The Heart That Lies
Read The Heart That Lies Online
Authors: April Munday
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Regency, #Historical Romance
First published in 2014 by April Munday
Copyright © April Munday 2014
The moral right of April Munday to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
July 1811
As Anna stood by her brother’s grave she
grieved for the loss of the serious man who had been her friend all her life. The difference in their ages had not been great and they had been close, close enough that he should have told her about the duel, but James had not. He had not even written to tell her that there was a chance he would be dead before she received the letter. Even to herself she could not admit how much that neglect had hurt her.
James
had usually been so sensible and it was almost incredible that he should have taken part in a duel. It was even more incredible that he should have been the one who had been challenged and challenged by his friend. James had been an honourable man and she doubted he could ever have caused his friend the offence with which he had been charged, whatever it might have been. She knew only that the quarrel had been over a woman, but what the cause of the quarrel had been she doubted she would ever know. Surely not Harriet; she had brothers and a father who would have called him out before his friend could have considered it his duty. She could not imagine James taking up with another woman while he was engaged to Harriet. He loved her and was looking forward to their wedding in the autumn. They had already planned Anna’s trip to London to take part in the celebration. No, something was very wrong with the way that James had died.
Unwilling to move away and face the lonely life that must be hers from now on, Anna continued to look
into the grave as the sexton began to fill it. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about James being separated from the living by so much earth. The brilliance of the sunny July day seemed to mock her grief. It had been on such a day at the end of June that she had last seen her brother. They had said farewell at breakfast and James had got into his carriage to return to London for the ball at Carlton House. Anna had watched the carriage disappear down the drive and gone back into the house to practise the piano. She played well and was accomplished in other areas. James had been keen for her to continue her education beyond what was usual. “A silly rich woman will easily attract a husband,” he had said, “but I should prefer you to find a husband who will give you the respect you deserve.” It had gone unspoken between them that she must also be able to respect her husband.
Who would marry
Anna now? She was an orphan with no connections and little money. Anna had inherited some money from her father, but James had not thought it necessary to write a will until after his marriage and the generous allowance her brother had given her and had intended her to have should she still be unmarried at his death would now cease.
Soon she would have no home. The estate
had been inherited by a distant cousin whose first words on his arrival for the funeral the day before had been, “Where will you go now?” He had taken over the house immediately, as if she had already left, and it was clear that he had no intention of returning to his old home to allow her a decent amount of time to grieve and conclude her small affairs. This morning he had announced that his wife and children would be arriving next week and, having inspected her room, he thought it would suit his eldest son. Anna made no protest that he had entered her room without her permission, for she had already understood his character well enough to lock away everything that was important to her so that he could not touch them or even see them. She was certain that he would have moved into James’ room already if it would not have caused adverse comments about him in the neighbourhood.
Anna did not consider herself helpless; James had taken care to ensure that she was able to protect herself
and to think for herself. These were dangerous times and who knew what would happen if the French should invade? He had been far away in London and, although they had planned that she would stay with him there for some months after the wedding, until that time she was to be alone, apart from the servants, in a remote part of Staffordshire. The French had not invaded, but now she had to put into practice the lessons that he had taught her. Her new plans scared her, but her only other option was to marry someone local immediately and that was something she refused to do. None of the local landowners was the sort of man that James had wanted for her and certainly not what she wanted for herself. They had spoken of James’ hopes for her visit to London and she knew that it had been his fondest wish that she marry his friend, the very man who had killed him.
Last night she had put everything that was truly hers into a small chest. It contained a few books, some
jewellery, some dresses and everything of James’ that wasn’t in London. She had just enough money to put her plans into action.
“Lady Anna?”
A hand touched her shoulder tentatively and Anna turned, brushing ineffectually at her wet eyes.
“Yes, Mary, you’re right. There’s no reason to remain here.”
The maid turned away, but not before Anna had seen the tears in her eyes. The whole household felt James’ loss keenly, not just the young women who had found James an attractive young man. She felt that she was looking for the last time on the three graves that lay here together: her father, her mother and James. Her father had fallen from his horse as he was going to visit the fields at harvest time four years ago and he had broken his neck. Her mother had caught a bad chill just after Christmas and died two days before James had brought his fiancée to visit them in February. Now James, too, was dead.
Anna turned her back on the graves, glad that her parents and James had let it be known that they did not wish to be buried in the family’s mausoleum. They would lie together on this hill overlooking the view that they had seen every Sunday and on festival days. Most of the land that she could see now belonged to someone else, but she had loved it all her life and felt that she had served it and the people who de
pended on it as best she could, but her future lay elsewhere, if only she could bring herself to walk into it.
August
1811
George Bowen, Earl of Meldon, sat in a comfortable chair in his club, his mind going over the problem that had perplexed him for the last two months. He thought he had examined it from every angle, but he was no closer to a solution now than he had been two months ago. The answer must be found and soon, however. Until he knew the answer, he did not know what action to take and General Warren was growing impatient. He had lost one agent and one of his best men was laid low by indecision. It was not a situation that could be tolerated for much longer.
