The Captain Claims His Lady

Chapter Seven

Whatever could have put that grim expression on his face? Sitting this close, she could see him much better than when they were standing up and they had to preserve a decorous distance from one another. She could see the muscles clenching in his jaw, the grim line flattening his mouth and even the bleakness in his eyes. And just as at the first time they’d met, she wished she could do something about it.

When he reached for her hand, therefore, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to grasp it and offer him what small comfort she could. Even though it was not at all the thing.

Though what did it matter, as long as nobody found out?

Her heart tripped over itself as she not only formed such a rebellious thought, but also took action to ensure that it bore fruit. Concealing their linked hands took but a second, as she rearranged the folds of her unfashionably voluminous skirts.

His own breath hitched. Though he made no sign that anyone else could detect, she was sure he gave her hand a little squeeze.

Golly, but she’d never felt so wicked in her life! Was this really stumbling, stammering Lizzie Hutton? Sitting holding hands with a man? Practically in full sight of a room full of people?

If she’d been the kind of girl who giggled, she’d be giggling right now. Never had she felt so...giddy. Or so in tune with a piece of music. Whenever the violins soared, so did her heart, as she revelled in the feel of his hand clasping hers, his response when she’d told him she wasn’t an heiress.

When the instruments groaned and wept, she found herself biting her lower lip and wondering when it was all going to end. And if people would carry the tale back to Grandfather about the way they were sitting so close together. If such talk would send him into retreat. After all, he surely wouldn’t want his name linked too closely with a girl he’d only known a matter of days.

The musicians did not finish their piece until Lizzie was so wrung out she could understand why some people actually wept during certain performances. And though it was not because of their skill, but because of the man next to whom she was sitting, she knew she ought to join in the applause that was breaking out, politely, all round the room. Only, that would mean she’d have to let go of his hand.

While she was still hesitating, he gave her hand one last squeeze and then released it. Which meant she had to let go. She couldn’t very well keep clinging to his hand, not once he’d started clapping, could she? Even though it felt as though his action had cast her adrift.

She forced her eyes to look in the direction of the musicians and lifted her own hands to clap, which she did with considerably more energy than anyone else. Hopefully, then people would think she’d been moved by the power of the music, if they noticed she was upset. Especially since she had no reason to be sad. She’d never been completely alone in the world. She’d always had some member of family to take her in. It was ridiculous to feel as though she’d never been more alone, in all her life, when she was sitting in a room full of people.

The applause soon died away. Long before she’d pulled herself together. So when Captain Bretherton turned to her and asked if she’d like to go to the tea room and take supper, she had to bite her tongue.

Supper? How could he sit there talking about tea, and supper, in that reasonable, casual tone, as though holding hands with her had meant nothing?

Though perhaps it had meant nothing. Perhaps he was the kind of man who held hands with females, clandestinely, all the time. What did she know of him, really? What kind of man he was?

And he was a man, not a demi-god, even if some people did call him Atlas.

‘I had better go and see if Grandfather wants anything first,’ she said. Even though what she wanted was to spend the rest of the evening with him. Holding hands again. Or even more...

She looked at his mouth. What would it feel like to kiss him? To have him kiss her?

The longing that tore at her insides was so fierce she could see herself flinging herself at him, right there in the concert room, and scandalising the rest of the concert-goers. Panicked, and confused by the strength of her reactions to a man who was virtually a stranger, she leapt to her feet, with the result that the chair upon which she’d been sitting overturned with a crash. Everyone turned to stare, of course. And then a wave of laughter rippled round the room. Closely followed by a chorus of comments. She couldn’t hear the actual words, but she knew the kinds of things they’d all be saying.

That Miss Hutton. Always so clumsy. So awkward. I wonder why that handsome officer is paying her so much attention?

The handsome officer in question bent forward to right her chair at the exact moment she did the same. With the result that they clashed heads. To the increased amusement of everyone else in the room.

‘Please, Miss Hutton, allow me,’ he said, placing one hand on her arm and pushing her firmly, but gently, aside.

‘I... I...’ She raised both hands to her cheeks, which were flaming hot. ‘Th-thank you, but I really do need to return to my grandfather.’ With that, she turned and fled.

* * *

He’d pushed her too far, too fast, holding hands like that. He hadn’t thought she’d minded. He hadn’t been holding on to her all that hard. She could have pulled her hand free at any time. But she hadn’t.

Perhaps it had only hit her, what she’d done, when the music had finished. It had been a rather powerful piece, one that tugged at the emotions. Perhaps she’d been carried away with it and not realised how—what was it girls said of such behaviour?—fast she’d been, until it came to an end?

