The Earl's Honorable Intentions (8 page)

“Anything that comes into your head.” Miss Fletcher flashed him an encouraging smile. Or was she amused to watch him struggle with the crying baby? “As you discovered yesterday, it is the sound of your voice that matters, not the words. Tell him about some battle you fought or interesting facts about horses. Try exaggerating your expression, as if it is the most exciting thing you can imagine. That might divert him.”

Gavin racked his brains for an engaging topic, one he could talk about at length with some animation. And then it came to him.

“What do you suppose General Bonaparte is up to, Arthur?” He followed Miss Fletcher’s suggestion, posing the question as if it were of vital importance, which he believed it was.

His son responded with a little gasp, his eyes widening in a startled look that made Gavin want to laugh. Best of all, the crying ceased entirely.

“I thought a future soldier might be curious about that,” he continued. “The newspapers reported that the three Bonaparte brothers set sail to England from Le Havre, but I do not believe a word of it. Do you?”

Young Arthur stared at him with the most intent look, almost as if he did understand. Then he made a rude wet sound, appropriately derisive.

Gavin broke into a broad grin. “I agree. It is all nonsense. Bonaparte is likely planning to make a stand in Paris or retreat further south. If he does try to escape, it will be to the Americas or some French possession in the East Indies.”

The baby wriggled and seemed to shake his fist at the idea of Bonaparte making a successful escape.

As he continued to talk, Gavin found himself thinking about Napoleon Bonaparte’s young son, who must be halfway in age between Arthur and Peter. After last year’s defeat, the child had been taken to Austria by his mother. As far as Gavin knew, the family had not been reunited after Bonaparte returned from Elba. Tempting as it was to condemn the French emperor for neglecting his son, Gavin realized he was in no position to cast stones.

One thing he knew for certain. He would never make little Arthur feel like a barely necessary
spare.

* * *

What intelligence would the newspapers and the post bring today? Hannah wondered on Thursday morning when the butler delivered them with great ceremony. The past few days had left Lord Hawkehurst in a fever of suspense. No reports from Paris had reached the English newspapers since the previous week, and no one knew why. Uncertainty had spawned conflicting rumors and speculation that changed from day to day.

“What do you suppose we shall hear today, Miss Fletcher?” the earl inquired as Hannah opened the
Morning Chronicle
and scanned the columns of print for news from France. “Another report of Bonaparte applying for asylum in Britain? If it is true, what gall the fellow has! Surely the government would have more sense than to permit such an outrage. It would be a mortal insult to every soldier and sailor who died fighting against him!”

Hannah gave a sympathetic nod. They had been through this on Monday in response to a report in the papers. The earl had become so outraged she had feared he might do himself an injury. She suspected part of his anger stemmed from a sense of helplessness that there was nothing he could do to influence events.

“I’m certain your letter to the Foreign Secretary would make them think twice about any such action, sir. If the report was true in the first place.”

“It was a good idea, getting me to dictate that letter.” The earl gave a nod that seemed to signify approval and thanks. “It made me feel as if I was doing something, however little. You would make an excellent aide-de-camp, Miss Fletcher...if you were a man, of course.”

His lordship’s words of praise had kindled a blaze of happiness inside Hannah that frightened her with its intensity. For some reason his afterthought quenched that happiness entirely. But why? Surely it was a great compliment that the earl considered her capable of doing a man’s job. And it was only proper that he should value her as he would a male comrade.

Then why did she feel slighted by a remark the earl had obviously meant as sincere praise? Hannah refused to consider that question too deeply. She would do better to focus on her duty to the Romney children.

“I trust Lord Castlereagh will take your advice into consideration, sir. He should, considering you are a peer of the realm
and
an officer who has seen action in His Majesty’s cavalry.”

Hannah’s reply came out stiff and prim, in contrast to the easy camaraderie that had grown between them in recent days. Surely such informality was a natural consequence of spending so much time together. But she must remember the earl’s convalescence was already half over. In a week’s time he would be allowed to leave his bed and resume many of his normal activities. He would no longer be dependent on her to occupy his time. She would return to the nursery, and they might hardly ever see one another. The prospect sank her spirits to a degree she would not have thought possible a few days ago.

“There cannot be any news of significance,” his lordship prompted her in a jesting tone. “Or it would not take you so long to locate.”

“I fear you are correct.” Hannah put aside any thoughts of the future to concentrate on the time at hand. “I can find nothing but complaints about the continued interruption of mail from Paris. There is not even a confirmation or denial of yesterday’s report from the
Brighton Herald.
”

That item claimed the Allies had surrounded Paris and charged the provisional government not to let Bonaparte escape or
their
lives might be forfeit. If they’d been certain the report could be trusted it would have cheered both Hannah and his lordship. Instead they were both wary of getting their hopes up.

