Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Read online

  Mrs Barclay’s lips thinned. ‘His lordship, for all his undoubted excellences and many kindnesses to my son, is known for his very liberal views, of course.’

  Views, Psyché was coming to suspect, that Mrs Barclay did not share. She waited for the kettle, poured boiling water into the teapot, readied the tray and took it over to the table. ‘Milk? Sugar? A biscuit, perhaps?’

  ‘A soupçon of each, if you please. No biscuit.’

  Psyché handed her the cup. ‘I hope it is to your liking.’

  Mrs Barclay sipped. ‘Thank you. Quite acceptable.’ She set the cup down. ‘You are very confident in yourself, are you not?’

  Psyché sat down with her own tea. ‘Should I not be? This is my home, situated above my business. I belong here. Why ever should I feel uncomfortable?’

  ‘You have done very well for yourself.’ Mrs Barclay glanced about the apartment. ‘Very well, indeed. But I’m sure a little extra will not go astray.’

  She drew a careful breath. ‘Extra?’

  Mrs Barclay picked up her reticule. ‘I am returning home tomorrow. I should wish to make you some recompense for your service to my son.’

  Psyché placed her teacup on the table with great control. ‘There is no need, ma’am. Friendship counts no cost and requires no recompense.’ Try as she might, she could not quite keep the edge out of her voice.

  ‘This offends you?’

  Her anger kicked the good manners Aunt Grace had instilled into the middle of next week.

  ‘Yes, it does. There is no question of service between Mr Barclay and myself.’

  ‘I see.’ Mrs Barclay set the reticule down with a surprisingly heavy thud. ‘You consider yourself quite the fine lady, do you not?’

  Psyché laughed. ‘If I were that deluded, I should still be living under my great-uncle’s roof. Instead I chose to make a life for myself, using what talents I have. I consider myself an independent woman.’

  ‘I wonder, then, that you do not remove yourself to a clime more suited to you.’

  ‘More suited to me?’

  ‘Yes. I found Jamaica intolerably hot, of course, but surely it would be more pleasing to you?’

  The familiar apartment rocked a little around her.

  ‘You lived in Jamaica?’

  Mrs Barclay rose. ‘For a time. We came home twenty years ago after my dear husband died. I must not keep you from your affairs, Miss Winthrop. I came only to make that compensation you have found so offensive, but that I, as a mother, felt the need to offer.’

  Psyché stood up. ‘If you feel the need to make such a gesture, ma’am, ask Lord Huntercombe to give the money to the London Committee to use in their work towards the abolition of the slave trade. That will be perfectly acceptable to me.’

  Mrs Barclay’s jaw sagged a little. ‘I’ll do that, then.’

  * * *

  Psyché, having seen her visitor off, walked back upstairs, her world still reeling.

  He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t seen fit to tell her that little snippet about his background.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  To Will’s disgust, Huntercombe was very nearly as bad as his mother in his insistence on keeping him housebound.

  ‘I promised your mother, Will. I’m supposed to keep you out of further trouble.’

  To which end the wretched man had gone out and purchased half a dozen books from Hatchard’s for him.

  The worst of that was he simply couldn’t argue. Because, without the Marquess saying as much, Will knew that Huntercombe blamed himself.

  At least he’d won a concession that he might convalesce—Mrs Bentham’s choice of word—in the library. Having won that battle, he submitted to being installed by the library fire to read. He didn’t have a great deal of choice when every member of staff, right down to the bootboy, would rat him out to their master in a heartbeat for any rebellion.

  Even though he was permitted to come downstairs, between the doctor and Huntercombe he remained confined to the house even after his mother left. He’d sent Psyché a note to let her know that his mother had gone, hoping that she would visit, but a polite little note had come back to say that she was pleased to hear he was improving. After that, nothing.

  There had been little from Selbourne either. He understood that. The last thing any of them wanted was to give away any hint as to Kit’s whereabouts. Kit’s twenty-first birthday was still some weeks away. Until she was legally out of Carshalton’s control, they could not risk him getting wind of her.

