Of Moths and Butterflies (41 page)

If his cousin was to become Sir Archer Hamilton Barry, then so be it, but he would be a pauper of a baronet, and Wyndham was determined to see it so. All he needed was the proof. And he had it, if only he could lay his hands on it, and with it, the necessary incentive. On his uncle’s desk, he had observed the necessary ammunition. There, poking out from a stack of papers, had been a letter from Sir Edmund’s solicitor.

I have received your instructions. As to the question of recognising your son, it is a small matter to collect the necessary documents, and to amend those that exist in favour of him whom you would wish to name as your heir. If Mr. Hamilton should fail to comply, then of course necessary amendments—and precautions—must be made. Rest assured I understand the precariousness of your circumstances, and the delicacy required. You may trust me absolutely.

Your servant,

H. Graves, Solicitor

That was all he saw. But it was enough. Sir Edmund would recognise him. Wyndham would give him no other choice. Whatever Hamilton may decide or decide not to do, Wyndham had ways of stacking the odds in his favour. If he must force Sir Edmund’s hand, by any means, however underhanded, then he would do it. And, more pleasant still to consider, if he had to become the last and greatest obstacle between his cousin and an heir, then perhaps that was just as it should be. Wyndham had exercised forbearance long enough.

MOGEN AWOKE
suddenly. Lighting a candle, she arose to check the time. It was not late. Having fled to her room in the wake of Sir Edmund’s cruelty and Wyndham’s insolence, feeling the exhaustion of her anxieties, and of the sleepless night before, she had fallen asleep. It had not been her plan, and she felt a bit fevered by her sudden waking, and at such a strange hour, in the flame-disturbed dark. A fire had been laid and was now roaring away. Mrs. Hartup’s doing, no doubt. Imogen’s efforts there had born success, it seemed, and here was the proof. Was that what had awoken her, then? No, that could not be it, for the fire had been burning for some time already.

Wrapping her shawl tightly around her, she entered the dark and unheated corridor. Here she hoped to hear voices below, or perhaps from the direction of Sir Edmund’s rooms, anything that would signify Archer had indeed returned. There was nothing but stillness.

Disappointed, she returned to her own room. Examining her reflection in the mirror, she smoothed the stray hairs that had come loose in her slumber. Satisfied, she went to the window and looked without. He was there. Standing, as he had done before, below her window, cigar in hand and allowing it to burn away in the dark. Her heart fluttered for half a moment before falling. So he had returned. But he had not come to her. Instead he lingered in the yard, looking up at her in the cloaking darkness. If only she knew what he meant to achieve by such attentions. Surely he could smoke anywhere. In his room if he wished to do it. But no, he chose, of all places, to stand below, leering up at her as if she were some object in a shop window. Perhaps he had decided she was not to his liking after all. It was what she had expected all along. It was what she had endeavoured to protect herself from.

She left the window and crossed the room to stand before the fire. Inevitably he would come. For how much longer would she be required to wait? And how would she receive him? This last question frightened her, for it was the one she had some power to determine. Yet she could not do it.

She sat down to wait and to watch the door. She had closed and locked it before going to sleep. Should she unlock it? Open it as she had done the night before? That courage that had so inspired her then, had deserted her tonight.

At last she heard the outer door of his room open and close. The room’s warmth did not require it but, and as if by habit, she drew her shawl tight once more and began her busied and futile fingerwork at the well-worn fringes, waiting for the knock that must come, and growing more agitated as the minutes passed. Had he not thought what she might be made to endure in his absence? Had he not thought of her at all? Was he not thinking of her now?

Of course he was. But having returned home, wearing the same clothes in which he had left, having two days’ stubble upon his face, he was not quite prepared to face her as the ruffian he felt himself. And so he took a moment to change his shirt at least, and to wash before shaving. He had nearly done with this when he heard the key in the door and heard the lock unfasten. Hesitantly, he approached the door, drying his unshaven face with the towel that hung around his neck. He tossed it away and opened the door. Opened it wide. And stood there, watching as she looked at him, clutching her hands before her and twisting the ring on her finger. Her apparent agitation both pleased and unnerved him. Still he waited, and then, finally; “You’re going to wear the engraving off, you know.”

“Engraving?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t know. He had forgotten to tell her. Or rather had seen little point in it as she had ever been reluctant to believe in the sentiment he wished for her to understand and return. He took her hand.

“Don’t,” she said as he attempted to remove the ring, very gently, from her finger.

He had done it though, in an instant, almost too quickly for her to object. He kissed her hand, where the ring had a moment before rested, before presenting it for her examination. Etched around the inner circumference were the words,
You and no other
.

He watched as her eyes read it, and then, as she comprehended, a look of heartrending relief crossed her brow. He took the ring from her once more and replaced it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for leaving as I did.”

“You had every right to be angry with me.
Have
every right, I dare say.”

“Is that what you think? I didn’t leave because I was angry, Gina. Not with you, at any rate. Frustrated maybe, but not angry.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I’ve been to see a friend of yours,” he said eventually. “Claire is coming.”

“Claire?”

“Yes. Soon, I think. Or so I hope.”

Reminded of the reason for her coming, he asked the question he should have asked already. “Did you have any trouble while I was away?”