Last night she had prayed for it to be true. If the French would surrender and hand over their former emperor to the Duke of Wellington, Lord Hawkehurst could rest easy, his battlefield vow fulfilled at no further risk to him. He could retire from active military service and devote himself to his family.

Every day that week, except Tuesday when it rained, she had brought one or the other of the babies to visit their father. It delighted her to see how much more skilled and confident the earl had become at handling infants in such a short time. Even more encouraging were the signs of his growing attachment to them. When the weather prevented Alice’s visit on Tuesday, her father had been positively downcast. Though Hannah tried to cheer him up by losing a chess match, she could barely contain her pleasure that her plan appeared to be working.

“What else do the papers say besides bemoaning a lack of mail from Paris?” The earl’s warm, rustling voice broke in on Hannah’s thoughts. “Has the Exchange recovered? What is all the latest society tattle? If I do not soon get on my feet, I fear I shall become preoccupied with such trivialities.”

Hannah read to him from the newspaper, though she knew he was capable of doing it for himself. The earl interrupted now and then with some observation or question. Sometimes their discussion grew so lively that the news was forgotten for as much as half an hour at a time.

“There,” she announced at last, folding up the newspaper and setting it aside. “You are now quite current with all that is going on in the world.”

“What about the post?” asked his lordship. “Is there any reply from the Foreign Secretary yet?”

Hannah glanced at the first letter and shook her head. “This one does not look official. It is addressed in a woman’s hand.”

She passed it to him and heard him break the seal as she turned her attention to the second letter.

“From Molesworth’s mother, poor lady.” Lord Hawkehurst sighed. “He was her only son. I wonder how many homes around the country are grieving after Waterloo. What is that other letter?”

“It is for me.” Hannah held it to her bosom. “From an old friend who recently married. I should like to have attended the wedding, but with her ladyship’s confinement approaching, it was not a convenient time for me to be absent from Edgecombe.”

That was probably more than the earl cared to know about the personal life of an employee. Hannah slipped Rebecca’s letter into her apron pocket. It was kind of her friend to take the time to write her. Hannah had feared the bride of a viscount might not care to maintain her friendship with a mere governess. But clearly Rebecca was as kind in that regard as Lady Hawkehurst had been. Hannah felt blessed to have had such good friends.

With a pang she recalled that the earl had lost his closest friend under tragic circumstances. Was it any wonder he was so fiercely determined to bring the man he considered responsible to justice? Would she not want to do the same if anyone harmed one of her friends?

“It was admirable of you to place your duty above personal inclinations.” The earl stared at Mrs. Molesworth’s letter as he turned it over and over. “I am glad Clarissa had you with her when I could not be. I know you must have been a great support and comfort to her. Far more than I would have been, no doubt.”

His words brought those wretched days back for Hannah all too vividly. Yet the memory of them troubled her less than the realization of how recent they’d been. She told herself she had been too busy caring for his lordship and overseeing the children’s care to grieve properly for Lady Hawkehurst. But those excuses did nothing to ease the guilt that gnawed at her heart.

“I did my best.” She hung her head. “But it was you she wanted. All I could do was tell her you were on your way and beg her to hang on.”

Silence stretched between them, cold and brittle.

Lord Hawkehurst was the one to break it, of course. He could bear anything but inactivity. “What does your friend write, if you do not mind my asking? An account of the wedding perhaps? I could use a bit of happy news at the moment if you would be willing to share it.”

There was a pleading note in his voice that Hannah could not resist. Besides, she was curious to read Rebecca’s news. The earl was right. After a week of anxious uncertainty, a helping of glad tidings would be most welcome.

“Very well, sir.” She fished the letter out of her apron pocket, broke the seal and unfolded it. “Rebecca begins by saying how sorry she was that none of her school friends could attend the wedding, but she understands that it is a great distance to travel and we all have responsibilities to our employers.”

“Old school friends are the best kind,” the earl mused. “Properly tended over the years, such an acquaintance can ripen into a very special attachment. I take it there were others in your circle?”

His question made Hannah look up from her letter. Was he truly interested in her friends or was he only desperate for any diversion?

“Yes sir. There were six of us. Rebecca, Marian, Grace, Leah, Evangeline and me. We met at a school in the north of England, a charitable institution for educating the orphan daughters of clergymen.”