“Meldon!” By the tone of Finch’s voice Meldon knew
his friend must already have called his name twice.
“Sorry, Finch. I was dreaming.”
“You spend too much time in that chair thinking.”
Like most men
more suited to action than thought, Finch was not afraid to voice his suspicions about thinking. Meldon liked him immensely. Finch’s bravery and compassion made him Meldon’s chosen companion for many of his more irregular activities.
Meldon slapped his leg.
“This prevents me from being too active,” he said, quietly.
It didn’t, of course, and Finch was one of the few who knew it
, just as Meldon knew that his friend was not the buffoon he appeared to be. He sighed loudly for the benefit of anyone else who was listening, although most in the room knew the nature of the wound that had lamed him, but not the true extent of his disability. It was a useful fiction that he exaggerated by leaning heavily on a stick when he walked.
“Of course,” muttered Finch
, apologetically. “This fellow asked to be introduced to you.”
Meldon turned his attention to the boy standing next to Finch. He almost gasped as his body reacted in the same way that it did when he met a beautiful woman. He
had never been attracted to boys and did not understand men who were, but he could not deny that there was something about this boy that was almost feminine.
Meldon was looking at a young man of
about twenty who was slightly shorter than the average. His hollowed cheeks bore witness to some recent illness or suffering. His dark hair was unfashionably long, but it curled in a way that Meldon’s valet would envy, since the earl’s own hair refused to do anything of the kind, so that both were grateful for his lack of attention to fashion. Meldon noticed that the boy’s fists were clenched and the slight smile on his lips seemed forced. Meldon looked up to his eyes and thought the boy’s eyelashes were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Long, thick and dark, they formed the perfect frame to his hard grey eyes. Their hardness surprised Meldon and at once put him on his guard. He could not mistake the enmity they and the clenched fists represented, though whether to him or another he could not tell.
For the benefit of those watching
, Meldon struggled slowly to his feet and looked expectantly at Finch.
“Oh, Jonas Smith,” he said
and Meldon realised that, just as he had been observing the boy, so Finch had been observing him. Meldon began to be nervous about what Finch had seen. Then he began to wonder what Finch had felt when he had first met the young man. Finch turned back to the boy.
“Lord Meldon, may I introduce Jonas Smith.”
Meldon extended his hand. The boy’s grasp was tentative, but strengthened as Meldon shook it.
“Where are you from, Mr Smith? Who are your people?”
He expected little of interest from a man called Smith, but politeness required him to ask and Finch seemed to think the man worthy of an introduction.
“I am from Lincolnshire,
my lord.”
His voice was lower than Meldon had expected, but pleasant.
“Not a county I’m familiar with.”
It was a lie, but he could not talk about his visits there, for that would mean talking about the Dutchman.
“It is very flat, my lord.”
Meldon’s lips twitched into a smile despite himself.
“Really? I wasn’t aware.”
The young man looked surprised, as well he might, since it was the only thing about Lincolnshire that people who had never been there knew
about it.
“Meldon doesn’t get about much,” explained Finch. “He doesn’t spend a lot of time here in town. Prefers to
be on his estate in Hampshire.”
It was true that
Meldon preferred to be in Hampshire; it was not true that that was where he was when he wasn’t in London. Although he could not regret the role he was playing in the war against France, his estate needed much more of his time than he could give it.
“I have never had the pleasure of visiting Hampshire,” said the boy.
“It is not flat,” said Meldon dryly, thinking ruefully of the way most of his fields sloped and how most of the bottom fields flooded in the winter.
“I hear it is a pretty county.”
So he was one of what Meldon called the landscape set. They looked at a stretch of fields and woods and hills and saw beauty, while he looked and wondered what crops would grow best there or how many sheep or cows it would support. They would travel to see a view, whilst he would view the landscape he travelled through.
“I have heard that, too,” he agreed. “And your people?”
“My father had a small property near Lincoln. My brother has it now. We quarrelled, so I am come to London to make my fortune.”
Although his lips curved upwards,
Smith’s face remained otherwise sorrowful. Good, thought Meldon, he knows that whatever he makes of himself here he will have to work for it.
Meldon signalled for one of the footmen.
“What will you drink?”
“Whisky.”
“Finch?”
He shook his head slightly so that the other man would know to leave him alone with the boy. Finch didn’t even raise an eyebrow in question, but pulled out his watch and loo
ked at it. “I’m due at my bank. If I go now, I can be back before dinner.”
“Join me for dinner, then.
We’ll eat here.”
He wanted to find out how Finch had met the boy and why he felt that he should introduce him to Meldon.
“Thank you. I will.”
Finch left them and Meldon invited the boy to sit, hinting that it pained him to stand for long.
Another lie.
Surreptitiously he looked around the room. No one was openly watching them, but he was aware that Shipton, who now apparently slept in his chair, had only recently been reading a newspaper.
“If you don’t mind me asking, my lord, how did you damage your leg?”
Usually Meldon didn’t mind, but now he found that he disliked lying to the boy. Not the story, the story was true, but the outcome was the lie.
