Page 53 of An Enchanting Dare

“Oh, well, of course you must go in that case, and don’t worry. We won’t drink your cellars dry. Louis and I will be off to the races in a day or two, or at least that was the plan.”

Maxwell laughed. He liked Barnaby a good deal, which was odd as he was the kind of good natured, if not terribly bright, fellow who’d have irritated him to no end in previous years. Now, he did not quite understand why that was, except that he’d been an arrogant, selfish bastard. Perhaps he’d disliked to see goodness or kindness in others, for it made him realise what a contemptible creature he’d become. He frowned, overwhelmed with the usual tide of self-loathing that swamped him when he remembered his past, all the terrible things he’d done, and the people he had hurt.

“Are they seriously ill?” Barnaby asked, his eyes filled with compassion, reading Maxwell’s scowl with concern.

Maxwell shook himself out of his memories and paid attention to his guest. “I don’t know. His… er… son, sent a note, but it had no details save that he was ill and to come quickly.”

“A pity. I hope it’s nothing serious. A false alarm, perhaps,” he added with an encouraging smile.

“I hope so too,” Maxwell said, hesitating before adding in a low voice. “Stay clear of Kilbane, won’t you?”

Barnaby snorted and set down his coffee cup. “I’m aware I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Maxwell, old fellow, but I ain’t no flat. I know trouble when I see it, and Kilbane is trouble looking for a place to happen. Don’t you worry, I intend to get Louis as far away from him as quick as I can. I’d talk him into leaving today, but likely we’ll not see him stir before noon.”

“Who won’t stir before noon?” demanded a weary voice from the doorway.

Barnaby started in surprise. “Louis! Bless me. I did not expect to see you up and about at this hour.”

Louis leaned against the doorjamb, shading his eyes from the bright daylight with a pinched expression. He was pale, with dark circles beneath his eyes, his hair was ruffled, and he had shrugged on a silk dressing gown over the clothes he’d clearly slept in, and yet still looked far more elegant than either Maxwell or Barnaby, who were properly attired for the day.

“Café, s’il te plaît,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Barnaby tsked, shaking his head as he poured out another cup of coffee. “Now, I don’t like to say I told you so, but I warned you not to start on the brandy. Said you’d suffer the consequences.”

“Barnaby, the devil is using my head as an anvil, that is punishment enough without you scolding me too,” he protested, moving reluctantly into the room and sitting down heavily in the nearest chair.

Barnaby put the cup of coffee into his hands and went to pull the curtain across to keep the sun from Louis’ eyes.

“Better?” he asked.

“Marginally,” Louis said with a sigh, sipping his coffee.

“Maxwell here is leaving us to attend to a sick friend, so we’re to have the run of his house, but I thought we might leave anyway, soon as you’re up to it, any rate? What say you?” Barnaby stared at his friend hopefully, his eagerness for them to be on their way and as far from Kilbane as possible, more than obvious.

Louis massaged his temples with delicate fingers. “I say I am liable to cast up my accounts if I get within ten feet of a moving carriage. Perhaps tomorrow.”

Barnaby sighed. “Figured as much. Right ho.”

“I hope your friend recovers, Maxwell,” Louis said, looking very much as if it would not take a moving carriage to provoke such an eventuality.

“Thank you. So do I,” Maxwell said, and got to his feet. He’d best oversee his packing. He was catching the early train and his luggage could follow on after, but he knew better than to leave such arrangements unsupervised. Worry knotted his belly as he wondered what was wrong with Burt. The old man was built like a whippet without a scrap of fat on his thin frame and had few reserves to call upon if he took ill. He was also a sly devil and tough as old boot leather. Maxwell knew he’d fight tooth and nail to stay alive and see young Pike grow up strong and happy. Not that Maxwell would let anything happen to the lad. If he’d had his way, he’d have moved them both out of London months since. He’d wanted to find them a place on one of his estates. When he’d suggested it, they’d looked at him with such abject horror it was clear it wouldn’t happen. Perhaps now he could change their minds. Country air, away from London’s filth, would do them the world of good.

Whilst he was there, he wanted to ask them some questions about his time with them. He only vaguely much of it, having been out of his head with pain and laudanum, but he’d had the strangest sense of déjà vu at the ball last night. The young woman Louis had identified as Miss de Beauvoir had snagged in his mind, stirring a hazy memory. He hoped to God she was not someone he had wronged, she was too young for that, surely? Oh, please God, let that be true. His memory had snagged upon her though and insisted she belonged in the stews where he’d lingered in those months when he’d not known who or what he was. Yet what would a woman who was clearly accepted among the ton be doing running wild in the Seven Dials, of all places? It was a puzzle, and he did not like puzzles. He’d tried to speak to her several times last night, but all his efforts had been thwarted. The damned girl was like quicksilver, slipping away just when he thought he’d got her pinned down. He hadn’t been the least bit sure if she’d done it on purpose or if she’d been unaware of him and it had just been bad luck.

He intended to find out.

10th July 1841, Trevick Castle, Warwickshire

Sylvester took one last look out of the bedroom window. The countryside as far as the eye could see belonged to the Trevick estate. The land was lush and fertile, well-managed, and made use of the most modern ideas, changing with the times, unlike many estates around the country. Sylvester had been grateful to the earl, who had happily shown him about the property and explained much of what they were doing to ensure the vast estate earned its keep. That was no simple task, yet for all the difference in size and budget, the same problems that the earl faced here beset them at Marcross, albeit on a smaller scale.

Trevick had seemed pleased with his interest and even appeared to like Sylvester. That was unlikely to continue if he discovered Sylvester was in love with his daughter, though. Despondency settled on his shoulders. He was leaving today, escorting Alana home, and then returning to Marcross. He ought to be grateful. He had a job, a comfortable place to live and a steady income, far more than he’d dared hope for until recently, when some days he’d not been sure if he could afford to keep his horse for another day or would have to sell it to pay his rent. Yet it wasn’t enough, not if he was to win Aisling. He ought never to have agreed to let her wait for him, to give them both false hope when there was none. With a sigh, he walked to the door and closed it behind him. He did not want to say goodbye to her, not knowing when he would see her again.

“Oh, Mr Cootes. I’m so glad I caught you before you left.”

Sylvester straightened and forced a smile to his lips as the countess called to him from down the hallway.

“My lady, I would not have left without bidding you goodbye and thanking you for your hospitality.”

“No, of course not. I do you a disservice. You have been a delightful guest, and we have been so happy to have you here.”