Page 17 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Friday – Six days remaining

The next morning Ashford could not bear to look at Lydia. He had attempted it, once, but a single glance at her walking dress (a figured muslin gown of hideous orange to which Jane had added a dozen flounces) had him swallowing convulsively and fixing his attention determinedly elsewhere.

As the party readied themselves for the day’s outing, he involved himself in a deep conversation with Lady Hesse, ignoring all Lydia’s attempts to catch his eye.

He even made sure they were not seated next to one another in the barouche that was to take them to a nearby village, where a picturesque walk would take them to the top of a ruined keep.

It boded well for the day – Lydia could taste victory on the air – but she would not get her hopes up prematurely and had a most diverting plan of attack for this outing.

‘I believe you will find the ruins most interesting,’ Lady Phoebe declared as Sir Waldo handed her down from the barouche. ‘One can still make out much of the church and gatehouse, and there is some rather fascinating carved stonework that—’

‘My darling girl, you will bore our guests to tears if you continue on in such a way,’ Sir Waldo interrupted with a chuckle.

‘Oh – of course!’ Lady Phoebe said, pinking in embarrassment.

The whole party was in attendance, save for Pip, who had claimed to have caught a chill.

‘Fact is,’ he had said over breakfast, ‘cough, cough.’

The household was by now too used to his idiosyncrasies to think this odd, allowing Pip to take advantage of their absence to continue his search. Lydia now sent a silent prayer that he not be discovered somewhere he shouldn’t.

She pushed her concern away as the rest of the party paired up in predictable fashion for the walk, Mr Brandon offering his arm with prompt eagerness to Miss Hesse, before Lady Hesse could prevent it, and Lady Morton seizing Lord Hesse’s arm before she could prevent that .

‘May I walk with you, my lord?’ Lydia said sweetly to Ashford. Ashford turned to regard her, valiantly managing a moment of eye contact before looking quickly away again.

‘Of course,’ he said, tugging unhappily at his cravat. ‘In fact’ – he lowered his voice as he offered his arm – ‘I should be glad of a chance to … discuss some matters with you.’

And there it was.

Lydia had to work to keep the victorious grin from her face. Finally – finally. Today was the day he was going to jilt her! She sent another prayer, this time of thanks, to the heavens. At last. Deliverance was upon her – and ahead of schedule, too.

Ashford and Lydia brought up the rear; he walking at a slower pace than usual, brow furrowed as if deep in thought. Planning, n o doubt, how he was going to break the news. Lydia remained quiet. Her work was done and all she had to do was wait for him to speak.

She concentrated her thoughts instead to what she and Pip would do afterwards.

They would need to remain until the business of the diamond necklace was concluded, of course – having promised Elspeth their aid, Lydia was now as determined as Pip to see it through.

At least once she was freed from Ashford, she could dedicate herself entirely to this cause.

Pip had managed to see to Mr Brandon’s rooms the night prior, but Lady Morton’s had proved elusive – her lady’s maid was the conscientious sort who rarely left her post, no matter what Elspeth did to tempt her away.

Perhaps, with Lydia helping more actively, they might have better luck.

Then, once they had found the thief, they could return to London and life would be open before them once more.

Her mood lifting higher than it had been in days, Lydia took in the scenery around her with genuine pleasure.

However ill at ease she might feel in Hawkscroft itself, with its forbidding luxury and overly manicured lawns, it was situated in the most beautiful countryside.

The path ahead wound through a forest of lush green, the branches above dappling the sunshine down through the leaves onto them, the only sounds to be heard birdsong – and the strident tones of Sir Waldo.

‘The tarn is man-made,’ he was explaining, as the gentle curve of the path took them in view of a wide pool of water, its surface thickly coated in bright algae. ‘By old Capability whatsit, you know.’

‘Capability Brown, in the year—’ Lady Phoebe began.

‘Goodness, another fact!’ Sir Waldo said. ‘You risk becoming quite the bluestocking, my love!’

Underneath her high-poke bonnet, Lady Phoebe’s cheer dimmed, though Sir Waldo did not appear to notice that his teasing had hurt rather than amused on this occasion.

Ashford, however, had his eyes upon his cousin’s crestfallen face, a tiny frown between his eyebrows – and, really, Lydia could not have his attention so divided.

She slowed her pace to a dawdle, pretending to admire the tarn. Ashford huffed a sigh and slowed his pace, too. The rest of the party disappeared around a bend.

Lydia looked away from the tarn to take a sidelong view at Ashford under the brim of her bonnet.

