Page 31 of Dare it all for Love

“No.” Evie sent her a puzzled look. “Why would I, before I’d spoken to you? But, really, you are a dolt. Why on earth do you think Mama was quizzing him last night about Caroline Norton?”

Florence shrugged. “Mama always quizzes men about things like that. She likes to ruffle their feathers, to make them cross and to force them think about injustice.”

“Or perhaps she was testing a potential suitor to see if he measured up?”

Florence gave her an odd look. “Mama has been friends with Henry for years.”

Evie shrugged. “Not close friends, and he’s been gone a long time. I think she was testing the water before you plunge in headfirst. Unless… oh, Flo, you’ve not done anything rash, have you?”

“No!” Florence exclaimed, irritated, although it was a fair question after her behaviour last night, though Evie did not know about that, thank heavens. “No, I haven’t.”

Unless kissing him whilst trapped in a shepherd’s hut in a storm could be considered rash, which it obviously could… but she did not see why she must admit that to her little sister.

“Hmmm.”

Evie gave her a look which suggested she was unconvinced, but did not press her further, for which Florence was grateful.

One of the earl’s neighbours, a Miss Dudley, was to be joining them for the visit, along with her friend, Miss Hatchet. They were both spinsters of middling years, though could not be more different in character. For the life of her, Florence had never understood why they were friends.

Miss Dudley was a sweet, kind lady, who drove everyone mad by crying at the drop of a hat, for she found everything desperately romantic, sad, or tragic. She swooned at the least provocation, but had such a generous heart everyone forgave her for her eccentricities, trying as they sometimes were. Everyone was fond of her, despite her fussy ways, and she was often a guest at Holbrook.

Miss Hatchet was a tattlemonger. There was no other way of saying it. Whether she set out to cause harm by her words or not was moot, as that was the inevitable result. She could not bear to leave a juicy morsel of gossip unsaid, no matter how much better for everyone it would be if she held her tongue. Most people who knew her held her in contempt, and only bore with her for Miss Dudley’s sake. Her presence was an unwelcome blight on the outing, but one there was no polite way of avoiding.

It was a pleasant ride to the Hall, and they arrived precisely at the appointed hour, to find no sign of Henry.

“That’s odd,” Jasper said. “He was very clear about when we should be here. I know he was a little foxed last night, but I find it hard to believe he has forgotten.”

Or changed his mind. Florence felt a flicker of doubt as she wondered if he’d decided it was all a mistake after all. He had been foxed, as Jasper pointed out. Perhaps… No. She would not put words in his mouth or let him get away with changing his mind again. She would speak to him first, which meant she must find him.

Jasper hurried inside the house to speak to the staff, none of which seemed aware of their arrival.

“Perhaps he’s at the stables?” she suggested. “I’ll go and look.”

Florence turned and walked away before anyone could stop her, though she heard her mama call after her and knew she was being followed. She hurried around the back of the house as fast as she could but, before she even reached the stables, she saw a dark shape upon the ground in the shadow of a barn. For a moment she hesitated, uncertain what she was seeing, and then the figure groaned, a hand going to its head.

“Henry!” she exclaimed, running to him and kneeling by his side, unheeding of her skirts on the dusty ground. “Henry, darling, are you hurt? Speak to me.”

“Florence?” he muttered, blinking up at her dazedly. “Christ, my head. That bloody ladder. Must have knocked myself out cold when the rungs broke.”

“Oh, Henry, you’re bleeding!” Florence cast about her skirts, searching for her pocket and the clean handkerchief there. “Here, let me….”

Henry gave a hiss of pain as she gently pressed the handkerchief to the back of his head where his dark gold hair was sticky with blood.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.”

“Florence, get up,” hissed a voice in her ear as her mother grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet.

“But Mama!” Florence protested. “Hen—”

She snapped her mouth shut as she saw they were not alone. Lady St Clair, Evie, and Grace, and many of the others had followed them, including Miss Dudley. Next to her, Miss Hatchet was watching the proceedings with obvious delight.

“Mr Stanhope is hurt,” Florence said, trying to calm her thundering heart.

Henry was hurt, but as he was clearly in no danger she forced herself to step back and watched the comte help him to his feet.

“What on earth happened?” Louis César demanded.

“The ladder broke,” Henry muttered, touching tentative fingers to his head and wincing. “The rungs must be rotten.”