Destined to Last (18 page)

Mirabelle glanced at Mrs. Summers, who gave a barely perceptible shrug of her shoulders. “You shall do as you please, of course.”

Hoping to avoid an argument between the two friends, Mirabelle changed the subject before Lady Thurston could comment. “You look well rested, Mrs. Summers. Much improved from yesterday.”

“Thank you, dear. I feel much improved.” A slight blush formed on Mrs. Summers’s cheeks. “I received a letter from Mr. Fletcher not an hour ago.”

Lady Thurston exchanged surprised glances with Mirabelle. “So soon?”

The blush grew. “It was delivered by special courier.”

Mirabelle scooted forward in her chair. “And the contents of the letter?”

“Mr. Fletcher has expressed a desire to…to set things right between us.”

“That sounds very promising.” Mirabelle finished her biscuit and tried not to look at the full plate next to Lady Thurston. “Are you going to tell us what went wrong between you to start?”

“It was…it was his position with the War Department.”

“I see,” Mirabelle murmured, though she didn’t really.

“I see,” Lady Thurston echoed. And clearly, she did. “Your first husband?”

Mrs. Summers nodded and turned to Mirabelle. “He was an agent as well. He was in France, at court when the Terror began. An effort was made to retrieve him after the king fell, but it failed. He was lost to the guillotine.”

“I’m very sorry,” Mirabelle murmured.

“It would not have happened, had he been at home in England where he belonged.” Mrs. Summers brushed her skirts with hands that were less than steady. “I will not have another husband in the War Department.”

“That is understandable,” Mirabelle ventured and made a pointed effort to keep her expression free of worry and doubt. According to Whit, William Fletcher had worked for the War Department since he’d been a boy. Would a man give up a life he loved to live his life with the woman he loved? Could he be happy with such a choice? For Mrs. Summers’s sake, Mirabelle dearly hoped so.

O
n the first few occasions Kate had played the piano in front of guests, she had been exceedingly nervous. It mattered a great deal to her what others thought and said about her music and, at the time, she’d been quite terrified someone would think and say it was dreadful. After a half dozen performances, however, she had come to the conclusion that it simply wasn’t possible to please everyone. There would always be someone who said it was too complicated or too simple, too experimental or too common. The defining moment had been when one silly young man had declared it tolerable, but rather too high in pitch. She’d not ceased caring what others thought after that, but she ceased being terrified of a single person’s opinion.

Perfectly aware that at least one person wouldn’t care for what she’d chosen to play that night, Kate made her way to the piano in the music room as guests took their seats. She would have preferred a more casual atmosphere, with only a
few chairs set out for the elderly guests, but Lord Brentworth obviously had something else in mind. He’d had the staff line up neat rows of seating in the room while the guests had been at dinner. Kate sincerely hoped that didn’t mean he expected her to play for an extended period of time. She’d thought to play a song or two, not give an entire concert.

As the voices and movements of the guests settled, she took a seat on the bench. She frowned absently when it rocked a little beneath her. Odd, she didn’t remember the bench being wobbly earlier in the day. Mentally shrugging the thought aside, she pushed back the lace cuffs of her pale gold gown, flexed her fingers once, laid them softly on the keys, and began to play.

She’d chosen a playful and energetic piece, one that rapidly dipped from high to low and back again. She rocked on the bench, stretching a bit to reach the keys, ignoring the twinge of pain it caused her injured shoulder, and enjoying the feel and sound of the notes as they swirled about the room.

And then the unthinkable happened. There was a loud crack. Her fingers slipped from the keys. The bench lurched back and sharply to the right, then collapsed with a bang.

Kate was no stranger to embarrassment, but bumping into furniture in the hall or spilling a spot of lemonade on her skirts or even coming across a guest when she was covered in mud was nothing compared to having a bench break under her weight while an entire roomful of guests had their eyes trained upon her. That sort of accident wasn’t embarrassing. It was
mortifying.

For what felt like an eternity—but was likely no more than a second or two—she could do nothing more than sit where she’d fallen, mouth open, hip aching, and mind reeling.

That couldn’t have happened. That couldn’t
possibly
have happened.

The sudden explosion of voices told her that yes, indeed, it had happened.

Her mother, Whit, and Mr. Hunter were the first to reach her.

“Kate, Kate, are you injured?” her mother murmured as she knelt down beside her. Later, Kate would marvel a little over the image of her extremely dignified mother kneeling on the floor, but for now all she could manage was a mute shake of her head.

Lady Thurston rubbed her arm and leaned forward to whisper encouragingly. “You’ll want to get up then, dear.”

