Hope's Betrayal (12 page)

"I believe
as she's in the office, Capt’n."

Huntley also
made his way upstairs. The office had once been used by his late father for
receiving tenants, its panelled walls and oak furniture sombre and
intimidating. Now it was where his mother went to do business, only she had
brightened the gloomy atmosphere with vases of spring flowers. Huntley found
his mother seated at his father's old desk, sorting through papers. Hearing him
enter, her face lit up.

"At last,
George dear."

"Morning,
Mother. You look uncommonly well today." Indeed, there was a freshness
about her that took him by surprise.

"Me? How
nice of you to notice."

"Is that a
new gown. The shade suites you."

In amber-colored
satin, Lady Ryevale looked like a gem shining against the fusty bookshelves.
Huntley stared, fascinated, trying to place what else had changed.

"You've
done something different to your hair." He said, surprised.

Self-consciously
her hand touched the amber, silk turban swathing her head.

"Do you
like it, dear?"

Huntley searched
for a compliment. "Very nice. It looks…very nice."

Lady Ryevale
beamed. "Oh, I'm so glad you think so. I feel rather self-conscious but
Hope convinced me to try it. Apparently turbans are all the rage in France."

Huntley
bristled, the mention of Miss Tyler hitting him like a dose of cold water.

"Mother,
you do realise the French are our enemy?"

She threw him a
withering look. "Of course dear, but when it comes to fashion, such things
transcend politics." 

Huntley felt too
weary to argue.

"Mother, I
need to talk to you about Hope—Miss Tyler."

"The girl's
a gem! An absolute find! I can’t think what I did without her. Why yesterday's
correspondence took a fraction of the time."

"Really?"
Huntley braced himself. "You see, the thing is…"

"Oh
yes," she interjected, "we have a system. I dictate the letters. She
has such a neat hand, and so quick!"

"Mother, I
really must insist you listen."

“And the other
day, when my stomach was dyspeptic, she prepared this wonderful tisane and the
gripes were gone within the hour.”

“Mother!”

“Yes dear. I am
listening.”

Huntley steeled
himself.

“Mother, Miss
Tyler’s presence undermines my authority with the revenue.” He paused.
"Miss Tyler must be sent away. We can find her a position in another
household, elsewhere in the country—but not near here."

"You sound
so serious. Surely things can’t be as bad as all that. After all, it was your
idea in the first place."

The Captain
gritted his teeth; thinking the Admiralty board's disciplinary committee could
take lessons from his mother. "I broke rules bringing Miss Tyler into our
home and people...people that matter are not happy about it."

"I don’t
see why that worries you, it never has done before."

Huntley counted
to ten. "I didn’t envisage Miss Tyler being treated like a member of the
family, but a position altogether more appropriate to her station."

Lady Ryevale looked
disgusted. "You'd have Hope scrubbing floors? I think not!"

"But don’t
you see, people gossip. They whisper about the favor shown Miss Tyler. I'm
sorry to say this, Mother, but they make some pretty vile accusations."

"Then
ignore them!"

From the pounding
in his temple, George anticipated a headache.

"I can’t,
Mother. She undermines my authority. Miss Tyler must go."

Lady Ryevale
stared icily. "George, I understand how important your work is, but as
soon as the Swann is refitted—this posting will end and you will be off. I like
Hope. She will be good company when you are gone again."

"I'm not
being hard-hearted, but I was seconded here to clean up the Excise service, and
now it appears I'm condoning the corruption."

"I can’t
think why, you are just being kindhearted."

"Take today
as an example. I come home to find Miss Tyler dressed like a lady, in sprig
muslin."

"Oh, did
you like it? I thought that pale-rose so set off her hair."

"Mother, if
you are trying to be deliberately infuriating, it won’t work. The point is,
Miss Tyler escaped the law's judgment, and to some it appears she has been
rewarded, rather than punished." And besides, he almost added, she is
temptation personified.

"Perhaps I
haven't been fair, George." She adopted a more conciliatory tone.
"What I haven't made clear, is that Hope is no ordinary girl."

"Being able
to write doesn’t make her above the law."

"No, of
course not, what do you take me for? But, you say she should be treated like a
servant and I tell you she is a woman of breeding."

"Oh please,
Mother! Spare me the romance!"

Lady Ryevale
pushed on. "Hope's mother was a Baron's daughter, and her father an Earl…
it was unfortunate her father was married to another woman at the time."

“She told you
this and you believe her?” He said, wearily.

 “Not exactly
dear, that's the thing—I put the pieces of the puzzle together. Don’t roll your
eyes…it’s disrespectful. Hope’s well-read, can converse in French and her
manners are delightful" Lady Ryevale leant forward, eyes glittering. "When
I was newly married I remember a scandal which set the ton alight.”

"There are
always scandals in the ton."

"Not like
this. Emma Castelle, the poor ruined dear, refused to give up her illegitimate
child…and ran away to the Isle of Wight…"

"I don’t see…"
The Captain pressed his fingers to his temple. "Romantic nonsense. Mother,
I'm too tired for this. What's on your mind?"

"Dearest,
don’t you see? I believe Hope to be that child! She's like the daughter I never
had and I'm thinking of finishing what her mother began, perhaps even launch
her into society."

Huntley waved
his hands. "Enough! Impossible. Stop this foolishness!"

But right on
queue, just as Huntley rose to protest further, the door opened and in walked
Miss Tyler carrying a tea tray.

"Your tea,
Lady Ryevale. Oh, and Captain Huntley."

"Lovely
dear, just what's needed. You will join us?"

"Thank
you."

