Page 35

A club, for which the nominal qualification is having been in Italy, and the real one being drunk; the two chiefs are Lord Middlesex and Sir Francis Dashwood, who were seldom sober the whole time they were in Italy.

HORACE WALPOLE ON THE DILETTANTI

Mrs. Whittle caught me in the east wing after our guests retired to dress for dinner. Both men brought valets, easing some of the burden of my staff.

“I hope the menu will be satisfactory for our guests,” she said before rattling off a list that barely registered in my racing thoughts. Lamb and apple pudding or lemon syllabub. Did I have a preference?

“Do as you must, Mrs. Whittle.” I lowered my voice to calm her nerves. “Whatever you choose will suffice.”

She fidgeted with her brooch. Nerves, I suspected, due to the strain of serving such esteemed guests. “I hope the rooms are to their liking. They’ve rung several times and Mr. Whittle is beside himself trying to serve them as best he can. Lucy served tea to the gentlemen.”

I clenched my jaw. Lucy serving tea wasn’t unusual, but something about these men set my teeth on edge.

“Lucy’s done nothing to draw their notice, has she?” I asked.

Mrs. Whittle shook her head, her hands fidgeting with her apron. “No, my lord, she’s just doing her work. But they’ve been... demanding.”

I nodded, keeping my concerns to myself. “Very well, but if anything seems out of line, you’ll let me know.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment, hesitating briefly before leaving the study, the sound of her skirts swishing against the stone floor echoing softly as she closed the door behind her.

The study, usually a place of solace for me, felt heavier with the weight of expectations. I needed their help—investments in the orchards, particularly after the hailstorm, were crucial. But something about their presence unsettled me.

I was about to leave the study when I noticed my uncle’s diary lying on the desk, its worn cover drawing my eye. No dust remained on the surfaces, and I surmised that Lucy or Mrs. Whittle had moved it while tidying. Despite my need to join the men for dinner, it seemed to call to me.

I picked it up, a shiver of unease running through me. It had been moved while cleaning.

March17th, 1796

I have tried repeatedly to reach Anne. She refuses my letters even now. Why won’t she answer me? All I request is one letter to know where she and Rafe hide. I would collect both of them at the soonest convenience and return them to Hawthorn Abbey, where they both belong.

Surely, she must know by now that Randall is dead.

The news of his death spread like wildfire in the papers, blazing his name—and mine—across the area.

His drunken brawl at that inn, the fool.

He could not pummel his way out of that fight.

How I regret not dealing with him sooner.

I have nothing left within these halls but the constant reminder of my weakness.

I know what people think. They whisper that I killed him.

I did not, although I often wished I had. They whisper that Rafe is my son.

I wish he was my child.

I wish I had not pressured Anne to leave with me and head to some forgotten spot on the continent.

I cannot change my past. I hardly dare hope for the future, although the good reverend assures me it is not too late to find some redemption for my soul.

Gut clenching, I flipped to the next page, only to find further sections ripped out.

Why?

A knock softly tapped on the door and Mr. Whittle called me to dinner.

I closed the diary and set it on the desk, perplexed by what I had just read.

Randall remained my father, even if I had no wish to claim such a monster.

My uncle proved a far more complex man than I had first envisioned.

Yet the past no longer dug tethers into my soul with the same strength as before.

I had asked Bridget if she believed a man could change.

Perhaps, the uncomfortable answer was yes... if God played a role in it.

The dining room, with its stone fireplace and grand table, was one of the abbey’s most impressive rooms. A pair of sabers hung on the chiseled mantel. Higher, stout beams ran across the ceiling, drawing attention from a few cracks webbing across the plaster. I hoped my guests would not notice.

Normally, I ate in the solar or within my room, but tonight I would have to play host, even if I hated the idea.

I met Mr. Beaumont and Lord Ainsley in the drawing room and escorted them to the grand room.

A white tablecloth draped the immense table, and Mr. Whittle had squeezed into a dusty suit to serve us white soup made from chicken stock instead of veal and spiced with nutmeg.

Polite talk of the weather and the Prince Regent marked the first course.

Ainsley, who eyed my coat, suggested purchasing from Beau Brummell, an up-and-coming fashion designer.

I couldn’t care less about cravats and other fripperies.