“I…oh. Yes, yes of course.” She took her mother’s hand, and with the help of Mr. Hunter’s supporting grasp under her arm, managed to gain and retain her feet without becoming entangled in the rubble of the bench. And it
was
rubble. One of the legs had broken off to go skittering across the floor, two others had snapped off at their joints, and the last remained loosely connected to the seat—the notably cracked seat—holding up one corner at a sickly angle.

“This wasn’t me,” she whispered to her mother before turning to Mirabelle and Mrs. Summers as they joined her. “This wasn’t my fault.”

“Clearly not.” Her mother patted her arm again.

“It couldn’t have been,” Mirabelle agreed, exchanging a nod of agreement with Mrs. Summers.

Hunter bent to catch her eye. “Certain you’re not harmed?”

“Yes, yes, I’m…” Mortified beyond words. “I’m fine.”

“Lady Kate Cole,” Lord Brentworth pushed through a small group of guests to stand before her, his wide gray eyes filled with concern. “My most sincere apologies. I had no notion the bench was defective. No one in the house plays, you see, and…and I am deeply sorry for—”

Kate shook head. “It’s all right, Lord Brentworth.”

“I humbly disagree. I should not have insisted—”

Miss Willory stepped forward to cut him off. “Please don’t
trouble yourself too much, Lord Brentworth. Our dear Lady Kate
is
rather accident prone, after all.”

“I had nothing to do with breaking that bench.”

“
Of course
you didn’t,” Miss Willory cooed.

“Indeed, she did not,” Lord Brentworth added, looking at Miss Willory askance. “The lady did nothing more than sit on it.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“She can’t weigh more than nine stone,” someone interjected.

Oh, for pity’s sake, Kate groaned silently. Were they going to begin a discussion of her weight? Hadn’t she suffered enough?

“She does move around quite a bit when she plays,” Miss Willory pointed out, clearly annoyed to have been gainsaid.

“Many a gifted musician do,” Lord Brentworth argued. Had Kate not been so miserable, she would have beamed at him. Lord Brentworth was a lovely man, she decided, and he threw delightful parties…defective benches notwithstanding.

“Have you had the opportunity to see Herr Beethoven perform, my lord?” someone asked. “He’s a sight more active in his performance than Lady Kate.”

“I saw him play in Vienna,” someone else offered. “Man weighs twelve stone, at least. Bench didn’t so much as utter a creak, as far as I could tell.”

“For pity’s—”

“The legs were loose.”

Every head in the room swiveled around at the sound of Hunter’s voice. Crouched down with Whit next to the remnants of the bench, he held up one corner of the broken seat. “The nails worked free.”

Lord Brentworth stepped forward to inspect the seat. “And so they did. Defective, just as I said.”

To Kate’s immense relief, the discussion in the room soon turned to craftsmen and how there was no longer a decent one to be found in the whole of England. She took the opportunity to whisper in her mother’s ear. “Do you think you could encourage the other guests to return to the parlor?”

Her mother nodded and patted her arm one more time. “If you promise to come along after a time. You cannot hide away for the rest of the night, dear. You will only feel the worse for it.”

“Yes, I know,” Kate admitted reluctantly. “I’ll be along shortly.”

With the help of Lord Brentworth, Lady Thurston herded the guests out of the music room.

When the last had left, Kate rubbed both hands over her face and likely would have rubbed at her aching hip as well if Hunter’s voice hadn’t distracted her.

“Why don’t you sit down, Kate?”

She spun around to find him standing in the doorway. “I’m quite through with sitting for now. I thought you’d left with the others.”

He shook his head and crossed the room to stand before her. “I hung back, then slipped away.” He reached up to lightly cup her face. “All right? Your shoulder?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She closed her eyes and grimaced. “It was just terribly embarrassing, that’s all.”

“It was meant to be.”

Her eyes flew back open. “What do you mean?”

His hand dropped away. “It wasn’t an accident, Kate.”

“Certainly it was,” she argued, growing a little alarmed. “You said the legs were loose.”

“There are hammer marks on the inside of the legs. Someone pounded them loose.”

“But…why would anyone want to break Lord Brent-worth’s bench?”

“At best guess,” he said in a gruff tone, “because they knew you were going to sit on it.”

“I…” She stepped back to find a chair. She wasn’t through with sitting after all. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Someone who wished to harm you, frighten you, or embarrass you.” He pulled a chair in front of hers and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Someone who would enjoy seeing you stripped of your status of most desirable young lady in the house.”

Later, she would take great pleasure in being called the most desirable lady in the house, but at the moment, she couldn’t get past the notion someone had humiliated her on purpose. “I can’t envision anyone in residence going to such lengths to injure me. Not even those with whom I share little or no affection. Perhaps it was meant for someone else.”

“Who?”

“I’ve no idea, but I’m not the only lady in residence who plays the piano. Maybe some of the younger gentlemen thought it would make a fine jest in general and hadn’t a particular victim in mind. Young gentlemen are often forgiven for these sorts of antics. ”

“It is possible,” he conceded.

