Page 61 of Dare it all for Love

Florence merely set her jaw.

“Aye, she did,” Mr Oak said, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “But she’s worried for Henry, and I’ve a thick skin, so I’m told. Reckon I’ll wear her dislike right enough.”

Florence held her tongue, stubborn to the last, but Evie knew her sister and she saw the glimmer of doubt in her eyes. If she were wrong, which Evie fervently hoped she was, she would be quick to apologise to Mr Oak. One of the nicest things about Florence was that she never held a grudge. She would always acknowledge if she’d made a mistake and apologise. Evie could only hope that would be soon, preferably after they’d found Henry in one piece. Many girls longed for adventure and excitement, but Evie was not one of them. She much preferred the idea of everyone safe and sound, and thoroughly disliked the stress and anxiety that had made her heart thud in her chest all the time Florence had been missing. It was starting up again now as worry for Henry made her chest tight. She fisted her hands in her skirts and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

“Courage, ma biche.”

The murmured French was barely audible over the rumble of the carriage, but Evie turned to see Louis César’s bright blue eyes watching her. They were an incredible shade, so vividly blue it was hard to look away from them. Evie had heard descriptions of the Mediterranean sea and hoped to see for herself one day. She wondered if the two colours were comparable. His gaze was placid, reassuring, and much of the tension left her shoulders. Louis did not appear worried, and he had led her straight to Florence this morning. If he was confident all would be well, then so was she. She let out a breath and put up her chin. Everything would be all right.

Something was very wrong. Someone had pulled the expensive bed hangings down in Henry’s mother’s old room. They had left them in a heap on the bed and, from the strong smell of alcohol permeating the room, doused them in brandy. Whoever it was clattering about in Henry’s room was intending to set the place alight. Saxenhurst’s ancient timber frame and extensive wood panelling would go up like dry tinder. Henry cursed under his breath, silently creeping to the window. It opened it without so much as a squeak of protest and Henry could only be grateful the place had been well kept in his absence. He hurried to the bed and swept up the bed hangings, returning to dump the lot out of the window. The crashing about in his bedroom paused, and Henry held his breath until he heard it recommence. It sounded like someone was ransacking the drawers.

Henry moved as softly as he was able, trying to remember which floorboards creaked as he made his way to the door. It was not latched, and he pushed it open a crack. The man he remembered from the graveyard was inside. He had a large hessian sack, which he was busy filling with anything that looked valuable. The man’s dirty hands reached for a cravat pin Henry had left on his dressing table. He turned it this way and that, watching the light glint on the emerald set in the golden mount. It had been a present from Henry’s parents on his twenty-first birthday, one of the few gifts he’d ever received from their hands. Most had been posted from some foreign shore or other, usually arriving long after the big day. He wondered how many birthdays they’d missed, how many childish triumphs they’d never celebrated. Too many to count, for both him and Harriet. It was a melancholy thought, though not one that hurt as it once had. It had been their loss as much as his and his sister’s, and at least they’d had each other, and the St Clair family. The old earl had been more a father to Henry than his own had ever been.

Though he ought to have more pressing matters on his mind, Henry made a vow to himself. If ever he should be fortunate enough to have a family with Florence, he would always be present in their lives. He would not keep distance between them, not even to protect himself. Loving her was a risk, a risk that made his heart tremble at the knowledge she could hurt him more than anyone he’d ever met, far more than Lily had managed. Lily had humiliated him and left a bruise that had lingered for too many years after. She had made him distrustful of women, even of himself, but that was over now. He could not protect his heart without becoming a lonely old man, and he could not bear that. Even knowing that a betrayal from Florence would destroy him, he would risk everything for her. With the benefit of maturity he could see now that Lily and Florence were nothing alike. Lily had been superficially beautiful, shallow, and ambitious. Florence’s beauty was not all on the surface, it ran deep, down to a loving heart and a beautiful soul. He loved her to her bones, and no amount of denying it would save him now. So he may as well live it to the full, and he fully intended to. Just as soon as he’d dealt with the bastard robbing his house.

He was about to barrel through the door when a soft whimpering sound reached him. Henry turned to see Susan Cooper huddled in the corner, her arms covering her head. Her dress was torn, one sleeve hanging loose, and her forearms were bruised. Henry felt a swell of rage at the way the woman had been abused and… oh, God. If this man had touched Florence, he’d bloody kill him.

On the dressing table which Susan was cowering beside was a pistol. Clearly Foster had put it down and believed Susan so terrified she was no threat to him. Well, that may be true, but it did not apply to Henry. He crept into the room, edging towards the pistol, and Susan looked up with a gasp.

Foster turned around.

Florence was beside herself by the time the carriage drew up outside the Hall. Mr Oak and the comte climbed out before any of the ladies could reach the door.

“You should stay here,” Mr Oak commanded, his expression fiercer even than usual.

Florence bristled. Mama glared at him, and even gentle Evie looked a little disgusted.

Ever the diplomat, Louis César qualified the brusque statement. “Until we ascertain all is as it should be.”

“Run along, then,” Mama said, waving them away with a dismissive little sniff.

“Mama!” Florence objected, stunned that her forthright mother would submit to sitting docilely whilst the men attended to business. Mama sent her a quelling look of such ferocity that Florence subsided, wondering what she meant by it.

As soon as the men were out of sight, her mother reached under the carriage seat and slid out a beautiful wooden box. She opened it to reveal two gleaming duelling pistols.

“Careful, it’s loaded,” she said, handing one to Florence.

Mama’s green eyes glittered, and Florence let out a breath.

“I love you, Mama,” she said.

“Of course you do,” her mama replied nonchalantly. “And so you should for the effort I expended in persuading your father to teach you both how to shoot. Do try not to fire at anyone by accident.”

“Don’t I get a pistol?” Evie said indignantly.

“There’s only two, darling, and it’s Florence’s beloved in danger. The next time I promise you may have one.”

“The next time?” Evie squeaked, looking more than a little alarmed. “I am most certainly not marrying the kind of man who gets himself into such dangerous situations.”

Mama’s lips twitched, but she only patted Evie’s knee.

“Of course you won’t, dearest,” she said, her voice soothing.

“The men went in through the front door,” Florence said, as she climbed down from the carriage, hiding the pistol in the voluminous skirts of her gown in case anyone was looking.

“Yes. Round the back, I think,” Mama said to her unspoken question before turning to John Coachman and the footmen who’d ridden with the carriage. “John, are you armed?”

“Yes, my lady.”