gripped London, however unresolved her own problems might be.

At the Spanish consulate, spirits were especially high. Champagne flowed freely and the orchestra’s music took on a note almost of hysteria. Through a dreamlike blur of contagious euphoria, Holly looked up to see her husband and the Duke of Wickburn bearing down on them.

“They told us at Wickburn House that you were here,” said the duke to his wife, kissing her soundly. “We came at once to help you to celebrate.”

Holly smiled up at Hunt, for the moment conscious only of her pleasure at seeing him again. He searched her face for a moment, then swiftly bent to kiss her. She responded without thinking, clinging to him as almost-forgotten sensations sprang up within her. Hunt tightened his grasp briefly but then released her, apparently aware once more of their surroundings.

He glanced over at Reginald as he called out an enthusiastic greeting and Holly, only mildly embarrassed, looked around to see if many people had witnessed their embrace. Then her throat closed as, over Hunt’s shoulder, she saw the thin, clever face of Mr. Teasdale regarding her knowingly. All his threats came flooding back. Her dismay must have shown on her face, for he held her gaze for a moment, then smiled in apparent satisfaction.

That silent exchange with Teasdale spoiled the evening for Holly. When Hunt turned back to her after a few minutes of conversation with his brother, she couldn’t help behaving coolly towards him, as she had during his last, brief visit to England. He seemed to sense the change in her at once, visibly cooling himself. Though she ached to smile at him again, to invite another kiss, to be his wife fully once more, the chilling knowledge of Teasdale’s watchful eyes restrained her.

While all of London celebrated around her, Holly felt more miserable than ever.

T
HE DUKE OF
W
ICKBURN
and his family were among the last of the ton to leave London. One morning in late July, Holly found herself having a rare, brief moment alone with Hunt in the breakfast room. Gazing across at him as he read from a stack of papers, she felt suddenly shy. It had been months now since they had even engaged in conversation.

With her eyes she traced the strong curve of his jawline, the careless fall of golden brown hair that she had once stroked so lovingly. A surge of longing seized her. Had it really been necessary that she push him this far away?

Quickly, before she could reconsider, she asked, “Have you given any thought, my lord, to going up to Wickburn in advance of your parents?” It was not quite what she had meant to say, nor had she intended her voice to sound so cool. She held her breath.

He sought her gaze across the table for a brief moment, and then looked back to his papers. “In fact, I have.” Holly’s heart began to flutter, but his next words dashed her faint hope. “I leave in two days’ time and will reach Wickburn on Friday. There is a matter I wish to attend to with the steward before the rest of the family arrive the following week.”

“Oh, but—” What could she say? That she wanted to come with him? He would want to know why. And if she told him the truth—that she missed him and wanted to spend time with him—he might, quite reasonably, ask for an explanation for her long silence. An explanation she did not yet dare to give him.

But her need for him was now so great that she tried again. “I rather wished to go to Wickburn early myself.” To her surprise her voice was perfectly steady.

His look this time was unreadable. “Had you told me sooner, I could have arranged for you to accompany me. As it is, I have already made all the travel plans. Nor would Camilla thank me for disrupting her social schedule.”

He referred, Holly knew, to the final flurry of engagements to which the duchess had already committed, including a farewell dinner at Wickburn House. Hunt, apparently, intended to miss it. At that moment, the duchess herself breezed in.

“Holly, are you still sitting over your breakfast? You have not forgotten that we are expected at Lady Southwark’s within the hour, have you?” She flashed a polite, insincere smile at Hunt. “Your father wishes your presence in the library,” she informed him. “Something about the steward.”

A
FTER THE SIXTH STOP
in as many hours, Holly began to fully understand Hunt’s reluctance to travel with his stepmother. At the rate they were going, they would be fortunate to reach Wickburn in four days, she thought, rather than the two it would have taken her and Hunt alone. The duchess was apparently incapable of passing an inn without ordering the carriages to a halt.

“Mama, I thought you wanted to reach Bedford by nightfall,” complained Reggie as they resumed their places in the luxurious travelling coach. “At this rate, we’ll be lucky to make Shefford.”

The duke had elected to ride for the next stage of the journey, an option Holly envied, though it was rather a relief to be spared Wickburn’s attempts at wit for a while. Reggie was no horseman, which accounted for his presence in the coach, but he apparently relished his mother’s style of travelling
no
more than did Hunt.

“Nonsense, my love,” responded the duchess placidly. “I have made this trip dozens of times and have always reached Bedford. The inn at Shefford rarely has clean sheets and the breakfasts are deplorable, so we will certainly not stay the night there.”