She referred to the Pendergast School in an offhand manner, yet her stomach seethed at the memories of that dreadful place. “After we left school my friends and I found employment as governesses. We have kept in touch by post.”

“But you were not able to be reunited at your friend’s wedding?” The earl sounded sincerely sympathetic and interested. “A good school was it? You seem well educated.”

“Thank you, sir.” There it was again—that dangerous flash of happiness in response to his praise. “We did receive a very...rigorous course of study. Yet I cannot truthfully call it a good place. If it had not been for the kindness of my friends, my time there would have been nothing but...misery.”

A choking lump rose in her throat, which Hannah told herself was quite foolish after all these years. But suddenly her experiences at the Pendergast School felt all too fresh. Was that because she had locked those memories away for so many years, never speaking of them to anyone—not even the late countess, to whom she had been so close? Or had Lady Hawkehurst’s recent passing stirred up painful memories of another loss?

Hannah blinked furiously, fighting back tears that threatened to fall.

The warm touch of the earl’s hand on hers startled her almost out of her chair with a shrill squeak of alarm. Her head jerked up, and her gaze collided with his, so near that she could have lost herself in its dark, inviting depths.

“I am sorry to hear it.” Besides the obvious sympathy, his voice rang with righteous indignation.

Was that why he had joined the cavalry, to battle oppressors and deliver the victims? He was too late for her and her friends. They had banded together to defend each other.

Yet she wondered if part of her was still held captive by her past, which needed saving.

“I know there is nothing I can do so long afterward,” he continued, “except perhaps to listen.”

The prospect of unburdening herself made Hannah feel as if she were standing on the high bank of a river, about to jump into unknown waters. In spite of her trepidation, the promise of freedom and refreshment compelled her to take the plunge.

Chapter Seven

C
apable, managing Miss Fletcher harbored a painful past and had friends to whom she was fiercely devoted? Gavin had never imagined the two of them might have so much in common.

Ordinarily, he had a proper masculine aversion to tears. Clarissa had frequently exploited that weakness to get her way. Yet he sensed Hannah Fletcher would never use such tactics. She would go to any lengths to prevent her tears from falling. And if that failed, she would steal away to weep in secret so as not to burden anyone else with her private sorrow.

How could he be so certain of that? He had not known the lady for very long, and he’d had little liking for her until very recently. That uncomfortable question was followed by a stab of shame for having entertained uncharitable thoughts about his late wife. After all, Clarissa was the mother of his children, who were becoming dearer to him with every passing day. He had not been able to make her happy in life. The least he could do was treat her memory with respect and charity.

Was Hannah Fletcher thinking that, too, as she tensed at his touch and recoiled from his nearness?

“Sir, you should not be sitting up like that!” She sprang from her chair and practically pushed him back onto his pillows. “You might open your wound again. Does it hurt? Should I summon the doctor?”

Gavin shook his head. “Do not fret. I am quite well.” The sudden movement had sent a dull spasm of pain through his muscles, but he had no intention of telling her so. “I forgot myself in my concern for you. Forgive me for stirring up such unpleasant memories.”

Had he truly offered to listen if she wanted to talk about them? Gavin could scarcely believe it. Clarissa had often complained he never listened to her, and he could not deny the charge. It had been one in a long list of his shortcomings as a husband.

What made him so willing to listen to Hannah Fletcher and so curious about her past and her feelings? Had his tedious convalescence and the frustrating lack of news from France made him so desperate for diversion? Or could it be an effort to atone for his many mistakes with Clarissa? His wife was no longer there to confide in him, so he had turned to
her
confidante, Miss Fletcher.

The explanation soothed Gavin’s stinging conscience.

“You could not have known.” Hannah Fletcher was far quicker to excuse him than he was. “I should never have mentioned it. I should be grateful any place would take us after our father died. It might not have been an ideal situation, but I did receive an education that equipped me to earn a living and I was fortunate to make some very dear friends.”

That seemed to remind Miss Fletcher of her letter, which had fluttered to the floor when she sprang from her chair. Now she stooped to retrieve it. “Shall I read you more from Rebecca’s letter? Did I mention her new husband is a viscount? Perhaps you know him.”

Gavin recognized a diversionary tactic when he encountered one. He had taken part in such maneuvers during the Peninsular Campaign. Their purpose was to distract the enemy from some point of weakness so it would not be recognized and exploited. He hoped Miss Fletcher did not consider him an enemy or suppose he would use any vulnerability against her.

“Us?” he asked in an offhand tone.

She did not appear to understand his question. “What about us?”

