Fair Juno (18 page)

‘Children?’ His mother’s stunned expression suggested she had leaped rather further than he had intended.

Martin grinned. ‘Not yet. Rake though I am, I suspect that they had better come after we are wed.’

His mother looked decidedly relieved.

‘And now, if I’ve put all your worries to rest, I’ll take you upstairs.’ Martin rose. He scooped his mother, thoughtful and silent, into his arms. They were on the stairs when she asked, ‘So you are going to marry Helen Walford?’

‘Indubitably,’ Martin replied. ‘As the sun rises in the east, as one day follows another—you may count on it.’

Later, when he had returned to the library and his port, his words echoed in his mind. He had spoken the truth. The only question remaining was how to get his prospective bride to agree.

He lounged in his chair, stretching his long legs before him. Why she insisted on refusing his suit was still a mystery. But he felt certain, now, that he had misunderstood the nature of the hurdle which stood in his path. It was clearly not physical—which was something of a relief. Her reticence had to stem from some more simple problem— possibly a reluctance to place any faith in a man’s avowed
devotion? Martin raised his brows. Given her first husband’s reputation, that was not hard to believe. Whatever the problem, he was confident of finding the answer. His anger at her apparent promiscuity had receded, draining away even as his need for her grew more acute. Rational thought now prevailed; he knew she was not promiscuous; her acts were driven by some deeper motive. He still faced a problem but it was not insurmountable. But he needed to solve it soon. With every passing day, he missed her more. There was nothing—
nothing
—that was more important to him.

With a gesture of decision, Martin drained his glass. There were no objections to be considered, no ramifications to be weighed. Tomorrow, he would return to town and see her.

He would woo her—he would win her. And then he would bring her home.

Two days later, at the fashionable hour of noon, Martin turned his bays into the familiar precinct of Half Moon Street. He drew them smartly to the kerb before Helen’s narrow-fronted house. Joshua jumped down and ran to their heads. Martin threw him the reins. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be. Walk ’em if necessary.’

Martin strode purposefully up the steps. She was going to say yes this time. He was not going to leave until she did. He raised his hand to the knocker—and froze.

The knocker was off the door.

He stared at the empty hinge from which it normally hung—a small brass weight in the shape of a bell. Only its outline remained.

Helen had gone out of town.

Abruptly, Martin turned on his heel and strode back to his curricle. Surprised by his master’s sudden return, Joshua glanced up and opened his mouth, then shut it again. Silently, he handed his master the reins and scrambled up behind. From long experience, he knew better than to ask questions when Mr Martin looked like thunder.

Heading his team back into the traffic, Martin considered the Park, then decided against it. The last thing he needed was inconsequential chatter. He turned his horses towards Grosvenor Square mews. Soon, he was striding back and forth before the fireplace in his library, feeling caged and impotent.

Why? Why had she left?

The talk after the Barhams’ ball could not have been that bad. He might have committed a blunder under stress but he knew his London. The tattlemongers would have twittered over it for all of twenty-four hours, then forgotten it entirely.

So why had she gone?

To avoid him?

Martin thrust the thought aside, then, when no other explanation offered, reluctantly brought it back for examination.
Too restless to sit, he prowled the room. Could she have thought he would repeat his performance—with Selina or whoever—and make her life a misery? With a frustrated growl, he shook his head. No—no he could not believe she would imagine he would hurt her—well, not more than the Barham effort. Given that they had developed a degree of understanding through the long hours they had spent together, she would know he would calm down after that—after he had seen her distress. Hell, he wanted to marry the woman—she could not believe he would hurt her. Could she?

Sunk in semi-guilt, Martin prowled the room.

A sudden realisation brought him to a halt. He raised his head and stared, unseeing, at his own reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. She could not have gone off to escape him—because he had taken himself off. With a sigh of relief, he sank into a chair. She would have realised within a day or so that he had left the capital. He doubted her friends would have sanctioned a withdrawal before that. So…

So why had she left? Perhaps the reason had nothing to do with their relationship? She had no immediate family; her friends were a select few, all of whom were presently residing in London. Perhaps Dorothea had taken ill and retired to the country? Recalling the last sight he had had of Hazelmere’s lovely bride, Martin rejected that idea as unlikely.