Reginald settled down for yet another nap, of which he seemed capable of an interminable number, and Holly
turned her attention out the window, hoping to discourage more aimless chatter in Camilla’s execrable French or Italian. She seemed to regard Holly as her private language tutor, though she never showed the slightest inclination to improve her appalling accent, however good an example Holly set her.

When the carriage drove through the gates at Wickburn late on the afternoon of the fifth day, Holly was heartily sick of travel in general and of the duchess in particular. Her head ached abominably, and every bone in her body felt stiff and sore from spending so many days cramped into one position. At the sight of the imposing mansion her spirits revived. She had been so happy here last winter. Surely in this setting, she could restore a measure of intimacy to her marriage.

To her disappointment, Hunt was not on hand to greet them on their arrival, although Duchess Aileen was.

“Made a five-day trip of it again, did you?” she called from the top step as Reginald handed his mother and Holly from the coach. The duke was already up the stairs, saluting his mother’s cheek with a kiss.

“You know how Camilla travels, Mother,” he said with a chuckle. “Nary an inn must go to waste; illness may result from haste.”

“Aye, I know,” replied the dowager, but her smile was warm. “Hunt is hereabouts somewhere—down at the kennels, I believe.” Though she spoke to them all, the dowager’s eye, catching Holly’s, was questioning. Had Hunt told her something?

“We’ll send one of the servants down to fetch him presently,” said the duchess before Holly could suggest going to him at once. “First we must all go in and freshen up, and perhaps have a rest. Travelling is so
exhausting.”
She assumed her die-away air and the duke was instantly at her side.

“Of course, my love. Come, I’ll help you upstairs.”

When Holly hesitated, Camilla beckoned to her. “Come along, my dear. You will wish to change your gown at once, I know.” Though she would have preferred to join Hunt in the kennels, Holly obediently followed her inside, all the while silently deriding herself for her lack of courage.

The dowager watched Holly as she followed Camilla upstairs, a frown creasing her brow. So! She had not imagined the constraint in Hunt’s manner. And the trouble apparently concerned his wife. What could have happened during the London Season to sour what had looked like a most promising marriage? She meant to find out.

Counting to one hundred to give the others time to reach their chambers, the dowager rang the bell. “Fetch Vandover from the kennels, Thomas,” she told the footman who appeared. He bowed and left. If Hunt were not forthcoming with information, she would try her hand with Holly. And after that, there was always Reginald. He might know what was going on.

After a few minutes Hunt entered the parlour, though he declined to sit. “I’m covered in dirt, Grandmama,” he said, leaning against the mantelpiece. “You wanted me?”

“Your wife returned home fifteen minutes ago,” she informed him. “I was surprised you did not see fit to greet her.”

As she had expected, Hunt stiffened. “Nor did I perceive her seeking me the moment she arrived. I will see her soon enough.” His grandmother knew him well enough to sense the pain beneath his show of irritation.

“What is it, Hunt? What has happened between you?”

His features appeared to be chiseled from marble. “Happened? Nothing has happened, madam. Not for quite some time.”

The dowager blinked. “I see.” She allowed a quaver to enter her voice. “Then I am not to see my great-grandson before I die?” One corner of Hunt’s mouth twitched, but she could not tell whether with amusement or annoyance.

“You seemed so happy together after the wedding…” She let the statement hang in the air between them.

“Yes. Yes, we did.” To her disappointment, her grandson did not elaborate. “If you will excuse me, Grandmama, I should like to change out of these breeches before dinner.” With an abrupt bow, he left her.

“Fiddlesticks,” she muttered.

Hunt reached the top of the staircase before it occurred to him that Holly was probably in her own rooms, which of course adjoined his. He paused. Perhaps he should have waited until she quitted them before coming up. If he went into his chamber now, she would surely hear him.

Then, with a snort, he strode on down the corridor. What did it matter? If past events were any indication, she was unlikely to say or do anything about it. It had been a long time since she had deliberately sought out his company. His mere presence in the next room was unlikely to disrupt her toilette.

He was just passing her door when an unbidden image came to his mind—a vision of what she might look like at that moment, perhaps partially disrobed as she changed for dinner. With a will of its own, his hand strayed towards the handle of her door. He snatched it back quickly.

No! She was the one who had withdrawn from their marriage. Closing himself off from her, from the feelings she had once awakened in him, was mere self-defence on his part. And she apparently preferred it that way.

Once, Reg had commented on Holly’s aloofness within Camilla’s hearing. His stepmother had immediately hinted that Frenchwomen were not known for their fidelity. Hunt refused to believe that—and Reg had assured him it was impossible. But Holly was hiding something. Her look, her whole demeanour told him so. Ever since that morning in May, she had been unable to meet his eye directly.