Page 18 of Visiting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #2)

With much prompting and coercing from Lucy and me, Jane finally agreed to do a reading. ‘The story is by no means complete,’ she said, standing by the fire, clutching her pages. ‘And this part has been roughly written so it needs severe editing—’

‘Yes, yes, we understand. Afterwards, perhaps we can return to my book,’ interrupted Mr Hart.

He looked across at me, sitting in the armchair. But Teaching Molly was well out of sight beneath my derriere and would be following the flowers out the window later on.

Jane cleared her throat and, looking slightly worried, proceeded to read out a scene in which her impressionable main character meets an obnoxious young man. It was subtly disguised hyperbole, but she had obviously borrowed from Mr Hart’s propensity for empty flattery and Mr Smith-Withers’s tendency to talk himself up. It was brilliantly funny, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr Hart, looking surprised and a little disconcerted when she had finished. ‘That sounds like it will be a very ... interesting ... novel.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jane with a nod. ‘It is actually a cautionary tale, so young women can avoid forming attachments with unsuitable men.’

Mr Hart exchanged a glance with Mr Smith-Withers, and the two of them said nothing.

Oh, Jane , I thought worriedly. Why did you have to go and say that? Now they know that you know too!

I made a show of yawning. ‘I think it is time for bed.’

‘But it is still early,’ Lucinda complained.

But I was decided—the less time she spent in the company of these two unsuitable men, the better. ‘Yes, Lucy, please.’

‘All right,’ she grumbled.

‘If the day is fine tomorrow, then we can go raspberry picking,’ Mr Hart said to her, and she seemed cheered by that.

We ladies bid the men good night and left them to their port and sordid conversations.

I nudged Jane as we went upstairs.

‘Shall we tell her now?’ I whispered.

‘Maybe it is best to let her get a good night’s sleep,’ she whispered back.

I nodded mutely in agreement. Keeping silent was preferable than being up all night with Lucinda sobbing her heart out. But how on earth were we going to get her onto the mail coach tomorrow? It was worrying me a lot, especially now that Mr Hart had promised to take her raspberry picking.

I waited until I thought Lucy and Jane were asleep and crept along to their doors and safely locked them in again. But my anxiety about the next day meant sleep eluded me entirely. Not only did I have the godawful painting of Royden Hart in the room, but also Teaching Molly . So the room was roiling with bad energy. I wanted to throw the volume out the window, but when it came to it, I could not bring myself. It was a book, after all—even if it was an unsavoury one. However, if I could not rid myself of the book, at least I could do something about the painting—and get my shawl back.

Avoiding looking at Royden Hart, I unhooked it from the wall, fumbling a little as the gilded wooden frame was heavy. With some difficulty, I dragged it over to the door and nudged it out into the passageway. I then shut and locked the door. Instantly, I felt lighter and more at ease from not having him in the room.

Wrapping my shawl around me, I held the candle up to the panel where the painting had hung to make sure I hadn’t damaged it. Outlined in the flickering yellow light was a small square measuring about as broad as a hand’s width. Intrigued, I inspected it more closely. Was it a repair? If so, it was badly done as there was a small gap around three of the sides. I inserted a fingernail and tugged at it lightly, and it swung open like a flap of skin. Inside the panel was a small knob-like brass lever. Tentatively, I grasped it, but the knob did not yield no matter which direction I yanked it. In frustration, I pushed at it with the heel of my palm forcefully and got a fright when it suddenly sunk in. A light cracking noise around the panel accompanied it; and I discovered, with some experimental tugging, the panel could be opened like a door!

I could not believe my eyes. So this was what Royden Hart had been guarding—a secret passage. Did Mr Hart know about it? Presumably, he did. Thrusting my candle into the space, I saw the passage was dark, but quite dry with a slight downward slope. If I angled my head to accommodate the ceiling, I could probably walk along it quite well. But where on earth did it lead?

Fear and curiosity battled for supremacy, but curiosity won, as it always did with me. We were leaving tomorrow, so I would not get another chance to explore, and I was too inherently nosey to let the opportunity pass. I might discover some kind of evidence I could use against Mr Hart in court, if it ever came to that. Decision made, all I had to do was take the first step ...

I was half expecting the passage to lead nowhere more interesting than the dungeon. But after a short cramped walk, I came upon a wooden door. Turning the handle, I found it wasn’t locked and that it opened into a small chamber.

