A Country Affair (17 page)

"Richard?" Wilfrid asked, "Shall you be returning to London now? If so, I must request a lift."

Wilfrid's plea damped Richard's plans.

"How did you come to Uckfield?" While listening for Wilfrid's response, he reached up to run his fingers through his hair and found it still full of hay. Selina's sweet scent seemed to cling to his hands, to linger in the air of the barn. Richard doubted he could ever enter a stable again without thinking of her.

But Wilfrid was answering him, and in a tone to make him feel more the villain. "I am ashamed to say that I was forced to come by mail coach part of the way, then to hire a gig. I am trying, sincerely trying to practice those little economies you suggested, Richard. But I cannot pretend to like them. No doubt but what they shall cost me my good health in the end. You can have no notion of the vulgar people who ride in such conveyances—every two out of three are afflicted with some violent cough or nervous spasm. You shall advise me, will you not, of the first hint of such symptoms in me? I have an excellent medical man, whom I consult quite frequently, but even he must have his fears when a man of my advanced years is subjected to mysterious illnesses. I was not so fortunate as to be gifted with your excellent constitution, Richard."

Richard had suffered enough of Wilfrid's prattle on top of his other setbacks that morning. Such speeches could only make him desire to be gone.

"Wilfrid, if you will be so good as to wait for me a few moments, I shall make my goodbyes to Miss Payley."

"Dear me." Wilfrid's raised brows told him how ill-advised he thought that course of action to be. "It appeared to me, dear Richard, that she had taken her farewell already."

"That may be," Richard said, absorbing the slap to his pride, "but I have not taken mine from her. I shall be with you shortly."

Leaving Wilfrid, arguing helplessly in the barn, Richard marched off towards the house, his angry, guilty, churned-up feelings still clouding his head.

When he arrived there, he was met at the door by Lucas, who barred his way. "Mistress Payley says she don't want no visitors. Sorry, m'boy."

Richard did not want to get in a brawl, but he would be confounded if he would take orders from Lucas. He struggled to control his irritation. "I do not think your mistress regards me strictly as a visitor, Lucas. If you will kindly step out of the way—"

"That's what I would've said, if anybody 'ad asked me." Scratching his head, Lucas refused to step aside. "But, fact is, she partic'larly mentioned you as someone she don't want let in."

That feeling of being kicked in the stomach returned full force. Richard did not think he had ever suffered such a blow to his pride . . . if that was what he was feeling.

Confused, and suffering from a pain he did not recognize, he could only accede to Selina's wishes, hoping to find her less averse to hearing his explanation at a later time. He could not very well fight Lucas in front of Wilfrid, not after his cousin had reproached him. Richard did have some dignity to maintain. He had to remind himself of that.

But since he had come to The Grange it seemed, his dignity had flown out the window with his conscience. The latter had returned with a vengeance. It was long past time to take up the former.

"Very well," Richard said, giving Lucas the look an earl should give an underling. "You may tell Miss Payley that I shall call upon her at her earliest convenience."

Concealed from his view at the top of the stairs, Selina heard the severe tone in Richard's voice. It wounded her, deep down where her heart had already crumbled into pieces, like broken glass that pricked and sliced her with every turn.

To learn that she had given herself, heart, body and soul, to a man who had deceived her was the greatest pain she had ever suffered, greater even than her sorrow on the loss of her parents. For this blow, not even Augustus's love or his need for her strength could act as a shield. She had suffered a wound straight through her chest, which nothing at all could ever heal. And, at the moment, she could not even summon the fury she knew she needed to fill it temporarily.

Richard tried again the next day, but was greeted at the door by Augustus.

"Is it true?" the boy asked with a droop to his features. "Are you truly the Earl of Linton?"

"Yes." Richard braced himself. "I am afraid so."

"Then, you did not come to The Grange to buy trees."

"No, although—" at Augustus's calm demeanor, Richard gave a sad smile—"I would be grateful for the chance to buy some now. If," he added, "you would be willing to sell them to me."