For all his
arguments, Huntley had overlooked the pull of Hope's smile. He forgot
everything else and stared back. Her hair was caught back off her face, pinned
up in a confection of curls which emphasised her jawline. She looked beautiful,
the muslin gown hinting at her lithe body in a way which left him speechless.
She crossed the room. There was something different about her today—and then he
realised she was walking without the aid of a stick. The ache of pride caught
him off guard and against his better judgement, he shot her an encouraging
smile acknowledging that today at least, he had lost the battle, but there was
always tomorrow….

It had been
another bad day for Captain Huntley; not only had the patrol been a waste of
time but he'd overheard the men speculating as to why—needless to say it
involved him and a certain female —so when the shift ended the Captain set off
home in a foul mood.

The maid who
answered the door bore the brunt of his displeasure as he grunted and pushed
past. In the hall, Huntley caught his reflection in the mirror and paused;
there was mud on his cheek, bracken in his hair and anger in his eyes. Rubbing
a hand across a bristly chin, Huntley scowled at his appearance but decided
brandy, rather than a shave, took priority.

He took the
stairs two at a time, making for the decanter in the library. Within the peace
of the bookshelves, he sought to soothe his nerves in preparation for what must
be done. But when he pushed open the door to his sanctuary, murmuring voices
caught his ear. He bristled. What manner of intrusion was this? Stalking past
the bookcases, he found the very people he most wished to avoid seated around
the table in front of the fire.

"What are
you doing in here?" he snapped.

"And good
afternoon to you too, George." Lady Ryevale glowered at her son. "As
it happens the chimney in the office is blocked, so we decided to work in here
instead."

Huntley glanced
from Miss Tyler, and Dickens, running his hat between his hands.

"Humph, I
need a drink." He grasped the decanter and poured a glass of brandy.
Dickens licked his lips, as if he fancied a drop himself.

"Damn
it!" Huntley drained the glass in a gulp, trying to drown out Hope's
sea-green eyes which were at that moment unmanning his composure.

"George!
There's no need for that sort of language."

"Sorry,
Mother."

"Accepted.
Do I take it you've had a bad day?"

"You could
say that." He threw a venomous stare at Miss Tyler. "But of course,
certain people knew all along we were wasting our time."

A glow of
satisfaction, or brandy, warmed his insides as Miss Tyler turned pale. Damn it,
she was so beautiful with her heart-shaped face against the dark frame of hair,
that his insides ached as her gaze brushed his skin. He glared harder, but
instead of flinching, her pale-green eyes met his with a challenge. Huntley
jabbed an accusing finger in her direction. 

“What is she
doing here?”

Lady Ryevale
answered in a tightly controlled tone. “Miss Tyler is taking notes. She helps
because everyone else is too busy.”

Huntley's voice
dripped with sarcasm, while appalled by a want which went beyond the physical,
almost to obsession. “I apologise that I am too busy about His Majesty’s
business to play secretary.”

“Now George,
don’t take on so. Let's discuss this matter later, rather than take up Mr
Dickens' valuable time now, not to mention embarrass him with your loutish
behaviour.”

"Then I
shan't say another word. Just pretend I'm not here." Picking up the
decanter, Huntley made for an armchair and settled in an ungentlemanly sprawl.
He would be damned if Miss Tyler was going to win. Well, he would make her feel
so damned uncomfortable she'd beg to be let go. The Grange was his home and any
halfway decent person would take the hint and leave.

Lady Ryevale
regarded her son sternly, then with a shake of her head, picked up a paper. 
"Where was I? Oh yes. Dickens, what plans for winter feed?"

"Well
Ladyship, by my reckoning, in addition to our regular crops, if we plants the
bottom fields with turnips and turn the summer meadows over to hay, if the
weather aint too severe we should be self-sufficient." Dickens, the estate
manager, was now an old man. For too long, Lady Ryevale had run the day-today
business, but it was Charles' place as eldest son, who should oversee the
running. But Charles abhorred the countryside, too busy living a rakish life in
London to be bothered with small details such as keeping the estate going.

"How did we
fair, the winter just gone?"

"Not so
well, Ladyship, we're just now buying in hay to cover the shortfall. Cost a
pretty penny it is."

Huntley's
attention wandered to Miss Tyler, seeing her poised over the inkwell meant once
again Charles had been let off the hook.

"And the
cottages? How much will the repairs cost?"

Dickens
scratched his head. "Not too bad—lost slates, that sort of thing. Nothing
major."

"Well,
thank heavens for that."

Covertly,
Huntley studied Miss Tyler—from her glowing cheeks she was well aware of his
presence. Despite his fatigue, a bolt of hot need shot to his groin. Miss Tyler
with the looks of an angel—that pointed chin, plump lips and upturned nose—and
yet she was no lady. Or was she? Huntley emptied a second glass, confused by
the possibility of noble blood. Could there be any truth in his mother's
fanciful story? He pushed the decanter away, clearly the brandy was affecting
his judgment.

His mother
shuffled the papers into a pile.

“Now, Hope. If
you could attend to replies, it would be an immense help.”

“Yes, Lady
Ryevale, my pleasure. When they are finished I'll bring them to you for
signing.”

“Thank you, Miss
Tyler, use the writing desk in the parlor.” 

Huntley rolled
his eyes. The chit was making herself indispensible, winkling her way deeper
into his mother’s good books. Why was he the only one able to see her plan?

With something
close to affection, Lady Ryevale smiled after Hope's retreating back.

"I'd best
be off, Ladyship." Dickens touched his forelock and shuffled to the door,
swinging an arm to counterbalance his stiff leg. Preoccupied by his bad
thoughts, too late George realised he was now alone with his mother.