“Not
us.
” He gestured from himself to her. “When you spoke of that charity school you said, ‘I should be grateful anyone would take
us.
’ I only wondered who you meant besides yourself.”

“My sister.” Hannah Fletcher scanned the letter, her gaze flitting back and forth across the page. “Rebecca says the ceremony was lovely. It was a double wedding.”

“Older or younger sister?” Gavin interrupted the instant she paused for breath. “Where is she now?”

Miss Fletcher seemed to realize that her attempt at diversion was having the opposite effect. She looked up from the letter, meeting his gaze straight on. “Younger. She is now in the same place as your wife—with God.”

The stern gray of her eyes seemed to insist he would get no further information, while the soft blue silently pleaded with him to respect her privacy.

The latter had much more influence over Gavin. Quashing his curiosity, he turned his questions down a different avenue. “Who is this viscount your friend wed? Unless he served in the army, I doubt we are acquainted, but I may have
heard
of him.”

Miss Fletcher’s tense features relaxed into an expression of relief and gratitude. “Rebecca’s new husband is Sebastian Stanhope, Viscount Benedict. His brother married the young lady who had been Rebecca’s pupil for many years.”

“Benedict?” The name distracted Gavin’s thoughts from the subject of Miss Fletcher’s past. “I know the gentleman only by reputation, but that is enough to have earned him my esteem. There is not a man in Parliament who has done more to support Britain’s troops during this infernal war. I have long wanted to meet him and shake his hand.”

“He sounds like the sort of gentleman who deserves as fine a wife as Rebecca.” A smile of sincere happiness for the newlyweds lit Hannah’s face.

The sight stirred something in Gavin. At the same time, he could not help but contrast her approval of Lord Benedict with her attitude toward him. Clearly she felt he had not deserved Clarissa. She was probably right.

Fortunately her next words took his mind off that demoralizing thought. “From what Rebecca writes, you may get your wish to meet her husband. Lord Benedict is taking her on a bridal tour around the country to visit each of her friends. They will be in Kent the week after next, and she hopes I shall have time to see her. You should be on your feet by then, sir. If it would not be too inconvenient, perhaps you could spare me for a few days to meet with my friend. I have not had a holiday for some time.”

He should certainly be up and about by then, Gavin reflected. He would no longer need to rely on Miss Fletcher to keep him occupied. Somehow the prospect did not appeal to him as much as he expected.

“Of course, you must take as much time as you like to visit with your friend. You have shown exemplary devotion to my family in our time of need. You are more than due a holiday.” Though he meant it with all his heart, Gavin could not stifle a strange empty feeling at the thought of Miss Fletcher going away, even for a short time.

“Where do Lord and Lady Benedict intend to stay when they come to Kent?” He wondered if the viscount might have friends or relatives in the area.

Miss Fletcher turned the letter over and continued to read. “Rebecca asks if I can recommend a good inn near Edgecombe. I must confess myself at a loss. Perhaps Mr. Owens would know. I shall ask him at my first opportunity.”

“I have an idea,” said Gavin. “Why don’t you invite Lord and Lady Benedict to stay at Edgecombe? That way you and your friend will have ample opportunity to visit. I daresay her husband and I can find plenty to talk about.”

Much as he had come to value Miss Fletcher’s society, he missed the company of male friends.

“That is very kind of you to offer, sir.” Miss Fletcher shook her head. “But I could not presume to invite
my
friends to
your
house.”

“Rubbish.” Gavin waved away her objection. “Edgecombe has space enough to house an army. It is a waste to have so many rooms sitting empty when one or two might be put to good use. I am certain it would do the servants good to have a bit of company around the place.”

“But Edgecombe is in mourning,” she reminded him, with a hint of reproach that he could have forgotten. “Would it not be disrespectful to her ladyship’s memory to entertain so soon?”

Would it? Even in death he could not seem to do right by Clarissa.

“I am not proposing a house party,” he insisted. “Only a quiet visit by an old friend of yours. I am certain my wife would have approved, considering the staunch support you provided her when she needed it most.”

In truth, he was not entirely certain Clarissa would have agreed. For all the reliance she had placed on Peter’s governess, he’d sensed their
friendship
was rather one-sided. Gavin had no intention of letting that happen between him and Miss Fletcher. His family was already in her debt. Besides he would welcome her friends’ visit as much for his own sake as for hers.

That, he realized, might be the best way to win her agreement. “Please, Miss Fletcher, I would consider it a great favor if you would permit me to offer Lord and Lady Benedict the hospitality of Edgecombe. It would allow you to visit with your friend while still remaining available to supervise the children’s care. And I would very much like to make the viscount’s acquaintance. If anyone knows what is happening in France, and can foresee the likely consequences, it is he. Discussing the situation with him might put my mind at ease.”