“I was a soldier, desperate to go to war and prove myself. Cavalry. I got my wish soon enough. I took part in a single charge then a musket ball killed my horse and a bayonet ruined my leg.”
He was
about to show the boy where the bayonet had struck, but he suddenly felt that Smith was too innocent to be told the exact nature of his injury. This young man would not be helping to spread the rumour that Meldon was unable to sire children. That particular rumour had the effect of keeping fortune hunting mothers and their daughters away from him. This left him free to spend his time at balls speaking to other men and listening to them. No one expected a lame man to dance.
Meldon also had a more urgent reason to keep the boy’s attention away from his groin; he was reacting to the boy’s proximity like a love struck swain.
“Your first battle was your last.” The boy was sober. This also pleased Meldon. Too many young men, himself included at Smith’s age, thought of battle as something glorious, but the reality was something different. Had he known, Meldon would still have gone; he knew his duty. He had not even gone seeking for glory, but because he had known he must.
“Yes, no more soldiering for me. I went back to Meldon and threw myself into farming.”
This was true, as far as it went. He had gone home, where his mother had nursed him back to strength and urged him to marry. This was supposed to take his mind off not being able to serve his country in its darkest hour. He had met the girls she had proposed, but none had appealed to him and he had given himself over to farming. A few months later General Warren had visited. He was father-in-law to Meldon’s older sister Caroline and he had given the young earl much helpful advice since the death of his father several years before.
Warren’s advice this time had been just as helpful and as blunt as usual. “Stop hiding yourself away down here and come and serve your country.” At Meldon’s objection that he was no longer able-bodied Warren had retorted that he still had the use of his mind, hadn’t he? “A damn fine mind, at that,” he’d added. “You want me to spy?” Meldon had asked when he finally understood. “I want you to gather intelligence. People talk to you, God knows why, but I’ve noticed it. You can sift the wheat from the chaff.” And so it had started. Meldon had listened, sifted and reported back to the general. Eventually he
had persuaded the older man to let him be more active and his missions had taken him to the Low Countries and Prussia. Meldon found that people underestimated him. Not his intelligence, for he had never managed to hide that, but his physical agility and strength. When he felt that he was well enough to go back to the army, Warren had become angry. “You can do so much more working with me. You’re not a great strategist, or even a leader of men, but you can piece together the meaning of different pieces of information better than any man I know, myself included. That’s what I need.” So Meldon had stayed with the general, happy to serve his country and increasingly comfortable that no one would ever know what he was doing. There was danger and there was satisfaction at a job well done, but there would never be any glory. To this boy, as to everyone who knew him, he would be one of the dullest men in London, the man whose only topics of conversation were his fields and his animals. For the first time he wondered whether this was enough.
He smiled at the boy.
“How will you make your fortune?”
“Cards.”
Meldon almost groaned aloud. He had misjudged him.
“Cards?”
“To start with. I will need something to support me whilst I write.”
“Write?”
Meldon shook himself. A man with a keen intelligence did not repeat what his conversation partner said.
“Yes,
poetry. I have been told I have a talent for it.”
Poor gullible fool, thought Meldon.
“The streets of London,” he offered, “are not really paved with gold.”
“I know. I’m not a fool. Oh, I beg you
r pardon, my lord.”
“You speak like a fool, Smith.”
The boy coloured and Meldon grasped the arms of his chair tightly as he felt his body respond again. What was the matter with him?
“I have been in London for four weeks. I arrived
with the clothes on my back, a sovereign, a pen, some ink and some paper. I have won twenty pounds at cards and sold a poem.” The boy lowered his eyes. “The poem was not very good.”
Despite himself Meldon was imp
ressed. A man who could turn a sovereign into twenty pounds in four weeks was not to be underestimated. He disregarded the poem, as poetry was not interesting to him.
“Then perhaps you would like to join my game tonight?”
Now he understood why the boy had wanted to meet him. When he was in town he kept a table at Brown’s where he and some friends would gamble away an evening. He did it two or three times a week. It was a useful way of finding out who had money and who did not and who could be bought if it looked as if they had something useful to sell. It was well known that the earl was not a good player, for he rarely won. It was less well known that he never came away from the table a poorer man than he had come to it. He knew how to cheat, but never had to and he had a reputation as a gracious loser and all were welcome at his table provided they could afford to lose. It would not do for him to become known as a man who ruined other men.
To his surprise the boy shook his head.
“Not tonight. I cannot afford to lose what I have. In two weeks I should have enough.”
A dreadful thought occurred to Meldon.
“Do you cheat?”
It was only by the look on the boy’s face that he knew he had spoken his thought.
“Of course not.”
“I beg your pardon. That was impertinent an
d insolent.” He took a breath. “But I warn you that I am not alone in my circle in being able to spot a cheat.”
Some of them would call out a card sharp and this boy didn’t even look as if he’d know what a pistol was, let alone know how to use one.
“I do not cheat. I am a good player.”
Meldon reach
ed into a pocket and pulled out his card case. Removing a card he held it out to Smith.
“When you wish to join the game present this at the door.
I am there Tuesdays and Fridays.”