“Very well,” she said, more to herself than Mr. Stephens. “I shall pack my bags and go to London. Do not think you have seen the last of me. My father willnotget the last word.”
Mr. Stephens ducked his head, hiding what she suspected was a broad grin. “I have no doubt of it, miss. If ever there were a lady capable of making her own fortune, I believe it’s you.”
Chapter Two
Hugh Westfield tappedhis signet ring against the desk as he read the letter, delivered express. A nervous man hovered by the doorway, awaiting a response. Mrs. Dove-Lyon, it seemed, was not a patient woman.
That suited Hugh well enough. If he’d ever been patient, he’d long ago lost the art; now his world had become a series of duties that he addressed with every efficiency available to him.
“Very well,” he told the man, drawing a clean sheet of paper and carefully writing a few lines in response. “Tell your mistress I will be there five days hence.” He folded the letter in brisk motions and melted wax across the back, pressing his signet ring—and crest—against it. Once this was completed, he held it out to the messenger, who accepted it with a bow and murmur of thanks. As always, the man averted his gaze from Hugh’s face.
Most people did. Fear of the unknown was the primary reason; the other was disgust.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the man muttered, before near running from the room.
Hugh sighed, closing his book of accounts and massaging his left eye. A headache lingered there.
“Hugh!” His sister, Amelia, bounded into the room. “What did you do to that poor man? He practically fled from the house.”
He dropped his hand and raised his head to look at her. “Need I do anything? He caught a glimpse of me.”
“Probably because you were scowling at him,” she said in merry disregard of the vivid burns marring one side of his body. His wooden mask concealed them somewhat, but he had been caught unawares and had not had time to put the mask on before the man had burst into the room. “Where are you leaving for?”
“London.”
She gasped. “London? But you never go there.”
“Incorrect. If I never went, I would not be going now.”
“For what purpose?”
“Business.”
“Take me with you.”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” She folded her arms and pouted at him. “I’m your sister.”
He glanced up at her, brow arching. “I’m well aware.”
“And I am eighteen.”
“That fact has also not escaped me.”
She jutted out her lower lip the way she had done when she’d been a child. Sometimes, when he looked at her, he could almost pretend the fire had never happened—she, certainly, did not seem to have suffered too many undue effects.
If only the same could be said for him. The world he’d known seven years ago no longer existed for him. Amelia was his only tie to the man he had once been.
“You haven’t been to London in years,” she reminded him. Seven years, to be precise. “And I think it’s deeply unfair that you are going now and not taking me.”
He rose and crossed the room to where she was standing, arms folded and petulant. Pinching her cheek, he said, “I won’tbe gone long. It’s business, Lia. If you came, you would be bored stiff.”
“I’m bored stiffhere. There’s nothing for me to do but play the harp and embroider and entertain the parson when he calls.” Her nose wrinkled. “Do you know he drops hints aboutmodestyand how I should be turning my head to the Lord and not to my wardrobe?”
“Perhaps he has seen my accounts,” Hugh said, fighting a smile at her indignation. “And knows how much I pay for said wardrobe.”
Amelia gasped and smacked his arm. “Take that back.”