  Will smiled. Kit, it seemed, had asked Selbourne via Psyché if she could learn to run the bookshop. Selbourne had leapt on the idea and enlisted Huntercombe’s help in drawing up a trust to ensure that when finally Kit took over the business her father could not touch it, nor even, if she ever chose to marry, her husband.

  Will set the documents on Huntercombe’s desk. In his seven years as the Marquess’s secretary, he’d looked over any number of legal documents and this was the tightest he’d ever seen. There was no loophole for even a mouse to squeeze through. Kit’s name and Selbourne’s, along with specifics of the property and business involved, had been left out. Blanks had been left so those details could be filled in later. They were taking no chance of word leaking out.

  ‘You’re certain there’s no way around this?’ Huntercombe was checking the second copy of the trust document, comparing it, Will noticed, to another document that he’d pulled out of his desk drawer.

  The lawyer, Clinton, shook his head. ‘None. However, if I may say so, my lord—’ he scowled and pursed his lips ‘—I must say that to confer on any lady such a degree of control and independence, is most unwise.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Huntercombe glanced over his reading spectacles.

  The lawyer squirmed at the mild tone and Will suppressed a snort of laughter. Huntercombe was at his most lethal when he spoke like that.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Clinton looked at the Marquess earnestly. ‘A female’s delicate brain is unfit for such matters. Her natural female sensibilities must revolt at such things. And this!’ He gestured to the papers. ‘Even her husband would have no control!’

  Will cleared his throat. ‘I think that was the idea, Clinton.’

  ‘It was.’ Huntercombe removed his glasses. ‘So a husband cannot circumvent it?’

  Clinton shook his head. ‘No, my lord.’ Utter disapproval edged his assurance.

  Huntercombe glanced at Will. ‘Barclay?’

  Will blinked. ‘It looks unassailable, sir. I’ve never seen anything so stringent.’

  Huntercombe smiled grimly. ‘I have.’ His glance flickered, for the merest instant, to the second document before him and Will understood.

  The second document must also be a property trust drawn up to protect a woman running a business. This was how Huntercombe had known exactly what instructions to give and what questions to ask. Clinton was right; a woman being given the degree of control and independence this document would ensure was highly unusual. Will could think of only one other woman he knew to be the beneficiary of such a trust—Psyché.

  He’s one of her trustees, boy. Didn’t you know?

  The Marquess smiled. ‘Excellent, then. Well done, Clinton. Thank you.’

  Clinton inclined his head stiffly. ‘I am glad to have been of service, my lord.

  After he’d seen the lawyer out, Huntercombe returned to the library. He let out a breath. ‘Lock them up, Will. I’ll show them to Selbourne tonight.’

  Will cleared his throat. ‘With respect, sir—’

  ‘That sounds ominous,’ observed Huntercombe.

  ‘I will be coming with you.’

  ‘If you have a rest this afternoon without arguing.’

  ‘Sir, I don’t argue—’

  ‘The devil you don’t.’ Huntercombe seemed to be finding something high
ly amusing. ‘But you may come on those terms.’

  ‘Agreed.’ He was pleased that he managed not to grind his teeth.

  Huntercombe grinned openly and passed a letter over the desk. ‘This was delivered yesterday while you were resting.’

  Will read the letter from Selbourne—a brief missive inviting Huntercombe, and Mr Barclay, to supper the following evening.

  He looked up at Huntercombe. ‘I’ve been bilked,’ he said drily.

  Huntercombe nodded cheerfully. ‘Always read the terms and conditions, Will.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll remember that.’

  Huntercombe’s shoulders shook. ‘In the meantime, I’m returning to Cornwall tomorrow.’

  Will, putting his notes together, blinked. ‘Do you wish me to go with you?’

  Huntercombe leaned back in his chair. ‘If you wish, but I’m only going to escort Lady Huntercombe and the children back to London.’ He fiddled with his pen. ‘I thought, if you were prepared to remain in London, that you could keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Do you think Carshalton or Winthrop will cause trouble?’

