Page 16 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

“ I t was good of you to join us, Edmund.”

“Thank you for the kind invitation, John. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your visit to the Lycombes, Captain Bryce.” Sir Edmund Locke, a country baronet who held his father’s title (a peerage awarded for his father’s services in the manufacture of gunpowder), gave a small, stiff smile at the handsome young man sitting across from him in the carriage.

“Not at all! This is a quiet sort of a visit, not a ball or party.”

Edmund nodded. If it was such a thing, he wouldn’t be in attendance.

Bryce seemed unaware of his preference, leaning forward and nodding with a wink. “Before I was sent here with the regiment, I thought Surrey would be awfully dull. It turns out the company is delightful and the scenery is even better!”

Locke looked out the window. The early June scenery was picturesque in the dusk, and the familiar scents of flowers, manure, and crops wafted in the open windows as they rattled toward Lycombe’s house.

But Bryce wasn’t talking about the pretty pastures, Locke was sure. He was talking about the pretty young things with their latest fashions. All the officers were endlessly promenading with young ladies on their arms, and the enlisted men were no better with the farmers’ and merchants’ daughters, the maids, and the cooks.

“I’m glad the yearning for such scenery is beyond me,” Locke muttered, mostly to himself.

“Ah, sir. Then you are married?”

“I was. Briefly.”

Bryce put a hand to his chest. “Good heavens. I am sorry, Locke, old fellow. You’re young enough, though. You’ll soon find another.”

I will not, you arrogant prig. Aloud, Edmund said, “Mrs. Lycombe is a most charming hostess. I haven’t dined with you in years, John, but I well remember how welcome you made me.”

“I may hope that is still true, Edmund. It must be—when did you leave for Germany?”

“I’ve been abroad, off and on, for the last nine years. When I return for the winter, I usually hole up in Cadfael House and enjoy the solitude of my accounts and the farm manager’s fiction. It’s far more interesting than the gamekeeper’s log, but much less fantastical.”

“Ah. Soon I must away to London to set my father’s affairs in order. In addition to my modest income of 125 pounds a year, I shall have his legacy to draw on, and his house, while still a home for my mother and youngest brother, is ready to be a family home and a place of entertainment. I’ve heard that Miss Rose Lycombe is also an accomplished hostess?” Bryce turned his eyes toward Mr. Lycombe.

Great heavens. The man is as smooth as a shattered brick. I pity this Miss Rose. Goodness, that must be the little lass of ten who came to bid her parents good night when Catherine and I dined with them. Edmund closed his eyes and tried to recall that evening. Catherine had been gay and good-natured—as she always was in the company of other women. It was only when they were alone that she turned so cold and silent, rebuffing every advance.

I preferred my books and grounds to her frosty tolerance.

I thought we’d have more time to try for an heir.

Catherine had developed a horrible case of pneumonia followed by sepsis only six months into their marriage and left him a widower. The mournful and confused faces of his old family retainers and the accusatory glares of her father and mother had caused him to flee, supposedly to cure his heartache. In reality, it had been simply to escape the feelings of puzzled relief that he knew he shouldn’t have.

“I doubt you’ll remember my children, Locke. They were all still in the nursery back then! But to assure you, Captain Bryce, all my daughters are very competent in household matters. My income is not quite sufficient to render the girls a life of ease. They know how to sew and cook. Rose is a keen gardener.”

Edmund’s ears perked up at that.

So did Bryce’s. “A keen gardener? What, in the mud and muck?” His nose wrinkled ever so subtly.

Mr. Lycombe skirted the question with a wave of his hand. “This is the last turning, gentlemen. Locke, I’ll be very pleased to lend you a horse to ride home, or you may certainly spend the night. We’ve room enough to put you both up quite comfortably.”

Locke briefly caught Bryce’s eye. The younger man, whom he judged to be in his late twenties, didn’t look terribly pleased at the idea.

That made him want to accept the invitation, some devilment in his system longing to put Bryce’s nose out of joint. Perhaps it was the way he was so overtly hunting for a wife, or perhaps it was a dark, dusty memory of Catherine pressed close to another man in his dashing regimental uniform, laughing and dancing with him as though her quiet husband with his weak leg wasn’t sitting in the corner, watching.

“I hate to be a burden.” At the last moment, Locke hesitated, gripping the bone handle of his cane.

Only thirty-five, and already limping like an old man riddled with rheumatism, Locke thought bitterly. He’d broken his left leg shortly after becoming engaged to Catherine, and they’d had to postpone the wedding because of his recuperation. She’d said his broken leg was an ill-omen on their future. She’d said their children would be born with brittle bones or unable to ride a horse. As if one unlucky fall on a horse he’d ridden for years could be passed onto his offspring...

I should have let her go then. Or after our wedding night, when she was so quick to say that my leg made me “clumsy.”

By the next morning, it was too late.

“Nonsense! Charles is at Harrow for another few weeks, and his room is empty. Come along, Locke, say yes. Mrs. Lycombe does so love company.”

Edmund cast another look at Bryce. “I cannot refuse such a gracious offer. Thank you, John.”

Bryce sulked in his seat.