A desk and chair were the only furniture in the room, but it had a lived-in feel. An opulent oriental rug covered the floor, and the chair was wide and slouchy with a footstool. But as the walls were papered with sketches (half-drawn birds in flight, autumn leaves, and bucolic landscapes, in the same style as those in Mr Hart’s study), it convinced me without a doubt that I was in his art studio. If I was going to find anything to use as evidence, it would be here in this room.

Eagerly, I set my candle on the desk and started pulling out the desk drawers. But sifting through the papers contained in them turned up nothing but receipts for art materials sent from London. I was busily leafing through a sketch pad when a voice said softly behind my left shoulder, ‘Can’t sleep, little mouse?’

Swivelling, I saw another doorway had opened without my noticing, and a shadowy figure was standing in front of it. I almost screamed bloody murder, but then the figure came forward into my circle of candlelight. It was Mr Hart, sans cravat, wearing loose linen trousers and a black silk dressing gown. He did not appear to be wearing a shirt underneath.

‘W-where did you c-come from?’ I stuttered, my heart thumping in my throat.

He shrugged. ‘The library. The door is behind one of the bookshelves. But it seems you are cleverer than most guests, little mouse, as no one has ever discovered the other entrance behind the painting.’

‘D-do not call me t-that,’ I stuttered, still trying to catch my breath in lieu of the fright he had given me .

‘I can call you what I like since I have caught you red-handed going through my private affairs.’

Mr Hart sauntered over, and I slapped the sketchbook shut guiltily. There had been nothing in it but similar drawings to those on the wall anyway. He flopped into the chair beside the desk and propped his legs on the footstool, crossing them at the ankles. The edges of his dressing gown parted, baring a smooth chest ridged with muscle; and I gulped, averting my eyes, and pulled my shawl tighter around me. Thank goodness I had not changed into my nightgown and was still wearing my day dress. Being alone with him like this was improper, but my situation was even more precarious since he was an unscrupulous rake.

‘If you want to peruse my drawings, these might be of more interest.’ He reached down the side of the chair and tossed a sketch pad on the desk. It landed with a smack, making me jerk backwards. I hesitated, staring at the soft brown vellum cover. The way he was looking at me with a lazy smirk made me reluctant to open it.

‘Well, go on, since you’re so curious,’ he urged. ‘I must say, it is quite flattering to have someone take such an interest in my artwork.’

I flipped through the first few pages, which were pencil sketches of Cecilia Spencer sipping tea (she was easily recognisable as he was a good artist—I would give him that much!). Then came one with Cecilia looking over one bare shoulder with a faint smile.

I puffed out my cheeks. The next was drawn from the shoulders up, with her hair loose and fanned out around her head on a pillow. But the expanse of skin made it obvious she was not wearing much. I gulped. Mr Hart was watching me closely as I turned the pages, no doubt wanting me to gasp in prudish horror so he could laugh. I was not going to give him the satisfaction.

He shifted his hips in the chair, causing his dressing gown to fall open wider and reveal more of his chest. He did not bother to cover himself when he saw me looking.

‘What do you think of them?’ he asked (as if my opinion mattered to him!).

‘They are well drawn,’ I said slowly. ‘Did Miss Spencer agree to model for you?’

He nodded. ‘I think she thought I was Vermeer or something, and she’d end up in the National Gallery. Dear Ceci.’

His lips twisted ruefully, and he gestured at the sketch pad. ‘Keep going.’

I turned to the next page and nearly gasped aloud. Cecilia was completely naked and lying full length on a settee. The sketch left nothing to the imagination. Her body was drawn in detail, though her expression in this one was unsmiling ... Oh good Lord, I did not want to see any more! Indeed, I wished to now unsee it!

I closed the sketch pad, struggling to keep my composure. ‘It seems that you have compromised Miss Spencer’s reputation in more ways than one, Mr Hart,’ I said evenly. ‘Did she ask for these drawings back after you were banned from seeing her?’

‘Of course, but I see no harm in keeping them if they are for my eyes only, though they are part of my portfolio,’ he mused. ‘ I am thinking of applying for art school, you see. Who knows, she may end up on the wall of the National Gallery for everyone to gawp at after all.’ He laughed, a touch cruelly, I thought.

‘I should go. It is late,’ I muttered, pushing the sketch pad aside and standing up. But Mr Hart shot out of his chair at lightning speed and stood in front of me.

