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“—to be a masquerade!”
He shuddered.
“How wonderful!”
“Captain Balfour will feel truly honored, I’m sure.”
Oh no, he wouldn’t. Balls? Masquerades? His entire body itched.
“Sir?”
He jumped, blindly snatched at two ribbons, and thrust them at the shop assistant. “I’ll take these, thank you.”
“Certainly, sir.”
He followed her to the serving counter and paid, pretending interest in the floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full of merchandise, all the while only too aware of the women whose conversation had ceased again.
What would they say if they knew he was the man they’d been talking of? Another shudder trembled up his back. Heaven help him should they find out.
“There you are, Mr.…” The shop assistant’s brows rose in enquiry as she held out the package.
“Thank you.” He stuffed the small paper-wrapped parcel under his arm. He had no intention of satisfying her curiosity nor wasting further time with those inclined to gossip and speculation. He needed to see his sister. Which meant travelling to Mannering to dispose of his luggage, dressing more appropriately than in dirt-specked travel clothes, then making his way to the place mentioned in the letter.
And discovering just what interest this Theodore Stapleton person had in his unfortunate sister and his poor niece.
Chapter 3
Becky had not accompanied Theo on her walk today. Mama’s invitation to help her with some sewing proved of greater interest than Theo’s expressed inclination to traverse muddied fields and byways. But the last days of enforced confinement had meant Theo needed to escape; there was only so much domestic triviality she could bear, and the smell of fields after rain was one akin to bliss.
The vanilla-and-almond scent of the nearby yellow gorse begged her to pause, so she stopped under a willow tree, closing her eyes to take a deep breath. How heavenly. Some might dismiss these most northerly parts of England as dull, but there was always something to appreciate should one care to look and really see. She savored another inhalation, the moisture in the air drawing her to open her eyes. Ahead, the mist-shrouded breadth of Humbleton Hill rose before her like a mystical castle of ancient times, worthy of the romance woven by Walter Scott and other poets of his ilk. She’d often wondered about the remains of the hilltop fort, whether any descendants remained of those long-ago legends of folklore. This part of the north was said to boast the most castles and forts to be found anywhere in England, even if many of them were in ruins. Clearly this was a land where people wished to claim their dominance, tried to prove themselves as kings and conquerors.
Her thoughts slid back to Lady Bellingham’s comments from the other day. What would a modern-day hero look like? Clearly the vast majority of the village expected him to appear strong and possess a handsome countenance. But she couldn’t help wonder at such sentiment. Couldn’t a plain man hold as much capacity for courage as a man of fine looks? More, perhaps, for he could never rely on his natural advantages to get ahead.
A sharp chirruping and sudden ascent of birds drew attention to a thin stranger driving a muddied gig. He wasn’t one of the gypsies of nearby Kirk Yetholm, who travelled the county with their wagons of wares. This was a man she had never seen before, his gaze upon the hills as hers had been but moments before.
As he approached the willow tree, it became clear the man was not very tall, and with his plain features, tanned complexion, and slightly receding hairline, certainly would not be held by many of the female population to accord with notions of handsomeness. But still, for all that, there was a quality about him which drew her attention. Was there sadness in his features, a weariness in the shake of head? Was he lost? Curiosity overcame her reticence and concern about being a single woman out of doors, and she moved from her spot under the tree.
Her appearance seemed to startle him, as he drew his horse to a sharp halt. “Forgive me, madam, I did not see you there.”
She nodded in politeness, reluctant to own her earlier concealment.
“If you’ll excuse me, could you please tell me if this is the way to Stapleton Court?”
“Yes, it is.” Interest piqued—Grandfather had not mentioned he was expecting any visitors today—and she studied him more closely.
The man’s cheeks were thin, and his face held creases, as if he either squinted or smiled a great deal. And yet there was that look of sadness in his dark-grey eyes.
For some nonsensical reason, this last thought lodged deep and softened her heart toward him, stranger though he may be. “I have just come from there.”
“This is most propitious. Tell me, is the master of the house a kind man?”
Grandfather? “Some would say so, others might not be so inclined.” That was perhaps charitable, but she need not speak too openly with a stranger about the neighborhood’s fixed belief in the general’s contrary nature.
“Ah. And the lady of the house?”
“Mrs. Stapleton?”
“Yes. I believe she is caring for a young lady?”
