Page 43 of Dare it all for Love

It greeves me to rite a letter of this nature, but my Christian soul cant see wrong done to an inosent child. Your dauter is in mortal peril, sir and is in the hands of a wicked bad man. Henry Stanhope is intent on sedusing your pretty girl. Come kwick and save her from damnation.

―Excerpt of a letter from an unknown correspondent to Mr Gabriel Knight (father of Florence and Evie Knight.)

17th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

Henry stared down at the letter he’d been writing, muttered a curse, and crumpled it into a ball.

“Hell!” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Try as he might, he could not find the words to express to Gabriel why he would be the best choice for Florence’s husband. Tossing the letter into the wastepaper basket he reached for a clean sheet and tried again.

Dear Gabriel,

I was hoping I might see you at Holbrook with Helena. It has been too long since we spoke. I understand business matters have kept you in London and would not presume upon your time if it were not important. However, there is something of the utmost importance that I wish to discuss with you. If you have no plans to visit Holbrook in the next few days but can find time to meet with me, I should be at your disposal and will happily journey to London at a time and place of your choosing.

Yours etc,

Henry Stanhope.

It would have to do. Perhaps in person he could voice what seemed impossible to commit to paper. Of course, he risked Gabriel calling him out, but that was hardly out of the question by correspondence either. At least in person he could defend himself and offer answers and reassurances to any of Gabriel’s reservations. Henry was under no illusion that there would not be reservations, if not an outraged denial. Henry and Gabriel had been friends, but they’d not seen each other in years, perhaps things would have changed.

Henry looked up at a knock on the study door.

“You have guests, sir. I took the liberty of showing them into the front parlour.”

“Who?” Henry asked with a frown. He hadn’t been expecting callers.

“The Marquess of Montagu, Mr Ashton Anson and Miss Vivien Anson and… guests,” the footman said carefully.

Henry stood and reached for his coat, pulling it back on. “What the devil is Montagu doing here?” he wondered aloud. “Right, well, you’d best offer them some refreshments.”

“I have done so already, sir. A tea tray is being prepared.”

Henry nodded and hurried to the parlour.

“My Lord Montagu, this is an unexpected pleasure,” Henry said, finding an assortment of guests in his front parlour of the kind that mystified him.

“I imagine it is,” Montagu replied, his expression inscrutable, though something like amusement glittered in his eyes. “I’m afraid you will have the unenviable duty of advising me to mind my own business, but….”

At this point an elderly woman who had been installed in one of the comfiest chairs by the fireplace made a snorting sound.

Montagu paused for a second before continuing.

“But I was disturbed by the tales of corn dolls and witchcraft and more so by the attack upon your person. I am afraid I decided it was time you spoke to an expert and took it upon myself to provide one for you. As it happens, circumstances were… erm… fortuitous, and it seems I have provided two.”

Henry blinked at the marquess, thoroughly bewildered.

“I’m sorry, my lord, I’m afraid—”

“Takes a poacher to catch a poacher, Mr Stanhope, is what Lord Montagu is trying to say,” piped up the elderly lady by the fire. She had a plump, round face with wrinkled rosy cheeks that made her look like a well-preserved apple.

“And going around the houses to do it.”

This came from her companion, a tiny Indian lady with skin the colour of well-polished mahogany and the longest, whitest hair he’d ever seen. She looked to be a thousand years old. Her eyes were bright and intelligent, and the intent way she was looking at him put him in mind of a blackbird listening for insects beneath the earth. She was dressed in the traditional manner of her country in a sari of stunning yellow, orange, and green silk.

“Allow me to make some introductions,” Montagu continued smoothly. “I believe you know Mr Ashton Anson and his sister, Miss Vivien Anson, and this is their grandmother, Shrimati Dharani Das.”

The old woman inclined her head, as regal as an empress. Henry bowed as deeply as if she were a duchess, some sixth sense he did not quite understand compelling him to treat her with the amount of respect she clearly felt her due.

Montagu continued with his introductions, “And this lady is—”