One end of the shawl in which she always kept herself so tightly enshrouded, fell from her shoulder, and the sight of her, for once not clinging to it as if for safety, in fact seeming to have quite forgotten it, melted something in him. Yet there was a look of veiled reproach in her eyes as she freed her hand and turned from him. She was hiding something.

“Imogen?”

She did not answer him, and he watched her as she returned to the safety of her own room, where she sat down before the fire.

“You’ve been made comfortable, at least. I am relieved to see that.”

“I spoke with Mrs. Hartup,” she said, glancing up tentatively. “I asked her to arrange to have the house properly staffed again. I did as you said.”

“As I said?”

“Yes. And Mr. Wyndham too. That I should take some initiative for my own happiness and comfort. It was my responsibility. As you said.”

“And she listened to you?”

“Well she had to, you know. It was either that or find a new housekeeper. Or so I told her. I only hope it will not cause trouble.”

“Why should it cause trouble?”

“I cannot help but feel that Sir Edmund liked things as they were. That his authority over the staff is not one he would like to give up to me.”

He was not entirely sure himself, but he wished to reassure her, and to encourage her if he could. He sat down opposite her. “You’ve taken all in hand quite brilliantly. As you ought to have done. As I knew you would do.”

She blushed and looked away, into the flames of the fire.

It was then that he had the opportunity to consider more carefully her words.

“Wyndham was here? You spoke with him?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered quite casually, almost dismissively, which manner betrayed an uneasiness that he too felt—and all the more so for Claire’s warnings.

“Will you tell me?”

“What he said to me?”

“Yes.”

“I’d really rather not speak of it.”

“Very well,” he answered reluctantly. He would not press her, but his anxiety was increasing with each question she refused to answer. “I do not like you keeping him company.”

Her eyes met his and something like anger flashed in them. “Company?”

Perhaps it would be wise to reword his request. Certainly she had not sought Wyndham out. Likely there was little need to go to such trouble. What a fool he was, indeed.

“I realise it is not always possible,” he tried again, “but I would much prefer it if you would avoid him.”

“I’m sure you would.” It had not worked. She was still angry, though she seemed, at the moment, to be trying to keep it under.

“Sir Edmund too accused me of welcoming Wyndham’s attentions,” she continued. “As though upon finding you had left, I had invited him for the purpose of taking your place.”

“Of course that was not what I meant.”

“Does it matter? I don’t see how it can. Your uncle’s wishes are your wishes. His displeasure, your displeasure. It’s as simple as that, really.”

Archer felt his jaw tense and in the same moment she went pale. He might have argued further, but something in her words reminded him of another part of Claire’s warning. One he might have supposed already, without her needing to remind him, had he possessed any whit of rational thought.

“You were not treated badly while I was away?” he asked her. “Sir Edmund was respectful?”

“Respectful?” she answered, indignant now. “Is he ever respectful? To you or anyone?”

“He was not unkind?”

“Did he not mention it himself?”

“No. No, I’ve not seen him yet.”

She exhaled a laugh and he felt the weight of it as it mingled with his growing sense of uncertainty.

“You did have words with him, then,” he said, determined now to have some answers. “What did he say?”

Imogen looked once more into the flames of the roaring fire. “Not much I dare repeat.”

“I would like to know.” He waited this time, hoping that the silence would persuade her to speak on. At last it did.

“He reminded me how unworthy I am to be here.”

Archer regretted this. He might have expected it, had he not been so wilfully blind to that which now seemed inevitable. “It isn’t so. You know that. You must.”

“But it is true. I was forced to this, and he knew. He understood my failings to begin with and yet condemns me for them still. I would not have presumed to a station so utterly beyond me.”

“It isn’t beyond you. I don’t believe–”

“You went to Town?” she asked, interrupting him.

“Yes.”

“Not only to Claire.”

“No. Not only.”

“Sir Edmund said you had gone because–”

“Because?” He saw then that her hand had begun to tremble and took it within his own.

“He said you had gone because I had sent you away… Because there were others who would provide for you what I had so far refused.”

She withdrew her hand from his and placed it on her lap, steadying her fingers within those of her other hand. But it too had begun to tremble.

With a frustrated sigh, he lowered his head to his hand and rubbed his forehead. They were both silent for a long time. He was so tired. So very tired of trying to convince her of something she simply refused to believe. And yet she must be made to believe him. Slowly he looked up to find her twisting her ring once more. He looked then at her face, at her eyes full of tears that would not fall, full of fear and hope. It was the hope that reawakened his own.

“Imogen,” he began.

But she was up and out of her chair, and walking away. He stood too and caught her around the waist. She turned to him in surprise but did not resist. He held her before him now. At arm’s length, but he held her. His fingers, resting against the small of her back, gently explored the fine cut of her bodice.

“If I have to say it a hundred thousand times, Imogen, so I will. There is no other. There never was. There never will be.” His gaze which had lingered on the elegant curves of her body, only carelessly covered by a faded shawl, rose now to her eyes which flashed with something so wholly unlike anger it nearly unmanned him. He pulled her toward him. Again she did not resist, and he felt, for the first time since that day in the park, that she was his, or might be. He was by now beyond thinking. She was in his arms, where she belonged, and, come what may, he would keep her there. His eyes fastened on her lips and they were the target of his immediate intent.