Page 14 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

“Will she go to Thatcham, do you think, or return to Bath when she’s fit?”

He stroked the wrought iron arm of the garden seat where he and Mama were enjoying a cup of tea. It had been three weeks now since Hestia’s dramatic entrance into his existence, and she had become a fixture. The idea of her leaving him for the Danceys was unthinkable. Even if he did attempt to bury the hatchet with that family, they wouldn’t allow him any privacy with Hestia—and that would drive him mad.

He swallowed. “She has had a couple of communications from her brother in Bath, she tells me. Her mother is much better, but I suspect Miss Norton will want to return to her side as soon as possible.”

“That will be very soon, I expect. She made a circuit of the knot garden unaided on Tuesday, and on the following day, went halfway down the avenue and back.”

“I know. I was with her, Mama, if you recall.”

“But you didn’t need to be. She is barely putting any weight on that cane. I would say she could manage the coach journey to Bath very well. Especially as the roads are good at present.”

Conall suppressed a grimace. At one moment, she was telling him Hestia had done him good. The next, she was planning the young woman’s departure.

The long and the short of it was, he didn’t want Hestia to go. He had even contemplated accompanying her to Bath, and proceeding with his courtship of her there.

Courtship? What was he thinking? His heart was still severely bruised after Josephine had deserted him for Ebbworth. He was too damaged to make any sensible decisions regarding matrimony so soon. He must go out into the world a bit more, meet other women, have an affair or two with a lonely widow, or purchase himself a mistress. One needed to know what was available before making one’s choice.

Deuce take it. It sounded like going to a cattle market. Hestia had labelled him Mr Facts, but quite incorrectly. He was being driven by his feelings now, and, like powerful lodestones, they all pointed to Hestia Norton as the only woman who could make him happy.

“You’ve gone quiet, Conall.”

“I apologise. I was just thinking about that soldier Josephine was about to run off with.”

“Are you still brooding over Frederick Ebbworth? I know it hurts you to hear it, but he lost her too when Josephine fell from her horse.”

“He didn’t lose his eye, or the use of his hand for several months.”

“Nor would you have done, if you hadn’t fought that ludicrous duel. Oh, I was so afraid for you when they brought you back on that hurdle. I thought I’d lost you!”

He reached for her hand. “It was, indeed, a foolish thing to do. But Josephine had broken both our hearts, and we were full of rage and misery.” He was full of rage still, but he was alleviating it through very different channels.

“I agree that Frederick should not have approached her when she was already engaged to you, even if he did have a prior claim. It would have been better for everyone had he remained dead.”

Conall took a deep draught of his tea. “One thing puzzles me about that man. There was one occasion—when I came upon them unnoticed—when she called him Andrew. I found that odd. In my presence, he was always referred to as Frederick—and that is what he calls himself to this day.”

His mother shot him a piercing look. “How would you know that? Are you having him watched? Not planning to duel again, or commit a murder, I hope.”

He laughed. “Of course not. I like to know what’s what, that’s all. It is always best to keep track of one’s enemies.”

She made a harrumphing sound. “You gentlemen have the strangest conceits.”

He finished his tea. This talk of Ebbworth had set his teeth on edge. Now that he had a new interest in his life—namely the intriguing Miss Hestia Norton—his campaign against Ebbworth seemed tawdry, and unnecessary. Yet if he gave up his pursuit of his enemy, he’d consider himself spineless. No. What he must do was to proceed apace, buy up all Ebbworth’s remaining debts, then have Stapleton call them in—and break the man.

Ignoring the prick of conscience created by his mother’s words, he replaced his cup on the tray and rose.

“Excuse me. I didn’t manage to conclude all the business I intended to do this morning. If you don’t mind, I shall have to cut our conversation short and go back to it.”

He gave his outraged mother a brisk kiss on the cheek, then swung away and strode back to the house. An hour or so’s work in his study would bring his campaign against his enemy to a very satisfactory conclusion.

Chapter 9

It took a tremendous amount of courage for Hestia to penetrate the privacy of Conall’s study. Her fingers trembled, and her breath came in short bursts as she drew open the drawers of his desk, leafed through papers, and read the titles of his various notebooks and ledgers. This was just an initial foray to see what there was—she’d come back tomorrow and conduct a more targeted search.

Two items, in particular, held her interest. One was a small locked box. This she placed on top of the desk with a view to hunting down the key in a little while. It was still only half-past eleven—Conall wouldn’t emerge from having tea with Lady Corsbury until almost twelve. He was a man of set habits—he’d informed her of that during one of their walks together.

The other item was a large oval locket with an ornate cover. Flipping it open, she discovered a painting depicting the face, neck, and shoulders of a beautiful woman. The artist had shown her with translucent skin, like porcelain, and dark hair styled elegantly in an upward bun.

If this was Josephine, Conall’s dead fiancée, it was a tragedy so much beauty should be lost so young. Tears pricked her eyes, and her heart was speared by pity for him.