‘Not so fast,’ he said, and I was forced to step back so that I was pressed against the edge of the desk.

My legs trembled as he inched closer, and fear must have shown in my face as he murmured, ‘I will not hurt you—only encourage you to give in to your desire.’

‘That will never happen as I do not desire you.’ To my dismay, heat crept into my cheeks, belying my words.

He laughed softly. ‘Then why are you blushing, Mrs Fitzroy?’

With a finger, he softly traced my cheekbone, and the blood in my veins fizzed. But I could not move as his position prevented me from accessing the door back to my bedroom. Gently lifting my chin, he tilted my face to the candlelight. ‘Your bone structure is quite exquisite. Would you like me to paint you? I have been experimenting with oils.’

I shook my head abruptly, making him chuckle.

‘We could do a Girl with a Pearl Earring –type pose. It would be fully clothed and so seemly that even your husband would approve. You could hang it in the dining room, and he could look upon my fine work every morning at breakfast.’

They shouldn’t have, but his words struck a nerve as I was reminded of my dead mother’s portrait.

Tears pricked my eyes, and I turned away, not wanting him to see that he had affected me. But he grasped my jaw and turned my head back towards him so he could look into my watery eyes. I was like a wooden puppet in his hands.

‘What is it? What did I say?’ he asked, sounding concerned, but I knew it must be a feigned consternation. Why would it be anything else?

‘My mother died whilst giving birth to me. Until recently, her portrait hung in the dining room of my family home. My father has since moved it to the parlour. I ... I think he must be trying to forget her.’

Mr Hart’s gaze softened. ‘If I had known that about your mother, I would not have said it.’

He wiped a brimming tear from the corner of my eye with his thumb. It was a strangely intimate gesture, but I allowed it. If I was pliant, he might relax his attention, and I could scuttle past him to the door.

‘How could you have known? You do not know the first thing about me,’ I replied flatly.

‘I know that there is an attraction between us that burns as bright as a flame—no, no, do not do that, Felicity,’ he said, frowning as I rolled my eyes at his flowery falsehood.

‘You would be attracted to a stump of wood if it was wearing a muslin dress,’ I said with a sniff.

‘That is not true. I actually have very particular tastes ...’

‘What? Married women?’

His lips twisted in amusement. ‘No, beautiful, smart, funny women.’ His warm fingers trailed down my neck, brushing over my pulse point, which was fluttering erratically. He shifted closer, pressing a leg in between mine, and the way he was looking at me was causing goosebumps to stud along my flesh. Though my body was responding to him on one level, I was not stupid. He was relaxing me on purpose, melting my resolve, so he could seduce me.

‘Ah, what about your own mother?’ I asked to get him off the subject of our mutual attraction (which I was going to deny until my last breath). ‘I have never heard you speak of her. Is she locked up somewhere in the castle too? Like your poor father.’

Mr Hart’s expression hardened. ‘My father is neither poor nor locked up. What do you know of him?’

‘I know he is ill and confused, and you have not once been to visit him since we arrived. And I know you are trying to make him sign the castle over to you—not exactly the behaviour of a loving son.’

Mr Hart smiled grimly. ‘I see. So you feel sorry for him, do you? Well, I do not. He caused my mother’s death, so I can never feel love nor pity for him. I can only despise him.’

I was a bit shocked at that. ‘H-he killed your mother?’

‘In a way. He never loved her the way she loved him. Oh, he may have held some affection for her at the start, but it didn’t stop his womanising ways. He was usually discreet about his affairs, but one night, he foolishly arrived from London with his latest mistress in tow. It was too much for my mother, and she rode off on her horse in despair. A search party was sent out. But it was a wild, stormy night, which made conditions difficult for searching. They eventually found her horse, but not her. She was discovered two days later with a broken neck.’

He said it dispassionately, but I could tell from his eyes there was great pain there. ‘Oh, how terrible. How old were you?’

‘I was eleven. And my brother, Harrington—or Harry, as he prefers—was thirteen. After that, my father packed us both off to Eton so we weren’t around to interfere with his “lifestyle”. With a father like that, there was no hope for me. I was destined to follow in his footsteps ... until I met you.’

He leaned in, his lips moist and parted, and I realised he was about to kiss me. If that happened, I knew Max would be lost to me forever.

‘No!’ I gasped. ‘Do not attempt it! I love my husband. I want only him.’

In desperation, I twisted my head at the last minute so his lips bounced harmlessly off my cheek instead.