Augustus looked uncomfortable. "I would, I suppose, but my sister might not wish for me to do so."

"That's quite all right, Squire. I do not wish to get you in trouble with your sister, but perhaps, if she would see me, I could ask her myself."

"Selina is not here."

The boy's words stunned Richard. Until that moment, he had not realized how much he had been counting upon seeing her today and asking for her forgiveness. He had thought of nothing else throughout last night or all this morning. He had resisted all Wilfrid's attempts to make him see reason and leave Uckfield behind them.

And in the end, Richard had lost his temper with his cousin and sent him packing on his way.

"What do you mean, she is not here?" he asked Augustus.

Augustus cast him a slanted glance, as much as to say that Richard could not be trusted to know.

Richard winced at the boy's honest regard. "I know that my behavior must seem reprehensible both to you and to your sister. I hardly understand it myself. But, Augustus—" Richard hardly knew where to start—"all I can say is that, for the past two weeks, I have been earnestly trying to discover some means by which I could be of service to you both."

A gleam lit Augustus's eyes, telling Richard that the boy wanted desperately to believe him, but all he uttered was, "Selina said you were posing as our friend in order to keep us from proving our kinship to you."

"I gathered she believed something of the kind. However, she is wrong."

"I still cannot tell you where she is."

Richard swallowed his frustration. "Did she leave you alone with the work?"

"Lucas is here."

"Ah. Yes, Lucas." Richard fought to control his sense of irony. Lucas had proven to be more reliable than he. "I would be happy to help myself, until she returns."

"No, my lord, you may not."

Augustus's mode of address slapped Richard's ears. But a day ago, they had been friends.

Augustus looked down at his shoes and studied their tips. "My sister told me that I should send Lucas for the constable if you refused to leave."

"I see." Nothing would be served by Richard's staying here now, not until Selina's temper had cooled at least.

Richard made the boy a bow, but refrained from making long farewells, for he meant to return.

As he turned to go, a disturbing thought came into his mind. He swung back rapidly. "Augustus—you would tell me, would you not, if your sister's disappearance had anything to do with Romeo Fancible?"

The Squire's puzzled look reassured him, long before a light dawned in Augustus's eye. "No—" the boy nearly blushed—"it has nothing at all to do with Romeo."

"Then, in that case," Richard said more firmly, "I shall leave a message for you to give to your sister. You may remind her that she made me a promise with respect to that gentleman, and I expect her to keep her word."

Augustus seemed befuddled again, but without further questions, he agreed to pass Richard's message on.

The road to London seemed very much longer, far colder, and much more lifeless than it had on Richard's journey out to Uckfield.

The bustle of Bond Street, the haughtiness of St. James, and the pretentiousness of every rider in the park struck him as both alien and artificial. He felt as if he had been living almost in another time, before such things as Almack's and balls, phaetons and routs, had been invented.

His first days back, he was far too busy to examine his emotions closely. He was bombarded by requests for his time from everyone from his steward to his housekeeper, not to mention his anxious secretary, who had been obliged to make decisions on his own about which social engagements Richard would be likely to attend. Advised by Wilfrid of his cousin's impending return, the poor man had sent out various notes of acceptance for this or that ball or scheme, only to discover two days later that Richard did not wish to accept any of them. After begging his employer to reconsider at least some of them, the secretary was forced to concede.

Richard found that his coming home did not give him any degree of solace. On the contrary, after a few days passed, he felt, if possible, worse than he had ever felt before. The constant demands for his attention quickly wore him down, until he wished for nothing more than the peace and quiet he had discovered in Selina's cherry orchards.

White's, he found, when he had fled to his club in desperation, was agreeably thin of company by day. Tucking a newspaper under his arm, Richard found a deserted corner in which to read.

Soon, he had to resign himself to the fact that solitude was not all he had been missing. As the words on the printed page stubbornly eluded his brain, a great sense of loss invaded his heart. All Richard could focus on were memories of Selina, the fire that flashed in her eyes, the way she hiked her perfect chin, the sheer vitality that radiated from her. He fought the memory of her body pressing eagerly against his, so sweet and yielding. She had almost yielded to him. He still trembled with the yearning to fulfill that promise.