Damn, but he hoped he hadn’t ruined everything.

He couldn’t pursue her into the card room. The old Colonel would simply send him packing, again.

He’d have to hope he could catch her at the Pump Room again. And reassure her that his intentions were honourable.

Only, it felt a bit too soon to start speaking of marriage. She was bound to become suspicious of him, if he appeared to have come to such a momentous decision after knowing her only a few days.

He had to be more patient with her. Allow her to get used to him. Reassure her that nothing she did was going to put him off her. Make her believe that everything she did fascinated him.

Which wouldn’t require any acting at all, come to think of it. She was such an intriguing bundle of contradictions. So bold one moment, in the way she’d hidden their clasped hands. Then so timid, darting away from him like a startled fawn.

He didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of her. She would be endlessly fascinating. Like the sea. Even her eyes, now he came to think of it, put him in mind of the colour of certain parts of the Mediterranean. A colour you never saw anywhere else. Or at least he hadn’t thought so.

An elderly couple strolled past, amused expressions on their faces. Which brought him up short. Made him realise he’d been standing stock still, in the middle of the room, gazing after Miss Hutton like a...

He plunged his fingers through his hair and made a beeline for the exit. Tomorrow. He’d seek her out at the Pump Room and continue his counterfeit courtship of her tomorrow.

* * *

But the next day, neither Miss Hutton nor her grandfather put in an appearance at the Pump Room.

Nor did they show up at the fancy ball that night.

He paced the floor of his room, later, wondering how to proceed. It was just possible, he supposed, that her grandfather had taken a turn for the worse and couldn’t stir out of doors. He might have some genuine illness for which he was seeking treatment in Bath, rather than merely coming here to gossip with his cronies.

He’d simply have to wait and see if the old fellow recovered. He wasn’t yet on familiar enough terms with Miss Hutton to just call upon her and enquire after her grandfather’s health. Not taking into account the way Colonel Hutton had taken an instant and irrational dislike to him.

* * *

‘Shall I snoop about a bit, sir,’ Dawkins asked on the second morning he returned from the Pump Room without seeing her, ‘and see what I can find out? After all, that’s why Their Lordships sent me down here. To be an extra pair of eyes.’

‘No.’ The very idea of letting someone spy on Miss Hutton revolted him. ‘I will ask some of her acquaintance, openly, what they know of her whereabouts.’

‘Ah, yes, playing the role of smitten suitor. Very clever.’

No, it wasn’t clever. It was just...the obvious course to take.

* * *

The next day, when he attended the Pump Room and joined the queue to purchase a cup of the disgusting water that was supposed to be helping restore him to health, he spotted Lady Mainwaring. She would be the perfect person to approach, since he’d met her first in Miss Hutton’s company. If anyone knew what was going on in the Hutton household, it was likely to be her.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ he said, sweeping her a bow.

‘Good morning Captain,’ she replied, according him a nod, rather than a curtsy.

‘I was wondering if you knew how Colonel Hutton is faring?’

‘Colonel Hutton?’ She gave an arch smile. ‘I would have thought your interest was in his granddaughter.’

‘Yes. Well...but...it’s just I haven’t seen either of them for a day or two. So I assumed he had taken a turn for the worse.’

She pursed her lips. ‘His temper certainly has. According to Mrs Hutchens, who lives just across the way from his lodgings, he was in a rare taking. Ordered his bags packed and his horses put to.’

‘Horses?’

‘Yes. He’s gone home. Cancelled the lease on his lodgings and asked for his money back. Quite the commotion, there was, with the leasing agent, over that, since the agent refused to reimburse him a single penny.’

He wondered how on earth the woman knew such things. Thought it best not to ask. But to just be grateful she did.

‘Home, to Dorset?’

Lady Mainwaring’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Yes. My goodness, it didn’t take you long to discover where Miss Hutton hales from, did it?’

Well, no, but then he’d known it before he’d even set foot in Bath. Not that he was fool enough to correct Lady Mainwaring’s assumption.

‘Did your friend happen to find out why they left?’

She shook her head. ‘You would think, with that parade-ground voice of his, that she would have been able to make out just the gist of it, wouldn’t you? But even the cook he hired with the house hadn’t been able to discover why they all left so suddenly. But then by the time she came into work on Thursday morning, the agent was there and the battle in full swing.’

Thursday morning. She’d left Bath the very day after the concert.

Was it a coincidence? Or could it be a result of his own behaviour? Could someone have seen him holding hands with her and told her grandfather?

That was the trouble with making a daring move. The rewards could be great, but sometimes the risks meant the end result could be catastrophic.

