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‘Of course.’ Her hand slipped from his arm as she took a step backwards. ‘In that case, I’ll go and find my aunt. It’s getting late.’
‘Good idea.’ He inclined his head. ‘In that case, don’t worry, Ianthe. Trust me.’
‘I do.’ She looked him straight in the eye with a look that he couldn’t interpret. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.’
Chapter Seven
Ianthe glanced impatiently at her aunt’s front door, pacing up and down as she waited for news. At first she’d tried pacing the parlour, but after bumping into the furniture a half-dozen times she’d finally given up and come out to the hall. She needed to keep moving, needed to do something to stop herself from worrying about Percy. Despite his behaviour, she still wanted to know he was all right. She’d hardly slept, wishing that she hadn’t left him the night before. What if Mr Felstone—Robert, she corrected herself—hadn’t been able to get him away from the gambling table? What if he was ruined? What if they were destitute?
What had happened?
The front door opened and she whirled around expectantly, practically jumping upon her aunt as she entered.
‘Have you seen him? Have you seen Percy?’
‘Good gracious, no.’ Aunt Sophoria tugged at the strings of an oversized gingham bonnet with a chuckle. ‘He’s still asleep, the landlord says. Returned to his room quite the worse for wear apparently, but there’s no need to worry. He was the victor last night.’
‘Percy won?’ Ianthe gaped at her aunt in astonishment. Of all the outcomes she’d anticipated, that one had never occurred to her.
‘A small fortune, too, by all accounts.’
‘But he never wins! I’ve been so worried!’
‘Why?’ Aunt Sophoria patted her curls back into place nonchalantly. ‘You left him with Mr Felstone, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘Not that he’ll be so pleased about that. He’s the one who lost.’
‘What?’ The feeling of relief vanished at once. ‘You mean Robert lost money to Percy?’
‘Robert, indeed?’ Aunt Sophoria gave her a sly wink. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. The curious thing is that he never usually gambles at all, though now I suppose we know why. Still, a man can’t be good at everything. Shall I make tea?’
‘No.’ Ianthe grasped hold of the banisters, thoughts still reeling. ‘Thank you, Aunt, but I think I’ll take a walk.’
‘Good idea.’ Aunt Sophoria bustled off into the parlour. ‘I could do with a nap anyway. See you at lunch, dear.’
Ianthe picked up her bonnet and shawl with a deep feeling of guilt. She was the one who’d sent Robert into the card room. If she’d known he was an inexperienced card player, she would never have done so. But then why had he volunteered? Why had he risked it? And just how much was a small fortune?
She stood outside on the pavement for a few moments, wondering which way to turn. She didn’t want to go into town, didn’t want to see or speak to anyone until she’d had a chance to clear her head. She needed time and peace to think rationally. With all the worry about Percy, she’d hardly had a moment to consider Robert’s proposal, let alone make up her mind.
How long until their interview? The grandmother’s clock in her aunt’s hallway had said it was just before ten. That gave her another two hours to decide.
She turned her feet in the opposite direction, making her way up the hill and along a succession of side streets towards the castle, impressed as always by the sight of the three giant stone towers standing like silent sentinels over the town. The original fortress was old, dating back almost to the Conquest, though the stone edifice had been added later by Henry III. Six hundred years later, the towers and curtain walls were still standing mostly intact—the same ruins she’d climbed on as a child, though they had more of an air of neglect than she remembered, the original gateway boarded up and half-hidden by weeds.
It had always been a special place for her, the place where her parents had met, where her artist father had spied her mother sitting under the battlements, poetry book in hand, a vision waiting to be painted, or so he’d always said. Entranced by the sight, he’d asked permission to paint her portrait and that had been that. They’d fallen in love that very afternoon, in the space of one sitting.
Ianthe heaved a sigh, starting to relax in the familiar surroundings, remembering the way her father’s face had softened and her mother had gazed back adoringly whenever they’d spoken of that first meeting—a story they’d loved to tell as much as she’d loved to hear it, one that had always given her hope for her own future, in the possibility of finding love for herself. Too much sensibility, her aunt had said, and perhaps she was right. Romance had turned to love for her parents, but then not everyone was so lucky...
She climbed over a pile of boulders and sat down on the edge of the old moat, now a ditch filled with nettles and long grass, pulling off her bonnet and placing it on the ground beside her as she thought of her own disastrous love affair. There had been no happy ending for her. Albert had pursued her during his summer break from university, following her around under the pretext of spending time with his younger sisters, quoting Byron, Marvell and Shelley, all of her favourite poets, pledging his heartfelt devotion on a daily basis.
Still in mourning for her parents, she’d been flattered by the attention, pleased to find someone she thought was a kindred spirit in her lonely existence, turning a blind eye to the more selfish, self-centred aspects of his personality. Now she knew that she’d been deceiving herself all along—a realisation that had been almost as painful as the rest of it. She’d been stupidly naive, so desperate to feel something—anything—but grief, that she’d willed herself into falling in love with him, as if by recreating her parents’ love story she could somehow bring them back. She’d agreed to the elopement against her own better judgement, knowing that his family would disapprove, but believing that love would conquer all.
It hadn’t.
Their love affair had started with poetry and ended in bitter, hurtful recrimination. When his family had overtaken them on the road to Scotland, it had taken less than ten minutes for them to turn him against her. He’d stood and listened as his parents had called her a schemer and seductress, every vile name she could imagine, berating her for so long and so vociferously that she’d almost started to believe the words herself. She’d risked her heart, her reputation and her future on a man she’d thought had loved her, but his affections had been worse than fickle. They’d been entirely false.
She’d returned to London and Percy under a grey cloud, heartbroken and humiliated, vowing never to let any man get so close to her again, putting on her grey dress as a sign to the world that that part of her life was over. Robert was wrong when he accused her of waiting for romance. The old Ianthe had risked everything for love and lost. Even if she were tempted, the new Ianthe would never be so foolish—wouldn’t gamble her heart and happiness on any man again.