His daydreams were inevitably ruined by the recollection of the hurt he had done her. How long would it be before she could contemplate accepting his apology? Selina was proud. So proud. She would not be quick to forget the wound to her pride.

Selina believed that he had spied upon her in some devious scheme to prevent her from claiming his name. That he had engaged in some nefarious collusion with Wilfrid. As ridiculous as such a suspicion might be, Richard knew his own behavior had led her to form it. The shame of her accusation burrowed deep beneath his skin like a nettle.

Richard wondered how and when he would win the chance to see her again. Wherever she had gone, it could not be far, for she would not leave Augustus to manage by himself for long. The trouble was that he could not insist upon her receiving him. Selina, in a fit of temper, was quite capable of having him called up before a magistrate for assault.

At the thought of waiting for her temper to cool down, Richard grew terribly impatient. There must be something he could do to show her the worthiness of his intentions.

The notion that he might search the Cuckfield registries for an entry Wilfrid could have overlooked had occurred to him. If Selina could be proven to be his distant cousin, she might be willing to forgive him. However—and this was rather a large however—she might be so offended with him now that she would refuse the connection.

Richard wished instead that he could get at the heart of her pride and take away the blight upon her own family's name. But, to do that, he would have to prove her father's innocence, which should be an impossible task.

Harkening back to his first impressions of Selina and Augustus, he was struck once again by the improbability that two such fine people could have been bred and raised by a dishonorable man. With a spurt of conviction, Richard realized that he did not believe it even remotely possible. And if he was so inclined, he thought to himself, then William Payley must have had some contemporaries who believed in him equally.

Coming to his feet, Richard determined to ferret these friends out and to conduct his own inquiry. It should be quite simple to discover the details of William Payley's scandal. More than half of Richard's fellow club members must have gone to Eton. A great number of them would have been at Cambridge—even Wilfrid had spent some time at Cambridge. What better place to begin his investigation than here in his own club?

Strolling towards the card room, Richard did some vague calculations in his head. If Selina was approximately nineteen years of age, then her father would most likely be in his forties or fifties if he were still alive. Richard guessed he would have been close to thirty, at least, before marrying, for a man who had been stripped of his place in society would have taken longer to find a way to support a wife.

Richard reached the card room, where low voices and the faint smell of tobacco proclaimed that a few tables had already been made up. Scanning the faces of the players, Richard found someone he supposed to have gone to Cambridge.

Lord Eppington waved a casual hand of greeting. At Richard's question, he waxed at great length upon his own history, having been sent to university to be trained for government service, only to be so fortunate as to inherit a barony instead. Richard listened patiently to him, and was finally rewarded with a list of men he might approach who had been up at Cambridge some thirty years ago.

Richard thanked him, and before the day was out, had spoken to more than a few of the gentlemen on the list, had whittled the others down, and had invited one promising prospect to dinner.

* * * *

Sir Henry North, a mild-spoken diplomat in the government's service, had undoubtedly been intrigued to receive an invitation to dine from a peer he only knew by repute. He came on fairly short notice, however, being informed by Richard's secretary that his lordship wished to question him on a private matter, concerning an incident that had taken place many years ago.

Always a gracious host, Richard made sure that his guest had superbly dined and had been royally treated to his wine cellar before he broached the serious topic of the evening. In light conversation over their dinner, he had discovered Sir Henry to be a man of both keen intelligence and high integrity. He had also, Sir Henry himself confirmed, been a close boyhood friend of William Payley's.

"Yes." Sir Henry nodded regretfully over his port, once the covers had been removed and the servants had withdrawn. He was soberly dressed along the lines laid down by Brummell and the hair at his temples had turned gray. "William Payley was a close and valued friend. I have never ceased regretting the unfortunate incident that robbed me of his companionship." He raised his eyes to Richard's. "Why do you ask about him, my lord?"