‘Such a doting wife,’ Mr Hart murmured, his nose in my hair. ‘And such a little liar. You want me too—I know you do.’

He grasped my dress and slowly pushed it up around my thighs. ‘If my fingers searched between your legs, I know what they’d find: an ocean of longing.’

‘I think not,’ I replied tartly, yanking my dress down. ‘You would find a dry, sandy beach that was perfectly content.’

Mr Hart laughed. ‘That does not sound conducive to having children.’

‘I do not want children, and neither does Max.’

He lifted an eyebrow in disbelief, staring at me. ‘Is this a religious thing? Are you a married nun?’

I huffed a laugh. ‘No! I do not have to explain our relationship to you. Stop it, Mr Hart!’ This last was exclaimed as he again tried to pull up my dress, and there was a brief struggle that nearly caused the fabric to rip. Fearing that he would throw me onto the desk and ‘teach me’ like Molly, there was nothing else I could do but slap him hard across the face.

It seemed to bring him out from his lust-driven urge, and he sprang back, clasping his cheek and cursing me. ‘Why the devil did you do that?’

‘Because you did not stop when I asked you to! Please desist from trying to maul me and give me leave,’ I said, adjusting my dress and smoothing my hair, which was in such disarray it was like I had been wrestling in a bush.

Silently, Mr Hart stood to one side, looking sour. But to my relief, he let me collect my candle and pass.

As I did so, I saw the imprint of red fingermarks like warpaint on his left cheek. He had deserved it, but I had never struck anyone in my life before, and I felt ashamed. ‘Mr Hart ... Dorian ... I ...’

‘Just go, Felicity,’ he mumbled.

Not knowing what else to say and feeling tired and drained, I slipped through the door and crept along the passageway back to my bedroom. My smarting hand was a stark reminder of our seedy encounter. The sooner we were all in the mail coach heading to the inn, the better.

** *

It seemed but a minute that I was asleep when I was woken by a short sharp cry. I sat up, peering into the darkness, and Jane stirred next to me.

‘What was that?’ she asked groggily.

I had decided to spend the night locked in her room after the encounter with Mr Hart as I now knew he had access to my room through Royden’s panel. After I had turned into Madam Slap, I doubted he would try anything else, but I did not want to take any chances.

‘It sounded like Lucinda. Stay there. I will go to her. She probably had a bad dream.’

It took me a few minutes to fetch my shawl and find the keys. Then I was padding to Lucinda’s room. Quietly, I unlocked her door at the same time as I knocked, so she didn’t hear me turning the key.

‘Lucy? Are you all right?’ I called softly.

No reply came except for a stifled whimper.

I moved forward cautiously with my hand outstretched. It was so dark in here, and I did not want to stub my toe on one of the solid oak bedposts.

I felt along the edge of the counterpane until I touched her hand. She jerked it away with a gasp.

‘It’s me, dearest.’

‘Oh,’ she said, sounding relieved.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw she was lying on her back, the covers in disarray, as if she had kicked them off.

‘Did you have a bad dream, dearest?’

‘I ... I ... Yes, Aunty Fliss.’ She sounded disorientated, as if she was still half-asleep. I smoothed back the hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. Whatever she had been dreaming about must have been frightening to make her cry out like that.

‘Hush now,’ I said soothingly. ‘It is all over now. It was just a dream.’

I pulled the covers up and adjusted them neatly around her and sat there holding her hand. She was trembling like a leaf. I dared not enquire what she had been dreaming about because it might cause me to have a nightmare too!

‘Aunty Fliss?’ she asked waveringly.

‘Yes, dearest?’

‘I know we still have several days at the castle, but would you mind if we went back to Bath very soon?’

‘Of course not. If you wish to go, we can leave forthwith,’ I said, trying not to sound overly excited at hearing this. But in truth, her words were music to my ears. ‘How does tomorrow morning sound?’

There was the sound of a breath releasing, and she squeezed my hand emphatically.

‘Oh, thank you! Thank you. And I am sorry that I have been so out of sorts ... I think I must be homesick.’

‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ I said quickly. ‘This castle could honestly make even the best people turn into trolls.’

She huffed a laugh at that, and I waited until she was comfortable and had drifted off back to sleep before I left her. It was only when I lay back down in Jane’s bed that it occurred to me that Lucinda’s vehement response thanking me to leave the castle was the mirror image of the one she had given when I had said she could stay.