Had Helen been forced to leave by something else
entirely? The thought jerked Martin upright. After a moment’s cogitation, he rose and tugged the bell-pull, insensibly relieved to have something concrete to do.

When Hillthorpe answered, he asked for Joshua.

Moments later, ‘You wanted me, guv’nor?’ broke across Martin’s thoughts. He raised his head and beckoned Joshua closer.

‘That gentleman I had you watch—Hedley Swayne. You mentioned you’d struck up a relationship with his man?’

Joshua wriggled his shoulders. ‘Not so much a relationship as a drinking partnership, if you take my meaning?’

Martin did. He smiled, a touch grimly. ‘That will do admirably. I want you to get over there now and find out what you can of Mr Swayne’s recent exploits. Particularly, if he’s had any unusual visitors—or if he’s dressed down to attend any meeting. I expect that’s something his man would notice.’

‘Oh, he’d notice right enough. Went on a treat over the gent’s new coloured silk neckerchiefs last time I saw him. The way he tells it, the swell only thinks of the rags on his back.’

Martin raised a brow. ‘That’s certainly the way he appears—but I know for certain there’s at least one other thing Hedley Swayne exercises his wits over.’ He fixed Joshua with a commanding eye. ‘I want to know what Hedley Swayne’s been up to this week—and I want to know as soon as possible.’

‘Right-ho, guv’nor.’

With a cheery half-salute, Joshua left.

He was back far faster than Martin had anticipated.

‘He’s gone—bolted.’

‘
What
?’ Martin exploded out of the chair he had slumped into. ‘When?’

‘Seems like the gentleman’s taken hisself and his man and his usual escort—whatever that might mean—off to his estates. In Cornwall, they be, so the housekeeper said. They left two days ago.’

‘Two days,’ Martin mused, pacing back and forth on the hearthrug. ‘Any reason given?’

Joshua shook his head. He watched his master stalk the room, then, when no further orders came his way, he asked, ‘D’ye want me to keep watch—to see when he returns?’

Martin stopped his pacing. He looked at Joshua, then slowly shook his head. ‘I’ve a nasty suspicion that when he returns it’ll be too late.’ With a nod, he dismissed Joshua and renewed his striding. It helped him to think.

There was no necessary connection between Helen’s leaving town and Hedley Swayne’s departure. That did not mean there wasn’t one. Martin swore. He wished he had followed up the peculiar Mr Swayne’s abduction attempt. His preoccupation with making Helen Walford his wife— and thus safe from such as Hedley Swayne—had pushed that little incident to the back of his mind. His memories
of it had been overlaid by far more interesting recollections of Helen herself.

Shaking such recollections aside, Martin acknowledged his worries. He wanted answers and the only way of finding them was to ask questions—of the right people. And, in this instance, the right people were undoubtedly the Hazel-meres.

When a rapid reconnoitre of the gentlemen’s clubs drew a blank, Martin presented himself at Hazelmere House. To his surprise, although Mytton was as gracious as ever and went immediately to inform his master, ensconced in his library, of his arrival, he was kept kicking his heels in the black-and white-tiled hall for what seemed like an age. Eventually, the library door opened.

Dorothea emerged, the heir in her arms.

If she had looked daggers at him at the Barhams’, this afternoon she had added spears and crossbows to her armoury. Bemused, Martin reflected that he should, by all accounts, be dead.

With a decidedly cool nod, Dorothea turned on her heel and climbed the stairs. The stiffness of her spine bespoke her disapproval.

Martin raised his brows slightly at the sight. He was not overly surprised that she should still be so starchy—he had yet to make his peace with Helen and Dorothea was, after all, Helen’s closest friend. But there was a haughtiness in
her disapproval that evoked memories of how the matrons had looked at him thirteen years earlier.

Mytton approached. ‘His lordship will see you now, my lord.’

There was nothing, of course, to be learned from Mytton’s impassive countenance. Martin followed him to the library.

Inside, he discovered that his pricking thumbs were justified. Hazelmere was standing by the long French windows, open to the afternoon breeze. His stance, rigid and unyielding, warned Martin that something indeed was up, even before he drew close enough to see the stony hazel gaze.