She did not answer right away, and he did not try to rush her. Gavin sensed her conflicting inclinations battling for the upper hand.

“I know what you are doing,” she said at last. “Trying to make it seem as if I would be obliging
you
by agreeing.”

He tried not to look too guilty. “So you would.”

“You are a very poor liar, Lord Hawkehurst.” The way she spoke, with a silvery twinkle in her eyes and one corner of her lips arched, it was clear she meant the pronouncement as praise rather than criticism.

Gavin replied with a self-conscious grin, “Perhaps there are times when it is not such a bad thing to fail.”

Odd, that had never occurred to him before, but the more he thought about it, the truer it seemed. “My father used to say I had no subtlety. I reckon he meant I am hopelessly honest.”

“What else did your father say about you?”

Gavin shrugged as if to indicate he could not remember. Miss Fletcher had turned the tables on him—asking about parts of his past he would prefer to forget. Perhaps he owed her an answer to make up for his earlier prying.

It was more than that, though. Part of him
wanted
to open the door to his past just a sliver and let her peep inside. After all, she had seen him at his worst and weakest, yet still found enough good to alter her poor opinion of him.

* * *

Why should the earl share something so private and perhaps unpleasant from his past after she had refused to answer his questions about her sister with more than the barest crumbs of information? As her employer, he had far more right to inquire into her past than she did to quiz him about his.

Yet even as she recognized she had no right to an answer, Hannah could not help wanting one. It must be because his lordship had proven to be quite a different man than she had once judged him. Perhaps she felt it her duty to understand him better, as she had failed to do until recently. For good or ill, the events of his past had shaped him into the person he’d become, just as hers had.

The earl’s earlier revelation about his reason for marrying had taken her by surprise and made her wonder what more there was to discover about him.

Only yesterday that curiosity had driven her to consult Mr. Owens. “I was not aware his lordship had an elder brother. I suppose you remember him well.”

“Indeed, Miss Fletcher.” The butler had beckoned her into the library to show her a fine portrait of a gentleman and two small boys. “That is the fifth Earl of Hawkehurst, his elder son Lord Edgecombe and the present earl.”

The older boy looked to be the age of Peter and very like him in appearance. His father sat in a chair with his arm around the child’s shoulders and a look on his distinguished features of affection bordering on reverence. The younger son wore the short gown of a three-year-old and sat on the floor some distance away, playing with a small spaniel.

“Lord Edgecombe was the apple of his father’s eye. A clever young man who showed considerable promise in politics.” Owens shook his head regretfully. “The earl took his death very hard indeed. He lingered long enough to see Master Gavin wed and an heir provided. I often thought if the earl had lived long enough to see how much the present Lord Edgecombe favored his late uncle, it might have given him something to live for.”

Had Gavin Romney’s father felt no reason to live for his younger son? Hannah wondered with more than a little indignation. But she had not dared ask Mr. Owens a question so critical of his late master.

Now she sat near the man who had once been that small boy playing with the dog. Had he not told her he understood horses better than people? Could that be because he’d had more affection from animals as a child than from his family?

“My father was never short of things to say,” the earl mused after a long pause. “He was fond of observing that I had little aptitude for self-preservation.”

Inwardly Hannah bristled. It reminded her of the criticism the Pendergast teachers had inflicted on their pupils under the righteous guise of seeking to improve them. She had not come in for nearly as much of it as their intrepid leader, Evangeline, or Grace, whose beauty inspired envy and spite in those who were not her friends. Hannah had tried to accept any criticism of herself in the spirit of improvement, but she’d bitterly resented disparaging remarks about her friends.

Now she hastened to defend Gavin Romney from his judgmental father. “Humph! All that means is that you are brave and unselfish. A man concerned only with self-preservation would not have ridden into enemy fire to rescue his friend.”

If she thought her words might raise the earl’s spirits she was mistaken. Darkness crept into his gaze, and it had nothing to do with the color of his eyes. “A fine rescue. It did not save my friend’s life, only put mine in jeopardy, which might have made orphans of my children. I thought you, of all people, would agree with my father that a poor sense of self-preservation is a serious failing.”

Hannah opened her mouth but found it impossible to produce a reply. Did the earl suppose she was like his father—critical of everything he did, every choice he made? She longed to deny it. But looking back she could not help but wonder if she had given him some justification. Had her years at the Pendergast School and a lifetime of striving to improve herself made her judge others too harshly?