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“What is it, Graham?” she said, her voice cold.
“I would like to visit you tomorrow, if you’ll have me,” he said. “I feel I am only just now starting to learn who Mary truly was, and I need… I need to know more. You are the only one who can help me.”
She bit her lip, clearly holding back tears. He wasn’t sure what he had said that had upset her so, but he hated himself for causing her pain.
“Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow. Meet me here at the willow tree at dusk. I shall prepare myself to answer all of your questions then.” A smile lifted the corners of her lips. “And perhaps you can recite some more poetry for me.”
Graham grinned. “I am at your service, my lady,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Tomorrow, then.”
And without another word, she rode off into the golden afternoon light.
CHAPTERTWELVE
Graham stayed awhile at the willow tree, until night loomed on the horizon. The moon hung like a single pearl in the dimming sky, pale and opalescent.
There were still so many things he wanted to ask Bridget, yet he knew she found herself in quite the predicament. With Lord Bragg a guest at the Sedgwick House, she had to have her wits about her if she wanted to speak with Graham when she wished to. He disliked her being under the man’s thumb before they were even married.
And he had more questions beyond that. What had Warren meant when he said that a young woman’s reputation was at stake? Who? Had Mary known Oliver Bragg, and had she attempted to get Bridget out of this horrible engagement? What had even brought Bragg to Hertfordshire, anyway?
The more he spoke with Bridget, the more questions he had. The whole situation vexedhim, and it made him regret his decision to stay in London while his sister was growing up. Graham, as Mary's only surviving male relative and the man of the house, had an obligation to represent and care for her in Society... and yet he had failed her.
He wondered at how often she must have sat under this very tree with Bridget, and what they had said of him. Had they spoken poorly of him after he had left Hertfordshire?
Graham made sure to fold up the blanket and return it to the hollow in the tree. When he put his hands inside the hollow though, he felt something brush against his knuckles. He was surprised to find a set of charcoal pencils and a sketchbook. His heart broke as he thumbed through the pages at sketches of rolling hills, of horses, of wildflowers, of Mary… and of himself. Or, at least, how he had looked when he had last seen Bridget all those years ago.
He should not have intruded on her secrets, and he realized he was doing exactly that. The sketchbook was clearly a diary in visual form, of all the things that had been on her mind. Graham felt a certain bitterness at the fact that he had evidently been on her mind quite often, while Oliver Bragg was conspicuously absent. There were even fantastical drawings of scenes fromThe Tempestand of what he thought must be Miranda and Ferdinand—with the hero of the story sporting features much like his own.
She felt something for him, that was certain. So what in God’s name was she doing betrothed to that horrible man?
As night fell, Graham mounted his horse and rode back to Foxglove Hall, through the woods and across the wildflower field. He left the horse at the stables, and as he crossed the courtyard back to the manor, he noticed a strange carriage parked just out of sight. He recognized the coat of arms right away: a crown flanked by crossed swords, which looked more like a pirate's flag than a gentleman's emblem.
So, Oliver Bragg had come to pay him a visit, then.
He wondered if it was in response to his visit to Sedgwick Manor yesterday, or if Bridget had returned home only to have Bragg question her whereabouts. She should have been home by then, he calculated. So, Graham assumed Bragg’s visit had nothing to do with his rendezvous with the man’s betrothed. Yet he still felt guilty.
Why, though? Nothing untoward had happened between them. They had merely met as old friends, and, as he was considered an old family friend, her mother fully approved of their outings together. Lady Sarah Sedgwick knew Graham would never do anything to sully her honor.
But did Lord Bragg? That was yet to be seen.
Graham climbed the stairs and stepped inside the door, and Warren met him in the foyer. The butler looked deeply concerned, his face drawn into an uncharacteristic scowl that Graham knew was not directed at him.
“Warren,” Graham greeted him, hanging up his riding jacket on the coat rack by the door.
“Your Grace,” Warren returned. “I’m sure you have already been made aware of the fact from the carriage outside, but you have an unexpected visitor.”
“Lord Bragg, I presume,” Graham said. “Yes. I recognized his coat of arms on the carriage. Where is he?”
“In the drawing room,” Warren said. “But Your Grace… please, be cautious of what you say to him. He can be the temperamental sort.”
“I know that full well,” Graham said. “Trust that I will remain composed.”
“Very well,” Warren nodded. “Please notify me if you need anything at all, Your Grace.”
Graham left him to stride into the sitting room, where Lord Bragg was waiting on the large white sofa. He held a glass of brandy in his hand, seeming to havehelped himself from the cabinet across the room. Graham smiled politely, resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose at the man's disrespect.
Bragg rose and bowed rather insolently.
