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But he laid a finger against her lips and then quickly straightened away again. He could hear voices on the path they’d just come from. A moment more and another couple rounded the corner.
“Pardon,” the gentleman said, and at the same time Jasper realized it was Matthew Horn. “Vale. I had not thought to meet you here.”
Jasper bowed with irony. “I have always found it instructive to walk my mother’s gardens. Just this afternoon, I have been able to teach my wife the difference between a peony plant and an iris.”
A sound that might have been a muffled snort came from behind him.
Matthew’s eyes widened. “Is this your wife, then?”
“Indeed.” Jasper turned and met Melisande’s secretive brown eyes. “My heart, may I present Mr. Matthew Horn, a former officer in the 28th Regiment like myself. Horn, my wife, Lady Vale.”
Melisande held out her hand, and Matthew took it and bent over it. All quite proper, of course, but Jasper still felt an instinctive need to lay his hand on Melisande’s shoulder as if to claim ownership.
Matthew stepped back. “May I present Miss Beatrice Corning. Miss Corning, Lord and Lady Vale.”
Jasper bent over the pretty chit’s hand, suppressing a smile. Matthew’s presence at the salon was explained, and his motives were similar to Jasper’s. He was in pursuit of the lady.
“Do you make your home in London, Miss Corning?” he asked.
“No, my lord,” the girl said. “I usually live in the country with my uncle. I think you must know him, for we are neighbors of yours, I believe. He is the Earl of Blanchard.”
The girl said something else, but Jasper lost it. Blanchard had been Reynaud’s title, the one he should’ve inherited on his father’s death. Except Reynaud had been dead by then. Captured and killed by the Indians after Spinner’s Falls.
Jasper focused on the girl’s face, really looking at her for the first time. She was chatting with Melisande, her countenance open and frank. She had a fresh, country appearance, her hair the color of ripened wheat, her eyes a contented gray. Tiny sandy freckles dotted her upper cheeks. She had no title herself, but Matthew was still reaching high if he thought to court the niece of an earl. The Horns were an old family but not titled. Whereas the Blanchard name went back centuries, and the earldom’s seat was a sprawling feudal mansion. The girl had said she lived in that mansion.
In Reynaud’s home.
Jasper felt his chest tighten, and he looked away from Miss Corning’s expressive face. No use to blame this girl. She would’ve been in the schoolroom six years ago when Reynaud died on a fiery cross. It wasn’t her fault that her uncle had inherited the title. Or that she now lived on the estate that had been Reynaud’s birthright. Still, he could not bear to look her in the face.
He held out his arm to Melisande and interrupted the conversation. “Come. We have an afternoon engagement, I believe.”
He bowed to Matthew and Miss Corning as they made their farewells. He didn’t look at Melisande, but he was aware that she watched him curiously, even as she laid her hand on his arm. She knew there was no afternoon engagement. It occurred to him—finally, belatedly—that in searching out her secrets, he ran the risk of revealing his own, far darker ones. That, simply, must never happen.
Jasper covered her hand with his. It was a gesture that appeared husbandly, when in reality it was instinctive. An urge to capture and keep her from fleeing. He couldn’t tell her about Reynaud and what had happened in the dark woods of America, couldn’t tell her how his soul had been fractured there, couldn’t tell her of his greatest failure and his greatest grief. But he could hold her and keep her.
And he would.
“. . . AND DIDN’T HE look right gormless, his arse hangin’ out for all to see?” Mrs. Moore, Lord Vale’s housekeeper, finished her tale by slapping the kitchen table with a loud thump.
The three upstairs maids collapsed together in a heap of giggles, the two footmen at the end of the table nudged each other, Mr. Oaks gave a deep bass chuckle, and even Cook, whose face normally wore a pinched expression, let a smile show.
Sally Suchlike grinned. Lord Vale’s household was a real change from Mr. Fleming’s. There were more than twice as many servants, but under the guidance of Mr. Oaks and Mrs. Moore, they were more friendly, almost like a family. Within a couple of days of starting here, Sally had made friends with both Mrs. Moore and Cook—who was a shy woman under that stern demeanor—and her fears of not being liked, not being accepted, were put to rest.
Sally leaned over her cooling tea. Lord and Lady Vale had already taken their dinner, and it was the servants’ dinnertime now. “An’ what happened then, Mrs. Moore, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well,” that lady began, obviously quite pleased to be asked to continue her ribald tale.
But she was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Pynch. Immediately, Mr. Oaks sobered, the footmen straightened in their seats, one of the upstairs maids giggled nervously—a sound shushed by her neighbor—and Mrs. Moore blushed. Sally let out a sigh of frustration. Mr. Pynch was like a bucket of muddy Thames river water thrown over everyone: cold and unpleasant.
“May I help you, Mr. Pynch?” the butler asked.
“Thank you, no,” Mr. Pynch said. “I’ve come for Miss Suchlike. She’s wanted by the mistress.”
His wooden tones produced another giggle from the upstairs maid. Her name was Gussy, and she was the sort to giggle at nearly anything. Her little giggle stopped on a gasp, though, when Mr. Pynch turned his cold green gaze on her.
Bully, Sally thought. She pushed back from the long kitchen table and rose. “Well, I thank you, Mrs. Moore, for a most delightful story.”
Mrs. Moore blinked and a pleased flush lit her cheeks.