Martin stopped by a chair, laying one hand on its back. He raised a laconic brow and sighed. ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’

There was an infinitesimal pause while Hazelmere assimilated the information underlying that question. Then his features eased. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked, his voice slightly strangled.

‘Other than losing my head at the Barhams’ the other night, I’m not aware that I’ve transgressed any of the immutable laws.’

‘Not even
before
the Barhams’ ball?’

At the quiet question, Martin’s gaze locked with his friend’s. After a long moment, Martin moved around the chair in front of him and slowly sank into it. ‘Oh.’

‘Precisely.’ Slowly, Hazelmere came forward to sit in the chair facing his guest. ‘I take it I don’t need to ask if it’s true?’

Martin threw him a grimace. ‘I did say I was going to cure her, didn’t I?’

Hazelmere acknowledged that with a resigned nod. ‘I hadn’t, however, imagined you would allow such an item to become public property.’

‘
Public property
?’ Martin was on his feet and pacing. ‘Bloody hell!’ he growled. ‘How the hell did that get out?’

Hazelmere viewed his friend’s agitation with transparent satisfaction. ‘I didn’t think you knew anything about it.’

He spoke softly, but Martin caught the quiet comment. He swung about, brows knit in a furious frown. ‘Of course I knew nothing of it! Why on earth…?’ He stopped, struck, his face drained of expression. Slowly, he sank back into the chair. ‘Dorothea—and everyone else—thinks I let the information slip?’

Succinctly, Hazelmere nodded. ‘To Lady Rochester,’ he added. ‘She was spreading the tale shortly after you danced so briefly with her at the Barhams.’

Martin groaned and sank his head into his hands. How had Serena found out? A more worrying thought surfaced. He looked up. ‘Helen can’t believe that surely?’

A frown had invaded Hazelmere’s face ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what Helen thinks—I haven’t had a chance to ask her. She’s disappeared—gone out of town. I’d
hoped you might know where she was, but obviously that’s not the case.’

‘I came to ask if you knew where she was.’ Martin straightened, his worry overcoming his frown. ‘I left town early on the morning after the ball. What exactly happened?’

Hazelmere told him, briefly, concisely. ‘So Dorothea and Ferdie left her to think things through. The next morning, she left.’

‘Damn!’ Martin stood again, automatically falling to pacing before the hearth. With an effort, he forced himself to evaluate the situation coolly. ‘Luckily, the position’s not irretrievable. Once we marry, it’ll cease to be news.’

Hazelmere inclined his head in agreement. ‘True. But, if you don’t mind my curiosity, when, exactly, is the wedding?’

The glance Martin shot him contained equal parts of frustration and sheer exasperation. ‘The witless wanton wouldn’t accept.’

For once, the hazel eyes opened wide in honest surprise. Black brows rising, Hazelmere considered his wayward charge. ‘What on earth is she about?’ he eventually asked.

‘Damned if I know,’ Martin muttered. ‘But if I can lay hands on her, you can rely on me to shake some sense into her.’ Tired of pacing, he returned to his chair. ‘Have you any idea where she might have gone?’

Hazelmere frowned. ‘There aren’t all that many options. I know she hasn’t gone to one of my estates—I’d have heard by now. I can’t imagine her going to an inn or any such.’

Martin shook his head. ‘Too risky by half.’

Nodding sagely, Hazelmere continued, ‘Which leaves Heliotrope Cottage.’

Martin looked his question.

‘As I recall, I told you that none of Helen’s properties was saved from the collapse of the Walford estates?’ At Martin’s nod, Hazelmere said, ‘As far as substance goes, that’s true. But Heliotrope Cottage was considered beneath the dignity of any gambler. Consequently, it’s the one part of Helen’s patrimony that remains hers. It’s a tiny place on barely five acres. In Cornwall.’

‘
Cornwall
?’

At Martin’s incredulous exclamation, Hazelmere blinked. ‘Yes. Cornwall. You know—it’s that bit beyond Devon.’

Martin brushed his levity aside. ‘I know where the damned place is but, what’s more to the point, so does Hedley Swayne. His estates are there, too.’

Hazelmere’s hazel gaze was confused. ‘Quite a few people have estates in Cornwall.’

‘But,’ said Martin grimly, getting to his feet once more, ‘none of the others has tried to kidnap Helen.’

Hazelmere blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’