  Huntercombe nodded. ‘Kit is safe enough in Cornwall under Cambourne’s protection, but they are still watching The Phoenix. All my residences have been under watch. Bow Street, right up to and including Sir Richard Ford, is not very happy with me.’

  Shock slammed into him. ‘You said nothing of this, sir!’

  ‘No. I chose not to worry you.’

  ‘My lord—’ Will barely retained control ‘—that was not your decision to make!’

  ‘Will—’

  ‘What about Psyché?’ He still woke sweating from dreams in which she had been shot. Dreams in which her blood poured over his hands and into the gutter without ceasing. Dreams in which he wept over her body... He shoved those thoughts away. They were bad enough in the middle of the night. ‘Have they dared to—?’

  ‘Staverton forced Winthrop to back off.’ Huntercombe’s face was grim. ‘She is perfectly safe.’

  ‘Even so, I should have been informed.’ He forced himself to speak calmly. This was Huntercombe. A man to whom he owed everything, not least affection and respect.

  Huntercombe sighed. ‘My apologies, Will.’

  Will blinked. ‘What? You don’t have to—’

  Huntercombe smiled. ‘Yes, I do. You acted for me—’

  ‘I acted for myself!’

  ‘I understand that. But nevertheless, you responded initially on my behalf. No one, least of all myself, would have blamed you if you had awaited instructions.’ Huntercombe paused. ‘You never did tell me why you returned to London early.’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’ And he didn’t want to. Not after that last row with his mother and Rob.

  Huntercombe cleared his throat. ‘I see.’

  Will suspected that he probably did.

  ‘The point is that you acted.’ The older man’s fists clenched. ‘I’m not sure I could have handled the business as well.’

  ‘Well, of course—’

  ‘There’s no of course about it, Will.’ Huntercombe’s mouth flattened. ‘My involvement would have brought them down on The Phoenix like an avalanche. You were far more effective. Speaking of which—’ He frowned.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I had a letter from Foxworthy the other day.’ Huntercombe pulled out a letter and passed it to him. ‘He’s ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ Foxworthy was Huntercombe’s London agent, hardworking and intelligent.

  ‘I went to see him and, after speaking to him and his wife, I’ve told him to take at least a month’s leave. I thought you might act in his stead.’

  ‘I’ll remain in London then.’ He could barely keep his voice steady. He wanted the chance to see Psyché again, when he was neither caught up in Kit’s flight, nor recovering from a bullet wound. And the thought that Psyché might be in any sort of danger resulting from Kit’s escape shook him to the core.

  Huntercombe frowned. ‘You wish to remain in London, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Should I ask why?’

  Will swallowed. ‘I would have to ask you to mind your own business.’ He fully intended to call on Psyché the moment his time was his own. If she didn’t want him, well, he hoped he was gentleman enough to accept her decision, but he needed to know.

  Huntercombe nodded slowly. ‘I can’t blame you. And—’ he let out a frustrated breath ‘—she would say exactly the same.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Both of you too polite to tell me to go to Hades!’

  * * *

  Selbourne greeted them downstairs.

  ‘Come up! Come up!’ He scanned Will. ‘The stairs will not be too much, Barclay?’

  Will groaned. ‘Not you, too, sir? Huntercombe is quite as bad as my mother!’

  Huntercombe snorted. ‘He’s not a co-operative patient, Ignatius.’

  ‘I was very co-operative,’ Will argued. ‘I took all my medicine, stayed in bed and tried not to upset my mother.’

  ‘Yes. I heard about that.’ Selbourne followed them up the stairs. ‘We’ve another guest tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Selbourne ushered them into a spacious, book-lined room upstairs. A table by the window overlooking the street was set for four and from a chair by the fire rose...

  ‘Psyché.’

  Every fibre in Will’s body leapt at the sight of her. Completely disregarding the others, he went forward, hands outstretched.