‘We ought not tarry,’ Ashford said. ‘We might lose our way.’

‘Very well,’ Lydia said, though she made no effort to quicken her steps. They had been walking in such close formation, and would Ashford really jilt her in the presence of eavesdroppers?

She took another evaluating glance at him.

His eyes were fixed on the path in front of them, unmoving and unflinching, but what she could see of his profile was tired and wan.

Every now and then, as it had done all morning, a shadow passed over his face, as if he were remembering some awful torment.

Perfect. Everything was as it should be, so why did he not speak?

Plainly he detested the very sight of her now; plainly he wished to end their ludicrous engagement, and yet even with a clear opportunity and complete privacy, he would not speak. What more did he need?

Lydia followed him around the edge of the tarn, frowning.

A breeze fluttered the flounces on her skirts and then the festoon of organza ribbons securing her beehive bonnet.

Lydia reached up to still the ribbons, then paused.

Yes! She unravelled the strings and, watching Ashford to make sure his eyes were firmly on the path ahead, she threw her hat across the tarn with all her might.

‘Oh no!’ she announced. ‘My hat has fallen from my head.’

Ashford turned. He looked toward the hat – incomprehensibly floating in the centre of the tarn – and then back toward Lydia.

‘Oh dear,’ he said without any emotional inflection whatsoever.

‘I do not wish to catch the sun,’ Lydia said, with a worried glance up to the sky.

‘Lady Phoebe brought a parasol with her,’ Ashford said. ‘I’m sure she will allow you to use it.’

He made an encouraging hand gesture. Lydia did not move.

‘It belonged to my mother,’ she lied.

Ashford’s gaze went once more to the tarn. Lydia understood his reluctance. It looked very murky. She would not wish to go in there, were she him. Unfortunately, however, she was going to make him.

‘She gave it to me just before she died,’ she added, the final cherry.

Ashford sighed. ‘Fine. I shall fetch it for you.’

He looked down to his Hessian boots rather mournfully, as if evaluating the merits of soaking them beyond repair against how fussy he would appear if he took them off.

Appearing to conclude ‘boots on’, he did, however, remove his coat of blue superfine and cast it gently on a nearby rock.

Then, he took in a deep breath and stepped in to the tarn.

It was a scenario in which there was no winning.

A tentative, ballerina insertion of the foot would have made him appear ridiculous, but the determined stride he opted for – while altogether more masculine at first – ran him immediately foul of the slippery rocks on the lakebed.

His arms windmilled furiously as he tried to step upright.

‘Don’t fall over now,’ Lydia called.

‘Very helpful,’ she heard him mutter under his breath, as he regained his balance.

He began to tread carefully forward.

‘How on earth did it go so far in?’ he demanded. ‘It is not even a very windy day.’

‘It was one of those unexpected summer gusts,’ Lydia said sagely. Then, when he stumbled again, added: ‘It might be slippery!’

‘Thank you so much,’ he said sarcastically.

He was thigh deep in water before he got in arm’s reach of the hat, which he grabbed quickly and turned back with a great sloshing sound.

Lydia clapped her hands joyfully.

‘Oh bravo,’ she said. ‘Bravo.’

‘Perhaps you might tie it a little more tightly this time?’ Ashford began, with a poor excuse of a smile. ‘Then we can catch up to the—’

Lydia never heard the end of the sentence.

Ashford’s foot had landed poorly, on something very, very slippery; with a shout of shock, his leg skidded out from under him, and he fell back into the water with an almighty splash.

The tarn was just deep enough that his entire head went under for a moment, too, before he emerged, coughing and spluttering, water and algae pouring off him.

‘Oh dear,’ Lydia said, pressing a hand to her mouth to contain her laughter. ‘Oh dear, it was rather slippery, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes!’ Ashford said savagely, climbing to his feet with the grace of a newborn foal. ‘Yes, it was, Miss Hanworth – rather slippery indeed.’

He dragged himself from the water, resembling a very cross sea monster.

‘And now look at me!’ he said, looking down at his tarn-soaked self and letting out a wild peal of quite deranged laughter. ‘Just when I thought my lot could not get any worse!’

‘You do look rather uncomfortable,’ Lydia observed.

It was a comment that appeared to light the smouldering flames of Ashford’s rage.

‘Oh, do I?’ he bit out. ‘How fitting – how incredibly fitting – because I do, in fact, feel rather uncomfortable, Miss Hanworth.’

He brandished the bonnet at her somewhat violently.