“I suppose the odds of someone coming forward with a confession are slim.” She blew out a short breath. “Did Whit see the hammer marks?”

Hunter shook his head. “He was inspecting the seat, not the legs.”

“Would it be too much to ask that you not mention the hammer marks to him? He has a tendency to…to…”

“Become overprotective?” he filled in.

“Words cannot describe.”

He frowned a little, then shrugged as he sat up. “I see no reason he needs to know of it at present.”

“‘At present’ leaves the option of telling him later.”

“Does it, indeed?” he asked, his brows winging up in mock surprise.

She rolled her eyes. “Will you at least promise not to tell him without giving me warning first?”

“That I’ll do.”

“Thank you.” She studied him for a moment. “You’re not as protective as he. Just as high-handed, but not as protective.”

“I’m not your brother.”

“No.” He certainly wasn’t, and what she wanted from Hunter wasn’t remotely sisterly. She wanted to nudge her chair closer until their knees touched and take his hand and…No, no that wasn’t quite right. A brush of the knees and the feel of her hand in his wasn’t nearly enough. What she
really
wanted was to crawl into his arms, lay her head on his shoulder and pretend the last half hour had been nothing more than a very bad dream. Once that was accomplished, she wanted to lift her face and brush her mouth against his. She wanted to kiss him until the excitement built as it had in the ballroom. Perhaps she could convince him to let her remove his cravat. She dearly wanted to know what the skin hidden behind—

“Not here, Kate.”

She only half heard Hunter speak. She did, however, fully notice the movement of his lips. “Sorry?” she mumbled and watched a wicked smile spread across his mouth.

“Now isn’t the time for what you’re thinking.”

That comment succeeded in pulling her from her daydream. She dragged her gaze up and found him watching her, a knowing glint in his eye.

Oh, dear, he’d known exactly what she’d been daydreaming of. She opened her mouth, intent on pretending ignorance, but changed her mind at the last second. They’d both know she was lying.

“I beg your pardon,” she said softly instead, and felt the warmth of a blush touch her cheeks.

“Granting pardon would only make me a hypocrite.”

“Oh.” Certain she was blushing furiously now, she shifted a bit in her seat. “I see.”

“Another time,” he reiterated a little gruffly. “I believe we were discussing your brother.”

“Right.” She cleared her throat, shoved images of kissing Hunter as far away as possible—which, in truth wasn’t all that far—and tried to remember the point she’d been trying to make. Something about how protective Whit was. “Right. You’re not as protective as he. Well, you are, but not in the same manner. You…”

She wanted to say she felt as if he had more faith in her and what she was capable of, but that seemed both silly and rather unkind toward Whit. She knew Whit had faith in her, but unlike Hunter, he would never ask her to assist in the investigation of a smuggling ring, or speak with her of rakes or matters of business, and if it had been he who had discovered the hammer marks on the bench legs, he likely would have kept that information from her and sought out the culprit himself.

“Whit wants to wrap me in cotton batting,” she continued. “He means well, and I don’t fault him for it, except when he becomes unreasonably overbearing,” she amended. “But it is nice to be treated as if I won’t shatter under a little strain.”

“I would tell you I’m happy to oblige, but I’m not. I don’t particularly care to see you under strain.”

“It’s only a broken bench,” she reminded him. She leaned a bit to eye the remnants sitting behind him. “Poor Lord Brentworth. First the vase, now this. At this rate, Pallton House will be in ruins by the time I leave. I’ll never receive another invitation.”

“He doesn’t blame you for this.”

“He must for the vase. Unless you—?”

“I distinctly recall ordering you not to ask.”

“So you did,” she agreed with a small smile. She took a deep breath and gained her feet. “I need to return to the parlor. I promised Mother I’d not hide away too long.”

He offered his arm as if to lead her there, but she shook her head. “Better if we didn’t arrive together. We’ve both been away from the group for some time. People will whisper.”

Kate wondered as she left if there would soon come a time when they would no longer have to concern themselves over whispers. They were, after all, engaged in a sort of courtship…weren’t they? He sought her out, brought her presents—
a
present, anyway—and stole kisses when no one was looking. That certainly indicated that it was a courtship. An unconventional one, certainly, but a courtship nonetheless.

Strange that she hadn’t considered what they’d been doing in those terms before. A fortnight ago, she would have thought it stranger yet that she should be delighted to suddenly find herself courted by Mr. Andrew Hunter. Then again, a fortnight ago she hadn’t known he was called Andrew Hunter.

“Andrew,” she mouthed silently and shook her head. It really didn’t fit him as well as Hunter. However, if a woman had a
possible
interest in one day becoming Mrs. Hunter, it might serve her well to learn to appreciate the name—