Though, in this case, he could see a way to come about. He’d simply adapt the plans Rawcliffe and Becconsall had drawn up. They’d instructed him to cajole Miss Hutton into inviting him to spend Christmas with her at Lesser Peeving. Instead, he would move his pursuit of Miss Hutton to the next level by going down to Peacombe, a little seaside town which boasted a hotel or two. And from where he could beat a path to her door.

Chapter Eight

‘Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to the Three Tuns,’ said an oily-looking man who put Harry in mind of an exceptionally crooked tavern keeper he’d had the misfortune to have dealings with in Naples. All smiles for paying customers, all double-dealing behind the scenes. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I want a room for myself and my manservant.’

‘A room?’ The landlord looked confused.

‘This is an hotel, is it not?’

‘Yes, of course it is, I just...’ The landlord replaced the confusion with an ingratiating smile. ‘We do not usually get many visitors so late in the year.’

‘Which means, I hope, that I can have my pick of rooms.’

The landlord ran an appraising eye over Harry, from the gold braid on his hat, to his battered and scuffed boots, judging the cost and age of everything he saw. Harry pretended not to notice.

‘Since I suffer from,’ Harry said, ‘that is, since I may have need of my manservant during the night, I will want a large room, in which you can place a truckle bed, or one with a dressing room in which one can be placed.’ Though Harry didn’t think whoever was responsible for Archie’s death was likely to try sneaking into his room and stabbing him while he lay sleeping, Dawkins had insisted they take no chances.

‘May I ask how long you are considering staying with us?’

‘A week to begin with. After that, it depends upon how my...business in the area progresses. I take it you require payment in advance? For the first week, that is.’

Harry didn’t wait for the landlord to answer, he just pulled out the roll of folding money Rawcliffe had handed him ‘for expenses’ before leaving London, peeled off one note and handed it over.

The landlord didn’t appear to even glance at it before palming it and making it disappear somewhere within the folds of his own coat.

‘I believe you would be most comfortable in our first-floor suite,’ he said. ‘It has a sea view, which some former occupants...’ he leaned in as though sharing a titbit of gossip ‘...a marquess and his new bride, remarked upon most favourably.’

Just as he’d thought. The man was a rogue. The marquess and bride to whom he’d referred had to be Lord and Lady Rawcliffe, who had come to Peacombe earlier that year. There couldn’t be any other marquess eccentric enough to have attempted to take his bride to such an unfashionable destination for her bride trip. But when Rawcliffe had stayed down here, he’d rented an entire lane full of cottages to house himself and his retinue, according to Becconsall, who’d found it highly amusing. Nevertheless, he could not let on that he knew. He wasn’t supposed to have any connection to Rawcliffe at all, let alone be so close to him that he knew where he’d spent his honeymoon. So he took the man up on the other part of his statement.

‘I have seen quite enough of the sea during my career to date,’ he said curtly, hoping the landlord would draw the correct conclusion about his background. Since he was not going to be a guest of the Colonel and Miss Hutton, he and Dawkins had come up with a revised plan to explain his presence in Peacombe. They’d then written to Rawcliffe to inform him that Harry would drop a steady stream of crumbs of information, as though unwittingly, in order to control the gossip that his arrival in the small seaside town would engender.

So far, he thought he’d done a fair job of announcing that he’d been in the navy and had more money than sense.

‘Very good, sir. My name is Mr Jeavons,’ said the landlord with a smug bow. ‘It will not take long to prepare our best suite, for you. Jones,’ he said, indicating a servant in a green apron, who’d been lounging against the doorframe of what appeared to be the entrance to a public taproom, ‘will take your luggage up.’ Jones pushed himself off his doorframe and made for the pile of cases Dawkins had just deposited on the stone flags. ‘If you would not mind just signing our guest book?’ He gestured to a leather-bound journal propped open on a shelf beneath the main staircase.

Harry obliged. Once Jeavons had glanced at the entry, which included his title and gave his estate in Scotland as his main address, the manager became even more obsequious.

‘Permit me to guide you to our reading room, where there is a fire by which you can warm yourself, my lord,’ he said, inching in the direction of a corridor which led into the bowels of the large, rambling building which occupied one entire side of the market square.

‘Captain Bretherton,’ Harry corrected him.

‘As you wish,’ said the landlord subserviently. ‘We have the London papers, as well as a large stock of books in our lending library. People—that is, the better sort of people—come from all over the locality to borrow books or simply to take coffee. In fact, I am not ashamed to confess that the Three Tuns has become the centre of the social life in this part of Dorset, since I made the improvements.’