Page 8 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

“Never fear. I shall consider you unsullied by their evil influence, and I hope you’ll maintain an open mind about me.”

That dimple appeared again. Suddenly she wanted to see him full face, estimate the potential of that nascent smile.

“So, shall I send to the Red Lion for your luggage? Or are you at the Angel?”

“The Red Lion, please, sir. I’d better try and pen a note to them myself, that they may surrender the trunk to you.”

“And shall I return the mare to them as well?”

He’d better not. No one at the inn had any knowledge of Sheba, as Frederick had ridden the horse to Laycott from Bath. If Methuen discovered she’d lied about hiring the horse from the inn, she’d be exposed immediately.

“Oh, no, please. If it’s no trouble to you, I would appreciate it if she might be stabled here.”

He flexed his mouth. “You won’t be riding again for a while. Not with a side-saddle, at any rate. I detest the things. Dangerous contraptions. The Danceys lost a daughter in a riding accident—but I suppose you will have heard all about that.”

There was a ferocity in his gaze that made Hestia shiver inwardly and pray she was making her story convincing. He was not the kind of man one wanted as a foe—as Frederick had already discovered.

“I have heard of it, yes. A tragedy of the utmost proportions. I never knew Miss Josephine myself, but I’m sure she was a great loss.”

Methuen leapt to his feet and stalked across to the fireplace. A cheerful blaze had been lit in the hearth—presumably for her benefit. He tugged on the bell-pull, then paused awhile, contemplating the flames. As Frederick had predicted, the mention of Josephine by name provoked a profound emotion in Conall Methuen. He must have loved her dearly. Or hated her. Frederick had been vague about the details.

“I’ll ring for some paper and a pencil. You might find it more comfortable if you roll onto your stomach to write your note. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost time for luncheon, and I have much business to attend to first. I’ll have some soup sent up for you—unless you prefer something more solid? Perhaps both, so you have a choice. The laudanum is on your bedside table, along with fresh water. I beg you, take no more than a spoonful of the mixture unless the pain is severe. Good day to you.” Without meeting her eye again, he gave her a brief nod, and was gone.

She was still pondering the strength of his reaction when she heard voices in the passageway, followed by a gentle tap on the door and a woman’s voice saying, “Are you awake? May I come in, my dear?”

“Of course. Please enter.”

A middle-aged lady, well-dressed and noble of bearing, entered the chamber.

“I do apologise for putting you in here, as it is quite archaic really, but this room has been the most recently spring-cleaned. The tapestries, you know, have to be taken outside and beaten. Carefully, of course, as some are centuries old.”

Hestia realised she hadn’t taken in her surroundings at all. Since her arrival, the only thing she’d looked at had been… Methuen.

“Oh… I… I hadn’t really appreciated—”

“Don’t try to move, Miss Norton, or you will strain your back further. Yes, Conall told me your name. You’ll doubtless have guessed I’m his mama.”

“Delighted to meet you, Lady Corsbury. I’m so sorry to have put you to any trouble.”

The woman moved closer, and Hestia could make out the similarity to Conall. But whereas his face was carved in determined, masculine lines, hers was soft and gently rounded. The dark eyes and brows were the same, and even the same dimple was present, but there were strands of white in the countess’s hair, giving her a most distinguished look.

“It’s no trouble at all.” Lady Corsbury took the seat recently vacated by her son. “I’m only too glad to have some company. Life in the countryside can be quite stultifying at times. I’d far rather be in Bristol, or London this time of year, but Conall prefers Spyle Court.”

“A woman of your means can go where she pleases, surely?” Hestia hoped that didn’t sound rude, but if Methuen was dictating what his widowed mother might, or might not do, it was a blot on his character.

“Oh, no—you’ve mistaken me. I remain here for Conall’s sake. He is not what he was, you see, and I prefer to be with him, lest he sink any lower. You find me blunt—I can tell from your expression. Forgive me—I am what I am, and I say what I think. Unless my nerves are bad, which they were this morning. I feel much better now I can see your condition for myself. You aren’t badly broken, and will surely mend.”

The Dowager Countess seemed pleasant enough. Not exactly the sort to spawn a monster of such proportions as Frederick had suggested. But love and hate made people behave against their usual natures.

“Your son is unwell?”

“Only sick at heart. Last year he was to be married. His fiancée died a week before the wedding. He tries to hide his grief, but I know he struggles still, and there is deeply buried anger there too, though I don’t fully understand the cause. Tell me, have you ever lost a loved one, my dear?”

Hestia bit her lip. She’d never had any ‘loved ones’ before Frederick. Her relationship with her parents was pragmatic, not affectionate, and she’d had no siblings for rough-and-tumble, or with whom to feud and then make up. When she started her family with Frederick, things would be very different from her own childhood.

“I have not.”

“Then I’m glad for you. I care for my son a good deal, and when he suffers, so do I.”