Page 6 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

A shadow came between her and the sun. The earl was back already.

“Are you alright? I hope I wasn’t too long. My men will be along in a minute. I told them to help themselves to the top of the old breakfast table—far quicker than removing a door. I’ve ordered blankets too, so you’ll be comfortable. Give me the knife back, so I can protect you from any footpads or highwaymen who might be haunting my driveway.”

She detected a smile in his voice, even though he was breathless from his ride. He must have sped along like the very devil to be back with her so soon.

Hestia bit her lip. On first acquaintance, Conall Methuen, Earl of Corsbury, didn’t seem like a monster at all. Had Frederick lied? Had she made a terrible mistake? And if so, how on earth was she going to extract herself from this intolerable situation?

Chapter 4

Conall’s face was grim as two footmen gently lifted the young woman onto the litter. Josephine had ridden down this self-same drive after their final quarrel. It was to be the last time he ever saw her.

When the news of her death after a riding accident had reached him a few hours later, he had, at first, been unable to take it in. She’d made that ride from Spyle Court to Thatcham Hall any number of times during their courtship, and had never had any difficulties. It must be a mistake; it had to be some other unfortunate lady whose mount had thrown her at a field gate, causing her to break her neck.

Then, as further confirmation had come through, the temptation to throw himself off the roof of Spyle Court and follow Josephine into oblivion had been overwhelming. Only duty stayed his hand. He had an estate to run and his mother to care for, as well as numerous tenant farmers who depended on him to lend them equipment, mill their grain and give employment to their daughters and sons. He could never have abandoned his people, not even to escape the agony of heartbreak.

Deep down, he felt himself partly to blame for Josephine’s death, although he had no proof she’d set her horse at that gate because she was angry with him. Even though they’d argued, she had no reason to destroy herself. Her former sweetheart, Frederick Ebbworth, had returned from the grave to claim her. She was happier than Conall had ever seen her before.

That man! Why had Ebbworth wasted a whole year after his supposed demise at Waterloo to return to Wiltshire and claim Josephine for his bride? Conall surmised it was so he could set himself up well enough to win Josephine’s parents’ approval. Yet in all that time, he’d never once contacted her to let her know he was alive. Then there was the additional mystery surrounding his name. Why, when Josephine had come to break off her engagement to him, had she referred to Ebbworth as ‘Andrew’? Then corrected herself so self-consciously?

But this was not Josephine. This woman could be healed. He gazed down at her pale complexion as he walked alongside the litter, making sure to keep the damaged side of his face turned away. She might be in shock, and he didn’t want to make matters worse by frightening her with his disfigurement.

The rescue party reached the house. “Take the young lady upstairs,” Conall ordered. “If you need help to keep the litter level, rally the gardeners. Gaisford, will you ride for Dr Hayward? Thank you. Rudman, stable this horse, if you please.”

When his housekeeper emerged from her office below stairs, Conall motioned her forwards. “Apologies, Mrs Wilkins. We have an unexpected guest.”

“Indeed, so. For how long, may I ask?”

“I have no idea.” Strewth, he didn’t even know the injured woman’s name. “That will be decided once I have spoken with the young lady, and we have the doctor’s pronouncement. Which room is closest to readiness?”

“The Tapestry Room, sir. Shall I have a fire lit?”

Suddenly a cacophony of chimes and bongs filled the air, as the two clocks in the hallway announced the hour of ten. Like an echo of their greater masters, smaller clocks from other parts of the house tinkled out their agreement.

Blast. He should be settling down to the household accounts for an hour. Now everything would have to be postponed until he had resolved the problem of the fallen rider.

“Yes, yes, light a fire, if you will. Do whatever you can to make her comfortable.” He stood in the middle of the hall and stared about him. Had everything been done that was necessary? Could he get back to his work now, and achieve something positive while they awaited the outcome of the doctor’s visit?

His servants had vanished off to perform their duties. The litter had successfully made the turn at the top of the first floor and was being navigated up the next flight.

Conall clicked his tongue. He couldn’t let the poor girl be dumped in a strange room in a house where she knew no one except himself. If it had been Josephine carried in on that litter, or Mama, he’d never have left their side for an instant.

The accounts would have to wait. With a heavy sigh, he pounded up the steps two at a time and was just about to follow the litter into the Tapestry Room when his mother appeared in the passageway.

Lady Emily, Dowager Countess of Corsbury, fluttered her hands at her son. “Good heavens, Conall, what’s all this kerfuffle?”

“This young lady fell from her horse. Halfway down our avenue.”

His mother blanched. “Is she… is she—?”

“No, she’s not dead.” He watched as the footmen manoeuvred their charge through the doorway of the nearest guest bedroom. Fortunately, it was wide, having been made to accommodate the ridiculous skirts worn by ladies earlier in the preceding century.

“Badly hurt?”

“I hope not. She can talk sensibly, but her back hurts, she says. I’ve sent for a physician.”

The colour returned to his mother’s cheeks. “That’s good news, then. Who is she? Where’s she from?”

“I don’t know. Under the circumstances, we dispensed with introductions.”