How could I bother with such frivolity when I had a road to finish, a cider press to install, and a ruined orchard to recover?

Too many people relied upon me to make Hawthorn Abbey a success.

Regardless, I said nothing as my guests debated the latest styles with the same fervor of any young miss.

Mr. Beaumont waved his hand, the ring on his finger winking in the candlelight.

“Even the Prince Regent must abandon his jeweled waistcoats. They are no longer the thing, but you can’t advise Prinny.

He fancies himself the best-dressed man in the room, thanks to the flattery of The Times .

And he positively hates, hates Brummell for bringing back severe fashion.

I have it on good authority that Prinny and Lord Moria encountered Brummell at St. James recently.

Of course, the Prince Regent ignored Brummell, a direct cut if there ever was one.

Brummell, however, turned to Lord Moria and said in a voice loud enough to echo over the lawn, Pray, who is your fat friend? ”

Mr. Beaumont snorted as he covered his mouth with a fist. “Prinny can’t meet Brummell’s measurements.

Only a slender man can, and that fact drives the Regent nearly mad.

I have it on good authority the writers at The Times had quite the conversation with Brummell.

A pity the Prince Regent shut down that story as fast as he could. ”

I smiled to cover my discomfort with the mention of one of the more prominent newspapers to blare news about my abbey across England.

Mr. Beaumont turned to me, waggling his eyebrows. “You’ve made it into The Times .”

“Apparently Roman antiquities make for fascinating reading,” I hedged as I picked up my fork, yet my appetite had fled.

I discovered he belonged to the Dilettanti and had taken it upon himself to bring younger men under his wing, including Lord Ainsley. While I had heard of the Dilettanti, I had never had the luxury of embarking on a grand tour of the continent, a fact Lord Ainsley soon discovered.

“You’ve never been to the Orient?” he asked, incredulous as he dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin.

“My travels followed the path of Bonaparte,” I replied as I fingered the stem of a crystal goblet. The claret, with the crimson hue deep enough to bring memories of the blood splattering against my uniform, made me hesitate. I chose water instead while Lord Ainsley drank freely.

Mr. Beaumont raised his goblet as if in toast. “And now you’ve inherited Hawthorn Abbey. Are you finding country life to your liking?”

“Refreshing,” I answered readily, and surprised myself.

Bridget had warned that I would not find anonymity here, no matter how much I craved it.

As the days passed, I realized that I no longer wanted to seclude myself within a cloak of loneliness.

I had found something precious in the valley, friendship and loyalty.

He set down his goblet with a clunk, the wine too drained to slosh over the rim. “You’ve met Miss Littleton and Mr. Perry. What do you think of their enterprise?”

I hesitated. “Without her tenacity and discernment, there would be no excavation.”

Lord Ainsley waved his fork before stabbing at his cut of lamb dripping in butter. “But a woman? What business has she running around the countryside, ruining priceless artifacts? Those mosaics alone will collect a tidy sum from any museum.”

A chill swept through me. Hadn’t I thrown similar words at her, demanding to know why she wandered the countryside without an escort? To hear Ainsley dismiss her in such a cavalier manner made me bristle.

“I have found Miss Littleton to be remarkably well-spoken and informed about the history of the area.”

“A bluestocking.” Mr. Beaumont jeered. “Say no more.”

I changed the subject as quickly as I could, desiring to safeguard her reputation. I didn’t enjoy hearing her name uttered from that snide mouth. “And you, what is your interest in mosaics?”

He dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin.

“It’s simple, really. I’m a second son of an earl, destined for the church while my elder brother inherits my father’s holdings.

Ainsley, lucky man, has already inherited his title.

We met during our grand tour and found an invitation awaiting with the Dilettanti to join their ranks in hunting for rare art across the globe. ”

“Beaumont has had the longest tour of us all,” Lord Ainsley said, chuckling as he folded his arms across his chest. “He’ll do anything to avoid becoming a rector, won’t you? Although time is running out, old boy. You’ll need to convince your father of your alternate ambitions.”

“Your father does not approve of your collecting?” I asked.

Any mirth fled from Mr. Beaumont as he drained the last of his claret. I hardly dared give him more, following a fourth glass this evening. Not if I was required to offer port later on. With his nose flushed, his eyes sparked dangerously.

“No, he thinks I am nothing more than a grave robber.”