Finn admitted Elliot wouldn’t like that at all. “Understood, sir.”
“Done, then.” Grafton looked at him a little more kindly. “I think you’ll find Elliot wants to reconcile. He has mentioned you in passing. You know, he doesn’t make friends easily.”
“Nor do I,” Finn murmured. Then he asked, “Where are we going, by the way? For the house party you mentioned, I mean.”
“The Fitzgeralds have invited us to Wyemont Castle in Herefordshire. I can’t attend, but you’ll go in my place.”
Finn could barely stop himself getting up and bolting from the room. Though he hadn’t been to Wyemont Castle in years, he remembered his visit as if it were yesterday. And he definitely didn’t want to go back. “We’re going to Wyemont?”
Grafton noticed the change in Finn’s demeanor. “You’ve been there?”
“Once.”
“You’ll be welcome there?” he asked, referring obliquely to Finn’s less than sterling reputation.
“I was but ten the last time I was there, sir,” Finn clarified. “Whatever juvenile indiscretions I committed will be long forgotten. Tell me, have you ever been to Wyemont Castle?”
“I have not had the pleasure.”
Finn shook his head. “Pleasure is not a word I’d associate with the place. Commanding? Yes. Atmospheric? Yes. It has a way of getting to you.”
“Your task is to keep Elliot out of trouble. Take care of that, and don’t worry about where it’s all happening. Understood?”
He nodded, bound to the deal with Grafton. As Finn left the meeting, memories of his previous visit to Wyemont Castle came flooding back. He had been just a child, and susceptible to dreams no adult would suffer. He sighed, muttering to himself, “What a way to keep Christmas.”
But then, if he could get Elliot safely married off by the end of the Season, he’d be a thousand pounds richer, outfitted with a new wardrobe, and free of obligation to anyone. He’d leave London. Possibly all of England. He never had to come back. And wasn’t that a gamble worth taking?
Chapter 4
A few days later, Camellia and Mrs Bloomfield were packed and riding toward Wyemont Castle. Her mother had sent them off with many good-hearted advices and warnings, as well as a demand to send a letter announcing their safe arrival. Her stepfather remained aloof from the proceedings, only reiterating the need for her to begin married life as soon as possible.
The journey was tedious, the vehicle cramped, the roads bumpy and muddy from the weather. Rain had given way to snow. They had been on the road for two days and still had a few hours more before they reached the remote house. Nevertheless, Camellia’s mood had vastly improved.
“Hortense will be abuzz the whole time,” Camellia said. “She likes to be at the center of it all. But I’m sure she’ll make time to arrange as many matches as she can. Hortense was always a believer in amor vincit omnia.”
“Does that alarm you?” Mrs Bloomfield asked.
Camellia gazed out the window. “No. Do you think I will even garner a glance from the gentlemen likely to be there? The Fitzgeralds tend to hobnob with the best.”
“So you’re thinking of courtship, after all.”
Camellia shrugged, trying to appear as if she were resigned to it. “I must be practical. I am twenty years old, and not a naive young miss anymore.” She added bitterly, “After all, it’s not likely I’ll ever get a chance at a formal coming out now. Or to see the world the way I once dreamed I could.” A thin sigh escaped her.
The death of Camellia’s father four years ago had altered everyone’s lives. It happened just before what was meant to be her coming-out Season. But mourning of course took precedence, and then money became tight. Her mother’s recent marriage to Edward Bloxham, a wealthy tradesman with aspirations to the upper classes, meant she and her daughter were comfortably off again. But Camellia had never quite debuted in any real way, and the new association with trade cut off most of her former acquaintances among young ladies of the gentry. Her social circle was correspondingly small, and she had never met a man she’d seriously consider for marriage. Hence, here she was, twenty years old and still without prospects. “I don’t need a love match. I do need to start my own life,” she concluded.
Mrs Bloomfield raised one eyebrow. “We’ll see, dear. We’ll see.”
“You doubt me,” Camellia accused her companion.
“I love you like a daughter, and I desire your happiness,” Mrs Bloomfield responded. “In such matters—” She broke off suddenly. “Look! Is that the castle? It must be. It’s exactly as you’ve described it.”
Camellia forgot her age and twisted around to peer out the window. “Oh, I see it!” Her heart jumped curiously when she saw the towers soaring above the trees.
Wyemont Castle stood on a promontory overlooking a great valley serving as a pass between England and Wales. Drifts of snow clung to the slopes, hinting at the season to come. In previous centuries, the castle was a vital stronghold against the Welsh incursions, and the ancient towers outlined against the sky hinted at this serious purpose. The narrow windows were dark, their purpose now long past. One of the tower windows flickered, as if a bright lantern shone through it. But when she blinked and looked again, it was gone. Without knowing why, she shivered.
She’d never felt comfortable with those ancient turrets. Thankfully, most of the castle was considerably more modern, and now it was the great house of the Fitzgerald family. Camellia had known them her whole life, because Hortense Fitzgerald was her cousin on her father’s side, and the family had always been very kind to Camellia, even after the death of George Swift.
Once the castle was in sight, it seemed to pull them in. In no time, they were stepping out of the carriage and into the massive stone halls of the castle. Camellia looked around, shaking off the few flakes of snow that had fallen during the short walk outside.
