Miss Goodhue Lives for a Night (3 page)

Until now.

“Get inside,” Theo Hudson bit out, holding the door open. “Your dying on the Earl of Ashby's doorstep is the last thing we need.”

3

I
t was supposed to be an ordinary day, Theo thought, as he sat across from a shivering and still dripping Cecilia Goodhue in the Earl of Ashby's sitting room. A maid had taken away her wet traveling cloak and bonnet and wrapped a shawl around her. A tea tray was promised to arrive within minutes, but the kitchen was still busy laying out that morning's breakfast, such was the earliness of the hour.

If this had been a regular day, Theo would only now be getting up. His man would have the hot towels ready for his morning shave—for all the good it would do; his chin would be rough as sandpaper by supper. And then he would take a leisurely stroll to the offices—or rather today, a leisurely hackney ride. However, last night, his offices received a note from the Earl of Ashby, requesting that he come around this morning to assist with a situation involving a letter the earl had received, of a delicate nature. As he was the newest partner of the Henry, Smithson, and Rowe law firm that represented the earl, he was eager to make himself useful to their most important client.

He had just arrived himself, and the maid had taken away his coat and hat when the knock came on the door. No one else was in the hall, and not wanting anyone to have to stand out in the horrendous rain, he'd answered it.

And come face-to-face with his white-faced, soaking-wet past.

“How was your journey?” he said. Because he couldn't think of anything else to say. It was all too silent in here, the rain pattering on the windows, dulling every other noise. And she was silent too, shivering and staring and holding a potted plant on her lap.

“Fine,” she replied. “I mean—good, it was good. The roads from Lincolnshire were very clear—the rain didn't start until we reached the borders of London.”

“You should have waited until it let up to call,” he said. “Drivers in London become especially reckless in this kind of weather.”

“Oh,” she replied. “I . . . it's a matter of great importance. I didn't want to wait, you see.”

“Would you perhaps tell me about it?” he found himself asking, wanting to bite his tongue. “I am here at the earl's disposal.”

“At his disposal?”

“I'm an attorney. I work for the firm that represents his interests. He asked me here to assist with something his friend wrote him about.” He tilted his head to one side. “You.”

“I . . . I would rather speak to the earl, if you don't mind,” she said. “He's the one I'm told I can trust.”

His face burned at her words, but not in shame. In anger. Because why on earth should she think that
she
couldn't trust
him
?

When in truth, everything was the other way around.

Then they fell silent again, and he felt stupid again. Luckily, the tea came, filling a few minutes with clanks of china on wood, and awkward bustling as the maid arranged the tray.

After she was dismissed, Cecilia took a grateful sip of tea, putting color back in her cheeks.

“When did you become an attorney?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the quiet. “You never wanted to study the law. You said that only people without imagination needed such rules.”

He grimaced. “I chose to focus on the law when I . . . went back to school.”

After that summer. That tumultuous summer a decade ago, when every nerve in his body had come alive and sang one single word.
Cee
.

He'd been sent to stay with his uncle Lockwood after being sent down from school for the second time. He'd done well enough with his tutors at home, but something happened when he came to the university.

He'd discovered the world. And suddenly sitting around a classroom seemed like the dullest way to spend his life. A few evenings with mates in the pubs, a few later evenings with barmaids from said pubs, a prank or two on his professors . . . and soon enough, he was spending his summer not with his cronies tearing about London, but at his uncle's estate just outside Manchester, where he was expected to keep country hours and learn about old farming techniques and new investment opportunities in mill technology.

It was supposed to be a mundane summer of complete boredom.

Instead, he'd met Cecilia Goodhue.

She had just turned sixteen, newly out in society and taking in the world with wide, eager eyes. He was twenty, and therefore so much more worldly.

They'd met in town—his uncle had come to call on her father about a matter of business. Much like the present situation, her father advised his uncle on legal matters. He'd come along and quickly became bored by all the business discussion, until Cecilia had stuck her head into the room, asking her father if he intended to join them for luncheon.

“You know I don't like to be disturbed, Cecilia,” her father had reprimanded.

“Yes, but Mother sent me,” she said, demure. Then her eyes had flicked toward where Theo was seated. “There is more than enough for guests, if you are so inclined.”

“Yes,” Theo had said, before his uncle could answer. “Er, that is . . . I'm starving.”

They'd stayed for luncheon. An entire meal when every time he glanced Cecilia's way she was looking at him—but then her eyes shunted away so quickly he thought he'd imagined it. Only a telltale blush on her cheek gave her away.

After luncheon, while his uncle and her father still talked business, he managed to find a way to wander toward the small walled garden where she happened to be picking lavender. Or rather, pretended to be picking lavender.

“I'm told lavender is one of the most recognizable smells in the world,” he'd said.

“Is it?” she replied. Then she inhaled deeply from the bouquet she'd gathered in her hands. “I can believe it. It smells like summer.”

He came over tentatively and breathed in the scent. Her scent. “Unforgettable,” he'd said. Which in and of itself was remarkable. Normally he was tongue-tied around women, but it was as if he'd suddenly been blessed by the gods of charm and wit. She'd looked up at him with those big dark eyes, a rose blush spreading over her cheeks, and he was completely done for.

The rest of the summer was spent planning, plotting, and stealing moments. Volunteering to run errands in town for his uncle. Willingly going to public balls on the chance she would be there. Discovering that there was a copse on the Lockwood estate that was so near town local children often used it as a small park. There was an oak tree that in the dark of night transformed into a haven, under which kisses could be stolen, and futures planned.