  She hesitated, and his heart stilled, but she laid her hands in his. ‘You’re better. I... I’m glad.’

  The quiet reserve in her voice, in her bearing, shocked him.

  * * *

  Psyché had given some thought to declining the invitation to supper. Supper in Selbourne’s rooms above the shop was always delightful. Good company, excellent if simple food, and a very fine claret. Knowing Will would be there shook her to the core, but refusing an invitation from Ignatius without reason was impossible. She couldn’t do it. So she told herself that she was an adult, that she was perfectly capable of sitting across a table from Will Barclay without her heart skipping beats and her memory proving inconveniently acute.

  Even the growing puppy, play wrestling by the fire with Ignatius’s tabby cat, failed to distract her from that kiss they’d shared... The kiss Will had initiated and she had accepted. The kiss they had wanted. His fingers warm on the nape of her neck, drawing her down, inviting her in. And his mouth, so gentle and curious. In that moment they had been united.

  She believed with everything she was that they had wanted the same thing—each other. How could she want a man who had not told her the truth? That his family had owned slaves. Her stomach churned. For all she knew his family could still have interests in Jamaica.

  Her gaze drifted to Will, watching as the cat, tired of the pup’s antics, delivered a cuff and arched her back with a hiss. The pup subsided, curled up and went to sleep.

  ‘Where did you get that dog, Ignatius?’ Huntercombe sipped his wine. ‘You’ve always preferred cats.’

  ‘An unexpected Christmas present.’ Ignatius eyed the pup with resignation. ‘One I couldn’t refuse. But Kit likes dogs and since it’s clearly first cousin to a bear I thought it might be useful.’

  Huntercombe laughed. ‘True.’ He smiled at Psyché. ‘Do you think of getting another dog?’

  She did sometimes. She missed Nyx by the fire, at her heels. But how could she give a dog enough exercise? ‘Not yet.’

  He smiled, and patted her hand. ‘Let me know when you are ready. I’ll give you a pup.’

  Psyché’s heart melted for this kindly man who had so willingly seconded her uncle and aunt in giving her a new life. ‘Thank you.’

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry to break up
the evening, Ignatius.’ Huntercombe finished his wine at the end of the meal and set the glass down. ‘But I am leaving for Cornwall in the morning, so I had better be on my way.’

  Psyché took a controlled breath. If Huntercombe was leaving tomorrow, he might not return for a month or two. And Will would go with him. Perhaps it was for the best. Time and distance might dull what had flared between them, or at least what had flared in her. But she needed to speak with him, ask him why he’d never told her.

  Selbourne rose. ‘You have my thanks again—all of you.’ The old man’s smile encompassed the three of them.

  Will glanced at Huntercombe. ‘Shall I fetch the carriage, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, Will.’ Huntercombe turned to Ignatius. ‘Cambourne will escort Kit to London after her birthday. I’ll get word to you after I’ve spoken to Cambourne.’

  Psyché took a steadying breath and reminded herself that an independent woman made her own decisions. If she didn’t act now, he would be gone.

  ‘Perhaps, Will, you might walk me across the road on your way to the Lion?’

  He bowed. ‘Of course.’

  The picture of decorum, they walked downstairs together, through the shadows of the bookshop, to the front door.

  ‘We need to talk, Psyché.’

  The quiet voice sliced at her.

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes. Even...even if you no longer want me as your lover, there are things I need to tell you, that I should have confessed to you long since.’ He reached past her to open the door and cold air swirled in to twist around her with the surge of pain.

  ‘That you’d lived in Jamaica? Owned slaves? Your mother mentioned it in passing.’

  She made to step past him—the hand on her wrist, the merest touch, checked her. ‘My mother?’

  ‘She called on me.’

  He cursed under his breath. ‘I’m sorry.’ He took her hand between both of his. She did not pull it back, but she forced her hand to lie passive in his.

  ‘Why did you not tell me?’ she asked. ‘Did you think you could not tell me? That it wouldn’t matter?’