Everyone thought they had a mild flirtation. That was all. Even his uncle commented on it once—“Miss Goodhue is enjoying her first summer out more that her father would wish, I think,” he'd mused. “Perhaps you should pay slightly less attention to her, lest she thinks you have intentions.”

But Theo did have intentions toward her. He didn't know what they were, precisely—only that he didn't want to let her out of his sight. So when summer was coming to an end, and they were both desperately trying to hold on to one another, he made the half-joking suggestion that they just go to Gretna Green.

“Then no one can keep up apart,” he'd said, smiling down at her. “Not even my professors.”

“Yes,” she'd said simply, throwing her arms around Theo's neck, almost as if he'd just proposed marriage.

Which, he'd shortly realized, he had.

But as the realization settled into his bones, he knew that it was right. Because he was madly, entirely in love with Cecilia Goodhue. And he thought, as she looked up at him, planting kisses on his neck as she did, that she loved him.

Too bad it had all turned out to be a lie.

He'd spent ten years grateful that his uncle had pulled him out of that inn on the road to Gretna Green. Ten years building his life, a sober life, where no one would ever be able to take advantage of him again. Ten years, not letting himself think about the woman who sat across from him now, not wondering about where she was, or what she was doing.

“Lincolnshire,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

“What was that?” she asked, tearing her gaze away from the window.

“You said you came from Lincolnshire. Is that where you live now?”

“Yes,” she said, blinking. “With my sister.”

That was right, she had a sister. Whom he had not met, as she had just married a vicar, if he recalled correctly. So Cecilia Goodhue had spent the last ten years playing governess to her sister's children, shamed into penance for her avarice in youth.

That should have made him feel a small measure of revenge, of triumph. But somehow, it didn't. It just made him feel like a decade was a long time to be in Lincolnshire.

At that moment, the Earl of Ashby burst into the room, relieving Theo and Cecilia of any more awkward conversation.

“G'morning!” Lord Ashby said, boisterously cheerful, even through the mouthful of food he was hastily shoving into his mouth. He was a young man, close to Theo's own age, which was a bit of a novelty. In his experience most earls were doddery, but Ashby had a vitality in the morning envied by early birds and worms alike. “I'm terribly sorry to have you waiting, but it is horridly early. Although my Phoebe has been awake since dawn with the baby, and when Phoebe's not there I hardly sleep to begin with.” He shrugged.

“But of course, sir,” Theo said, jumping to his feet and giving a short bow. The office had been informed of the birth of the heir to one of the largest estates in the country a month ago, and set up the legal paperwork necessary to ensure the succession. But Lord Ashby didn't see an heir, it seemed. He saw a baby, and was happy. “My felicitations on your son.”

“Thank you,” the earl beamed. “You're Hudson, correct?”

“Yes, sir. We met a few months ago.”

“Of course—you came with that old buzzard Rowe for the annual review of all my holdings.”

“Yes, sir,” Theo said. “And I am gratified that you remembered me, but I have to ask—”

“Why did I ask you here?”

Theo nodded.

“Because of her.” Lord Ashby inclined his head to where Cecilia had stood.

A line of shock ran through Theo as his eyes flew to meet Cecilia's. She looked just as nonplussed as he.
Could he possibly know
 . . .
?
“Her?”

“Yes. Miss Goodhue, I presume.” Lord Ashby went over to Cecilia, taking her hand before she could so much as curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, although I wish it were under better circumstances. But John and Leticia say you need help, and I—and Mr. Hudson—are here to provide it.”

“Th-thank you,” she replied.

“The details in John's letter were sketchy, at best,” Lord Ashby said, sitting, and inviting everyone else to do so as well. “He only mentioned a cousin from Manchester had run off to London.”

“Is that what this is about?” Theo said, leaning back in his seat.

She nodded.

“And that is why I asked specifically for you,” Lord Ashby told him. “I thought an attorney would be best suited to this. When we first met, you mentioned you had relatives in Manchester. I assume you spent some time there. I thought perhaps you might know the family.”

“Oh . . .” Theo said, glancing again at Cecilia. “I . . . that is to say, my uncle, Sir Lockwood is—”

“It is my cousin Eleanor,” Cecilia said, jumping in before Theo could make any further awkward explanations. “She has run off to join a young man, a soldier. But we don't know his regiment—or indeed, his name. We only have the letters the young man sent her, telling her to come to him.”

“Do you have those letters?” Lord Ashby asked. “I do not wish to pry, only that it would be helpful if—”

“Yes I do. My aunt sent them to me when I told her I was coming to London.”

She made to reach for her pocket, but then realized she was still absurdly holding a potted plant.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I'm to deliver this to you. I have the instructions for it.”

“It's a plant.” Lord Ashby said, taking it. “Does it need instructions?”

“According to Margaret Babcock, yes. And it's to be placed in your keeping for Dr. Gray. I believe there was explanation about it in another one of Mr. Turner's letters—”

“I'm sorry,” Theo interrupted, impatient. “But can we move this along, please? I assume time is of the essence.”

“Yes,” Cecilia replied, blushing. Then she drew out not a packet of letters, but a pair of spectacles, proceeding to balance them on the bridge of her nose.

“You wear glasses?” he could not stop himself from asking.

“Yes,” she answered, startled. Then, blushing, “For reading. Now.”

While she rummaged in a different pocket, he could not help but stare at those little wire frames, making her appear owlish and . . . older.

Damn, but they were both older.